Watching him go, Xander allowed himself a brief rest. With a word to the workers to slake their thirst, he returned to the house, not trusting himself with so fine a pearl. After retreating to his study, he opened a corner cupboard, hinges creaking, and took out a small, velvet-lined box.
Truly, this new freshwater marvel outshone the last lustrous gray one that was slightly misshapen. A growing collection lay before him. His favorite was a metallic green, the others pale purple and varied hues, gotten from Chesapeake oyster beds. ’Twas said the pearl symbolized purity, loyalty, integrity, and largess of spirit. The essence of his intended.
He secreted the box and climbed the stairs that led to thenursery across the hall from his bedchamber. The closed door seemed more a wall. He rarely came here, having last entered to read a letter from his Scots kin. He went to the dresser, retrieved the post from a top drawer, and stared down at the page. He’d already committed the contents to memory, returning to the most troublesome lines...
I hope that you will consider Oceanus’s nurse as more than that. Electa Lineboro has been cast into service due to her family’s losses of recent years. She is soon to be five and twenty, of honest conduct and conversation, a handsome, honestly educated maid. Given you have not remarried, I urge you to consider her as a bride prospect. Not only would that ease your son’s transition to the New World, it would benefit you at Rose-n-Vale, which is no doubt in need of a mistress, and relieve Miss Lineboro’s hard circumstances...
The plot thickened. He felt like a character in a Shakespearean play—a comedy, mayhap a tragedy. Just when he was ready to move forward with his own romantic plan, there came an unwelcome twist. He’d married Mattachanna out of affection and a realization that their tie would help bring about peace between the Powhatans and colonists. And here lately he’d begun to allow himself a vision of another bride, one near at hand, one highly esteemed in the settlement, who could have any number of suitors but had chosen to stay chaste.
Enter Electa Lineboro.
The name was pleasing, the prospect convenient, given she was Oceanus’s nurse. And on her way to Virginia even as heheld the letter between callused fingers. He would be spared the time and expense of wooing her, this woman who was likely not averse to marrying a colonist who peddled tobacco.
Yet his mind—his heart, rather—was fixed on someone else entirely.
He returned the letter to the drawer and began a slow walk around the unused room. No more need for the cradle between the two tall windows. A more fitting bed for a boy of four was against one wall, a new coverlet worked by his aunt atop it. A wooden rocking horse of dapple gray, fashioned in London, awaited beside some colorful blocks and toy soldiers painted scarlet. No expense had been spared for a boy he hardly knew and who hardly knew him.
Lord, help Thou me.
11
“Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of His congregation, to join this woman and this man in holy matrimony...”
From the women’s pews on the seventeenth of June, Selah listened to Reverend Midwinter recite the marriage vows. Try as she might, she could not fasten her thoughts on the nuptials at hand, though she was happy that Cecily was becoming Goodwife Wentz. The groom seemed uncommonly nervous as he stood before the chancellery, murmuring his vows slowly as if tongue-tied. Cecily was more collected, her new blackwork coif covering her upswept hair, her expression serene. Her belongings had been delivered this very morn to the Wentz household east of James Towne.
“I, Cecily, take thee, Phineas...”
Selah’s gaze lifted to the church’s timbered walls and high windows, her thoughts returning to another wedding years before. All of James Towne had crowded into this cloistered chamber the spring Xander wed Mattachanna. Beyond the west wall lay a graveyard, an eternal reminder that Mattachanna was missing. If she had been buried here rather thanin England, Selah would have tended her grave, brought flowers in remembrance. Was anyone doing that in the Old World?
Shay shifted on the pew across from her, clearly bored with the proceedings. Ever since Xander had told him the Powhatans’ plan, he’d been preoccupied with nothing else, awaiting the council’s decision.
As the wedding proceeded, Selah pondered their furious labors since first light. They’d finished the wedding feast, laying tables in the garden for the overflow of guests. Sliced leg of lamb and herring pie crowned the menu, along with assorted sweetmeats and mince tarts. With the help of James Towne’s bake shop, a preposterous pile of buns had been created and artfully arranged on a platter and decorated with edible garden flowers, mostly nasturtiums. Punch was mixed with care and chilled beforehand, sure to quench the thirst of all James Towne. Her father fussed if the punch ran low, so Selah and her mother spent the day before concocting and tasting, leaving them a tad woozy by supper.
This morn Izella stood watch in their absence lest hungry gulls or other ravenous creatures arrive first. As soon as the ceremony ended, Selah and her mother hastened home ahead of the wedding party. Governor Harvey led the procession, his betrothed on his arm. His presence seemed to subdue the celebratory mood, though few could deny the soon-to-be Lady Harvey looked resplendent in a gown of silver thread, her serene expression a striking contrast to her escort’s familiar frown.
Guests began streaming through both garden gates, intent on making merry. When Xander and his aunt appeared, Selah smiled past her somersaulting stomach, wondering why she’d not seen them at church.
Questions that needed quieting burned her tongue. Should she seek Xander out and inquire about Oceanus and the possible peace exchange?
Bide your time.
At the heart of her curiosity was the matter of his bride. But that was hardly her business either.
“Mistress Hopewell, you are in fine form today, I see.”
Selah situated herself near the punch bowl and found Helion Laurent first in line, his black hat with its ostrich plume nearly tickling her face as it was doffed. Again, he gave a courtly bow, looking as if he’d robbed a pirate’s ship of plunder. Colorful ribbons decorated the edges of his jacket, his frilled shirt and lace stock a stark white, his mustard-yellow hose beneath ballooning breeches stretching down toward red-heeled, bowed shoes.
She felt plain as a tufted titmouse in his presence. Nor did she feel like sparring with him in the rising heat. With a tight smile, she left the punch to Izella’s keeping and sought the next table, making a show of rearranging wedding buns.
He followed, displeasure on his fine features. “Surely you can spare a word for a guest.”
“I did not think to find you at the reception, sir.”
“When I heard the hospitable Hopewells were hosting, I dared not miss it. I also heard your father continues unwell.” His gaze traveled across the garden to where Ustis stood in the shade, several fellow merchants about him.
“Best ask my father himself. I cannot speak for him.”
“He is a hard man to corner, popular as he is.” Laurent twirled his hat in his hands. “You might mention I wish to talk to him about a survey of land that borders your own upriver.”
