“‘Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass...’”
He read on, but the next words were lost to her. Were he and Xander in league? Nay, her husband looked as surprised as she at the choice of Scripture. Was this not blessed confirmation that they were indeed to do nothing? Releasing a deep, steadying breath, she let go of her tight tangle of worries to the only One who could help unravel them.
Early the next morn Xander left for James Towne by shallop. What business betook him there he did not say, nor did she ask. She was practicing rest and patient waiting. Her morning was spent in the orchard with her brother, picking endless wheelbarrow loads of apples, which Shay rolled back and forth for cider making. Xander had told him to keep near the house in his absence while McCaskey and the ever-present Meihtawk took to the fields.
Midday she joined her mother and Xander’s aunt on the portico as they were wont to do, sharing details of their days. Newly made garments for the indentures—brown linen shirts and breeches—overflowed a large basket. Though gout had slowed the older woman’s fingers, her efforts were unflagging.
Selah sat on the steps and arranged in various vases the flowers she’d picked, her eyes on the river, which was growing more restive. She smelled a heaviness in the air, the bite of the coming autumn.
“I fear we are in for unwelcome weather.” Widow Brodie scanned the darkening skies. “Cook predicts a northeaster by nightfall. Though I can abide a bit of wind, ’tis lightning that frightens me.”
“Will the shallop hazard such?” Candace asked the question Selah didn’t.
“Alexander is an able sailor but won’t take risks. He’s not forgotten the hundred-year storm all Virginia lived through years ago.” She returned to her sewing. “He may wait in James Towne till the morrow if the wind worsens, though he won’t like the delay.”
Nor would Selah.
Where would Watseka spend the storm?
Lord, yet another petition to bring before Thee.Of late I fear I’m in danger of storming heaven’s very gates.
She stood to search for the maids, leaving her flowers. “Best batten things down.”
By three o’clock, lightning had licked the horizon and the indentures were pulled from the fields. Selah could see them hurrying toward their rebuilt quarters from her perch in the garret beside Shay. Though Nurse Lineboro had gone, her heavily perfumed scent remained. Selah waved a fan to banish it, the heat of the garret unrelieved by the closed windows. Before her watchful gaze the storm played out like theater. Wind wailed about the rafters. Rose petals scattered and fences bent from the storm’s force. Yet no rain slashed the glass.
“I spy our resident wrongdoer,” Shay remarked with no mirth. “Better here than gaol, I suppose.”
True enough, McCaskey disappeared into his quarters, only to be locked inside. Meihtawk remained outside, prowling about the main house and dependencies, occasionally disappearing into the summer kitchen, where he passed time with Cook.
Come twilight, no shallop moored in the wave-tossed water off Rose-n-Vale’s wharf. The wind strengthened, blowing with such force it flung sand against the windowpanes.
All retired but Shay, who lingered in the hall with the dogs. Glad for his nearness, Selah kept watch in her bedchamber, alone with a flickering taper and her thoughts. Sleep held no escape lest she have bad dreams. Of lostness and Watseka and Father. Of that terrible morn when their world turned upside down.
Xander, my beloved, stay on in James Towne lest youput yourself in danger. I am not good at waiting, butwe shall make out all right tonight. Though I feelgreat anxiety for Watseka, that particular Scripture oft returns to me and keeps me from falling to pieces.
She nodded off in the uncomfortable chair. Only when Shay shook her awake did she rouse. He held a candle, the flame adance in a draft. His face was drawn, his eyes too huge in his tanned face.
“Sister, we are in grave straits.”
She started from her chair. “What means you?”
“An African has come to us in this storm, only we can’t understand a word he says.”
“Where is he?”
“Meihtawk is with him in the hall.”
Shaking off sleep, she followed him through the midnight-black parlor, their candle snuffed in a draft. They kept on, hand in hand, till they reached the lantern-lit hall. There stood a tall man, little more than bones. Meihtawk stood regarding him as though he were a ghost, his musket dangling from one sinewy hand. But nary a growl from the dogs as they sniffed and circled the man. Surely this was a favorable sign?
He was one of the enslaved, but she did not know whose. Tenderness smote her at his terrible scars, upraised and scarlet even in the dim light. She’d not seen him before, to her recollection, except perhaps at a distance in the fields. His sunken eyes fastened on her, and he waved his arm rapidly, ever agitated, as if asking them to come.
“He puts himself at great risk being here.” Shay’s face showed a rare perplexity. “Though in such a storm this may be the only time he can come in secret.”
“Lord help him if he’s branded a runaway, if his master knows he’s missing.” Reaching out, Selah clasped the man’s trembling hand, if only to quiet it. She squeezed the bony fingers in some sort of wordless affirmation. He still beckoned with the other, gaze pleading.
Thunder resounded like cannon fire. Even now branches and untethered things clattered across the house’s exterior. How could they follow him, if that was indeed his intent? But how could they not?
What would Xander do?
