A Wild Yearning (26 page)

"Why won't you marry her?" Delia asked.

"Damn it!" He slammed his hand on the post, inches from her face. She didn't even flinch. "What is this obsession that you have with marriage?"

"She's a nice person, Ty. And she's in love with you."

"Well, that's too bloody bad because I'm not in love with her!"

He hadn't meant to say that, but once said he had thought the admission would at least please her. Instead she frowned. "Hasn't there ever been a woman you loved, Ty?"

"Why are you
doing
this?"

"Doing what?"

He leaned close to her again, so close this time that their lips almost touched. Hers parted open again as she sucked in a sharp breath. "This is all some kind of a trick, isn't it?" he said, his voice low and hard. "You and Nat Parkes and this bloody ridiculous marriage. You think I won't let you go through with it, that I'll stop it at the last minute—well, I've got a surprise for you, Delia-girl..."

He seized her arms, giving her a rough shake, and continued to shake her as he shouted into her face. "I don't love you, Delia, and no amount of wishing and conniving on your part is going to convince me that I do. And there is nothing,
nothing
you can do that will make me love you!"

He flung her away and stepped back the better to survey the damage he had done. He was hurting inside, confused, and, to his shame, frightened. He blamed her for it and so, like a child, he had wanted to hurt her back. He got his wish. Her face was white and frozen, as if sculpted of ice, her eyes two black, bottomless holes, and he couldn't bear it.

He came within a second of enfolding her in his arms and telling her that it was all lies, lies, lies. Not only was he afraid that he did love her, but he thought he was probably damned to love her the rest of his life. And if he let himself do that, let himself love her, then he would inevitably lose her. And if that happened just one more time, he wouldn't be able to bear it, it would certainly kill him, and still... still, he almost gave himself away.

But then she thrust out that proud, defiant chin and her eyes flared wide. "Are ye done shoutin' at me, Tyler Savitch?"

"No, by God—"

"Because I don't have the time t' listen t' it. I'm supposed t' be gettin' dressed. For my weddin'."

She brushed past him, heading for the open doorway.

"Delia!" he shouted after her.

Nat Parkes climbed the sloping hill behind the barn, his wooden foot dragging through the green wheat. The hill had been the first of his land that he had cleared and planted the year he bought the farm. He did it first because it backed up to the house and he feared the murdering, heathen savages could sneak up too easily on them through the dense trees and underbrush.

Mary had worked right alongside him to clear the hill, until she realized she was carrying Meg. Then she slowed down on the heavy work, and chopping down brush and pulling stumps was indeed heavy work. Perhaps it was because they had worked this hill together, but whatever the reason, it had always been Mary's favorite spot. She often would come up there alone, "to have a conversation with myself," as she would say.

And so it was the place he had chosen to bury her.

After two months the freshly turned black earth had dried to brown. But the marker still looked new. He'd had a stone carver in Portsmouth hew it for him. It was etched with a death's-head on top, and below that the words:
Here lies the body of Mary Parkes born 1693 aged 28 years.
He'd wanted to have
Beloved Wife and Mother
in there somewhere, but the stone carver had run out of room.

He knelt and traced the letters of her name.

Mary...

It's happening today, Mary. I'm marrying that girl. I guess I told you already her name is Delia McQuaid. I'm not sun you'd approve of her much. She's a bit ungodly, I'm afraid, am I suspect she can be notional too, at times.
He gave a weak laugh.
You always said a man should steer clear of notional
women... Trouble is, Mary, she's what Dr. Ty brought back with him from Boston, so I suppose she's the one it has to be. I haven't the heart to go looking for another.

His head fell back and he gazed up at the sky, his throat working to suppress the tears. He squeezed his eyes shut.

I wish now you hadn't asked me for that promise, Mary. I suppose you were thinking of the girls and you knew I'd never marry again if left to my own will. And I wouldn't have. There can never be one to take your place, Mary. Never—

His shoulders jerked and hunched, and he pressed his palms hard into his face to stifle a sob.

Anne Bishop wound a wreath of goldenrod and daisies through the shining black coils of Delia's hair. Her hand lingered on the single curl that had been left to fall over Delia's shoulder, her rough fingers snagging in the silken tresses.

Anne stepped back and Delia looked down at herself, running her palms over the smooth bodice of her new linen short gown. She lifted the folds of the calico petticoat, marveling at its light softness. It was the shade of an apple tree in full bloom, with tiny green dots. Her short gown was the color of forest moss with ruffled elbow-length sleeves. Her skirt rustled when she walked and brushed against her legs, feeling like the soft strokes of a hundred goose feathers. It was a practical outfit for a wilderness wedding—too fine for wearing to work in the fields, but not so extravagant that it wouldn't do for a typical Sabbath-day meeting.

Laughing suddenly, she twirled on the toes of her new leather slippers. "Oh, Anne, I feel so pretty!"

Anne rubbed at the corner of one eye with her knuckle. "You look as beautiful as a Kennebec swan."

Delia stopped dancing. She smiled into Anne's pinched and weathered face. Faded brown eyes looked back at her, unblinking, but with a warmth that brought a soft glow to Delia's chest. During the past ten days she had grown to love this strange, irascible woman. In many ways Anne Bishop had become for Delia the mother she had lost when she was nine.

"Oh, Anne... How can I ever thank you for all you've done for me? For making me these new clothes and giving me the lessons. And the fine hospitality of your beautiful house." She looked around the bedroom that had come to feel so much like home to her, the home she had always dreamed of. A wistful sigh escaped her lips. "I'm going to miss living here with you and the colonel."

"But you'll be coming back three mornings a week to continue with those lessons," Anne said, her voice vinegar tart. "I didn't spend all those hours teaching you to read and write and speak properly only to see you stop at this rudimentary level. I intend to educate you, girl, if I have to do it with the end of a switch."

Delia laughed. "Afore long I should be able to recite aloud that Pope fellow's poems you're so almighty keen on while I'm out doing my milking. Nat's she-goat should be mightily impressed."

Anne pretended to snort with indignation. Then she picked up a silk-wrapped package from the chest and handed it to Delia. "I thought you might like to wear these. They were a gift from my mother to me and I wore them for my first wedding. I want you to have them, Delia."

Delia looked at Anne in surprise, for she hadn't known the woman had been married once before. She hesitated to pull open the silk material; the wrapping itself was more valuable than any gift she'd ever received before. Except, she thought with a sudden stab of pain, for a certain pair of calfskin shoes with red heels.

"Well, don't just stand there frozen like a hunter in a blind," Anne said. "Open it, girl."

Delia pulled apart the folds of silk. Inside was a pair of delicate white lace mitts intricately embroidered with tiny seed pearls. She gasped at the wonder of owning anything so fine. "Oh, Anne, they're beautiful. But I could never..."

"Nonsense. You can and you shall." She stroked Delia's cheek with one bent, rough knuckle. "I never had a daughter of my own to give them to."

Tears oozed from Delia's eyes and she brushed them with the heels of her hands. "Oh, Lord above us..." The two women shared watery smiles and then fell into each other's arms, exchanging fierce hugs.

Anne stroked Delia's back. "Be happy."

"I will," Delia said, her mouth against Anne's bony shoulder.

But inside she felt an ache of disappointment so strong she wanted to cry. Every girl dreams of this day, her wedding day, when she will be joined for life to the man she loves. But the man Delia loved didn't love her and the man she was marrying loved his dead wife.

Delia walked slowly down the stairs, her lace-covered palm trailing lightly along the banister. Nathaniel Parkes waited for her in the hall, twisting his hat in his hands. He looked up, took a step forward, and then paused. She saw surprise cross his face, the creases alongside his mouth deepening with an involuntary smile.

"Why, you look dreadfully pretty, Delia!" The words had burst out of him, startling himself as much as her, and a vivid blush immediately suffused his face.

"That's the nicest compliment anyone's ever paid to me," Delia said, wanting to put him at ease and wishing it wasn't necessary for her always to have to be so mindful of what he was thinking or feeling.

Her efforts failed to get the desired result anyway, for instead he frowned and, although he took her arm to lead her down the hall and out the front door, his fingers barely touched her. They walked with their bodies so far apart her skirt didn't even brush against his leg. His limp seemed worse today, the wooden foot scraping across the boards of Anne's diamond-patterned hall.

A thick lump, like soggy dough, formed in Delia's throat and she could barely swallow around it.
Quit being a wooden-headed fool. Just what did you expect to find on walking down these stairs—Tyler Savitch standing here in Nat's place, waiting for you with undying love in his eyes? Nat Parkes needs a wife and you need a home, and few marriages begin with love anyway and even fewer wind up with love at the end of them, so quit wishing for the moon. Marry the man and have done with it.

The short marriage ceremony was to take place in front of the manor house on the village green. It was a good excuse for a frolic and everyone in Merrymeeting was already gathered on the green, waiting for the marriage to be over with so the fun could begin. When the front door to the manor house opened, everyone stopped what he was doing or saying and turned of one accord to look at the bride and groom.

Tildy Parkes sat astride the hitching rail in front of the manor house, pretending to ride a horse, kicking her legs and tossing her head and making high-pitched neighing noises in the back of her throat. When the front door opened and Delia and her father emerged, it so startled her that she fell off the rail to land with a hard jar on her hands and knees. She thought about crying but changed her mind when she remembered the wonderful thing that was about to happen.

She pushed herself up, bottom first, and ran toward them, chubby legs pumping hard, a big rip in her new pinter. "Papa, Papa, is it happening now? Are we gonna be getting our new ma?"

She flung herself against her father's legs, reaching up to grasp the edge of his hip-length coat. He bent over and brushed the dirt off her pinter, fingering the tear. "Matilda Parkes, you promised me you would try to stay neat and clean, and where in heaven's name are your shoes?" he scolded, or tried to—for there was more amusement than anger in his voice. He grinned apologetically at Delia. "I was hoping she would manage to stay put together for at least the five minutes it will take to see us married."

Laughing, Delia scooped the little girl into her arms, settling her down on one outthrust hip and heedless of the dusty smudges Tildy's bare feet were leaving on her own skirts. "Yes, little puss," she said, kissing Tildy's fat cheek. The soft, sun-warmed skin felt smooth against her lips. "It's happening now. Your da and I are getting married."

Tildy let out a delighted squeal that rattled Delia's eardrum and made her laugh.

Carrying Tildy in her arms, Delia stepped out onto the green. As she did her eyes scanned the crowd for a certain face. She didn't see him at first and the disappointment she had been feeling deepened into a hollow, aching pain in her chest. Tears hovered so close to the surface they were making her eyes burn. He hadn't even bothered to show up. Did she matter so little to him that he could treat her marriage to another man with such indifference?

And then she saw him—at the back of the crowd, leaning nonchalantly against one of the trestle tables loaded with food for the feast afterward. His hip was hitched onto the corner of one of the plank boards, his long booted legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest. Their eyes clashed and held, but she could tell nothing from the expression on his face, although his lips did wear that perpetual scowl. Delia looked away.

Nat, too, was searching the crowd. "Where's Meg?"