Candace was already at her labors, uprooting stones and thistles. She raised a hand to shade her eyes when Selah hurried through the low gate attached to the paling fence. She straightened. “Is something the matter, Daughter?”
Winded, Selah sank onto a low bench. “I’ve just sold a bill of goods to Xander, who’s en route to Menmend.”
Candace’s brow furrowed as she sat down beside her daughter, hoe forgotten. “Well, that is certainly news. Whether good or ill, I do not know.”
“Father questioned him about the wisdom of such a journey, but he seems intent.”
“Such is Xander’s way. Determined. Resolute. But let us consider facts over feelings. He lived with them as a lad in a peace exchange, speaks their language, even married into their tribe. Chief Opechancanough is Mattachanna’s kin. And Xander is held in high esteem by the Powhatans when few white men are.”
“Glad I am of that, but since Mattachanna’s death, the peace their marriage brought has been repeatedly broken. No colonist seems safe.”
“Not all the treachery can be laid at the Powhatans’ door. The colonists’ hands are also stained with blood.”
“Will it never end?” Selah looked west, past newly leafed trees that rustled in the coastal wind. “I pray for peace, but peace does not come.”
“What stake have you personally in this?” Candace asked. “Rarely are you so flustered.”
Selah lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “A great many brave men have perished. I pray he is not among them.”
“I agree. But my motherly instincts tell me your concern is of special note.”
Withholding a sigh, Selah pondered her reply, trying to make sense of her tangled feelings. “’Tis for little Oceanus, I fear. He should not lose both father and mother.”
“Oceanus may well have forgotten his father by now, being raised by his Scots kin so far from our shores. Though I do recall your father saying Xander recently spoke of returning him to Rose-n-Vale now that Widow Brodie is there.”
At once hope took wing, only to be tempered by truth. “I wonder if his dear aunt, aging as she is, would have any more patience with a child than with those hounds of his.”
“If he were to remarry, his aunt wouldn’t be so taxed,” Candace said, plucking a burr from her apron. “I might ask your father to speak with him about a tobacco bride. Cecily is certainly smitten. Then Oceanus would have a stepmother and could come home for good.”
“Cecily? I fear she is . . .” Selah groped for the right words yet couldn’t deny Xander asking about her. “Unsuited to him.”
“Is she? Why not let Xander and Cecily make that determination?”
“Oh, aye,” Selah murmured, trying to quiet herself as something green and vile gripped her belly. “Father warned me not to become personally involved in the brides’ choices, nor let my prejudices or partialities show.”
“Wise, aye.” Candace studied her daughter more intently. “What else has transpired to leave you on shaky ground?”
There was no escaping her mother’s scrutiny. “The physic, Laurent, came to the store, probing into Xander’s business. The ill will betwixt them fairly crackled.”
Candace took a breath. “They have ever been at odds for reasons unknown to us. Helion Laurent is not highly favored in the colony, though he is powerfully placed.”
“I do wonder at their animosity. Mayhap—”
A door slammed. The rising wind snatched Selah’s words away.
Cecily appeared all a-fluster at the back of the house. “I am sorry I have overslept—”
“Nonsense!” Candace waved a hand, her voice carrying across greening patches of ground. “Come join us. A lovely spring morn awaits.”
Cecily came down the path, linen skirts swirling. “I asked your maidservant your whereabouts, but she could not answer. Why does she not speak?”
“Izella is mute, injured by a slave trader coming here years ago.” The lament in Candace’s tone never faded when speaking of their faithful maid. “We took her in, helped her heal, and employed her, though we do not own her. She communicates in hand gestures.”
“Aye, she pointed to the garden. A shame she is deprived of her tongue. I told her to expect a suitor.”
“And who is it today?” Selah voiced the question they asked every morn. Of the half-dozen suitors Cecily had entertained since arriving, none had found favor.
“Richard Peacock of Indigo Hundred.” Cecily took the seat Selah offered her. “I must say, becoming Goodwife Peacock sounds quite colorful if nothing else. But I know so little about him. Please enlighten me.”
What could she say about a man she’d always found rather . . . ordinary? “Being a gentleman of the first fashion, he is well named.” Selah dwelt upon the good. “A man of his word who settles his debts in a timely manner at our store. Prefers rum to port and is fond of candied ginger. A faithful churchgoer.”
“He comes well recommended then,” Cecily mused. “A fine prospect. The others, nay.”
Selah and her mother exchanged glances. Courtship was fraught with complications. Ustis had already chased away one suitor who’d played his lute beneath Cecily’s window one moonlit night. But ’twas the Sabbath, after all, and since 1618 music had been banned on that holy day. Outlandish tales about lovestruck swains and unsure maidens abounded. One man was reputed to have even swum across the James River to reach the lady of his choice at a distant plantation.
Leaving them to their chatter, Candace rose and resumed her weeding as the sun spread more light across the garden’s colorful enclosure.
“Why are you not storekeeping?” Cecily asked, picking a yellow crocus to tuck into her bodice.
“I needed to speak to Mother a moment but best hasten back,” Selah answered as she turned out of the garden gate. “I shall be home eventually, anxious to hear more of Goodman Peacock’s pursuit.”
Cecily’s low laugh followed her down the lane. “Don’t forget the brides’ meeting at church this afternoon.”
“Three o’clock, aye.”
Selah returned to a store brimming with men perusing trinkets to aid their courting. Her father raised a concerned brow over her sudden departure, but she simply smiled, and he returned to his ledgers.
All morning she kept busy, glad for the distraction, amused and touched by turns with the men’s choices. Shoe buckles in satin-lined shagreen cases. Deep red and pale pink coral necklaces. Toilet water with hints of orange flower and musk. Small gifts that bespoke good intentions and the social standing of the giver.
If Master Renick was bride seeking, she doubted he would need any additional enticements. Rose-n-Vale was fetching enough. As for his personal merits . . . Those quicksilver eyes. That elusive half smile. The dark mane of hair that couldn’t decide whether to curl or lie straight. Or was it more his character? Stubborn Scot that he was, he was as remarkable as Mattachanna in many ways.
What was it that turned her thoughts to him? Her desire to see him reunited with his son? Selah knew her old friend would be unhappy with their separation. She missed Mattachanna as she missed Oceanus. Her fondness defied the grave. Once she and Mattachanna had been no bigger than minnows, turning cartwheels across James Towne’s common, picking fruits and flowers in her mother’s garden, admiring trinkets at the store. Often present when her kinsmen came to trade or make a treaty, Mattachanna was a ready, willing playmate. Though other folk shunned the Naturals, even their children, Selah’s parents made no uncharitable distinctions. Miss Mischief, her father called Mattachanna affectionately. She was ever merry and given to pranks.