Selah and her party returned at dusk, coming back opposite the way they had started. As they neared the outskirts of James Towne, she resisted the urge to kick at her mare’s sides and bolt home. They’d visited but eleven brides this day. The rest were far flung in the outer shires. Were more visits on the horizon? She prayed not, at least in the physic’s company.
Vexed by the heat, Laurent had grown notably quiet, saying little till the last. “I believe the council will be pleased with our progress. I shall inform them on the morrow of our success. We make a perfect pairing, you must admit.”
“I admit nothing,” she replied, drying her upper lip with the back of a gloved hand. “Though I am glad to visit at least some of the brides and ascertain they are adjusting as well as might be expected.”
“How brusque you are. Allow me to return you home, at least.”
“No need, I assure you.” Was her glee plain? “I have had my fill of your company. Good day.”
His exasperating laugh filled the space between them. “Adieu, lovely Selah.”
His free use of her given name nettled her further, as did his honeyed Gallic voice. How could such a man have even a speck of comeliness about him? Casting a sympathetic glance at the maidservant, Selah reined her mare toward Backstreete as all went their separate ways.
Her empty basket dangling from the pommel, her head full of how much Laurent annoyed her, she plodded on, glad the dusty streets were mostly empty this time of day. A few dogs and a piglet ran amok as the night watch assembled to make the rounds.
Down the dusty, rutted street, the light from their store winked gold in the gloom. Was Father at his books again? The front door was locked, the shutters drawn. Selah tied her mare to a post and made her way around the back to the side door, which creaked open with a push of her hand.
“Father?”
No answer. She threaded her way through the storehouse piled with the daily necessities and rare luxuries of colony life. The cavernous room held the tang of leather and reek of vinegar alongside fancy foodstuffs and furnishings. An open case of Venetian glass glittered green as she walked past, small casks of Ceylon cinnamon and Dutch nutmeg heady.
She approached her father’s desk carefully. Hard of hearing, he was easily startled. His back was to her, and his head rested on his open account book, quill pen on the floor.
Selah rushed toward him, torn with alarm. “Father ...” Gently, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Are you unwell?”
He roused, shaking off sleep and his spectacles in the process. She caught them in midair and returned them to his keeping.
“I’ve been a bit more tired of late,” he said. “Nothing to fret about. Now, what have we here ... an empty basket and news of the brides, aye?”
“Fair news for the most part.”
“And Laurent? He gave no offense?”
“Offense?” The question struck her as odd. Mayhap he was simply muddled from sleep. She passed him the unused pistol. “The maidservant was a welcome addition wherever we went.”
“God be thanked.”
He recovered quickly. But she still took note of his high color and the glassiness of his eyes. Setting the basket aside, she knelt till they were eye level. “Let me manage the books tonight. I’m not at all tired, and you seem in need of Mother’s care.”
“You fret too much, Daughter.” But he pushed back from his desk just the same, kissing her brow before making his way to the door. “Alas, I cannot leave you here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” she replied as a plump gray cat wound its way around her skirts. “Smudge is near.”
He sighed, looking as if he’d like to sit down again. “On one condition. I shall lock all the doors and send Shay to fetch you in an hour and escort you to supper.”
“Oh aye.” Smiling, she feigned a lightheartedness she didn’t feel. “I’ll get straight to work.”
She stood by the window as he left, praying him home. Stoop-shouldered, gait slow, he seemed to carry the weight of both new world and old as he led the mare. Would he not ride instead? Slowly it dawned on her that he had not the strength to mount the horse.
Oh, Father, is there something you are not telling me? Are you beset with some new burden?
Perhaps he was missing Shay even before he went over to the Naturals. She expelled a pent-up breath, stung by a smidgen of ire at Xander’s tribal dealings. ’Twas all right and good when someone else’s son was sent. Would he have done the same?
She sought the desk, moving the taper nearer to finish totaling the ledger of figures Father had left undone. Next, she reviewed the ever-pressing orders, the planters’ needs foremost. There always seemed a shortage of packthread for drying tobacco. She wrote down a quick tally of how much to demand from England suppliers.
Each planter had a separate account, some quite voluminous. She stilled when she came to Xander’s. A very long list, indeed. In the flickering candlelight, she noted the usual needs. Packthread was at the very top. Next came myriad fishing nets. Sundry tools. A quantity of ribbons, thread, and needles—for his aunt, surely. A games box of the popular trictrac—for Oceanus, likely. At four, he might enjoy learning table games.
But all the rest gave her pause. One oak gateleg dining table. Two candle stands. A walnut armoire.
