“Alexander, you look a fright, but never have I been soglad to see you.” His aunt embraced him, her white coif and apron singed with sparks. As if sensing his intent to speak with Selah alone, the other women went inside, coughing all the way.
Placing a hand at Selah’s back, he urged her inside as well, into the somewhat cleaner air of his study and an almost hallowed quiet. This was not the homecoming he’d anticipated, and he knew she felt the same. She sat by a closed window without saying a word, eyes on him, hands fisted in her aproned lap.
He groped for composure as he sat beside her. “I have no words regarding your father.”
The sheen returned to her eyes. “’Twas no secret he was unwell. But one is never ready when death comes.”
He swallowed hard, throat so parched it thinned his voice to a rasp. “Tell me what you believe happened to Watseka. But first, what of your arm?”
The story poured forth, leaving him stunned and disbelieving.
“So, the sheriff and his men refused to form a search party.” The ire he’d felt upon first hearing it was barely banked as Selah nodded in confirmation. “For the life of me, with peace hanging in the balance, I cannot fathom why they would not at least attempt one. They blamed it on the harvest? Other matters? Such doesn’t ring true to me.”
“Nor me.”
Xander tried to track the details in his benumbed brain as they talked. “How is your mother?”
“Strong in spirit. To her credit, she carries on, knowing she’ll join Father in time.”
“He lies at James Towne church?”
At her aye, Xander settled another matter. Without Ustis or another male presence, the women couldn’t be at Hopewell Hundred. A musketeer meant little. “You and your household will stay here for the time being. I’ll get no sleep tonight, but the thought of you near would hearten me.”
“Where is Oceanus?”
“With the Powhatans.” Restless, he stood and looked out the window ahead of returning outside. “His grandfather the chief has asked he stay on till late autumn.”
“Better he be away at such a tumultuous time. And with Watseka gone...” She stood and faced him. “Glad I am Shay is away too. He’ll take Father’s death hard once he hears, but I’m relieved he was spared the spectacle of him passing that frantic morn.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, wanting to hold her close but for his bedraggled state. “Go upstairs to my bedchamber and rest.” He half expected her to argue, to exert the will of old. “A maid will bring hot water for a bath.”
Visibly relieved, Selah gave him a half smile. “I’m no good to anyone, tired as I am. And now I’m to have a look at your lair.”
Despite it all, he chuckled. “Sleep will help you regain the use of your wounded arm. In the meantime, I’m in need of one of Watseka’s garments. I trust you have something of hers at the house. Something that would let Jett track her.”
“In my upstairs bedchamber, aye.”
“I’ll send someone, then.”
Up Rose-n-Vale’s staircase they went, Widow Brodie leading her to Xander’s bedchamber before leaving to retrieve asuitable nightgown. Selah stood on the threshold, breathing in her beloved’s very essence, a rich comingling of leather and linen, Castile soap and ambergris. The spacious room was a feast for the eyes. Sumptuous by Virginia standards. A heady moment for one raised in an austere household. The intimacy of staying here was one step away from matrimony. Was that where all this was leading? Why did she feel like naught but a trespasser?
A maid brought buckets of water, filling a copper hip bath hidden behind a paneled leather screen. Selah’s wound needed cleaning, so the bath was especially timely, though it required her to grit her teeth to manage it. That done, she rested her arm along the tub’s rim and leaned back. As she’d been unable to snatch more than a few hours of sleep since her father’s passing, she nearly dozed off in the tepid water. But the frequency of men’s shouts, the beat of horses’ hooves, and the sudden, shocking drone of rain roused her.
Rain. An answered prayer. She stepped out of the tub, toweled dry, and donned the borrowed nightgown, light-headedness landing her in the nearest chair. When had she last eaten? Before she could recall, there came a knock and Widow Brodie appeared with supper.
“God be praised! Just as I was leaving the summer kitchen, the heavens opened!” She set a sodden tray on a small table. “I shan’t complain, and I suppose you shan’t either, if the bread be damp.”
Selah managed a smile. “All I care about is Xander’s safe return home and that Watseka be found.”
“Lord willing, we shall soon have her among us.” With capable hands Widow Brodie went about pouring steaming dittany tea into a cup, while Selah eyed the bowl of sugarednuts beside a pewter plate heaped with sliced apples, cheese, and buttered bread.
Famished, she bent her head and murmured grace before her hostess even left the room. As she ate, wind-whipped rain buffeted the leaded panes and freshened the air, promising the fire had met its end. At least the house was spared. Though she itched to look out the window before the last of daylight faded, she feared what she would find.
She darted a glance at the canopied bed, turned down and waiting. The masculine chamber seemed more guest room, not even a dust mote in evidence. Without rising from the chair, she began acquainting herself with the contents of this unfamiliar lion’s den. Twin tapestried chairs. A bathing cabinet. Silver candlesnuffers atop a low table. A massive wardrobe commanding an entire wall. On the mantel was a pair of porcelain dogs reminiscent of Ruby and Jett, alongside an overflowing vase of August blooms.
From the very garden where he’d kissed her.
Wooziness and weariness collided. Unable to keep herself upright any longer, Selah climbed the bed steps to lie atop not one but five feather ticks. Obviously, Rose-n-Vale’s master liked his bedding soft, same as she. Lying back atop a bank of pillows, she was beginning another prayer for Watseka when sleep overtook her.
