A Bride Most Begrudging (24 page)

What a great bunch of tripe. Nevertheless, Drew found himself finishing Morrow’s discourse, wherein the man admitted to having seen women cipher and was fully convinced the works in the diary were solved by members of the fair sex. He concluded by relating “all should glory in this as the learned men of his nation and foreign nations would be amazed were he to show them no less than four or five hundred letters from so many several women with solutions geometrical, arithmetical, algebraical, astronomical and philosophical.”

Four or five hundred? The man was daft. Drew drug a hand down his face.
This
was Constance’s uncle? The man she held in such high esteem? The man whose footsteps she wanted to follow? No wonder her head was so cluttered.

A distant clank of a pot signaled her approach. He bolted to the chest, tossed the book inside, and made it to the bed just before she entered.

He watched her from beneath half-closed lids, then held himself still when she stopped mere feet away, staring at him. He couldn’t see her face, but when she finally moved to put the dishes away, her steps were heavy, her shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes against her, convincing himself she was tired. After she settled onto her pallet on the other side of the room, a great deal of his tension eased. He was glad she’d made it home, tired or otherwise.

chapter
F
IFTEEN
   

THE DAYS GREW SHORTER, the nights grew cooler, and Constance grew lonelier. The magnificent reds, oranges, and yellows of October had come and gone, yet she hadn’t reveled in their glory, nor did she take any particular notice to the suggestion of winter just around the corner. She merely went about her duties, performing no more and no less than what was expected of her. Even Mr. Meanie ceased to draw her out.

The morning after
the rejection,
as she secretly referred to it, she had marched into the chicken coop, strode directly to Mr. Meanie, and said, “Do your worst.”

The contemptible creature did nothing, so she sang, adding a jump and a jig to each verse for good measure.

Here’s to the man with a heart made of coal;

Now to him who refuses to marry;

Here’s to the husband who hasn’t a soul,

And now to the man that is hairy:

Let the toast pass,

Break the long fast

I’ll warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

Mr. Meanie charged. With a swipe of her hand, she snagged his legs and held him upside down, giving him the biggest dressing-down of his life. Since then, Mr. Meanie had kept his distance.

Drew had kept his distance as well. In the past four months, he and the men had cut all the tobacco, impaling their stalks onto slender sticks that they hung head down across beams in the ventilated tobacco barns to wilt and cure.

Her shoulders slumped. Those months had certainly taken their toll on the indentured men. Seven had been struck infirm; two did not survive. Still, time marched forward, and the surviving servants carried on.

The curing would last through winter, allowing most Virginia farmers to have a few months’ rest. Not so on the O’Connor farm. The men worked from dawn to dusk on the big house, Drew at their side. He would leave before Constance awoke, only to return well after she’d retired.

In the beginning, she had visited the construction sight. Still not wanting to believe
the rejection
was final, she’d bounded up the mighty hill that overlooked the shimmering bay Fiddler’s Creek fed into. The men had labored with shovels, carving out a massive cellar near the peak of the slope, their silhouettes sharp against a cloudless blue heaven.

But the higher she’d climbed and the closer she’d gotten, it was Drew her focus had honed in on as he stuck the blade into the ground, stomping on it with his boot. Shoulders, arms, and legs bulged and rippled while he loosened the dirt, bent over, grasped the shovel low, and slung the dirt to the side before repeating the ritual in its entirety.

How differently men moved than women. Smooth, fluid, and graceful, yet one hundred percent male. She’d come to a dead stop simply to feast on the sight before she’d realized what she’d done and pressed forward.

At first, she had offered suggestions concerning the length, breadth, and area of the house, the distance between its posts, and even the location of the house so one could walk the shortest distance possible from the house to the creek to the barn.

But Drew managed to find fault with every suggestion she’d made, openly hostile with his rebukes. Stung, she’d eventually not only quit making them, but quit going to the hill altogether.

If he didn’t want to know where the hand stick must be placed so that the end of the wooden beam and the men at the ends of the stick carried equal weights, then so be it. If he didn’t want to know what angle the ridge and what height the side walls must be so that the wind blowing from either of those quarters would have the least effect on the building, then so be it. It was of no matter to her.

Knotting her thread, she bit the end off and shook out the final pair of winter breeches she was fashioning for the men.

“Can we go now?” Sally asked.

Before responding, Constance placed the sewing implements in a small mahogany box, then hung the breeches on a peg. Her headache had returned this morn and what she’d really like was to rest here in the cottage. But she’d been promising Sally this outdoor meal for some time now, and the little thing’s expression was too much to resist. “I suppose so.”

Clapping, Sally skipped to the covered lunch basket while Constance fetched a cloth. “We won’t be long, Mary.”

Sally swept out the door, then turned to look at Constance while walking backward. “Let’s go to the meadow and do chain daisies!”

“Oh, dearling, the daisies are all gone now. They only like warm weather.”

“But it is warm!”

Constance caught up to her and took the basket. “I know, but it hasn’t been. I fear the daisies wouldn’t be there.”

“Can we go see?”

A suggestion of pain stirred in Constance’s lower stomach. Touching it, she sighed. It had been at least three weeks since she’d had these nagging head and stomach irritants. She’d thought she was over them. Well, maybe they would pass quickly this time.

“Can we?”

“What? Oh, no, Sally. It’s simply too far. There’s a nice spot a little ways up, though.”

Sally’s expression turned sullen, and she hoped the child wouldn’t be in one of her tempers. She just didn’t feel like coaxing her into a better mood.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Sally kicking the dirt, Constance ignoring her spurt of assertiveness. Once there, she spread out the cloth under a big oak tree and made a concerted effort to be more cheerful and entertaining throughout the meal. Sally was having none of it.

“Can we go to the meadow after sweets?”

“No, Sally. We cannot. Oh, look! Mary’s packed us some apple butter biscuits. Here.”

Sally crossed her arms and furrowed her brows. “I don’t want any.”

Constance replaced the biscuit in the basket. “Let us away, then. I fear my head is spinning and you seem to be finished.”

Sally huffed. “Oh, I’ll eat one.”

This last spell of dizziness sent a wave of nausea through her. “No, you may have it when we arrive home, but truly, I needs must return.”

The child jumped to her feet, her eyes filling with tears. “That’s untruth. You just not want to. You never go where I want. Never do what I want. Only we sew, sew, sew. Why don’t you like me!”

Oh, dear Lord, please help
. “Sally, come. I adore you and I’m sorry. I’m simply not feeling well.”

She was sobbing now. “I only want go to the meadow.”

Constance opened her arms and Sally crawled into them. The child had become restless and moody with the onset of winter. She had an active mind that needed to be engaged.

Constance sighed, then tightened her lips. A pox on Drew for refusing Sally her academic pursuits. She would have to confront him again, even if she had to go to the big house to do it.

Leaning back against the oak, she cradled Sally and closed her eyes. Sweet, sweet Sally. She must pay more attention to her, do more. Share more.

When she next opened her eyes, it took her a moment to place where she was. A brisk wind carrying the smell of rain whistled through her skirts, emphasizing the sudden drop in temperature. Tucking several stray tendrils under her cap, she glanced around. “Sally?”

No answer. Surveying the sky, she frowned. Dark clouds had moved in, and she could make no sense of the time. How long had she slept?

“Sally?”

Quickly throwing the leftovers into the basket, she stood and shook out the linen, allowing the cloth to whip in the wind’s flurry. “Come, Sally. We need to head back.”

Still no response. An inkling of concern flittered through her. Securing the folded spread with the basket, she searched the area.

Sally answered none of her beckonings. Might she still be angry, even now hiding somewhere close but refusing to come forth? “Sally, come here this instant.”

Nothing. Constance’s frustration climbed. “Sally! There is danger for you unless you are with me. Now stop this silly game and come.”

Light seared the sky just before a deafening crash of thunder reverberated through the forest. That should have brought the child scurrying. It did not. She frowned. Sally must have walked all the way home by herself. Still, Constance cupped her mouth with both hands and called again.

Her eyes narrowed. She had no doubt Sally knew her way home. The child could navigate the forest much as Constance could find her way about London. Well, she would not do so again. It would be to bed without supper for Sally this night.

Snatching up the basket and cloth, she hurried home, her irritation growing with each step. The first few drops of rain fell as she entered the cottage.

Mary, hands dusted in flour, looked up from pounding her dough. “Well, I was a’wondering about you.”

Constance shook her head. “We drowsed a bit, me longer than Sally, though. Where is she?”

Mary paused. “What mean you?”

Constance set the basket down and glanced up at the loft. “Sally. Where is she?”

“She’s not with you?”

Constance floundered. “She’s not come back?”

“No, mum.” Straightening, Mary wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve not seen her since you left this morn.”

Her throat tightened. “What time is it?”

“Why, the close of day will not be too long in coming now.”

Constance shinnied up the ladder. “You’re sure? You’ve not seen her at all? She’s not in the tick?”

“No, mum. Should I check outside?”

Constance nodded, and the two of them searched the goat barn, the elm tree Sally liked to climb, the perimeter of the clearing, and then the cottage one more time. The ever-increasing shower tattooed the thatch roof, each rap heightening her anxiety. “Where’s the bell?”

“The master took it a few days ago, he did. The clacker fell off.”

Constance grabbed her shawl. “Stay here in case she comes, Mary. I’m going for Drew.”

————

“Thomas! Get those braces up here, else all our hard work will be laying at our feet come storm’s end!”

“We’re here, sir!”

Drew motioned him and two of the others through the house’s skeleton as they barreled down the hall with all the spare lumber they could find. They’d just finished sheathing the second story but as yet had no roof nor chimney. Without the proper braces, a forceful wind could blow the whole house down. As it was, this sudden wind caused the exterior to whine and skirl.

With a rhythm established from months of working together, Drew and Thomas secured a length of timber at forty-five degrees across one wall while the other two men did the same to a second wall. Not for the first time did Drew feel frustrated with his father’s sketch, which called for a huge house shaped like a cross. Now, instead of a mere four walls to brace, he had twelve.

Rain slid in rivulets from his hat’s brim as he quickly checked the sturdiness of the brace, satisfied with its placement. “I’m going to see what’s taking the men outside so long.”

Thomas nodded before moving to help the others.

Hurtling down the stairs, Drew rushed out the front door’s frame, then jumped out of the way as another crew forged inside with more bracing lumber.

A sheet of wind and rain struck him, knocking him a bit askew before he hunched over against its force. Body O’Caesar, but it was cold. He hurried around the house’s perimeter, his boots sinking into the soggy ground as the water covered a good two inches of shoe with each footfall. They’d gotten more rain than usual throughout the season, so the ground had little use for this dousing and wasn’t absorbing like it should.