A Bride Most Begrudging (36 page)

In the next moment, he stood by her side, placing his hand against her waist. His face was still rather flushed, and Nellie didn’t let it go by.

“Sneezeweed, Drew?”

He grinned. “Jealous?”

“Surprised.”

“Remind me, and I’ll have a talk with Gerald. Give him a few tips.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell him I want a real crane in my fireplace instead of just a lug pole, I’d like a pudding pan and … a fur cape.”

He chuckled. “Done. And what of you Goody Trible? Need I speak with Seward?”

And so the conversation went, each woman telling Drew what she wished her husband would provide for her—all of whom included within their list a desire for a fur cape—and Constance realized he was not merely being polite, but very cleverly arming himself with ammunition for the time when those gentlemen teased him about the sneezeweed. After a moment he turned to the woman next to Constance. “Now, who might this be?”

Nellie introduced the woman, Kendra Woodrum, explaining some Francis Woodrum had purchased her as a bride at the same time Drew had purchased Constance.

“I see. You know my wife, then?”

“I remember her very well. She came to the ship not with the rest of us, but just before we sailed wearing a green gown the likes of which took my breath away.”

Surprised, Constance looked at the girl more closely, for she had no recollection of her. Thick brown brows stretched above her doelike eyes, while a mouthful of teeth dominated her kind face.

Then she remembered. This girl had been ill the entire voyage, miserably seasick. At the time, Constance had thought only of herself, of rebuking the captain, and of returning home. She’d not concerned herself with the other women in that hold nor with what had become of them—other than Mary, of course. Now she wished she’d not been so apathetic.

Kendra offered up no complaints concerning her husband.

“Come now, Mistress Woodrum,” Drew implored. “I’ve known Francis my entire life. Am I to believe he’s a model husband?”

“ ’Course I am, O’Connor. Wouldn’t catch me giving my wife sneezeweed.” A young round-bellied man with a full black mustache and beard slipped his hand beneath Kendra’s elbow. It was the same man who’d kept Emmett from pawing Constance during the auction.

“I see you’ve not given her a fur either,” Drew said.

“So I haven’t. Where the devil did you get it?”

Drew straightened his spine. “Why, I caught the first fox with my bare hands. Wrestled him to the ground, only to have more pounce on me. But when the dust settled, it was only I who remained standing.”

The other women tittered, Nellie rolled her eyes, Francis hollered. “Ho! Wise men say, ‘He who hath not a good and ready memory should never meddle with telling lies.’ ”

Drew smiled. “I have a good and ready memory.”

The steady drumbeat changed in tempo to a
rat-a-tat-tat
. The crowd silenced and turned to the door of the church, where the preacher, Morden, who’d performed their wedding ceremony, stood. “Come, my children. Receive God’s Word and blessing.”

chapter
T
WENTY
-
F
OUR
   

SHE HADN’T BROUGHT any food. As soon as the service was over, every other woman had hurried to retrieve their precooked contributions while some of the men laid boards on the backless benches and others built a huge bonfire outside. Drew had left almost immediately to help, the others of the family doing the same.

She stood alone and unmoving in the sea of activity as it took on an almost abstract quality. People swarming in different directions, but each with a sense of purpose in their steps. The room transformed from a church with its uniform rows of benches into a social whirl complete with food, ale, and suppressed excitement.

She jumped to the side to avoid being rammed with a bench, moved back a step or two to make room for three women carrying earthen pots, and circled around a tub of ale, until finally she had been driven into a corner, an island of self doubt.

Why hadn’t Drew told her she was to bring something? She’d had no idea. Christmas was so different at home.

Of course, with the war and all they wouldn’t have observed the full rites of Christmas with mummings and dancing about Maypoles and processions. Still, a Yule log would have been lit, carols sung, a service attended, and Christmas boxes exchanged, culminating with a feast of Christmas pies, plum pottage, oranges, spices, figs, wine, and more, all displayed around a mighty boar’s head sporting a lemon within its ferocious mouth.

Why, just last Christmas she’d organized the celebration for her father. Yet she’d never prepared the actual food, brought in the Yule log, nor hunted down the boar. She’d simply orchestrated the events.

The torrent of movement had ebbed somewhat, now replaced with a hum of conversation, the women and girls around the table, the men and boys outside. Constance glanced out the arched doorway, trying to catch sight of Drew but without success.

She watched the hub of women chattering and communing amongst themselves. She hadn’t realized how artificial and coy the ladies in London were, herself included, until she watched these colonials. They were sincere, unaffected, and freely touched one another—something unheard of at home.

Two women shared a hug. Another squeezed the arm of a friend with affection. A couple of younger women pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, heads together, whispering animatedly before breaking apart in laughter.

No guile. No wielding of fans. No subtle insults. Just open, honest expressions of friendship. Her heart filled with longing. Her stomach twisted into knots. How was she ever going to fit in? For she was only now beginning to realize much more than an expanse of dirt flooring separated her from these women.

The longer she cowered in this corner, though, the harder it would be. She tried to summon up the confidence that allowed her to move with poise and certainty in elite ballrooms throughout London. Yet poise and certainty were not what she needed here.

Here, she was expected to drop all pretenses and expose herself as she was. She’d never done such a thing in her life, at least not with anyone other than her immediate family and Drew, of course.

As it ended up, Sally took the matter into her own little hands, breaking away from Nellie and running to Constance, commanding everyone’s attention at the same time. “Sissy!” she hollered. “Come see what I bring!”

She allowed Sally to pull her to the table, the other women opening their ranks to make room for her. Sally pointed to a basket of shelled pecans. “Look! I made myself!”

Constance oohed and ahhed, praising the child for her efforts.

“What did you make, Sissy?”

She surveyed the oysters, fish, wild fowl, corn puddings, pumpkin fritters, dried apricots, and spoon bread displayed around several dressed turkeys. Heat rushed up her neck and face. “I … I didn’t realize.” She looked at the others. “Drew didn’t tell me. That is, I—”

An older woman tsked and shook her head. “Now, isn’t that just like a man? Doesn’t tell his new wife Christmas dinner was to be eaten here. Why, you’ve probably a whole spread waiting to be put on the coals at home.”

The other women mumbled in understanding. Constance didn’t correct their misconception and glanced at Mary. Obviously Drew hadn’t told her either.

“Worry not about the food, Mistress O’Connor,” one of the women offered.

“It’s Constance.”

The older woman nodded. “Yes, we know. Not a female over the age of twelve that wasn’t wishing she could have Drew O’Connor to spouse.”

Good heavens. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment.

The old woman moved forward, grabbing Constance’s hand within her shaky grasp. “I’m Granny Apperson. You go on and take that fancy cape off and sit with us a while.”

The men had started filing in, complaining for food. The women ignored them.

Nellie transferred her babe into another woman’s arms. “Oh, yes, Constance. I’ve been wanting to try your cape on all morning. May I?”

Constance paled. The day had warmed up considerably and most had discarded their overcoats. All were attired in simple homespun dresses. They weren’t faded or well worn, but freshly dyed and very carefully ironed. Obviously their best.

They weren’t anywhere near as fine as the wool Drew had given her, and their styles were homogeneous. Not a scooped neck in sight.

The room had quickly filled, the men looking over the food, but now in a rather subdued manner, as if curious to what the women were puttering about. Constance scanned the faces for Drew. No luck.

She bit her lip. There was nothing for it. No matter what she did, disaster would be the result. If she didn’t remove her cape, she’d appear selfish and self-centered. If she did remove her cape, she’d not only upset Drew but alienate every woman there. Her gown was one of nobility, and these women would know it the moment they saw it.

Still, if she was going to offend the women, it would probably be best to do so with her apparel rather than with a condescending attitude. Besides, she wouldn’t dream of disappointing Nellie by refusing her request. She slowly released the loops on her cape and slipped it from her shoulders.

An overwhelming silence descended. All movement suspended and every eye—male, female, and child alike—was fixed on her.

After a lifetime of agony, it was Nellie who responded with a near swoon. “Oh, Constance! Is this what they’re wearing in London now?”

Bless her sweet soul, Nellie had, in her unaffected way, shown awe and genuine feminine appreciation for a lovely piece of frippery, totally disregarding the out-of-place design and neckline. Constance would not dare to explain that she’d have been laughed right out of church had she worn something so simple and unadorned back home. “Yes, but I’d much rather have a gown like yours.”

Nellie’s gaze, marked with amusement, flew to hers. “If I thought I had a prayer of filling yours out, I’d trade with you right here and now.”

Constance felt color rush to her cheeks again. Honestly, these colonists said anything, anywhere, anytime.

She barely suppressed her urge to jump back when Granny Apperson stuck her hand into the side of her neckline, fingering its border. “Did you make this, girl?”

She nodded.

“Look here at this fancy needlework, Nellie. She’s embroidered green tobaccy leaves all the way around. Would have missed it if I hadn’t been standin’ so close.”

Nellie, as well as a good dozen others, leaned forward to examine her work.

Releasing her hold on the gown, Granny clucked. “I sure would be likin’ a dress like this ’un.” She again eyed the dress up and down. “Think you could show me how to make one?”

“Me too!” Nellie exclaimed, echoed by several of the others.

Overwhelmed, Constance could only nod. That they showed no censor nor ridicule for the gown, but instead embraced it, humbled her.

How different they were from those she associated with at home. Never would they have allowed an opportunity like this to pass without using it to make themselves seem superior. Even she had caught herself doing so to others. She didn’t deserve such consideration—was unworthy of it, in fact. She didn’t belong.

“It’s done, then,” Granny announced. “Before we leave today, we’ll decide on a time to gather at the O’Connor’s for sewing lessons. It’ll have to be after we’ve all had time to order some fabric, though.”

“Best we not act too hastily.” All eyes shifted to Jonathon Emmett. “Never would
my
wife garb herself in such a manner.”

Constance stiffened.

Granny narrowed her eyes. “Well, Goodman Emmett, no need to get your breeches in a twist. I’d be worryin’ about gettin’ a wife before I worried about what she would or wouldn’t wear.” She clapped her hands together. “Say grace, Morden, and be quick about it so we can eat!”

Morden gave a brief blessing, and then pandemonium broke out. There were no plates. People just picked up what they wanted and ate it. Communal spoons were left in the puddings and other foodstuffs that required utensils. The turkeys, torn apart piece by piece, were eaten with fingers. The oysters dropped down people’s throats.

Constance stood in mute fascination.

“Ale, Connie?”

She turned to find Drew at her elbow, a noggin of ale in his hand.

She shook her head. “Your thanks, but I drink not spirits. I’ll just have what the children are having.”

“They’re having ale.”

“You jest.”

He nodded his head toward the cask where a young boy of no more than five stuck his face underneath the spigot to catch a mouthful of the brewed liquid.

She took the noggin from Drew, sipped from its contents, then shuddered, pressing it back into his hands. “I’m really not thirsty.” Their fingers brushed and she glanced up. “I’m sorry about the gown, Drew. I wanted to leave the cape on, but—”

“We’ll discuss it another time.” His eyes flashed, and then he turned. A heaviness centered in her chest as she watched him stride from the meetinghouse.