A Bride Most Begrudging (37 page)

Moments later, Josh touched her sleeve. “Worry not, sister. He’s fighting his own demons right now, and there’s naught you can do. Meanwhile, partake of some supper, else your actions might be misconstrued into something they are not.”

She quickly blinked back her threatening tears, giving Josh a hesitant smile.

He gently squeezed her elbow. “Easy, now.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, frantically searching his eyes for understanding.

“About the demons?”

“About the gown. When he gave me the fabric, I asked him what the women here wore, but he said naught. I didn’t even make an evening gown, but a very average day gown, thinking that would be most appropriate. You know the fashions in London. Can you see I wasn’t trying to—”

He increased the pressure on her elbow. “Hush. You look exquisite.”

“I look like a freak.”

He bussed the top of her head, turned her toward the table, and nudged her forward. “Go fetch something to eat. I’ll be right back.”

————

“What’s the matter with you? Can you not see she’s scared to death?”

Drew thought this would be a remote enough spot for some privacy. Evidently not. “What do you want, Josh?”

“I want you to go to your wife. Can you not see she’s entirely out of her league?”

“Oh, I can see that, all right. I was a fool to think otherwise. She’s not only out of our league, she’s from a different world altogether.” He threw a pebble into the surrounding forest. “She’s no colonist, and I’ve known it all along. I simply chose to ignore it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, she belongs in a blasted palace made of gold and platinum with jewels around her neck and servants at her beck and call.”

“What a great bunch of tripe. She’s not the queen. She’s your wife and she needs you.”

“It’s of no use, Josh. These women have essentially asked her to be a seamstress. Can you imagine? An earl’s daughter as a seamstress. And did you see her face when everyone started eating? Did you see how shocked she was? She’s used to eating at tables with cloths and porcelain and silver candelabras. Not some pine board with a bunch of dirty farmers shoving food into their mouths. She doesn’t belong here any more than Her Royal Majesty would.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“She didn’t have to. I have eyes.”

“You have a pickled brain is what you have. I’ll allow she might have been taken aback for a moment, but she’s not so shallow that she would judge people simply because of their eating habits.”

“You’ve blinders on where she’s concerned, Josh. But, pray, step back for a moment and reflect. Her father has some wealthy young aristocrat waiting at this very moment to give her everything she wants and deserves. And she does want those things, whether she realizes it or not. Take her gown, for instance. You saw it. She couldn’t have better illustrated to others she was a member of the privileged class had she screamed it from the rooftops.”

Josh lifted his shoulders in a gesture of confusion. “So, her attire’s a bit fancy. What has that to do with anything when it’s so obvious it’s you she adores?”

“For how long? How long will that last, do you suppose? I might be amusing now, but am I worth giving up the entertainments of London, the sprawling manor she’s used to living in, the family she’ll never see again? For what? For some paltry house with a parlor and a great room? For a life where she socializes with others on Christmas, Whitsunweek, and court days, isolated on a farm the other forty-eight weeks of the year? I hardly think so.”

“She told me, rather emphatically as I recall, the first night I returned, that she wanted to stay.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

Drew pulled his hat from his head, spinning it to the ground with a flick of his wrist. “She was lonely, Josh. I had just helped her recover from a life-threatening illness. She probably imagined me as some romantic knight of old that saved fair damsels.” He blew out a puff a breath. “And I took shameless advantage of it.”

“And now it’s too late.”

Drew peered into the thicket. “I know not. What think you would happen if she went back? I could secure a divorce for her here, and she could tell those in England that I’d died. God knows, it happens all the time out here. No one would doubt her.” Drew turned to Josh when he did not respond, surprised to see his brother’s face red with anger.

“You worthless piece of horse dung. Does she mean so little to you that you would discard her like some worn out boot?”

Drew took no offense, but instead slumped his shoulders in defeat. “Nay, Josh. God help me, I love her. I love her enough to see I’ve no right to ask her to stay.”

Josh’s rigid stance relaxed. “Does she love you?”

“Oh, she thinks she does.”

Josh retrieved Drew’s hat, wiped some condensation from it, and handed it back to him. “Then why borrow trouble? As long as she isn’t asking to leave, and she
thinks
she loves you, why not wait and see what happens?”

Drew thumped his hat’s rim, the impending sense of loss so acute it was that of a physical pain. He sighed heavily. “Because I’d rather her leave now. The longer she stays, the harder it will be to let her go.”

“Be not false with yourself, Drew. It would tear you apart no matter when she left, now or later. Might as well ride it out for as long as you can. Who knows? Maybe she’ll think you’re worth staying for.” He slapped Drew on the shoulder. “In any case, you’re her husband now and she’s foundering. Why not show up on a white steed to save her? Might buy you a few more days—and nights.”

Drew raked his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe he’d done this to himself again. Anger rippled down his spine and he clinched his jaw. But done it, he had, for he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, and this time, this time was by far the worst. Assailed by an overwhelming fear over his impending loss, he settled his hat upon his head.

————

She wasn’t good enough for him. How could she have been so naïve? Drew needed a woman like … well, like any of these dear ones around her. After listening to them talk, she realized they not only cooked but they made their own soap, their own candles, their own baskets, their own preserves, their own home remedies, their own spirits, their own … everything.

Back home, her father either purchased those items, or she had the servants make them. She had a rudimentary idea of what was required, but never had she been involved in the actual process.

She sighed. The only thing the women talked of that she had any skill at was sewing and quilting.

What a shallow existence she’d held. Even her lofty goals for her mathematical pursuits were frivolous compared to what these women did. Why, some trapped and dressed their own wildlife, while others went into the tobacco fields and worked side-by-side with their husbands.

She could hardly tend the garden, much less harvest tobacco. It had taken weeks before she’d even collected the eggs by herself. And she’d made a muck of her most important job, Sally, nearly costing both of them their lives and endangering Drew’s.

He was bound to be having second thoughts. And who could blame him? So she could read Latin, speak French, write in a lovely script, and spell like a master. What good was it?

No wonder Drew had scoffed at her education. She truly hadn’t needed it. She certainly hadn’t used it—not here nor even in England.

It was a waste. She was a waste. How long would it be before he tired of her and her inadequacies? How long before he lamented being forced into marrying her? Already he showed signs of displeasure, storming off earlier because she’d disobeyed him and removed the cape, thus exposing her ignorance for all to see.

And, as she now realized, her shortcomings were a reflection on him. Were the other men at this very moment making jests about poor Drew being saddled with an ignorant wife?

Would these women be forbidden by their husbands to associate with her? Would she be seen as a bad influence? Would Drew lose his place in their society, for there were places, as she’d begun to realize. Nothing as elaborate as England’s hierarchy, but a hierarchy nonetheless.

There were slaves and indentured servants. Then, the small farmer, known as
Goodman
. The larger land owners became
Master,
often taking a place of office in the community.

There was no professional army but rather a local militia. The captain accepted his rank as entry into the gentry, and everyone addressed him by his title. There was also the crown-appointed governor, of course, and his council.

The women cleared away the remains of dinner, replacing it with a dessert course of Indian meal pudding, syllabubs, seedcake, and small tarts.

“I wonder who will win first rights to the mistletoe this year,” someone said from near her elbow.

Now there was something familiar. Constance always enjoyed the scrambling and confusion that ensued as soon as Papa suspended a huge branch of mistletoe from the center of the ceiling. She smiled as she recalled herself and other young ladies running into corners screaming and struggling, threatening and remonstrating. In short, they did everything but leave the room until such a time as they found it useless to resist any longer and submitted to being dragged to the center of the room for a kiss from some charming gallant.

Of course, Papa would merely stand directly under the berried bough, arms open wide, until he was surrounded by the whole body of young ladies and kissed by every one of them!

“First rights?” asked the woman with all the teeth—Kendra, she believed.

She voiced the question of many who were attending this celebration for the first time. Of the fifty or so brides who’d shared the voyage with her, about a score were present. Of those not in attendance, some lived too far away to come, while many others had died. Still, the veterans seemed to enjoy the task of introducing their colonial customs to all the newcomers.

“We’ve a shooting contest between the unmarried men,” Nellie explained. “A keen shot can sever the mistletoe right off the tree outside. The one who retrieves a cluster from the loftiest point on the tree gets first rights. The losers save their clusters, then try to make use of them on the sly.”

“The women,” another girl chimed in, “gather together as the winner walks amongst our ranks. He then holds the cluster above the lady of his choice, who must forfeit a kiss.”

“After the kiss, she picks off one berry,” Nellie added. “Once the berries are gone, so ends the kissing.”

“Granny Apperson made up rules after the year Jordie Bacon kept claiming kisses from the same girl over and over—each kiss a bit longer than the last—and she already married to another!”

The women tittered, and Granny Apperson took a long pull on her pipe before blowing out a slow stream of smoke, content for now, it seemed, to let the younger set do the telling.

A woman with skin browned from the sun nodded her head. “At first she wasn’t going to allow any of the married women to participate, but that only left two girls. So then she set down that the men could claim no more than three kisses from any one girl.”

A matronly woman took a sip from her noggin. “It went on like that for several years until the O’Connor boys came of age.”

A collective sigh rippled through the group. Nellie turned to Constance. “Jonathon Emmett had won three years in a row when Drew first came of age. They’re both crack shots, and it was neck-and-neck there for a while as the two of them knocked cluster after cluster off the tree. Drew finally tired of the game, aimed a good ten feet above Goodman Emmett’s last shot, and picked one clean off, proving to all he’d only been toying with his competitor. Emmett couldn’t match him.”

Another woman several years older than Constance smiled in what appeared to be fond remembrance. “I’ll never forget standing with the other girls that day as young Drew looked us all over, each of us hoping to be chosen.” She chuckled. “He didn’t disappoint a one of us, did he, Granny?”

Granny Apperson smiled. “No, he didn’t. Of course, the next year Josh came of age and after that either one or the other of those two won. Call it the O’Connor era, we do.”

“Who finally beat them?” Constance asked.

The group stilled, no one answering. Granny Apperson stirred, smiling sadly. “Leah.”

The hairs at the nape of Constance’s neck prickled. “Who’s Leah?”

Again, no one answered. Granny sighed. “Drew’s betrothed.”

Blood drained from her face. Nellie reached over, patting her hand. “It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me.”

Nellie turned her attention back to her sleeping baby. Constance looked at Granny Apperson.

The old woman removed the pipe from her mouth. “Drew had never before shot like he did that day, nor has he since. It was something to see.

The contest had just begun when he walked up, aimed, and felled a cluster from the very top of the boughs. No one else came close.”

“I thought Leah won.”

“No, child, that’s not what I meant. Certainly, Drew teased not the women as he usually did. When they had assembled, he walked straight to Leah and claimed three kisses. Then slipping his knife from his scabbard, he sliced the end of her cap string off, tied it onto the remaining cluster, and hung it above the meetinghouse archway, announcing to all that he was through and any female caught under the mistletoe was free game.”

Another woman sighed. “It was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.”

Constance furrowed her brows. “Then why did you say Leah beat him?”

“I meant Leah beat down his youthful exuberance, for she died a few weeks later,” Granny said, melancholy touching her features. “Every Christmas since, Drew has still won the contest, but he never again titillated the girls to whom he would award his favor. He’s simply claimed one kiss from his grandmother, then hung the mistletoe above the archway.”

Constance swallowed. “How tragic.”

Granny Apperson lifted her brows. “He seems to be doing mighty fine this year.”

Constance kept her face free from expression, not wishing to disillusion the old woman with what she had begun to suspect was the real truth.