“Laurent is hardened to any evildoing. I see no evidence otherwise.” His mind was a-scramble trying to recall what his aunt knew and didn’t know from that heinous time. She didn’t ken the truth about one matter. But she knew all the rest.
“If he is hardened to his evildoing, we shall see more of it, surely.” She stood, so shaken she seemed a bit unsteady on her feet. “And now that embossed carbuncle of a physic is closer than ever before.”
He stood, finding no humor in her Shakespearean slur. Nor was she aiming for levity. Taking her elbow, he walked her toward the door. “I sense all this company and entertaining has gone hard on you.”
“I’m not as young as I once was. And my gout pains me more than not, despite Candace Hopewell’s remedies. Speaking of the Hopewells, have you not seen Selah since the frolic?”
“Tomorrow.”
She smiled. “If ever a man was marked for marriage, ’tis you. Those Indian beads of yours raise my hopes. I suppose you’ve hidden them away somewhere.”
“Rest assured, Rose-n-Vale will have a bride.”
“But after the tobacco harvest?”
“Selah will decide.”
“I pray she is as impatient as I am.”
She stepped into the hall, turning to give him a last, worrisome look and prompting him to say, “Leave any matters about Laurent to me.”
30
Selah awoke, not because of her father’s loud, sawlike snoring, but because of its absence.
Treading carefully, she felt her way in the dark from bedchamber to stair and then parlor. Outside all was shimmering starlight, the harvest moon in full flower, the night too fetching to sleep.
One sweep of the now familiar homeplace told her where he was. Beneath the arbor, the most fragrant bower to be had by day or by night. She approached in his line of sight, not wanting to startle him. Mother must have been tired indeed to not have missed his presence.
“Dear daughter, what are you doing awake?”
She sank down beside him on the bench. “I missed your snoring.”
A chuckle softened his craggy features. “Yet your mother sleeps on, God rest her. She has been tired of late.”
“Why are you out here, may I ask?”
“Is it any wonder?” He gestured to the sky. “‘Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these,’ so said the prophet Isaiah.”
“Methinks there is something more besides.”
The warmth of his hand on hers assuaged her worry. “You are a most perceptive daughter.”
“What is it, Father?”
“I am simply missing Shay, as surely you must be.”
“Has it been but a month since we stood in the dust and heat of James Towne common and bid him goodbye? It seems far, far longer.”
“Love doesn’t wait well. Love is always missing the other.”
Truer words were never spoken. ’Twas the same with Xander. An aching restlessness. An endless absence.
Father continued in quiet tones, “We shall soon have news of Shay. Xander told me he will go to the Powhatans once the harvest is under way.”
“Glad news.” Selah squeezed his hand. “Still, it makes me miss Shay no less.”
They sat in silence for a time, the chirrup of crickets an enduring night song. A wolf howled in the far reaches, so distant it lost its threat. ’Twas a velvety darkness—the warmth, the moon-washed blackness.
