“Surely there is more to the man than his tobacco.”
Precious little, Selah thought, breathing in the fragrant pipe smoke.
Widow Brodie sighed as a burst of masculine laughter issued from the adjoining chamber. “He has a young son—”
“A son?” Cecily’s countenance clouded.
“He is a widower like so many.” Widow Brodie’s tone turned mournful. “We all grieve the loss of Mattachanna—”
“Matta—an Indian?” Cecily’s eyes narrowed. “How is it that a man of his supposed standing took such a bride? Are not these natives as the newspapers describe? A rude, barbarous, naked people who worship the devil?”
At that very moment Xander’s gaze pivoted to them from where he stood by the hearth. Had Cecily’s voice carried?
Candace put a finger to her lips. “Lady Rebecca was her Christian name, God rest her. She was a believing Anglican, baptized in the faith, second to none with her catechism, schooled by Reverend Criswel himself before her marriage.”
This passionate defense was met with scandalized silence.
Stemming a sigh, Selah steered the conversation to safer shores. “Master Renick is but one of many eligible men. But in truth, our recommendations may not dovetail with your affections.”
Curling her nose, Cecily took a fan from her pocket and stirred the smoky air. “I shall proceed with due caution. Glad I am we brides may court at our leisure, though I shan’t impose on your hospitality overlong.”
“Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” Widow Brodie cautioned. “I’ve often pondered marrying again, but at my advanced age . . .”
“You’ve not one foot in the grave,” Candace told her. “Though Rose-n-Vale would be loath to lose you.”
“Alexander is in need of a wife more than a housekeeper,” Widow Brodie said. “Perhaps then he could remedy that sad situation of his in Scotland . . .”
Cecily nearly pounced on that slip, opening her mouth to inquire further, when Selah intervened. “Please, let us speak of other things.”
Candace nodded. “Tomorrow Shay will give a tour of our humble town to all the tobacco brides, starting at the fort, or what is left of it, then the old church and current marketplace.”
“What of the plantations so talked about outside of town? I should like to live inland or upriver, away from the coastal swamps and miasmas the ship’s captain warned about. Be mistress of my own plantation.” Cecily snapped her fan shut. “Besides, we brides were led to believe James Cittie was quite populous. A bit more refined than we have found it to be.”
“There are some lovely vistas east of here that might suit your fancy,” Selah said. ’Twas her dream, too, to flee town. She couldn’t fault Cecily for that, yet she did not care for the ambitious glint in her eye. Was she a schemer? A shrew? Looking to her aproned lap, Selah put down the ungracious thought. “There’s many a man in need of a wife at Bermuda Hundred, the plantation at the falls of the James upriver. A picturesque spot.”
“Nearer the Naturals?”
“Aye, but we have come through a second war and are trying to keep peace.”
A very tenuous peace, Selah did not add. Many of their friends and neighbors had been killed in the Indian wars. How they themselves had survived the last conflict was nothing short of a miracle. The Powhatans were a powerful people, unwilling to be a conquered nation or be Christianized. If not for Xander and the few men like him whose continual overtures to honor and keep peace . . .
“I feel a bit wilted.” Cecily yawned again, this time more openly.
But the men showed no signs of weariness as the conversation continued robustly. Selah stifled her own yawn and helped Izella clear away the empty cups and dishes.
“To bed with you.” Candace spoke briskly when Cecily drifted toward the parlor. “In the morning we’ll have mush and mulberry syrup at first light.”
3
Of all the seasons in this New World, spring was Xander’s favorite. Virginia even trumped Scotland in his recollections. He recalled his childhood with dimming clarity. The mists and woodland bluebells, the stretches of light as the land embraced the sun after a long winter, the deep lochs and windswept coasts. He closed his eyes, grasping for details denied him. So much had slipped in and muddied the memories since he’d landed on Virginia shores as a lad. His own Scots speech seemed muted too.
This day, as he stood on his own ground, his thoughts were pressed full as a hogshead of tobacco with a great many unsavory things. Tobacco flea beetles. A barn roof riddled with hailstones from the latest tempest. Spoiled seedbeds. Ailing indentures down with the seasoning. Recently appointed, unscrupulous tobacco inspectors.
“True Word!”
His eyes opened at the sound of a youthful voice hailing him by his Powhatan name.
“Wingapo!” Xander called out the customary greeting as the lad emerged over the brow of the hill scored with green fronds of transplanted tobacco and the noonday sun. He’d not seen Meihtawk in a month or more. But whenever he did, he was struck by Meihtawk’s similarity to Mattachanna. Same bone structure and wide-set eyes. Same handsome Mattaponi bearing and warmth of expression. Though they were cousins, the resemblance was remarkable.
“I bring news,” Meihtawk said in English, clearly coming in his role as tribal courier.
At once came the clutch of concern. It seemed all of Virginia braced for another onslaught of terror after a recent tentative peace. Xander leaned his hoe against a stump and gave Meihtawk his full attention, including his leather flask.
Swallowing a drink of well water, Meihtawk looked him in the eye. “Chief Opechancanough asks that you come and kindle a council fire at Menmend, where he hardly has room enough to spread his blanket.”
So, the invitation came with a complaint. Yet the complaint was a valid one. The Powhatan Confederacy, made up of many tribes including the Mattaponi, continued to lose beloved ground, their villages thrust farther west year by year, their once vast territory shrinking before their very eyes. Frustration formed a tight knot in Xander’s chest, eased only slightly by Meihtawk’s obliging manner. It was he who had saved so many colonists in the latest hostilities, warning them of the last planned attack.
Xander nodded. “Tell Opechancanough that I have heard his request and will come. But I will need time to prepare. If all goes well, I will meet you in six sleeps at Monacan Fields when the sun is three fingers high.”
At this, Meihtawk’s face lit with undisguised gratitude. His was a hard task as emissary. Yet surely he knew Xander would not refuse the invitation. Though Xander was continually torn between his loyalties to the English and his ties to the Naturals, the Naturals oft gained his allegiance and the upper hand.
With a farewell, Meihtawk disappeared over the hill, a few indentures watching his going.
Xander drew a linen sleeve across his sweat-spackled upper lip, returning to his hoeing. Field hands spread out on all sides of him as far as the eye could see. His goal at first light had been five hundred tobacco hills by dusk. Orinoco was a laborious crop, robbing the soil and depleting the workers along with it. His attempts to be versatile, to cultivate other exportable crops, were unending.