“For our guests.” Candace smiled as Izella served them. “Especially for Cecily Ward as we welcome her to Virginia.”
Clearly enjoying being the center of attention, Cecily sampled a spoonful and pronounced it sublime. “I’d never thought to taste such a wonder in the New World.”
Her pretty speech only added to her comely appearance. Red-haired and jade-eyed, she looked more Scots than English, a mystery soon solved.
“My mother, God rest her, was from the Highlands. She never lost her Scots speech even after marrying my father and making her home in England.” Her gaze traveled round the table in turn as if assessing each of them before resting on Xander. “I heard there were Scotsmen aplenty among the colonists here.”
“Mostly indentures. A few poor gentlemen, tradesmen, serving men, libertines . . .” Ustis sent a droll look Xander’s way. “Ten times more fit to spoil a commonwealth than begin one, so said our infamous founder, John Smith.”
All laughed, and Xander leaned back in his chair. He smiled in that maddening, almost apologetic way, which Selah noted with a beat of exasperation. “I am but a humble Scot, Miss Ward. The son of a silversmith from Culross in the kingdom of Fife.”
Humble Scot, indeed. Most men would boast of being a burgess and council member, tribal negotiator and foremost landowner in Tidewater Virginia . . . if not ruthless tobacco lord.
Cecily already seemed smitten as she slid another coquettish glance Xander’s way. Selah tensed. Should she warn her? Xander looked down at his tankard, his neatly trimmed beard hardly masking his swarthy hue.
“The Scots part is true, but don’t believe the ‘humble’ part.” Shay grinned, spoon aloft. “He’ll own all of Virginia one day, some say. Makes the gentry of James Towne squirm.”
Reaching out, Xander rubbed his knuckles across Shay’s sunburnt scalp affectionately, earning a wince and a chuckle.
“Harrow!” Shay exclaimed, asking for seconds in the same breath.
“Shush, Shay,” Candace scolded gently. “Your tongue is too loose!”
Smiling, Izella served him the last of the custard as talk turned to settlement matters.
“What’s this I hear about you burgesses wanting to carve all of Virginia into pieces?” Ustis questioned. “And appoint a sheriff of James Towne?”
“There’s truth to it, aye.” Xander set down his tankard. “Virginia is to be divided into eight shires.”
“Shires?” Ustis lay his napkin aside. “Betimes I regret stepping down from the governor’s council. Sorting fact from fiction is quite tiring but for your confirmation.”
“I advocate for counties, not shires, as do most settlers coming into Virginia who want to handle matters differently than England. Five thousand strong to date, most at odds with English custom.” Xander looked to Selah, brow raised. “Rather, five thousand fifty-seven, aye?”
She smiled, surprised he’d kept tally. “And once the brides marry and the begats begin, a great many more.”
“Daughter!” Candace flushed like a schoolgirl as Xander gave a low, roguish laugh. “No such talk in the presence of company.”
“She is only speaking truth, God be praised. ’Tis no secret these brides were sent for to increase the populace.” Ustis sent a nod Selah’s way. “A far cry from the hundred or so poor fools who first set foot on our shore, most of them men.”
“I’ve had many a fear we’d become like the lost souls of Roanoke Island.” Widow Brodie gave a noticeable shudder. “God rest them.”
A sorrowful hush descended till Xander said, “We still hear secondhand reports of Roanoke survivors living among the interior tribes.”
“One can only hope.” Candace raised a Delft blue cup to her lips. “A great many people vanished without a trace. How can that be?”
Selah looked at Cecily, wanting to protect her from such dire talk. But truly, much of life in Virginia was still an ongoing fight for survival, thus anything other than the utmost honesty seemed misleading.
“We’ve made it through the terrible starving time, the lengthy droughts, and all sorts of Indian unrest. For that we can be thankful.” Ustis stood, praising the meal before withdrawing to his study with Xander.
When Shay excused himself to reunite with friends down the lane, the four women remained at table, sipping their beverages and talking of daintier matters as the candles sank lower in their holders. Now and then Selah’s attention strayed to the study, where wisps of pipe smoke surrounded the conversing men like Scottish wraiths.
Raising a hand, Cecily suppressed a yawn, which didn’t escape Candace’s attention. “You must be exhausted, my dear.”
“On the contrary.” Cecily looked considerably fresher than she did upon her arrival. “The hot bath you insisted upon and a nap this afternoon has quite revived me, not to mention this fine elderberry tonic.”
“I suppose the courting commences as soon as you’ve rested.” Widow Brodie’s eyes lit with interest. “We all await to see which gentleman you fondly bestow yourself upon.”
Selah smiled, her prayers for felicitous matches unending. “Tomorrow shall prove interesting once formalities are finished and matchmaking begins in earnest.”
“Indeed. But why is it with so few women here”—Cecily all but pointed a finger at Selah—“you remain unwed?”
“Why, indeed,” Selah replied, draining her cup only to have it refilled by Izella. “I am too preoccupied with storekeeping to settle by some hearth with bantlings about me.”
“Bantlings are needed more than merchanting,” Candace said quickly. “’Tis not for the want of offers our daughter remains cloistered behind the counter.”
Feeling the start of a scold, Selah made light of such. “Never mind me. Any woman on two stumps is considered a catch and has offers aplenty.”
“You are a modest miss,” Cecily replied. “Tell me, for I fear a false start, who is the settlement’s foremost bachelor?”
A sudden hush.
Widow Brodie smiled a tad smugly. “You need only look to the study for your answer.”
Cecily’s expression turned conspiratorial as her voice faded to a whisper. “No man I’ve seen since making landfall I deem your nephew’s equal. But tell me, why was Master Renick not amongst the throng of eager men at the docks? Is he above taking a tobacco bride?”
Widow Brodie pursed her lips as if pondering her reply. As blood kin and housekeeper and aware of his many habits, she knew best. “Alexander is a man of singular intentions. His days are a blur of tobacco cultivation, and his horribly ill-bred greyhounds—”
“I adore dogs!” Cecily replied with equal vehemence. “The fawn-colored greyhounds especially.”
“His are but red and black, though he jests about sending to England for the coloring you describe.” Her aging face collapsed into fiercer wrinkles. “I do not share your fondness for canines, but a finer man you’ll not find on Virginia soil.”
Cecily leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
Candace eyed the study as Ustis and Xander passed into the adjoining parlor. “You see, when our men first came to James Towne, most were genteel English, unaccustomed to laboring and hardship. That sort soon foundered. But Master Renick is cut of a different cloth. He simply rolled up his sleeves and got to work, fearing no Indian or wild animal or anything else. After many trials, he cultivated seed from the West Indies, a milder, sweeter tobacco than what had come before. We carry it in our store, though most is shipped to England to fetch the best price.”