A Wild Yearning (33 page)

Anne snorted. "I suppose I could mention it to Giles. Oh, the heck I will. He'd only say no if I ask him. That man couldn't see a hole through a ladder with his eyes wide open. No, I'll just
announce
it to him as if it were already done and decided."

Laughter and the delicious smell of roasting corn wafted from the open door of the Sabbath house. Lost in thought, Anne went through it, mumbling to herself about hornbooks and primers and birch paper, and shaking her head.

Delia turned to find Ty's eyes fastened on her, a strange expression on his face. "What are you looking at?" she demanded, blushing.

"You. You astound me sometimes, Delia."

"That was some bear ye killed t'other day, Ty," Sam Randolf said. He was spooling new rungs for a bed. With his mushrooming family he always seemed to need a new bed. "The bitch must have been near big as a mountain."

"Maybe." Ty grinned around the pipe bit between his teeth. "Truth to tell I was so plumb scared I had my eyes squeezed shut the whole damned time."

The other men all laughed and nodded, although they knew Tyler Savitch could never have shot that bear if he'd been quaking with fright and kept his eyes closed. But a good Maine man never bragged about his accomplishments. He let his friends do it for him.

Ty leaned over and plucked an ember from the fire with a pair of smoking tongs. As he put the coal to the bowl of his pipe, his gaze wandered across to the women's side of the room, where Delia sat, watching Elizabeth work her spinning wheel. For the hundredth time that day their eyes met... then parted.

Elizabeth Hooker caught a spoke with the knob of her "wooden finger," spinning the big wheel, stepping backward and expertly controlling the draft as the yarn twisted off the spindle. As Delia studied the girl's deft, quick movements, her mouth drew taut and her forehead furrowed in concentration. Even then Ty thought her beautiful.

He thought her more beautiful still when Hannah Randolf said something to her in a teasing voice and she tossed back her head, her full lips parting as she laughed with delight— although the joke must have been on her. It hadn't been easy for her, Ty knew, but slowly Delia was making herself accepted among the women of Merrymeeting and he felt a strong jolt of pride as he thought of her guts and persistence.

Ty had come to the Meeting just to see her; it was no use trying to pretend otherwise. But he told himself it was because he felt responsible for her. He wanted to be assured that she was happy, that her life with Nat Parkes was a good one. He wanted to see if after a month and a half of marriage, Delia McQuaid had grown to love her new husband. And if Nat loved her. Maybe if they did, then he could forget about her.

He should have known better.

Every time Delia spoke to her husband, Ty felt a sickness eat away at his gut. If she so much as smiled at the man, Ty's insides roiled and his fists clenched. Once, during dinner, she had leaned intimately into Nat, her breast pressing against his shoulder, her hand on his arm, and she had said something that brought a blush to Nat's gaunt cheeks. Ty had almost come bounding out of his seat intent on murder—of
her,
not Nat. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and shout at her: "You don't love him, damn you, Delia! It's
me
you love. Me!"

Christ, what had she
said
to Nat to make him blush like that? Was she referring to some intimate game they'd invented to while away the long nights out on their farm?

He still couldn't bear the memory of that night, her wedding night, when he had seen Delia go into Nat's arms. In the long, late, and empty hours since, lying on his own solitary bed, he had burned with hot jealousy and seething desire as images overwhelmed his senses—of Nat plunging his hard sex between Delia's legs, sucking her taut nipples, plundering her mouth with his tongue. Sometimes if Ty was especially lonely and vulnerable, the images would blur and it was himself that he would see with her, not Nat. His sex would stretch and grow hard, and he would make such passionate love to her, this fantasy Delia, that he would lose control, spilling his seed and shattering the dark quiet of his lonely cabin with his hoarse cries of release.

No woman had ever done that to him before, so why this one? Why Delia McQuaid—a common little tavern wench, barely eighteen, with a hot temper and a penchant for trouble? Why was it
her
smile,
her
eyes,
her
laugh that haunted him, when he had never been haunted by another's? Why her? Even married to another man, she still bedeviled his days and ruined his nights. Why the
hell
couldn't she let him alone?

But even as he raged silently against her, her presence in the room pulled him, drawing him to her. But he didn't see the prim farmer's wife in her hood and short gown and petticoat. He saw the girl who had lain naked on his shirt in the Falmouth woods, her glorious hair unbound, her mouth parted wetly, her legs spread wide for him, welcoming him into her virgin's body—

"Do you reckon they're whipped, Doc?"

Ty's head snapped up to find Obadiah Kemble peering at him earnestly with his tiny, pumpkin-seed eyes. "What?"

"I was saying the Abenakis have let the hatchet stay buried for three years now. I was wondering if you figure it's because they've been whipped."

"Shee-it," Sam Randolf drawled, tossing his shaggy red hair. "I know you lived with them Injuns when you were a boy, doc, but even you gotta admit there's no whupping them without killin' them first."

"It's true there's no word in the Abenaki tongue for surrender," Ty said, as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. There was a tight ache in his gut that for once had nothing to do with the maligning of a people he loved. His thoughts, his heart were still too full of Delia. "But there are several Abenaki words meaning peace," he added, knowing ahead of time that supporting peace would do little good.

And, indeed, all the other men except Caleb Hooker shook their heads, mumbling to themselves. There hadn't been real peace in The Maine since the first English fishing sloop had sighted the Maine shore over one hundred years ago.

Nat Parkes, who had been sitting in sullen silence, whittling teeth for a rake, suddenly looked up to glower at Ty. He voiced aloud the others' thoughts. "There won't be peace until the last Abenaki is dead. It's either them or us."

At first Delia had to strain to hear the men's conversation. But one by one the other women fell silent as they too picked up the talk of the Indian threat.

Sara Kemble tsked loudly, shaking her head so hard her mobcap ribbons fluttered. "Shame on Dr. Savitch, defending those children of Satan. Of course one shouldn't expect different from a boy whose mother allowed herself to be taken captive by those savages."

"You make it sound as if she went willingly," Delia protested.

"She lived with them, didn't she? She let one of them take her as his squaw. A decent woman would have killed herself."

"Suicide is a sin," Elizabeth said calmly, and Delia looked at her in surprise, for she rarely took part in the other women's discussions, preferring to keep her thoughts to herself. And in the past, even the mention of Indians would bring Elizabeth near to swooning with fright.

"My Sam is right," Hannah Randolf said, rubbing her swollen belly nervously. "It's been so long since there's been any Indian trouble. I hope we aren't getting complacent. Remember what happened the last time—"

Hannah cut herself off by biting her lip so hard she drew blood. Everyone turned of one accord and looked at Anne Bishop. The woman's gaunt face was bloodless and a corner of her mouth twitched spastically. Alarmed, Delia stretched out a hand to the older woman. "Anne?"

Anne stood up so abruptly she knocked over her stool. Whirling around, she fled the house. Delia started after her, but Hannah Randolf snatched Delia's arm as she went by. "I really think it's best if you let her be."

"But..."

"Her last living boy was captured and tortured to death by the savages," Sara Kemble related, her eyes glowing with relish. "Three years ago it happened, right here in Merrymeeting. We were warned of the raid in time, but Willy Bishop was out tracking an elk and he got caught outside the stockade. Anne and the colonel—all of us watched the whole thing from the sentry walk. They tied the Bishop boy naked to a cross right in front of us, then slashed into him with knives, over and over. And then they stuck flaming pine splinters into the gashes they had made in his flesh. It went on for hours. The screaming was something awful. But he was out of musket range, so no one could even put him out of his misery."

"Oh God." Nausea rose in Delia's stomach and she squeezed her eyes shut. They snapped open again at the sound of a heavy thump.

Caleb and Delia stood up together as Ty emerged from the bedroom. "H-how is she?" the young reverend asked, his voice hoarse.

"She's sleeping now," Ty said. "She only fainted, Caleb. There's nothing for you to worry about."

Caleb nodded, his throat working with suppressed emotion, then he slipped quietly into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Ty and Delia looked at each other, trying to read the other's thoughts while hiding their own. "What happened?" Ty finally asked.

"Sara Kemble ought to have her tongue bored through with an awl," Delia said, mincing no words. "She told us what happened to Anne's son. Are they really so cruel, Ty—your Abenakis?"

A muscle jumped in his cheek. "They can be."

He was hurting inside. She could see it in the tight set of his mouth, in his dark, brooding eyes. She yearned to cradle his head against her breast and soothe away his pain.

Oh, Delia, you are such a fool. The man stays away from you for days on end because every time you get near him you embarrass him with your stupid mooning ways. Now here you
are about to do it again.
So she scowled at him to cover all these treacherous feelings.

Ty misunderstood the reason for her frown and a bitter smile twisted his face. "What's the matter, Delia? Are you pitying me because I had to witness such atrocities as a child? Or are you wondering if I participated in the sport myself?"

"Did you?"

"Would it matter?" He shook his head mockingly, a cruel set to his mouth. "Ah, Delia, Delia... Can this be the same tavern wench who threw herself at my feet
begging
for my love? Do you fancy yourself too good for me now, brat?"

She gasped, unconsciously bringing her fist to her breast as if to stifle the pain. His words had cut her so deeply, she thought she might be bleeding inside. Slowly, she lifted her chin, although it trembled a bit. "I'm married now, Ty. And I don't
fancy
anything for you at all."

His eyes darkened until they were hard and smooth like polished stones. His fingers clasped her arm, digging into her flesh. "Are you telling me you love Nat?"

"Let go of me. You're hurting me."

His fingers tightened their grip until tears started in her eyes. His jaw was clenched so hard, the muscle throbbed. "Answer my question. Are you in love with Nat?"

"He's my husband."

Ty's head snapped back, nostrils flaring. He flung her arm away as if it suddenly burned him. Spinning on his boot heel, he jerked open the door. Then he stepped aside, bowing sardonically and gesturing the way with his hand. "You should be getting back to the Sabbath house, Mrs. Parkes. Your
husband
must be wondering where you are."

Her head high, Delia swept through the door. Outside, the wind had come up. It whipped her skirts, plastering them against her legs. Nat had brought the wagon to the front of the Sabbath house and was already hitching up the mare. The Reverend Hooker had canceled the afternoon's Meeting and the weather was brewing up a storm anyway. Steely clouds piled up over the mountains in the distance. The pines swept the sky with their boughs and flocks of ducks scudded overhead, trying to outfly the coming rain.

Delia paused on the front stoop and turned to look into Ty's face. Her arm throbbed where he had grabbed her. "Goodbye, Ty." How it hurt to say the words.

It hurt even worse to hear them, especially in that cold, indifferent voice. "Goodbye, Delia."

Squaring her shoulders, she turned away from him. The clouds opened up as she stepped into the road. The hot earth began to steam from the rain.

The wheel hummed and Elizabeth stepped backward quickly— one, two, three steps, holding high the long yarn as it twisted and quivered. Then suddenly, she glided forward, letting the yard wind onto the spindle. Back again, then forward, back, forward, spinning, spinning... The thread mounted on the spindle as the humming vibration of the wheel entered her body and the world around her dimmed, faded... disappeared.

Whoever was at the door had to knock twice before she even heard. She stopped the wheel, frowning at this intrusion. Perhaps if she ignored the person he would go away.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Elizabeth opened the door the barest crack and peered out, then pulled it wider and actually smiled. "Oh, it's you, Dr. Savitch."

Ty stepped into Elizabeth's immaculate kitchen. His gaze went around the room, taking in the shining brass pots hanging from the summer, the copper kettle and porcelain dishes on the dresser, the spinning wheel with its full spindle. He smiled at her. She noticed he carried his physician's bag.

"Is someone in Merrymeeting ill, doctor?"

"No. I came to town specifically to see you, Mrs. Hooker."

"Me?" She laughed nervously. "Oh, you mean because I fainted yesterday. But I'm all right now, really. Would you care for some tea?"

Ty lowered himself into a leather-covered chair. "Yes, thank you. I thought you might want to talk to me about
why
you fainted."

Elizabeth shuddered as she reached for the kettle. "It was the talk... about the savages."

"Uh-huh. And how long has it been since you last bled?"

The kettle clattered to the floor, its lid rolling beneath the table. Hot color flooded her cheeks—how dare he ask her such a personal thing!

She felt a pair of strong hands land on her shoulders and she looked up into his concerned face. He smiled at her again, a gentle, knowing smile that strangely banished her embarrassment. "Let me get the tea," he said. "You sit down."

Elizabeth obeyed him. She clenched her hands together on the table in front of her. "I've been ill in the mornings," she admitted in a tiny voice. "And I haven't... done what you said for over two months. Do you think I could be expecting?"

He laughed softly. "I think it's highly probable."

"Oh!" A baby! She was going to have a baby! Elizabeth wasn't sure what she thought about it. Caleb, she knew, would be ecstatic at the news. But she... she thought she might be frightened.

Ty squatted down beside her, taking her hands. "Would you let me examine you?"

"Would it mean... would you have to touch me?"

"Only a little. You can leave your clothes on."

His eyes pinned her. They were very blue, she realized, bluer than the bay outside. His eyes disturbed her. She was afraid he saw things no one else could see.

He cleared the table of her saltcellar and sugar dish and scissors, then she lay down on it at his direction. He reached beneath her skirt and shift. When he touched the bare flesh of her stomach, she jumped.

His smile was calm and kind. "Sorry. I should have thought to warm my hands over the fire first."

She shook her head, biting her lip. Her muscles clenched so tightly they burned. But as his hands moved over her, the tenseness eased. It was as if he soothed aches she hadn't known existed. Blood, flesh, bone seemed to melt and run together into a hum, like the sound her wheel made as she spun, It seemed she
was
the wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning...

She hadn't realized he was no longer touching her until she opened her eyes. He looked down at her, a grin curling his mouth. "Our suspicions were correct, Mrs. Hooker. You're pregnant." He held out his hand, helping her to sit up. "The water's boiling. Shall we have that tea now? Do you have any sassafras? It's good for morning sickness."

She nodded mutely. Now that it was over she was horribly embarrassed. No man except her husband had ever touched her so intimately. And to think she had actually
enjoyed
the feel of his hands on her body. For one horrifying moment she thought she might have fallen in love with the doctor. But when he turned around from filling the teapot with hot water and she looked at his handsome features, she knew she was being ridiculous. She liked the man because he was good and kind, but looking at him did not make her heart leap as it did when she gazed into Caleb's dear face.

She almost giggled out loud. No doubt it was all the fault of her condition. It put fanciful ideas into her head.

The doctor poured from the pot into two of her pretty blue and white porcelain cups, then cut a piece off the sugar loaf and dropped it into her tea. She had just lifted the cup to her lips when the door was flung open and Caleb burst through. He was so out of breath he had to gulp in air before he could speak.

"Sara Kemble... she said she saw the doctor—Lizzie, what's happened? Did you faint again?"

Elizabeth startled both Caleb and herself with her exuberant, girlish laughter. "Oh, Caleb, silly. I didn't faint. I feel wonderful. I'm going to have a baby!"

All the color left Caleb's face. He looked dumbstruck.

"You're going to be a daddy, Reverend," Ty drawled.

Caleb pushed a shaking hand through his pale brown hair. "Oh, my God..." Elizabeth had stood up when he first barged into the kitchen. Now he rushed to her side, pulling the chair out and hustling her into it. "Sit down, for heaven's sake, darling. Should she be standing up like that?" he asked Ty. "Shouldn't she be in bed? Criminy's sake, Ty, don't just stand there.
Do
something!"

Ty's eyes, brimming with laughter, met Elizabeth's and they shared a conspiratorial smile. "Come fetch me when the pains start and then I'll do something." Laughing, Ty picked up his physician's bag. "In the meantime, if you all will excu—"

Caleb seized Ty's arm. "You're not leaving?"

Ty rolled his eyes. "I can hardly hang around here for the next six months until she starts laboring."

"But—"

"Caleb, you're being silly," Elizabeth scolded.

"Remember the sassafras tea, Mrs. Hooker," Ty said, easing past the young reverend, making for the door, and giving her a wink. "It's not only good for morning sickness, it also soothes the nerves of expectant fathers."

Caleb came out with him onto the front stoop.

"I can see you were trying to humor Elizabeth," he said. "And I appreciate that, Ty. But you can be straight with me."

"Jesus, Caleb. You're not the first man to father a child. And Elizabeth won't be the first woman to give birth. She's stronger and healthier than she looks. She'll be fine if you take it easy. Both of you." Ty gathered up his pacer's reins, then turned back to impart one last piece of advice. "Oh, by the way, you can enjoy marital relations up until the last month or so."

Caleb's head snapped up and his face darkened. "Why did you tell me that? Did Elizabeth ask about it?"

Ty shrugged. "No, she didn't. The way you've been acting I just thought you'd want to know she won't break, and you won't hurt the baby, if you and she get to feeling amorous from time to time during the next few months."

"Oh... uh, Ty?"

Ty waited patiently while Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, ran his tongue over his overlapping teeth, and studied the toes of his shoes. "Ty, in your experience, do most wives... get to feeling amorous very often?"

Ty's brows went up. "I haven't exactly had a whole hell of a lot of experience with wives."

"But you've had your share of women?"

Ty didn't bother to deny it.

Caleb laughed shakily. "Well, a divinity student hardly has the opportunity to..." He sucked in a deep breath and met Ty's eyes, finishing with a rush. "Elizabeth and I were both virgins when we married and I want to know if you think most women enjoy lovemaking."

"Yes, I think they do."

Caleb looked away. He shuddered once, hard. "It's me then. God, she must hate me."

Ty looped the pacer's reins back around the post. He studied his friend's face, noting the deep bite of a terrible sorrow. "You're imagining things. Elizabeth loves you, Caleb. A blind man could see that."

"Maybe so." Caleb's throat spasmed and he had to blink rapidly several times before he could go on, while Ty politely looked away. "But how can a woman love a man when she hates to be touched by him? I make love to her as little as possible and I do it as fast as I can, to spare her the pain, but it disgusts her, I can tell.
I
disgust her."

Ty's head snapped around. "Pain? She still feels actual pain? Are you sure?"

Caleb nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. "Y-yes. Every time. She's so darn small. I make her cry. I try and get it over with quickly, to spare her, but it still hurts her."

Ty heaved a huge sigh. He couldn't believe he was actually going to do this. He nodded toward the parsonage's front door. "Do you have any brandy back in there?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of—"

Delia worked a smidgen of salt pork onto the end of the hook, then wedged the alder pole into Tildy's dimpled fists. "There you go, puss," she said, rubbing the little girl's blond curls. She dropped the line with its bait into the river. "See if you can catch a fish now."

Tildy wriggled her bottom along the bank, getting closer to the water. Her mouth was screwed up in fierce concentration, for she expected to feel a nibble at any moment. She picked up the cornhusk doll that lay across her lap and handed it back to Delia. "Fix a pole for Gretchen too."

"Don't be silly," Meg Parkes proclaimed from her perch on a nearby rock. "Gretchen's only a doll. She can't fish."

"She can so!"

"Hush now, girls." Delia selected a tiny twig and began to tie a piece of twine around the end of it. "I see no reason why Gretchen can't fish."

Meg stuck out her tongue at her little sister. Tildy reciprocated, showing a mouth stained purple from the blackberries they'd been snacking on while at the river. The smell of the ripe fruit filled the air, cloyingly sweet.

"If you girls are good"—Delia equipped Gretchen with her own tiny pole and sat her on a doll-sized rock near the water's edge—"I'll show you later how to catch a fish with your bare hands."

Meg sniffed dubiously.

Delia laughed. "You'll see. An old Indian I met taught me how to do it."

As the hot noon sun climbed above the treetops, mist began to rise from the high green grass along the riverbank, still wet from yesterday's rain. Nat had taken a cartload of freshly threshed grain to the gristmill and Delia felt guilty, as if she were sneaking out behind his back, like a child playing hooky from school. There were dozens of chores waiting for her back at the farm, but when Meg had suggested going fishing Delia had immediately leaped at the chance to spend more time alone with Nat's girls. Since the day the hen had gotten stuck in the chimney, Delia had sensed a weakening of Meg's hostility toward her and she intended to press her advantage.

The tip of Tildy's pole dipped sharply toward the water. "I got one!" she screeched. "Oh, Delia, Delia, I got a fish!"

Tildy stood up and tottered two steps into the water. Meg hurried to her side, grabbing her around the waist. "Hang on tight, Tildy, and I'll pull it in," she said, grasping the end of the wriggling pole to help.

Tildy jerked away from her sister. "By myself! I can do it by myself!"

As Delia tried to intervene, her skirt brushed against the cornhusk doll, knocking it off its perch and into the water. Within seconds, it had floated out into the middle of the river where the current grabbed it.

Tildy was the first to notice and she screamed. "Gretchen fell in the river! Gretchen's
drowning!"

Delia shoved the little girl into her big sister's arms before Tildy could think of going after the doll herself. Then, pulling up her skirts, she waded in.

Away from the bank, the current was much stronger than Delia had realized. The water was also very cold and soon her legs were numb. Luckily, the doll snagged on a rock or Delia would never have been able to catch up with it. But the river seemed suddenly much deeper; it had risen above her waist. She took another step—it rose to her breasts.

The rushing water was a roar in her ears, but even so Delia could hear the echo of Tildy's hysterical screams. The rapids tugged at her skirts as she leaned precariously over, stretching her fingertips toward the doll. She was inches shy.

Given his head to find his own way home, Ty's horse walked slowly between the cart ruts along the river. The hot sun beat down on them mercilessly. A fish hawk circled lazily overhead and the vivid green wild rice and marsh grass waved in the sultry breeze. A pair of squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, chattering noisily. Ty cursed them. As a result of his and Caleb's "little talk," Merrymeeting's doctor was in a foul mood.