“Why did you come today, Selah? Was it simply to bring Watseka?”
“Nay. I also brought stillroom remedies for your ailing indentures.”
“But none for me.”
“You?” Her voice became a troubled whisper. “What is your malady?”
“Insomnia. An acute pain here ...” He took her handand pressed it to his chest, where she felt the bold beat of his heart. “Something akin to mental torment.”
She laid her other hand along his bewhiskered jaw, more touched than amused by his teasing. “I suffer the very same. But even if I had a cure, I hope you would not take it. I would not.”
“Nay.” His fingers tightened around hers.
“Verily, there’s no relief for so fatal a malady but this ...” Standing on tiptoe, she brushed his lips with her own, so fleeting it was less kiss and more maddening tickle.
She sensed his surprise—and profound pleasure. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sudden movement in the parlor. Stepping back, she turned on her heel and fled through the back door toward the dependencies, as abuzz and addlepated as the bees hovering near straw skeps in the kitchen garden. All around her pulsed the rhythm of plantation life, so different from Hopewell Hundred. Rose-n-Vale resembled a small village.
Was that Xander’s intent? To become so self-sufficient that he had little need of imported British goods?
Widow Brodie ushered the children out of the milk house, their mouths and hands stuffed with bread and cheese. “Dear Selah, I hope you will bring Watseka to Rose-n-Vale as often as you like. Things can be dreadfully dull for a lad with a busy father, an overbearing nurse, and an ancient great-aunt.”
“And I was just thinking how impossible it would be for Oceanus to be bored here. I doubt he’ll have hours enough.”
“Speaking of hours enough, did Alexander mention the coming frolic?”
“He did. Are you overburdened with preparations?” Thoughstrained at the seams at home, Selah could not deny her help. “Can I relieve you in some way?”
“I simply covet your advice. I’m sorry to report this heat has flattened our supply of ale for the coming guests.”
“Mother would tell you to boil it with honey, which seems to revive it.”
“Oh?” They began a slow walk toward the summer kitchen. “Perhaps you can assist with the menu. Fish, of course, with some sort of sauce? And mutton? Or perhaps a fricassee? I have few banqueting dishes in mind.”
“Perhaps baked marrow pudding? Or string beans with almonds?” Selah paused. What dishes did Xander favor? “Virginia’s tastes run to New World succotash and Indian pudding. Cherry tart is also a favorite, though I noticed some early apples in your orchard. Perhaps apple tansy. Father may even have marzipan at the warehouse.”
“Splendid, all. Two heads are better than one.” Widow Brodie seemed relieved. “As I said, feel free to bring Watseka to play any time you please.”
26
The stillroom released a vinegary scent in the rising August wind. All morning they’d been at work blending spices and preparing crocks for preserving. Selah felt quite pickled herself, her apron splotched, her hands reeking of brine. She gave Izella a weary smile as she brought in the last basket of beans.
“What shall you put on for Rose-n-Vale’s frolic?” Candace wore the same frown as when she’d perused Selah’s simple wardrobe that morning.
“I’ve no idea, but I did see some pretty printed fabric on the last supply ship. Though I’ll be surprised if Father hasn’t sold it, with all the business of late.”
“Why don’t you take Watseka and see if there’s enough cloth to be made into gowns for the both of you?” Eyeing the crocks of finished vegetables, Candace returned to the garden. “We can put off more preserving to sew.”
“Go too?” Watseka looked at them from the open doorway, always ready for the warehouse and Ustis’s store of sweetmeats.
“Of course!” Selah removed her soiled apron. “But let us hurry. We’ve pretty frocks to make!”
Spurred by anticipation, they set off, making a footrace of it. Watseka won by a good stretch, the pup at their heels. Winded and thirsty, they schooled themselves to a walk as the wharf and warehouse came into view. Scooping Kentke up in her arms, Watseka followed Selah through the back door. Ustis was at the front, out of sight, talking to customers.
Standing in the middle of all the merchandise, hands on hips, Selah got her bearings. A darkened corner boasted cloth of all kinds, ell after ell of osnaburg common among indentures alongside a host of blues favored by servants. Her hands sorted, uncovered, restacked. Was the coveted fabric gone? When first uncrated midsummer, it had stolen her breath. Weeks at sea had not diminished its luster.
Lost in her feverish pursuit, she almost started when a voice called from the adjoining doorway, “Searching for something, Daughter?”
“Indeed I am, Father. That lilac chintz from the East India Company. But you may have sold it.”
