“’Twas a true wilderness then. I was expecting his eldest brother, Jon, as you know.” She bit her lip as if the thought still saddened her. “Imagine a girl of seventeen, my passage paid, my betrothed dead of a fever on my arrival. A rocky start for one so full of hopes.”
“But there stood Father, in mourning, waiting to greet you.” The timeworn story never failed to make Selah smile. “And after a sort you set out to woo him.”
“Shockingly so, in hindsight.” Candace repinned her coif, which the wind had tugged free. “I was drowning in suitors, none of them the least desirable save one. Your father did remind me of poor Jon, but that is not why I chose him.”
“You chose well.”
“’Twas either marry or return to England. I could not endure another sea voyage, as I’d been quite ill coming to Virginia.”
“So you proposed to him on a crisp October day when he showed you Hopewell Hundred.”
“Ah, what a time that was.” She grew quiet, seemingly lost in the recollection. “Seven and twenty years ago. Your father, bless him, seemed as flustered or perhaps as flattered as I was bold. But our plans to live there quietly were upended when he was appointed a clerk and then cape merchant.”
“You’ve had a good life together.”
“Better than most. I cannot imagine a day without him.”
How unpredictable life was, as full of twists and turns as this winding river. Selah let go of her expectations, reveling in the wind and the freedom of sailing along on so beautiful a morn, new neighbors and landmarks all around them. There, along the south shore in Warrosquoakeshire, lived the dissenting Puritans causing such a furor among Virginia’s Anglicans. Next came Herring Creek near Charles Cittie. On the bluff beyond was the sad spectacle of Henrico, gone to ruin after an earlier Indian war and never rebuilt.
They passed their own dock, a rickety affair of neglected timber her father had promised to right, and moved farther downriver to Rose-n-Vale’s larger, far sturdier wharf. Ships oft moored there to offload cargo and take on valuable Renick exports. They drew up to the wharf and the moorings were secured. Selah was helped to land after her mother as indentures began unloading the cargo.
A bridle path skirted the sandy shore, leading to their two-story wattle-and-daub house ringed with shade trees. Doors and windows were open wide in welcome. A stone well stood in a small courtyard, and an arbor led to a fenced if fallow garden. All bespoke a place craving occupants.
Ustis was down by the water in the little cove nearest the house. Still leaning on his walking stick, he started for them, Shay alongside.
“’Tis not a home without a feminine touch,” Ustis called out as Candace approached and put her arms around him.
“What say you, Sister?” Stepping in front of her, Shay released a gossamer-winged butterfly from his cupped hands. Its indigo hue was nearly transparent. “Father said these are found in dappled woodlands, of which we have plenty here.”
Smiling, Selah watched the butterfly’s airy flight back toward the forest, an orange dot on its hind wings. Not one river rat did she see, nor greedy gull.
Shaking off her lethargy from the warm ride upriver, she set to work, intent on making their beds, as they’d likely fall into them at dusk. When she grew tired, she simply drifted to a window or door to find inspiration aplenty to return to her tasks. A bespeckled fawn in a berry thicket. A clump of wildflowers she had no name for. The whisper of water in the cove a stone’s throw away. The sooner everything was set to rights, the sooner they could savor their surroundings.
18
Twilight found them atop crates, eating stale bread and smoked fish beneath the front eave of the house. The trestle table was set into place after supper, leaving them all looking forward to breakfast. In the kitchen the huge hearth bore the needful pots and pans, mostly Izella’s doing. Their prior tenant, God rest him, had been a carpenter by trade as well as farmer. Little touches everywhere bespoke his artistry—the carved stairwell, the leaf and vine embellishment on the mantels, deep window seats. Each a gift.
Near dusk, the golden wink of fireflies seemed otherworldly amid the deep green woods as the day drew to an extraordinary hush. James Towne was nothing if not noisy. Rarely did it settle, even on the outskirts where their former house had been. But here on a distant shore there was simply the sigh of the wind and crickets’ chirrup.
Father was asleep. She could hear his snoring. Mother was reading their Bible by candlelight. Shay was somewhere along the river’s edge with a pine-knot torch. Selah found herself alone in the parlor, still trying to make a place for things so that her parents would have one less task upon awakening.Yawning, she cast a longing look at the stairs. Her bedchamber was up them, across from Shay’s, both small yet with a winsome view.
She stooped to dust the dog irons at the hearth, then straightened as a new sound intruded upon the stillness. Hoofbeats? Faint at first and then fading to a barely perceptible walk, as if the rider feared they’d be abed or wanted to surprise them unawares. Her pulse picked up and then settled. Naturals had no horses, though they did try to steal them.
Still feeling a flutter of alarm, unsure where their musket was, she moved to the open front door that faced the small courtyard. The half-moon was generous, outlining the rough edges of woodpile and well and fence.
A horse nickered through the blackness.
She leaned into the door frame, bone weary yet hopeful. “Who goes there?”
“Your nearest neighbor,” came the quiet answer. “And his faithful steed, Lancelot.”
Xander.
Bereft of words, she stepped outside into the moonlight as he swung himself down from the saddle. “I meant to arrive before dark, but the needs of the day held me fast.”
“’Tis good of you to come.” Pleasure warmed her voice. “You’ve met many a need here even in your absence.”
“Meaning you Hopewells wore out my indentures.” He faced her, smiling. “A fine night for riding. I saw your light from a ways off. A pleasant thing after so much darkness.”
