“She’s adjusting well to our ways, though ’tis a struggle to keep her clothed.” Yet who could blame her? The Naturals’ dress was far more practical, allowing one to leap and dance and run without hindrance. “Needs be we reserve her English clothes for Sundays.”
“A worthy suggestion.” Ustis stifled a cough by taking a drink of ale. “How goes her schooling?”
“Her mind is lively, so much it astounds me. She shows remarkable ability with her sewing.” Truly, the small sampler Watseka had begun was nothing short of an astonishment. “I suppose her aunts have taught her a great many things.”
“The women of her tribe are particularly skilled with handwork and have long been partial to our sewing notions.” He looked from Watseka to Selah. “But what is this I hear about a sparrow? Your mother says one alights on her head nearly every morn when she goes outside.”
“It even sings a song for her. I’ve never seen anything so charming.” Smiling from the delight of it, Selah handed him a mince tart. “Have you not witnessed it?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure yet. But mayhap she needs a playmate more than a bird or a puppy. Oceanus is near her age and will be exercising a growing independence from his nurse.”
“Perhaps today he and Watseka shall meet.” Selah looked out the open doorway to the wide river empty of all but a passing canoe. “The wind has freshened and is in their favor.”
“A memorable day for Rose-n-Vale.” Ustis stood at the sound of distant voices. Never idle for long, he readied for more business.
Selah observed his half-finished meal. “Shall I stay on and help you, Father?”
“Not today, Daughter. I feel more myself, God be thanked. Go enjoy this glorious afternoon.”
Selah called for Watseka and led her outside as half a dozen indentures passed inside. Doffing their caps, they eyed Watseka curiously, likely unaware of the exchange that had taken place. Virginia was swelling so in size that any news was often belated. The outlying plantations heard last.
The day was indeed glorious, the heat tempered by a cooling wind. Watseka soon had an apron full of ribbed mussels so common alongshore. She held out her dripping apron. “Tshecomah.”
Selah nodded, thinking Watseka’s native word more winsome. “Shells.”
With a smile so wide her missing tooth was apparent, Watseka made it clear Selah was to load her own apron.
“We need a basket.” Selah backtracked to the warehouse for that very item, wishing for a tiny, clean apron too, if only to appear tidy when Xander and Oceanus docked. But did it even matter when every eye would be on the long-awaited lad?
By the time she’d returned, Watseka’s English clothes were in a little mound on the beach, the apron holding the shells protectively, her lithe self underwater in the river.
Selah sank onto the warm sand by the discarded clothes.She’d grown used to Watseka’s ways just as the girl adjusted to theirs. Each day she performed her daily rituals, offering a smidgen of food to the fire, bathing in the river, searching for tuckahoe roots in the marshes. What she wanted with the mussels was a mystery that surely would be solved in time.
As playful and graceful as a river otter, Watseka splashed and rolled and amused as Selah waited for the shallop. “How I wish I could join you,” she said to no one in particular.
Her thoughts drifted toward Shay, gone nearly a fortnight. What had her brother gained and discarded during his time with the Powhatans? She missed him terribly, his empty room across from hers now occupied by Watseka, his vacant chair at table an ongoing reminder of how far he had roamed.
Shrugging aside any melancholy, Selah removed her shoes, stockings, and garters and left them on the sand. As she waded into the cool river, Watseka came up with a mighty splash, dousing her.
“You little imp!” Selah splashed her back, their mingled laughter floating across the water.
By four o’clock, she was weary of dismissing vessels floating by. Then at last a speck of wood and sail took shape before her searching eyes.
“Come and make ready,” Selah called over her shoulder as her feet left the water, the urgency in her voice getting Watseka’s attention.
Fully clothed if slightly disheveled, they stored the mussel basket to carry home later. Hurrying back toward the wharf and warehouse, they joined several colonists coming or going, either laden with goods or waiting to load them. Selah’s wish to meet Xander and party with no onlookers was quickly discarded.
“See who comes?” Selah gestured to the shallop as it approached. “A young friend for you, or so I hope.”
Watseka, likely understanding little beyond a sense of expectation, trained her dark eyes on the river. Ustis came to stand beside them, lifting Watseka onto his shoulders in a surprising show of strength.
Selah’s heart seemed to beat out of her chest as the vessel finally docked at wharf’s end. Her gaze skimmed over the six oarsmen to Xander in the stern, a stranger with him. Seated near the mainsail was a woman. Oceanus’s nurse? Near the bow was Oceanus himself. Tall. Spare. Looking little like the toddler she remembered. Not one speck of Xander did she see at first glance. All was Mattachanna.
“Oceanus,” Selah said to Watseka, wondering if the Powhatans called him by a different name. “Master Renick’s son.”
This was the moment she’d dreamt of, yet in the glaring light of reality the dream faded. First to step from the shallop was the nurse, hardly the gray-haired matron she’d envisioned. Every bystander’s head turned as the woman, holding Oceanus’s hand, disembarked and walked gracefully toward them.
Chestnut hair beneath a lace-edged coif. Pale skin unmarked by the pox or the sun. Clad in a gray gown neither highborn nor low, the cloth none the worse after a long sea voyage. Her expression was unreadable, and she was seemingly oblivious to so many stares. Selah’s gaze fell to the boy beside her, his eyes fastened on his buckled shoes.
