Way out here, busy from daylight to dark with nary a man in sight, what prospects have you for a husband, a family?
“I’ll scout the ferry.” Ross spoke in measured tones. “See if any more mischief’s been made along the river.”
“I’m in,” Lemuel replied, the two melting into the newly leafed brush.
“May’s a-wasting,” Zadock muttered. He was always the last for meals and worked far into the dusk, hating labor lost from Indian unrest. “Glad we weren’t gone at corn planting.” He and Cyrus moved carefully into the clearing, taking quiet account of their cabin and outbuildings, the outlying gardens and fields and fences.
Tessa betook herself to her favorite place, the springhouse. ’Twas Pa’s legacy as a stonemason, a two-story stone marvel built over a limestone spring that bubbled up in a cellar, passed out an opening in the wall through a long, deep trough, and then meandered away through the western meadow. Always cool, unmoved by arrows or buckshot or fire, the springhouse seemed a promise of peace, of better days to come despite the loopholes in its walls.
Shutting her eyes, Tessa breathed in the smell of cold water and crockery, a reminder of her need to gather splint wood for baskets, particularly yellow birch when the new sap was running. Tarry too long and the wood wouldn’t budge. She had in mind to plant a tea garden like Ma said, if Jasper remembered to bring the coveted seed. Little solaced her like harvesting and hanging bunches of herbs to sweeten the place.
Returning to the cabin, Tessa drew an easier breath. All was as they’d left it, save some critter had gotten to the abandoned corncakes on the table, a scattering of crumbs left to sweep up. These she fed to the birds outside their door, her favorites being the mourning doves beneath their west eave, cooing again in late morn.
All the while she held her breath as the steady routine of life took hold. No more rifle fire and choking smoke. No Indian cries that curdled the blood. No vexed, harried settlers obsessed with powder and bullet lead. No squalling babies and restive animals. Just quiet. Calm. Birdsong. The sigh of the wind around the cabin’s corners.
Her mind resumed its usual rhythms too, the groove worn by Keturah especially deep. She daren’t speak of it. Ma got that stricken look when she did. As if she feared the same fate would befall Tessa in time. Keturah had been dear to Ma, something of a second daughter. Her wrenching absence struck a lasting lick. Ma had even dreamed of a match between the comely Keturah and one of her sons. There’d been a bit of tomfoolery about it back then. Every one of her brothers was smitten save Ross, too young to go moon-eyed over her. But Keturah was not only lovely. She was good-hearted. Hardworking. Kind.
And then she was gone.
Tessa gathered eggs as Ma ground fresh meal in a giant mortar just beyond the front stoop. A glance outside told her Zadock and Cyrus were repairing a plow by the barn. She’d pray Lemuel and Ross home from the river.
Supper found them all at table, save Jasper, the door barred. Bedtime came early after a sleepless siege. A few unstifled yawns went around.
Zadock set down his fork. “I’ll finish plowing the flax on the morrow.”
“I’ll be on the Buckhannon,” Ross told them, always drawn to the river more than the field. “With the spring thaw, more settlers need ferrying.”
“Pass along a warning.” Zadock lit Pa’s pipe, the fragrant smoke spiraling toward the rafters in aromatic wisps. “And take care to watch your back.”
Ross simply nodded. Being the youngest, he was the most unguarded. Foolhardy, Jasper called him. Yet he was the handiest with a rifle, fixing anything from a broken stock to a blocked touchhole, his talk full of flints and jaw screws and frizzen springs. He was also a dead aim, much to the chagrin of his brothers. Pa had planned to apprentice Ross to a gunsmith, but all that went awry at his passing.
“Tessa best keep to home and away from the river lest you truly need another setting pole.” This from Cyrus, ever cautious. “That flaxseed begs to be in the ground, and I sense more rain coming.”
Though she’d rather be with Ross at the ferry, the flax wouldn’t wait. Tessa sipped her sassafras tea as remarks flew between her brothers, some barbed, some in jest.
“I hope you put all that foolishness about Tessa forting up to rest.” Zadock aimed his low words their mother’s way.
Betimes Zadock grew too big for his britches in Jasper’s absence. Tessa gave him a wry smile as Ma pondered her reply.
“Before your father was cut down, one of the last things he said to me was that he wished to see his only daughter marry well. I’ve not forgotten, and neither has your great-aunt Hester.”
Her thoughtful words led to a chastised silence. Tessa stared at her mother. ’Twas news to her, Pa’s wish.
“’Tis hard enough having no daughters-in-law or grandchildren,” Ma finished, eyes a-glitter, as her sons shifted uneasily in their seats.
This Tessa understood. Other than their shared faith, what joys did they have beyond family? Though the natural world was a wonder, betimes it seemed more foe than friend. Truth be told, Tessa longed for female company near at hand, a bosom friend like Keturah had been. Surely Ma’s need for other daughters, especially grandchildren, went bone deep.
“There’s not a man hereabouts worthy of Sister’s hand.” ’Twas a rare burst of words from the reserved Lemuel. “If you want better for her, best look elsewhere. Or send her east to our city kin.”
“Seems like I should have some say in the matter,” Tessa stated, every eye on her.
“Well, have at it then,” Zadock told her.
She winked. “What need have I of a husband when I can’t keep track of five brothers?”
They laughed, easing the tense moment. She stood and began clearing plates, refilling their applejack as needed, occasionally going to a loophole to peer out. In time her brothers finished their evening chores and betook themselves to their blockhouse bunks. Their combined snores were her usual signal to seek her cozy corner behind a quilt strung from a beam near the glow of the hearth.
Ma slept on the far side of the cabin, her bed open to the room. It had been that way for as long as Tessa could remember. The trundle bed beneath it had been hers in childhood before Ma moved her here.
