A Wild Yearning (25 page)

Ty said nothing. There was such anguish in Nat Parkes's eyes. For a moment Ty's mind was overwhelmed with his own stark memory of his mother lying on a bed of furs, her life's blood pooling around her, Assacumbuit—that proud, indomitable warrior—kneeling above her while the tears flowed in silent rivers down his chiseled cheeks. Ty had watched while his Indian father had wailed the mourning song and rent his flesh with his hunting knife, his blood dripping off his bronze chest to splash onto the still, white skin of his dead wife's face...

Ty wrenched his mind back to the present by an act of will, but he thought immediately of the woman on Cape Elizabeth, great with child and too damn small to be likely to survive the birthing of it, and her husband near beside himself with fear. A man would have to be a fool to love a woman so much that he risked such pain at the losing of her. Especially when every time he even acted on that love, he chanced planting the seed that could kill her.

No, no, Ty thought, his resolution hardening. Better not to love so deeply, better not to care so much, than to suffer having the few things that come to matter to you in this life snatched away from you.

"I don't want you to think I don't appreciate what you did, Dr. Ty, bringing that girl all the way up here," Nat was saying earnestly. "Although she's a mite young and I wish she were less... well, rough and ignorant. I know you did the best for me that you could," he added hastily. "It's just that Delia's so different than my Mary. Mary was as solid, as easy to understand as this earth." He kicked a tuft of marsh grass with the toe of his boot. "But Delia is like a will o' the wisp. She's constantly surprising me and it makes me..." He let out a shaky laugh, rubbing a big hand over his mouth. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can handle her."

"Maybe you ought to postpone the marriage," Ty said, the odd sense of relief he had felt earlier returning. "Give yourselves a chance to get to know each other better."

Nat shook his head, wiping out Ty's strange relief with one gesture. "There's no time for that. I got to get my hay in and the garden's choked with weeds. Anyway, we wouldn't be the first to marry ignorant of each other's ways and peculiarities." He clapped his hand on Ty's shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze.

"No, as long as you swear she's no whore, then there's no reason to wait. In fact, I'm on my way to see the Reverend Hooker now, to have him post the banns."

Ty stood in the middle of the Merrymeeting green and watched Nathaniel Parkes drive away in his cart. He gave a short, bitter laugh. Two days ago she had said she loved
him.
Now she was agreeing to marry another man, and wasn't that just typical of a woman. They all felt compelled to be married, and it didn't matter a hoot who the man was as long as he had a strong back and was on the young side of sixty.

Still, Delia sure as hell could have waited a while longer before saying yes to Nat Parkes, at least long enough for him to decide... to decide what? Did he—no, by God, he didn't love her. It was only her body he craved. She wanted a husband and the last thing in this world he wanted was a wife. What he wanted was simple enough. He wanted her to share his bed for one sweet summer. One sweet summer, that was all. No marriage, no babies, no love everlasting.

He turned and, looking back toward the manor house, thought he saw a curtain move in one of the upstairs windows. He was sure it was Delia.

Damn you, Delia,
he cried out to her silently.
Why won't you let me go?

Delia's dark head was bent over a slate that rested on her thighs, and the chalk squeaked across the stone as she wrote. Anne Bishop paused within the doorway of the veranda to look at the girl, a smile softening the harsh lines of her face.

After a moment, she came to stand behind Delia, peering over her shoulder. Delia held the slate out so they both could see it better. "I've been writing my name," she said. "And yours and the colonel's as well."

"And Tyler Savitch's too, I see."

Bright color flooded Delia's cheeks and she hurriedly wiped the slate clean with a wet rag. When she finished, she turned on the bench and smiled. "It's kind of you, Anne, to teach me my letters."

For the past week and a half, Delia had been taking care to articulate her words properly, lapsing back into her old patterns of speech only when she became nervous or excited or angry. Anne felt a fierce pride at the rapid progress of her pupil; Delia McQuaid was a tavern wench no longer.

"I'll have you reading
Pilgrim's Progress
by the end of the month," Anne said, meaning it. The girl truly was as smart as the crack of a rifle. And Tyler Savitch was a fool.

Anne walked around to the front of the veranda and looked out at the enamel blue bay. "It'll soon be time for you to get dressed. Your Nat was here a while ago, making more of a nuisance of himself than a wet pup. I told him no less than three times yesterday that he wasn't to come around here until a half hour before the ceremony."

The marriage between Delia McQuaid and Nathaniel Parkes would take place that afternoon. Already Anne's servants were setting out trestle tables on the village green, preparing for the feast that was to follow. "I've never seen that poor boy so scared. His knees were clacking together louder than the batten on a loom."

Delia heaved a huge sigh. "Lord above us, Anne, my knees are all a-wobble, too. I've never been married before."

Anne burst forth with one of her cackles. "Well, it's hardly the sort of thing that gets easier with practice."

Delia set the slate on the floor, standing up just as a servant came through the wide double doors, wheeling a tea cart. "Take that back, Bridget," Anne said, waving a hand. "And bring us both a glass of sack."

Delia joined Anne at the front of the veranda. Anne could feel the girl looking at her, her open face full of affection. Strangely, for she was not a demonstrative person, Anne longed to wrap her arms around Delia and hold her close. The yearning was so fierce it brought tears to Anne's eyes. The tears surprised her; she hadn't cried in years and years.

The tidal wheel turning in the sawmill next door filled the air with a soothing, tinkling sound that was in sharp counterpoint to the raucous cries of the herring gulls swooping overhead. The early afternoon sun shone on the waters of the bay, making it gleam like a field of marigolds, and sunbeams danced among the high treetops of the white pines. A gentle breeze brought with it the smell of sweet fern and bayberry.

Delia breathed a soft sigh. "It's so pretty here."

"Oh, Merrymeeting is truly the most beautiful spot on earth," Anne said. "But it isn't paradise. Never, never mistake it for paradise." And I ought to know, Anne thought. For haven't I buried one husband and three children on this land?

Bridget came back with the sack in two slender pewter chalices. Anne took a large swallow of the tart white wine and felt its coolness flow down her throat into her chest." She turned and held her glass up to Delia in a silent toast. "It's a beautiful day for a wedding and a frolic."

A sadness came over Delia's remarkable golden eyes. "If anybody bothers to come."

"Why wouldn't people come?"

"Sara Kemble. She's told everyone that back in Boston I was a... that I would lie with any man for the price of a tallow candle. All of Merrymeeting's talking about it. They do it loud enough so's I can hear."

Anne snorted. "It doesn't matter a hang what that gadder Sara Kemble's been saying. Some people always manage to get the wrong pig by the ear and Sara sure is one of them." She leaned close to Delia and lowered her voice. "Sara's problem is she's homelier than a basket of eels and barren as a bedpost. She's jealous of a young and pretty thing like you."

Delia's lips trembled into a smile. "To the devil with Sara Kemble then." She took a sip of the wine, then choked. "Ugh!" She looked down at the glass in her hand, screwing up her mouth in distaste.

"Ladies drink sack, Delia," Anne said. "You must acquire a taste for it."

Delia nodded and dutifully took another sip of the wine, trying politely not to show her dislike, and Anne smothered a smile. The girl was so damn strong. Strong enough to do whatever she must, to face whatever life demanded of her—and life would demand a lot, Anne knew. Life could demand everything you had, and more. So much more. For a moment Anne envied Delia her strength and her youth. For years and years, it seemed, Anne had felt so tired. So very tired and so very old.

"I haven't seen Dr. Savitch around this past week," Delia said, oh so very casually, and Anne felt an empathetic ache in the region of her heart that she thought had long ago hardened into stone.

"He sailed his skiff across to Falmouth Neck on Wednesday."

"Oh..." Delia swallowed hard and her fingers on the stem of the chalice tightened.

"To deliver a baby of a woman at Cape Elizabeth."

"Oh, a baby!" Delia exclaimed, relief plain in her voice.

"It's showing rather badly, my dear."

Delia's eyes dropped down to her bodice in alarm. "What's showing?"

Anne laughed. She set her wine on the veranda railing and cupped Delia's cheeks between her rough, bony hands. "Your love for Ty Savitch. It shows in your face, in your eyes, in the very way you say his name."

Delia pulled away from her, turning her back.

"I have to admit I'm a little in love with him myself," Anne said. "I doubt there's a woman in Merrymeeting who isn't. That man is as good to look at as a mountain in dogwood time."

Delia whipped back around and her chin came up. "I would love Tyler Savitch if he was scarred by the pox. I'll love him when he's old and stooped and toothless. I'll still go on loving him long after I'm dead and buried and my flesh has rotted and my bones have turned to dust!"

Anne let out a loud snort. "Never mind that romantic nonsense, girl. What about tonight, after you are
married
to Nathaniel Parkes? Surely you know about what goes on between a man and his wife, the intimacy of the shared bed...?"

Delia's face was so pale it looked siphoned of blood. "I know," she said, her throaty voice so strained it cracked. "I know, and I swear to you that I'll be a good wife to Nat for he's a fine man and he deserves no less. And it isn't as if he's in love with me, for he still loves his dead wife. So I won't be taking something away from him by loving Ty deep inside the secret part of myself that Nat will never see."

"Oh, Delia, that could very well be true now, but things change—"

Delia reached out, clutching Anne's hands. "Oh, Anne, don't you see? I love Ty, but he doesn't love me. And there's a tender side to him, a hurting side, although I think sometimes he hates that part of himself. But he knows how I feel about him, how deeply I love him, and it makes
him
feel so uncomfortable and guilty and—"

"He should feel guilty!"

Tears welled in Delia's eyes. "No, no, you don't understand.
He touched me with his magic hands and I fell in love and he couldn't help that any more than he can help breathing. But if I marry Nat, Ty can stop feeling so bad about me, about me being in love with him." Her mouth twisted into a watery, rueful smile. "And when the day comes that Ty marries, I'll rejoice for him, aye, for he'll be happy then. He's not happy now. He's lonely, lonely and sad."

My God, Anne thought, to be loved like that. Tyler Savitch was no fool after all. To be loved like that... No wonder he was frightened.

Suddenly Anne Bishop saw a familiar figure sauntering toward them down the wharf. "Speaking of the devil..." she said, but Delia was already turning as if some extra sense had alerted her that Tyler Savitch was near.

Delia stood on the veranda, one hand wrapped around
a
post, leaning into it. At the sight of her his step quickened. When he became aware of it, he made himself slow down.

Still, he ran up the steps two at a time and almost pulled her into his arms. He stopped himself just in time. Their eyes met and his breath caught. He hadn't remembered her being quite so beautiful.

But she also seemed different in a way that didn't please him. Her hair, that glorious wine-colored hair, was hidden beneath a cap. The bodice she wore had long sleeves with stiff white turned-back cuffs that covered her slender wrists, and her petticoat came down to the tops of her shoes. She looked fresh-scrubbed and pure and innocent, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He wanted back his waterfront wench.

"How are you, Delia?"

"Oh, I figure I'll make out." She said the words teasingly and her smile shone from her face like a blazing sun. Her love for him glowed in her tawny eyes and he felt it as a caress on his face. To his shame he realized he had been waiting for that look, needing it.

He took her arm. She jumped and tried to pull away from him, but he held it fast. He unbuttoned the cuff at her wrist.

"What are you doing?" she cried. There was a breathless note in her voice, and when he looked into her eyes he saw the pupils were wide and dark. For a moment he stared into those eyes, not moving, saying nothing. His fingers where they touched the bare flesh of her wrist felt on fire.

He saw her lips move and her voice came at him from a long way away. "Ty... let go of me. Please."

Ty jerked his eyes off her face. He could feel her pulse; it was racing abnormally fast. "There's no need to fly into a fit," he said gruffly. "I only want to examine the inoculation."

He rolled up her sleeve. The pustule had scabbed over and was healing well. "Have you been feeling all right? Any fever?"

"N-no..." She bit her lip. He could feel the tremors rippling through her whole body. He released her arm and she immediately backed away from him, pressing her spine along the length of the veranda post. She rolled down her sleeve and refastened it. "It itched some."

Ty nodded. "And have you settled into life at Merrymeeting, then?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I love it, Ty."

He smiled. "Well, that's good... I'm glad."

A heavy silence fell between them. Their eyes met and held. Ty felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her, but he fought it down. Today was her
wedding
day, for Christ's sake. Her wedding day...

She suddenly spoke, and in spite of all the armor he had tried to wrap around himself, her words warmed him. "I've missed you, Ty. I've missed seeing you."

"I've been gone."

She nodded. "Yes, I know. You went to birth a baby."

"You're well informed." His eyes fixed on her face. Not only did she look different, she sounded different as well. Almost, by God, like a real little lady. The thought made him smile.

"The mother and child, are they well?" she asked, oh so very refined and politely. His smile deepened.

"It was bad, but they survived it."

"And did you visit Susannah Marsten while you were at Falmouth Neck?"

Now that, he thought, with a startled mixture of amusement and exasperation, was more like the old Delia. Damn her, but she could still disconcert him. He could feel his face coloring and it infuriated him that she could do this to him.

"Yes. I saw her," he said, knowing what she would think and knowing it would hurt her.

"Did you take her to bed?"

Jesus...

He hadn't taken Susannah to bed. He hadn't because he had spent every damn minute of the past week thinking about, dreaming about, hungering for the silky feel of those heavy round breasts filling his hands and the sound of that soft, husky voice caressing his ear, saying
I
love ye, Tyler Savitch... love ye... love ye...

No, he hadn't slept with Susannah Marsten and he probably never would now. His silence, however, was as good as saying that he had. As he knew it would be.

"You ought to marry her," Delia said.

"I might consider it." Ty's smile showed a good part of his teeth and he leaned closer, so close their breath commingled, so close he could smell her. Sassafras soap and bayberry candles and a musky, erotic smell that was all hers and made him think of sex. It brought his manhood to instant hard and trembling life. He thought he just might hate her for being able to do that to him.

Her lips parted open as she took in a breath and he considered smothering her mouth with his. Instead he said, "Have you taken up matchmaking, brat? Now that you're going to be a happily married woman yourself."

She actually laughed. He was deliberately trying to wound her and she was
laughing.
For a moment he fantasized wrapping his hands around that slender neck and throttling her. She was driving him crazy.