“Your injury may well portend otherwise.” He began unwinding the bandages while Izella went to fetch water at his request. “You are lucky ’tis a flesh wound and the lead ball went awry. The bone is still intact.”
Selah averted her eyes. Luck? Nay. Providence had spared her. She might well have been killed instead. Still, how could a flesh wound cause such pain? She could not sleep. She had no appetite. Yet ’twas nothing like the hole in her heart. Everywhere she looked told of her father’s passing. Another cape merchant had been appointed, a necessary but grievous occurrence. Goodmen came bearing her father’s coffin,an onerous leaded box of elm lined with velvet, soon to be interred at James Towne’s church.
She’d lost count of the people hastening upriver to pay their respects. Even now feminine voices floated from the parlor, Xander’s aunt among them. Had she news of his return? Looking toward the open door, Selah chafed. What was taking Izella so long? She didn’t like being left alone with Laurent.
He was examining her arm, his features a mask but so close she saw the black velvet patch on his left temple, the placement signifying dignity. Of which he had none.
She spoke so low that none but he could hear. “Where is she?”
He stilled. “I know nothing of whom you speak.”
“Oh, but you do. And we shall get to the heart of the matter soon enough.”
“We?”
“When Alexander Renick learns how you came here under cover of night, taking a helpless child and thereby killing my father—”
“You Jezebel.” His long fingers encircled the wrist of her wounded arm, tightening till her voice finally faltered. “Take care with such accusations. I can assure you I did not do whatever it is you accuse me of. I would as soon brand you a liar before all of Virginia.”
“If not you, then one of your minions instead.” She tried to pull free of him despite the crushing ache. “As I said, any treachery and deceit shall be found out.”
Izella returned with the requested water. The very air seemed to spark with animosity. If she noticed, she gave no sign, dark eyes down, face as much a mask as Laurent’s.
Selah shut her eyes as he applied a potent-smelling salve to the wound, then bound it up again.
“You shan’t be able to go to your father’s burial.” His tone was low and insistent. “Your wound may well fester. Strict bed rest is called for.”
She marveled at his falsity. Here he stood, playing the part of a capable physician, while he was likely the man whose actions had led to her injury?
“I shall return after the burial at James Towne and look again at your wound.” With that, he excused himself, leaving her alone with Izella.
Selah met the servant’s eyes awash with unshed emotion. Though Izella could not speak, she could feel. Father had taken her in when she’d been irreparably injured by a slave trader, who’d exchanged her for food once they reached Virginia’s shores. Was this uppermost in Izella’s mind and heart? Reaching out, Selah clasped her workworn hand and squeezed, relieving some of her own festering ache.
Her mother entered in, carrying the finished shroud and a vial of brass pins. Behind her, Widow Brodie held the chin strap used in preparing the body for burial.
Selah touched the woolen cloth, brought it to her face, and dried her tears.Father ... Father.There were not words enough for the ashes inside her. All that solaced was the simplest of God’s holy promises.
Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.
Widow Brodie settled on the edge of the bed. “My dear, I sense there is much turmoil inside you, which neither my presence nor consolations can mend. I hope Alexander can set things right concerning Watseka. I pray continually for his speedy return, as I do your return to health.”
Selah made no reply. She lay back as they went out to prepare her father to lie beneath the heavy ledger stone inscribed to bear witness to his life’s work.
Here Lyeth the Body of Ustis Hopewell
One of the Ancient Planters
Cape Merchant, Virginia Colony
Aged 64 Years
Deceased the 19th ofAugust 1634
The next sweltering day wore on feverishly. Xander was not yet at peace leaving Oceanus again, though he was heartened by how readily the lad took to native life. Mattachanna’s heart would leap for joy to see her son stripped to buckskins and bow and arrow, running free with Shay and the other youth. He took to the water like a river herring and was soon swimming and diving for shellfish. Already his head and shoulders bore the red paint of the Puccoon root.
By the time he returned home ahead of Christmastide, Oceanus would boast a Powhatan name and speak their tongue. While Xander wanted the son of his heart, his heir, to escape the noose-narrowed English perspective with its damning prejudices and pride, he also wanted him safe from the abominable superstition and mysticism of Powhatan werowances. Free of hatred for the Tassantassas, the English. A tall order for a child of mixed blood.
That night before he would leave the Powhatans, Oceanus’s voice came to him in the wee small hours, slurred by sleep. “Father...”
