A Wild Yearning (23 page)

Ty took a step forward. "I'm sorry, Caleb. I didn't mean to offend you."

"I've heard the word before." His mouth quirked into a tiny smile. "Even used it once or twice myself. I might be a man of God, Ty, but I'm still a man."

Elizabeth...
Caleb thought. Always, always, there was the fear and the disgust on her face on the nights when his physical appetite couldn't be staved off, when he took her, knowing how she hated it. In which of them was the love lacking?
A man, a man, I'm only a man...

He turned and looked at Ty. There was a genuine pain on the young doctor's face and Caleb knew it reflected his own expression.

"I am sorry," Ty said again.

"No, no. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Has Delia said some—"

"No, nothing. It's just that with Delia her emotions are so transparent—happiness, anger... anguish. You can't miss what she's feeling."

A corner of Ty's mouth twisted downward. "She's better off with Nat."

"Yes. I expect you're right."

Ty left the reverend standing on the front stoop of his new parsonage. He rode past the mast house and lumber works, the grist mill and blacksmith forge, the handful of houses and businesses that made up the tiny settlement of Merrymeeting. He rode along the Kennebec River toward the welcoming solitude of his cabin isolated deep in the Sagadahoc woods.

He thought about the nature of love.

He didn't love Delia. At least not if you went by the Reverend Hooker's definition because there sure as hell was nothing gentle or spiritual about the way his manhood would thicken and harden at the mere sight of her, or the way the sound of that damn husky voice of hers could send the blood rushing hot through his veins and make the sweat start out on his face. That was lust, not love, and he should have had the sense not to tangle with her in the first place. Either that, or he should have gotten her into his bed sooner. Then he might have been able to assuage his lust. As it was...

All right, he still wanted her. He could admit that. But there was no reason to go upsetting the berry basket just because he had an itch between his legs that still needed satisfying. Delia would marry Nathaniel Parkes. Nat was a fine man; he would be good to her, provide for her, and she would be happy. And Dr. Tyler Savitch would remain free—

Free to do what?
a
niggling voice asked him.

Delia stood on the wharf within the black shadows cast by stacks of lumber and masts, and looked at the inky waters of the Merrymeeting Bay. Pale moonlight gave the smooth surface a silvery sheen, as though it were a looking glass. No breeze rippled the water or stirred the pine boughs, and the heavy air smelled of wet grass and salt.

She tilted her head back. The sky was
a
shade blacker than the bay, and the stars were so close they seemed to dance on the air, twinkling like cinders. But although the sight before her was beautiful, a wave of misery engulfed her and heavy tears built up to clog the back of her throat. For
a
moment she couldn't understand where this lonely sadness came from and then she realized... Ty was gone.

He had left with the Hookers, walking with them to the new parsonage. Delia had stood at the door watching him go. He had even smiled at her and said, "Good night, brat." She had felt a warm happiness at the smile and the familiar teasing tone of his words. But now, standing seemingly on the edge of the world, she felt so alone. It could be days before she saw him again, and although she knew she was going to have to make herself get used now to a life with only occasional glimpses of him, she wondered how it would ever be possible.

He would probably go out of his way to avoid her. Although this morning they had spoken of being friends, there was
a
tension when they were together now, so palpable it was as if
a
bow string had been drawn tautly between them. The strain came not from her side but from his. For all his pretensions at being a rakehell, he was not the sort of man to feel pleasure at seducing a virgin. Every time their eyes met she saw his shame and guilt over what had happened yesterday in the Falmouth Neck woods. Which in turn made him angry with her for making
him
feel so miserable.

Delia smiled sadly to herself in the darkness. Beneath that gruff, temperamental exterior of his, there beat a soft heart that Tyler Savitch worked very hard at hiding, even from himself.

She had lost her virginity, but Ty was the one experiencing the regrets.

She heard a footstep behind her, creaking on the wooden boards and, because she had been thinking of him, she whirled around, expectation lighting her face—

"You should be in bed," Anne Bishop said, in a voice as tart as lemon juice. "The sun comes up early here in The Maine. Do you have everything you need?" she added as Delia took a step forward to meet her.

"Oh, aye. 'Tis a lovely room ye've given me."

For the first time in her life Delia was to sleep in her own room, in a four-poster bed with a feather mattress. The room even had an oak chest-of-drawers to put her clothes in, although she had no clothes except the ones on her back. She had her own fireplace, with a chair and a crocheted rug on the floor in front of it. As a little girl she had often imagined such a room. It seemed so strange to find it in this wilderness outpost.

Anne touched Delia's arm. "Come along, girl. The mosquitoes are feeding tonight. They'll soon be thicker than fiddlers at a fair." And, indeed, just then Delia felt the sharp sting as one bit into her neck. She slapped it.

Anne snorted. "What did I tell you? They'll suck you dry, will Maine mosquitoes."

They walked toward the manor house. A veranda fronted the side that faced the bay. The benches that flanked the open door were hulking shapes in the darkness, but light shone from the windows upstairs. It was a comforting sight, Delia thought, the yellow glow of lamplight shining through a window that was home. Of course the Bishops' manor house was not home to her, merely a way station on her quest for a new home of her own. When she married Nathaniel Parkes, she would have a house, land, children. A man. But when she closed her eyes to picture this idyllic scene, it wasn't Nat Parkes she saw standing at her side.

They stepped from the veranda into the long hall that divided the house. The wooden floor was painted an odd black and white diamond pattern that made Delia dizzy if she stared at it too long. A staircase with spiral balusters of oak led to the rooms upstairs. Delia started to mount the stairs, but she paused with her hand on the newel post. Flickering candlelight spilled from an open doorway and Delia caught a glimpse of a carved recessed china cabinet. But what was strange about it was that, instead of kitchenware, books and folios were crammed together on the shelves.

Intrigued, Delia stepped off the stairs and went into the room, not thinking that she should have waited to be invited.

"It's a second parlor, but I call it my library to give myself airs," Anne Bishop said, following behind her.

"My!" Delia exclaimed. She ran her hand reverently across the spines of the books. "Do all these belong t' the colonel then? He must be an educated man. Like T—" She caught his name on the tip of her tongue and changed it at the last moment. "Like Dr. Savitch. D' ye know he went t' Edinburgh University? It's where he learned so much—all those fancy words and how to dress like a gentleman and be a physician."

Anne emitted one of her characteristic snorts. "Now when it comes to putting on airs, that Tyler Savitch has got me beat. That man is gorgeous enough to break the heart of a grindstone and he knows it. He can act worse than a turkey cock at times too, strutting about with his feather ruffs all fanned out and expecting the overwhelmed females within miles to throw themselves at his feet." She snorted again. "Which they all do, myself included."

Delia laughed at Anne's description of Ty. He
was
like that at times.

"As for my Giles," Anne went on, "he would rather spend his leisure slogging about the marshes and seeing how many ducks and geese he can slaughter in one day... No, these books are mine."

Delia looked at her in surprise. "Ye've read these? All of them?"

"I have. Many several times over, although it galls Giles when he catches me at it for he feels it's a waste of a woman's time. Most men, I vow, would have it that a woman with book knowledge is about as useful as last year's crow's nest."

"My da's the same. He's always a-tellin' me women are of little use t' a man outside the kitchen and the bed—" Delia stopped, appalled that she had said such a thing. A real lady would never have alluded to the intimacy that went on between a husband and wife. When, oh when, was she going to learn to think before speaking?

But Anne Bishop didn't appear offended. Instead she broke into an odd-sounding cackle that Delia supposed was meant to be a laugh. "If a man can be ruled though, Delia, then that's where it's done—either the kitchen or the bedroom. And most often I swear it's the kitchen. My mother's cooking could put whiskers on a man's feet and the result was she never had to take a lick of sass from my father. But then, you'll find all this out soon enough once you're married, if you haven't got it figured already. The kitchen and the bedroom. That's our kingdom."

She patted Delia on the shoulder as if she were a child and for the briefest moment a smile stretched her thin lips. "Now you must get yourself on up to bed, girl. You mark if your Nat isn't here first thing in the morning, wanting to drag you out and show you that farm of his that he's so button-busting proud of."

My Nat...
Delia thought.

Again Anne Bishop smiled at her. But although Delia tried hard, she just couldn't dredge up a smile in return.

Nathaniel Parkes twisted the broad brim of his felt hat in his hands. "I thought you might want to ride out this morning and see the farm," he said to Delia, although he aimed the words at his feet.

Delia felt a moment of panic—what if Ty were to come while she was gone? But that was ridiculous. Ty probably had no reason to visit the Bishops, having just spent several hours last evening in their company. And the last thing he'd do would be to stop by especially to see her.

Ashamed of herself and her useless yearnings, she gave Nat a smile so bright that he blinked. "That would be real fine, Nat."

She followed Nat out to his cart where it stood in the yard. The mare, who had been drowsing in the shafts, woke up with a snort as Nat helped Delia into the seat. She felt the strength of his fingers clasping her arm and waited for the shiver that would have come if it had been Ty touching her even in so casual a manner, but she felt nothing.

As if to make up for it, she gave Nat another big smile as he climbed up beside her.

The settlement of Merrymeeting was arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, with the new meetinghouse and the blockhouse at either end, and the wharf and lumber works fronting the bay. In the center was a village green that was truly green, covered with marsh grass, wild rice, and clumps of rosemary and hawk-weed. A lone white pine had been left in the middle of the green, and on top of it perched a weathervane. Anne Bishop had told Delia, with the hint of a smile crinkling her eyes, that the first thing a body did on waking every morning in Merrymeeting was to look outside and see which way the wind was blowing.

Right now a mild, damp breeze came in directly off the water. It plucked at the tendrils of Delia's hair, pulling them from beneath the blue and white calico bonnet Ty had bought for her and then claimed to hate. She hoped he would see her riding with Nathaniel Parkes on the cart, see her wearing the bonnet he hated. While Nat drove in silence, Delia searched in vain for a glimpse of dark hair and a sharp-boned face.

Nat guided the cart along the rutted road that ran along the edge of the village, following the curve of the riverbank. Smudge from the blacksmith forge drifted into the air and Delia could hear the clatter of the wheel rackets in the nearby gristmill. A couple of young boys were sweeping up sawdust and shavings from among the stacks of lumber products outside the mast house. The wharf was loaded with pine boards, oak timber, hogshead staves and, of course, the King's masts.

The main part of Merrymeeting was soon past them. The cart rattled over a corduroy road made of logs laid crosswise, so necessary during the Sagadahoc's wet and muddy springs. Myriad brooks, creeks, and ponds all drained into Merrymeeting Bay and were forded by a succession of crude bridges, nothing more than tree trunks laid together across the roadbed. Before long the road had dwindled to mere cart tracks between the farms. Here and there a clapboard house could be spotted in a clearing among the trees. Delia wondered what sort of a dwelling Ty lived in, and if he would always want to live in it alone.

"Does one of these houses belong t' Dr. Savitch?" she finally asked, unable to stop herself.

"No, Dr. Ty's cabin is much farther up river. Out beyond my place." He fixed solemn gray eyes onto her face. "Tyler Savitch is about as independent as a hog on ice. Like most folks in The Maine, he likes his privacy. You'd do well to remember that if you're going to live out here among us."

"I will." Stung by the reprimand, unsure of what she had done to deserve it or what he meant by it, Delia fell silent. At last Nat turned the cart away from the river and they bounced over deep ruts for a few hundred yards, winding through the dense forest of spruce, fir, pine, and maple. Then he hauled on the reins. Suddenly it was so quiet Delia could hear the drum of a cock grouse and the click of grasshoppers.

"Here it is," Nat said unnecessarily. She could feel his eyes on her, gauging her reaction.

The house stood in an unshaded clearing, surrounded on three sides by hilled rows of Indian corn. It faced the river, and although she couldn't see the water through the trees, she could hear it—a faint rushing sound like wind whipping through tall grass. The house was made of riven clapboards, one story but with a high sleeping loft. A pair of dormer windows poked out a cedar-shingled roof that had a steep pitch to it to shake off the snow. In front lay the kitchen garden and farther away a small apple orchard. The barn had been built into the gentle slope of a hill and far enough away from the house not to be endangered by sparks from the chimney. A woodshed and smokehouse were connected to the house by way of the linter.

Delia gave Nat a bright smile. "I don't claim t' be an expert, but we passed a good lot of farms 'tween here an' Boston and this is the finest I've ever seen."

She thought he would be pleased by the compliment, which was heartfelt, but his tightly drawn mouth didn't relax a bit. "It requires a good lot of hard work to keep it up," he said curtly, and Delia knew it was meant as a warning—she was not to expect life here to be easy.

"I told Dr. Savitch when I answered his advert that I wasn't afraid of workin' hard."

"But then that depends," he said, pinning her with his eyes, "on what you consider working hard."

Delia could feel the heat rise on her cheeks. Nat noted her embarrassment and looked away, nodding as if it confirmed his worse suspicions of her.

"Nat, whatever Sara Kemble told ye about me, I want ye t' know—"

"Later. We'll discuss it later. The girls are waiting for us inside. Meg's fixed us dinner. That is, if you're agreeable to staying."

Delia gave him a subdued smile. "Why, dinner would be nice, Nat. Thank ye."

Nat helped Delia down from the cart and led her toward the house. She held back a moment to look around her again. It truly was a beautiful farm. I could be happy here, she decided. If only, if only... But she wouldn't think of that.

Beyond the cleared acreage, in the widening circle, was an expanse of deadened, girdled trees, and among the trees had also been planted corn and beans and pumpkins in the Indian fashion. The corn stalks served as bean poles and gave shade to the pumpkin and squash vines.

"The soil is fertile," Nat said, "but it's the devil to harrow and plow because of the rocks. I swear, they mate and breed over winter, under the snowfall."

The tinkle of a bell caught Delia's attention. "Oh, look," she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "Ye've got a billy goat!"

Nat managed a laugh at that. It was the first laugh she had heard from him and she liked the sound of it, warm and soft, billowing out of his chest like a pan of dough.

"I can see you don't know much about livestock," he said. "That's a she-goat." The goat was tied to a stake within munching distance of the corn shocks stacked against the side of the barn. "She's a fine provider of milk and cheese, but when she gets loose in the garden it looks like a plague of locusts passed through. My wife... that is, M-Mary got so mad one time she threatened to make a stew out of that old goat..."

Nat's voice trailed off and he looked away. Delia stood in silence, waiting until he had collected himself.

When he turned back to her, all traces of his earlier laughter had faded and his face was etched again with pain. "I'm pleased you like the place, Delia."

"Oh, I do, Nat. Truly I do." She had put all the enthusiasm she could muster into her voice, hoping to wipe away some of the sadness in Nat's eyes. But the sadness remained.

Nat stepped aside and pushed the door to his house. It opened into a small, enclosed vestibule that abutted one wall of the hearth's granite chimney. Next to the chimney, a ladder of pegs led to the sleeping loft. To the left of the porch was the back wall of a small inner room, or bedroom, and to the right was the keeping room. The tiny porch was filled with farming tools—hoes, axes, rakes—and seasonal clothing such as snow-shoes, golo-shoes, and oilcloth coats. A musket rested on branch hooks over the door.

Delia ducked her head and passed into the keeping room.

Tildy Parkes sat at a table of milled plank, chewing on her tongue as she laboriously copied letters from a hornbook onto a thin sheef of birchbark with a piece of plummet lead. Meg was bent over stoking the fire, and as Delia entered the room she straightened and greeted Delia with a fierce frown.

"Look, it's our new ma!" Tildy exclaimed. She jumped off the bench and, clutching the birchbark in one dimpled fist, tottered up to Delia. "See. I've been learning my ABC's."

Delia examined the piece of bark with genuine interest. "Why, how smart you are."

"She's not our new ma!" Meg protested angrily. "They aren't even married yet."

"Meg, don't start again," Nat warned. Meg said nothing more, but Delia saw the girl give her father a defiant look that he couldn't have missed.

Meg turned away from them and started to lift a cauldron of stew off the hearth and hang it from the lug pole over the fire. The cauldron was heavy and the tendons on her thin arms stood out from the strain. Delia stepped forward to help her.

"I can manage it myself!" Meg said fiercely.

Nat stepped between them, grabbing the cauldron from his daughter's hands. "I've had enough of these shenanigans, Meg. If you don't find your manners real quick, I'm going to find and peel myself a willow switch."

Meg's thin face paled and her lips tightened. Tears welled up in her eyes, but they didn't fall. "I'm going outside. I got chores to do. Come on, Tildy."

"Don't want to," Tildy said. But Meg grabbed Tildy's hand and hauled her sister out of the room. They could hear the little girl's screams of protest even after the front door had slammed shut behind them.

Nat gave Delia a sheepish look as he looped the pot handle over a trammel hook. "I'm sorry, Delia. I don't know why she's acting this way." His face hardened. "But I promise you this is going to stop."

"Oh, please don't punish Meg on my account. Give her a little time. My ma died, too, when I was Meg's age. A girl's old enough then t' understand about death, about how it means forever, an' it leaves her feelin' real scared." Unconsciously, Delia put her hand on Nat's arm. "Please don't punish her."

Nat stiffened, pulling away from her, and Delia's hand fell awkwardly to her side. He stared at the floor, his mouth pursed, then he lifted his shoulder in a quick shrug. "Oh, well, I doubt if there's a willow tree within miles of here."

Delia laughed, and Nat even managed a tiny smile, which quickly faded as the grief crept back into his eyes. "But my Mary would not have tolerated such rudeness from Meg."

There was nothing Delia could say to that, so she remained silent. She wiped her sweating palms on her skirt and turned in a slow circle, looking around the room. The granite hearth had a fair-sized spit and a well-drawing chimney equipped with an oven. The inner walls had been sealed with pine boards, and cheerful print cotton curtains were strung on cords across the room's two windows. Most of the kitchen furnishings were plain, except for a maple dresser decorated with scalloped moldings. A set of six earthenware plates was arranged on top of the dresser, flanking a white china teapot. The room smelled deliciously of bayberry candles.

Delia's eyes fell on a framed silk and linen sampler hanging on the wall opposite the hearth, and she crossed the room to examine it more closely.

"My Mary did that," Nat said with pride.

"'Tis pretty, Nat."

The picture in the sampler was of a barn and a horse and a man mowing hay. There was a saying at the bottom, but Delia couldn't make out the words.

This work is mine, my Friends may have

Delia shuddered at the morbid sentiment, wondering about the woman who had stitched it. For a moment she was assailed by a vivid, poignant memory of her own mother working on
a
sampler, though a much cheerier one with the alphabet and
a
border of flowers. She could hear in her mind her mother's voice crooning to her as she named the stitches—the petal stitch, the satin stitch, the loop. She thought her mother might even have taught her how to do all the different stitches that day, and she had been only a year or so older than Tildy. But if so, the skill had long ago left her.

Beside the sampler and above a wool spinning wheel hung
a
lantern clock. Delia studied it as well. It was a fine one, made of polished brass and cherry wood, and its quiet ticking gave the house a homey, cozy sound.

"That was my wedding present to Mary," Nat said, his voice strained. "I couldn't decide whether to get her a cow or the clock. I decided on the clock. Afterward, she said I should have gotten her the cow. She was always such a practical-minded girl, was Mary."

Delia thought she would much rather have had the clock, but of course she didn't say so. She looked around the room again, at the pretty curtains, the dishes on the dresser, the spinning wheel in the corner, the sampler. Mary Parkes had unmistakably left her stamp on her house and on her family.

She glanced at Nat's averted face. He was staring at the clock, his lips compressed, his eyes haunted. Mary Parkes had left her mark on her man as well. An indelible mark. Delia realized she had never completely considered the enormity of the task she was undertaking. Repressing a sigh, she ran her finger along the whorl of the spinning wheel, setting it in motion. What had ever made her think she could come to Merrymeeting and step into another woman's place?