“I’ve some tonics to help with that.” Candace plied her stitches without looking up. “I wonder how Oceanus and his nurse are faring? I’ve prayed the dreaded summer seasoning would pass them by.”
“The nurse has a frailty about her that doesn’t bode well in Virginia. She reminds me of those English roses brought over on the second supply. They failed to thrive here with the drought.” Ustis studied Selah. “I do wonder if you and Nurse Lineboro will be friends.”
Hope welled up at the words. Away from the bustle of James Towne and their ties there, did her father sense she was sometimes lonely?
“Perhaps we shall,” Selah said, watching Watseka abandon her shells to play with Kentke near the stable. “I have high hopes Oceanus will befriend Watseka too.”
“Why not go to Rose-n-Vale tomorrow if the day is fair?Take the needed tonics.” Candace perused her stitches in the fading light. “Widow Brodie always welcomes company.”
Dare she? Their long summer days were a blur of endless tasks—harvesting, preserving, distilling—which left them tumbling into bed each night with no thought of the morrow save what needed doing next. “Can you spare me the time, Mother?”
“You’ve been toiling from dawn to dusk with nary a rest. Izella and I can do without you for one day.” With an encouraging smile, Candace removed any doubt. “As your father said, a little merriment sweetens the work.”
Needing little prodding, Selah fetched a towel and clean smock from the house, then made her way to a secluded spot along the river where the rushes and cinnamon ferns hid her from view. She disrobed, removed her cap, and unpinned her hair to wash it. The cool water embraced her, sand firming beneath her feet as she walked in up to her chin.
At her back came a familiar giggle. With a splash, Watseka joined her, her despised English clothes forsaken. Lately she had lost her cap, a shoe, and an apron. While Candace tried to impress on her to be more mindful of her appearance, Watseka seemed not to understand or care. Though she was young, her Powhatan roots went deep. Since the Hopewells saw the practicality of her people’s garments, they could not scold or blame. Selah had half a mind to make herself a buckskin dress, though if James Towne’s ruling body found out, they might well sentence her to a public dunking on the ducking stool at the next full tide.
“A-visiting we shall go,” Selah sang as she scrubbed her hair and Watseka’s, trying to make her aware of tomorrow’s visit.
Watseka parroted back a few precise words. “Visit ... boy ... Oceanus.” She ducked beneath the water, stripping the remaining soap from her hair.
At bedtime, when they knelt to pray, Watseka surprised Selah by mentioning Oceanus again. Her quicksilver mind always seemed to leap ahead of them despite the many changes and challenges. Was Shay adapting so readily? Was Oceanus?
Selah tucked Watseka into Shay’s bed, crossed the landing, and crawled into her own bed. An owl hooted. The night wind bespoke a blessed coolness. Already she was craving not autumn with its colorful leafing but the icy silences and new-fallen snows of winter. Such spelled a rest from their toil. And more time.
Her last thought was of Xander. Always Xander. Hearts were such restless things, her own forever craving more. More of his company, his heartfelt words.
His kiss.
25
In the forenoon, Selah and Watseka took the bridle path alongshore to Rose-n-Vale. Rarely had she seen Renick land in summer, tied as they’d been to James Towne. Bright blue mist flowers in the open meadows gave the lush grasses a bluish hue, the same serene shade as the river on a cloudless day. Even now she imagined the burned taint of Indian summer in the air and the subtle shift of the landscape.
When Ruby and Jett came bounding over the rise to meet them, Watseka shrieked and hid behind Selah. Truly, the dogs were a frightening pair to one so young.
“They mean no harm,” Selah reassured her as the dogs began sniffing and wagging their long tails. “Gentle giants, truly. One day Kentke may be as big.”
Shading her eyes from the sun, Selah started up the rolling rise to the house with the gamboling dogs so glad of their company. Midway there, she turned back to take in the river that Xander continued to call the Powhatan. Whatever it was, it flowed serenely past on this windless day, toward Shay.
At the back of the house were carpenters, not the bricklayers of before, erecting what looked to be a portico. Alittle thrill of discovery went through her. Brick by brick, column by column, Rose-n-Vale was coming into its own. Again, that feeling of sneaking up on the main house from behind and not approaching the proper if little used front door nagged her. Last time they’d found Xander at the well. Where was he now?
They passed the formal flower garden with its arbor, every inch abloom with aromatic roses. Watseka peeked in a window of the summer kitchen, the din of crockery within rivaling the hammer-wielding workmen. Selah’s heartbeat seemed nearly as clamorous, her tongue tied the closer they came. All aflutter she was, and they’d not seen one whit of the master.
“Welcome, Selah!” Widow Brodie appeared at a side door. No matter that she had a houseful, Xander’s aunt made them feel at home. “And this must be Watseka!” She winced as a hammer struck. “Come inside at once. We shall reward your long walk with refreshments from the Summer Isles.”
Into the shadows of the main house they went, the riverfront door soundly shut on the dogs.
“I’ve brought some of Mother’s tonics for the indentures who are unwell,” Selah told her, darting a gaze into Xander’s empty study.
“Glad I am of that. You could have carried nothing better.” She took the basket. “Mount Malady’s physic came and went but dispensed little. These will certainly help relieve the misery.”
“Let us know if more are needed. Mother is filling the new stillroom with every conceivable remedy, both from the woods and our James Towne garden. Thankfully, Father seems on the mend.”
“God be praised.” Widow Brodie led the way into thesmall parlor and shut the door on the din. “I pray all this racket is done by the festivities.”
Selah hardly minded the noise. The sound of progress, Father always said. “I’m quite smitten with your portico. I hope you smother the posts in roses.”
“You must tell Alexander the very same. Men can be so ... practical. That we have any flowers at all is Mattachanna’s doing. Otherwise all would be planted in tobacco.”
