The Colonel's Lady (7 page)

“Come, Bella, and we’ll share this fine gift.”

Though her voice and hands quavered, she brewed a fine Christmas tea, rich with fresh cream from the springhouse and a crock of honey from the fort’s hives. Bella made her take the thistle cup, choosing a common pewter one for herself. They sat in silence and sipped the steaming brew, watching the fire pop and spark, aware of the twang of a fiddle across the parade ground.

With a sigh, Bella drained the last of her cup. “This is the sorriest Christmas I ever spent, with you in mournin’ and Colonel McLinn sick over in the stone house and all them Injuns in the guardhouse lookin’ like they’re ready to burn the place down.”

Roxanna set her cup aside, recalling the unnatural flush in the colonel’s face and his bloodshot blue eyes. “I knew he was unwell when I first saw him. Is there someone to tend him?”

“Not a soul ’cept my Hank. The post surgeon’s long buried, remember?” She stirred from her chair and cast Roxanna a baleful look. “The colonel did send word he wants to see you when you’re able—and he’s able.”

Roxanna eyed the letter. She didn’t want to face him a second time, nor did she want to read the letter. But once Bella went out, she broke the wax seal. The fine paper bore the watermark of a Continental soldier, musket in arms, with the legend
Pro Patria
beneath. His boldly penned words seemed to leap from the page, and before she’d finished the first line, her eyes were swimming.

M
y dear
M
iss
R
owan,

S
even times
I
’ve taken pen in hand yet find
I
cannot summon the words to express how
I
feel about your heartrending loss . . .

The carefully couched words seemed only to finalize the fact that her father wasn’t coming back and she was four hundred miles from civilization without a shilling to her name to return her there. Hot tears splashed onto the paper, making the ink spot and run.

Y
our father died in the line of duty, honorable to the end . . . not only a scrivener of the first rank but a fine soldier.
I
was with him at the last and must convey his concern for you, his beloved daughter.
I
ndeed, his final words were these: “
T
ake care of my
R
oxie.”

She got up onto the bed where her father’s unforgettable tobacco scent still lingered and bit her lip till it nearly bled. Colonel McLinn’s letter still lay in her hand, and she turned away from it, perplexed.

He hadn’t told her how it had happened. “In the line of duty,” he’d said. What did that mean exactly? Indian arrow? British saber? An accident? Perhaps it was better he’d spared her the particulars. He was a gentleman, after all.

And what did it truly matter? Knowing the sordid details wouldn’t bring Papa back.

The letter fluttered to her feet, and she gave way to the pain lashing her heart. Sinking down on the dusty hearth stones, she put her head in her hands and wept.

8

Papa’s worn Bible on the trestle table seemed to call to her. When she’d first arrived, it had been open to the Psalms. Now it was turned to Ecclesiastes as if moved by some unseen hand. Bella, perhaps? In the dim light of the first day of January, Roxanna leaned over the candlelit page and let the words seep into her worn soul and begin to miraculously mend it.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die.

She’d been very little when Papa had taken her on his knee and told her how it was to be a soldier. He’d served with the British during the French and Indian War, long before he’d joined the American army. ’Twas a hard life. Adventuresome. Dangerous. Deadly. But death hadn’t been a stranger to any of them back then. Her brother William had drowned before the age of eight, and baby John had died of a fever. After that, ’twas just her and her parents in their snug stone house, somewhat reminiscent of Colonel McLinn’s. There’d been no more children. Papa was often away with the army, and somehow she’d grown accustomed to the lonesome absences, if her mother had not.

She remembered that Papa believed a man was born not by happenstance but by design, that the Almighty fixed one’s time on earth like He fixed the stars in heaven. There were accidents, calamities, death. But these were ordained also.

Still, her heart hurt.

Hungrily, she searched the next verse, her sadness tempered word by word.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
Oh, how she wanted to laugh—and dance! Was there to be only weeping and mourning in her future? If she stayed in this cheerless room and was of no use to anyone, there would be. And she simply must see about Abby.

She dressed in indigo wool, sweeping her hair back with pins so that it warmed her bare neck. Blowing out a solitary candle and banking the fire, she slipped out onto the frozen parade ground, so unobtrusive that not even the sentries took notice. She was drawn to the big blockhouse kitchen, glad to find it empty, the hearth containing a few red embers beneath its bed of ashes. In time she had it blazing and was boiling water, grinding coffee, cracking eggs, and making breakfast. For an army.

An hour later Bella appeared, wide-eyed and grateful. “Law, Miz Roxanna, you can smell them cakes clear to my cabin. I hope you’ve made a heap o’ coffee cuz the men are startin’ to rouse.”

Dovie and Nancy soon followed, red-eyed and yawning. Had they been up all night? Roxanna greeted them, hardly pausing in her work, glad to find them too tired to talk. She served them cups of steaming coffee and they smiled wearily, peering out the crack in the kitchen door as the dining room filled.

Within minutes Abby arrived in a dirty frock, her curls a rat’s nest of red tangles. Relief flooded Roxanna. “Morning, Abby,” she said with a smile, handing her a long wooden spoon. “I could use some help. Would you stir the syrup, please?”

Abby nodded, ever solemn, and Roxanna noted how blue-gray her eyes were, stormy as the Atlantic on a blustery day, the dark shadows half moons beneath. Was the women’s carousing keeping her awake? ’Twas time—past time—to talk to Olympia about Abby.

This morning she’d heard reveille for the first time since arriving at Fort Endeavor. Colonel McLinn was back, and sick as he was, some semblance of order had been restored in the wake of Captain Stewart’s lax command, after a brief period of mourning. Taking a huge platter, she began to stack pancakes half a foot high, eyeing Abby as she stirred the kettle of maple syrup she’d set to warming.

Someone had churned—or tried to—but the butter hadn’t set properly and was more a puddle. Roxanna dumped it into the pot of syrup, smiling in approval as Abby stirred more vigorously. Pancake making always reminded her of her mother, who’d been more at home by the hearth than anywhere else in the house. She held on to the image now, saw her mother’s bent, graying head intent on her task, nearly tasted the jams and preserves they’d concocted. If Mama had ever been happy, it had been in her kitchen. Distracted by the bittersweet memory, Roxanna poured more batter on a big griddle slick with lard, trying not to wince as Bella bossed Dovie and Nancy.

“Now, snap to it and go round with these cakes, startin’ with Major Hale near the head o’ the table. Then take the syrup round next and give ’em each a dip, but don’t let ’em manhandle the ladle away from you, you hear? Some o’ them men are more hog than soldier. There’s got to be enough for everybody, remember. I won’t have Miz Roxanna workin’ those fine hands o’ hers to the bone makin’ more.”

Nancy made a face and took the platter, leaving Dovie the syrup kettle. Still yawning, they disappeared into the dining room. As the door cracked open, the warm sound of laughter and the scraping of chairs filled the cold space. Bella followed with a mound of jowl bacon and a pot of coffee, and Roxanna sighed. Cooking was a pleasure, even for a crowd—when provisions were plenteous, the men were content,
and
she could hide in the kitchen.

Truth be told, all those broad backs and booming voices made her more melancholy than ever, given her father should have been among them. She could hear murmurs of approval and Dovie’s high-pitched tone squeaky as a fiddle string. The merry tenor of men’s voices grew bolder and less distinct as more soldiers flocked to the tables.

And then the hubbub ground to a sudden halt. All she heard was the clink of a fork as it hit the plank floor and a muted round of respectful murmurs that might have been a greeting. Ears taut, she continued making pancakes—and would do so till Bella told her to quit. She fixed Abby a plate near the warm hearth, relieved when she wolfed down two pancakes and held up her plate for a third.

Bless her heart
. . . Hadn’t Olympia been feeding her? Where was Olympia anyway?

With a sudden whoosh, the kitchen door opened and Bella swept in with an empty platter and coffeepot, face tense. “Colonel McLinn just come in.”

Roxanna said nothing, watching as Bella took a clean pewter cup and began to brew something from a small tin. “It’s cinchona bark—good for bein’ malarial. But best serve him some of yo’ fine coffee too. He ain’t eat for nigh on a week, Hank says, so keep right on makin’ them cakes.”

The feeling in the air seemed different now, and she could hear the distinct lilt of an Irishman, followed by an onslaught of fresh laughter. Was the colonel up to making jokes? She hoped it wasn’t about his breakfast! He’d said but a mouthful of words to her, yet she sensed it must be him. Her flush, brought on by the heat of the hearth fire, deepened. Just what had he said to her Christmas Eve?

Miss Rowan . . . I’m so sorry . . .

Remembering made her eyes sting, and she lifted a corner of her apron discreetly. Bella was at her side at once. “Now, you go on back to yo’ cabin and get out o’ this here kitchen. Most of the men are done eatin’ anyway. But best leave out the back door so
he
won’t see you.”

Biting her lip, Roxanna stood steadfastly and flipped the cakes. “I was hoping you’d ask me to help you do the washing next.”

Bella looked aghast. “Law, but you’d best get that out o’ yo’ head once and for all. The colonel’s back, and such a thing won’t be done on his watch, let me tell you. If he even finds you in this kitchen, he’ll have my hide for supper!”

Nancy returned, bleary-eyed and empty-handed. “We need more pancakes and bacon—and coffee. Quick.”

Roxanna heaped another platter high, glancing up as she exited. In the split second before the door shut, she could make out the colonel sitting in uniform at the head of the long table, his broad back to her, the bright queue of his hair bound with black silk ribbon and falling between widespread shoulder blades.

In moments Dovie returned, cheeks pink, eyes on Roxanna. “The colonel sends his compliments to the cook . . . and he says he’s wantin’ to know
who
the cook is.”

Bella moved to stand near her, her voice a strained whisper. “And what all did you tell him?”

“I ain’t stupid,” Dovie hissed. “I said he’d best ask
you
.”

Bella rolled her eyes and slapped her thigh with a dishrag. “Miz Roxanna, you best get on back to yo’ cabin.”

But Roxanna merely smiled and shook her head, filling the coffeepot again with a steady hand. “Leave Colonel McLinn to me, Bella. This is my doing, not yours, remember.”

Bella’s dark face creased with fresh agitation. “I never figured on him comin’ over from the stone house so soon. You see, the real cook and his helper deserted while the colonel was gone on this here campaign, and Hank ain’t had the time or the gumption to tell him. And this ain’t the day to do it with a court-martial about to commence and some soldiers set for floggin’ and all them prisoners to fret over.”

Suddenly a pall seemed cast over the day. Roxanna looked around the overwarm kitchen with mixed emotions. In the fortnight she’d been its mistress, save the week she’d spent mourning Papa’s passing, it had made the hours in this wretched place move faster. Would Colonel McLinn now oust her?

She didn’t have the heart to return to the cold cabin where Papa’s shadow seemed to linger in every corner. And she’d rather be occupied here than having to linger there and wonder about all this bad business involving court-martials and floggings and prisoners of war—and how much like a prisoner she was as well.

She took Papa’s watch from her dress pocket. Half past eight. Her mind was already moving to the noon meal—

“Miss Rowan.”

Slowly she turned toward the sound. There was no one in the kitchen now save her . . . and him. Cassius McLinn stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a gaunt giant. The ravages of illness highlighted every single feature of his handsome, intense face, and his eyes seemed awash—a glittering lapis blue.

“Colonel McLinn,” she returned.

“’Twas a fine breakfast.”

She nodded her thanks and nearly curtsied. What was it about this man that made her want to bow and scrape? Her back stiffened. She was no backwoods girl but a daughter of a fine Virginia family with solid British roots.

He came forward and straddled a stool, arms still crossed. “Miss Rowan, do you enjoy feeding an army?”

Surprised by his easy manner, she smoothed her soiled apron. “’Tis better than going into battle, surely.”

His generous mouth quirked in a half smile. “It appears you’ve been there and back.” His gaze took in the mess all around them—the batter-encrusted crockery and wooden spoons, a mound of spilled coffee grounds looking like a swarm of ants near his boot, a puddle of sticky syrup dripping down the hearthstones.

A battle indeed.

Her cheeks warming, her eyes trailed after his as he surveyed her domain. “I’ll soon have it cleaned up and set to rights,” she said spiritedly. “Just in time for the next . . . skirmish.”

A flash of amusement warmed his face. “And what is your plan of attack at noon?”

“Soup, bread, perhaps some apple tarts. Unless you order otherwise.”

He ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “If I remove you from this kitchen, my men are likely to court-martial me.”

She almost smiled. He was treading lightly for her sake, she guessed, because she was in mourning. Taking the stool nearest the hearth, she darted another glance at him and saw that despite his winter-tanned skin, he remained a very ill man underneath. Or was he so grieved by her father’s death—

“I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning—say, eight o’clock,” he ordered, then amended quickly, “at your convenience, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, wondering if she should offer to make him more of that bitter brew called cinchona. Thinking of it jarred her into remembering the tea he’d sent, and she recovered her manners, folding her hands in her lap. “I want to thank you for your letter—and the teacup and fine things.”

And all the gentlemanly sentiment behind it.

“The pleasure, Miss Rowan, was mine.” His voice was deep and thoughtful and so formal it seemed they were in some fine Virginia drawing room. “If you have need of anything else . . .”