A Bride Most Begrudging (8 page)

“What goes here, Grandma?” he barked. “The wench looks as if she’s just arisen. The day is calling.”

“There were no instructions for this one, so I let her slumber.” Constance could not mistake the accusation in Grandma’s tone, but Drew didn’t have time to respond, for Sally had run straight to him, forcing him to swing her up into his arms as he stepped into the cottage. The little moppet grasped his face between her hands and kissed him straight on the lips.

Constance marveled at the softening of his features. After giving the child a squeeze, he set her on the ground, then fixed his attention on Constance. Derision replaced the tenderness she’d seen just moments before. “By my troth, woman. Get yourself ready. There’s work to be done.”

She narrowed her eyes and headed toward the door.

He stepped into her pathway. “Have you developed an affliction? There was certainly none last evening.”

She stopped. “Your pardon?”

“What is wrong with your legs?”

“Nothing.”

“Do not tell me a falsehood. I can see with my own eyes that you walk with a twist.”

An unwelcome warmth crept into her cheeks. She should have gone to the necessary immediately upon rising. Brushing past him, she barely made it beyond the threshold in a seemly manner. Once outside, she half ran, half hobbled to the back of the cottage, then stopped short. The
master
nearly knocked her over in his effort to follow.

She scanned the clearing. Nothing here but a fenced in garden and a chicken coop. Beyond that, a legion of trees, shrubs, and vines caged in the little homestead they’d made for themselves.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you not expect to see a great forest blocking your escape route?”

Maybe it was on the other side of the cottage. She hustled around to the side. He dogged her progress.

Situated a bit beyond the cottage was a crude but sturdy-looking structure. It looked much like a lean-to, but was freestanding. Its wattleand-daub walls led to a thatched roof sloping downward in one direction. By faith, it was too big for a necessary house.

“What in the devil are you doing?” he demanded.

“It’s a morning ritual I have,” she answered, squeezing her legs together.

He spun her around. “Well, we have a morning ritual of breaking the fast. So I regret to inform you that my ritual takes precedence over yours. Now get back in that cottage and help with the preparations.”

Oh, Lord, forgive my boldness
. She took a deep breath. “Where is your house of office?”

He looked stunned. She blushed with mortification.

Throwing back his head, he let out a great howl of laughter. “Is that your affliction?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “Now where is it!”

Swiping at the water in his eyes, he spread his arms wide. “You are looking at it.”

It was her turn to be stunned. “Surely you do not mean you have none!”

“That is exactly what I mean. I’ll not waste good lumber on a privy when I can dig a hole just past the clearing.”

Her cheeks burned again, but she wasted no more than a moment contemplating his revelation. If she found out later that he had lied, there would be the devil to pay. She plunged into the copse.

“Watch out for the poison weed,” he yelled.

Poison weed?

“It is three-leafed—much in the shape of the English ivy!” She quickly scanned the area for any three-leafed ivy.

“If it brushes up against you, you will develop a nasty itching that quickly spreads all over your person!” His chuckle from well beyond the trees riled her shattered sensibilities.

Imagine! Bellowing at her like that and—even worse—
knowing
that entire time what she was attending to. It didn’t bear thinking of.

Obstinate man. She should have gone back to the ship last night. And what of last night? Wresting her to the ground in order to obtain an answer from her, then just up and leaving. Barbaric. And the ridiculous question of her legitimacy! Well, by troth, she had set him straight on that issue.

Unbidden, his face loomed over hers within her mind. It had surprised her last night by softening somehow. Much like it had this morning with Sally. And with the softening came the dimple.

She’d studiously tried to ignore it, but there was no ignoring it this morning when he greeted his little sister. Why she’d ever found dimples attractive, she couldn’t imagine.

Shaking out the hem of her chemise, she cautiously made her way back toward the clearing, watching for any signs of English ivy.

The lushness of the land cushioned her bare feet. So caught up was she in the bounty beneath her feet, she almost missed a little blackbird scavenging for its morning meal.

Bless me
—a blackbird with red shoulders! Slowing her steps, she shaded her eyes while it darted from the forest floor into the dense treetops. By the time she followed its path from oak to cedar to poplar, she’d returned to the clearing.

Drew was, thankfully, gone. Looking down, she took abrupt note of her appearance. She had on only her chemise. Her hair hung down her back in a braid and her bare toes peeked out with each step. She must repair herself at once.

Back inside the cottage, she stood a moment adjusting to the relative darkness. Of all the shadows merging and materializing, it was Drew’s that first took shape.

He leaned against the wall, a pail dangling from his outstretched fingertips. “Since Grandma and Mary have the preparation of breakfast in order, you may go and milk the goat.”

Milk the goat!
She gaped at him before blushing anew at her state of disrepair.

“You’ll end up having to do it for her, Drew,” Grandma said. “I’ll attend to it for now and you can show her some morning when you’ve more time.”

Constance scanned the cottage. Where the devil was her clothing?

Setting down the pail, Drew walked to the wall behind her and plucked the skirt she’d worn last night off a peg. “Is this what you are in need of?”

She whirled around. Snatching it out of his hands, she held it up against her like a shield. He smiled. Sweet heavens, he had not one dimple, but two.

“Where is the bodice?” she asked.

His eyes flickered. “I fear it’s not of much use to you. Wear the skirt and chemise without it.”

She gasped. “ ’Twould be indecent!”

He arched a brow. “Not nearly as indecent as if you tried to stuff yourself into that bodice again.”

Saints above, these ill-bred colonists would say anything. Even the grandmother’s presence did not temper their wagging tongues. “If you’ve but a length of cord, I can manage fine.”

He chuckled. “It’s not just a length of cord you’re needing but an entire bolt of cloth.”

Suppressing a groan, she dropped the issue and quickly searched for a place in which she could dress. Grandma and Mary bustled around the fire. Sally sat on the floor grinding meal with mortar and pestle. Did they do everything together in this primitive little room?

She turned back to Drew. “Be gone. I must dress.”

“Miss Constance, Lady of the Realm, have you still not grasped the essence of your position here? I am the master and you are the servant. When you would like to request something of me, I suggest you couch it in the sweetest of terms.”

“I am not a lady of the realm.”

“That is right. You are a servant. The sooner you accept that, the more pleasant you will find your lot in life here on my farm.”

“The devil’s dung in thy teeth.”

His smile vanished. “You will watch your language.”

“I will do as I please.”

“You will do as you are told or you will have no privileges.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Baths, food, and so forth are privileges awarded to those worthy of receiving them.”

She didn’t think so. Leaving one’s servants in filth and starving them was counterproductive. “Get out. I need to dress.”

He stepped forward and gently grabbed her chin. “Lesson number one: Ask with meekness and servitude.”

A pox on meekness and servitude. If he were a gentleman, she wouldn’t even have to ask. She kept her lips firmly sealed.

“Constance, you were bought and paid for. I have the receipt to prove it.”

She jerked her chin out of his hand. “You said you would send word to my father.”

“It will be at least six months until we hear back from your father.” She gasped. “Six months?!”

“Six months. Until then, you are my possession.”

“Only in your own sluggish brain.”

“Dear girl, it is within my rights to marry you at any time. Once that happens, you will be bound to me forever under God—father or no father.”

She blanched. It had only been within the last few years that England allowed women a veto in matrimonial affairs. Had this current not penetrated the colonies? She wasn’t at all sure.

“Wish you to marry me?” he asked.

“I do not!”

“Then ask me to leave in a proper manner.”

In a pig’s eye, I will
. Hugging the dress closer to her, she opened her mouth.

He gently placed his finger over her lips. “Think, girl, before you speak.”

His callused finger abraded her lips. She pushed the offending appendage away. “I wish you to go.”

“Phrase it with respect.”

Gritting her teeth, she impaled him with her stare. “Will you please do me the honor of leaving the cottage for a moment or two …”
you wretched, poisonous, bunch-backed toad
?

“Excellent.” Removing a worn but clean homespun dress from a peg on the wall, he handed it to her. “Josh should be back from the creek by now. You may follow the same path as last night for your cleansing in the water. Make sure you return before the breakfast bell is rung. There’s some soap on the shelf, there above the trunk.”

“What of the bucket and rag?”

“Hanging there, on that peg.”

Walking to the peg, she snatched up the bucket and rag. Off the shelf, she removed the soap and dropped the coarse yellowed block into the bucket. “A drying cloth?”

He retrieved a cloth from another peg.

“It’s wet.”

He nodded. “You have to rise early if you want first use of the drying cloth.”

First
use? “May I slip on my old skirt before embarking on my excursion, O Great One?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You may.”

Zigzagging her gaze between him and the door, she waited. The dolt simply presented his back to her.

Setting her cloth, bucket, and fresh dress on the table, she slipped on the skirt. Drawing close, Mary silently placed a small wrapped bundle inside Constance’s bucket. The sweet aroma of fresh bread surrounded the girls.

Constance glanced quickly at Drew. His back was still turned. Grandma bent over the bed tightening its ropes. Sally watched the women with unabashed curiosity, while Constance and Mary shared a smile.

Scooping up the items on the table, Constance marched out of the cottage.

————

Standing ankle deep in the creek, Constance sluiced the bucket of water over her with an invigorating rush, then lathered her hair and body for the third time. She didn’t care if the crude soap stripped off her skin; she wanted no residue from that wretched ship left on her person.

She poured water down her body several more times, then stood with eyes closed, cataloging each part of herself. She felt a droplet of water slide down her neck, hit the upper swell of her breast, then plummet through the valley between. Placing her hands against her ribs, she grimaced at the ease with which she could delineate each one. Pressing her hands lower, she tested the flatness of her stomach, then stopped and circled around her hips and thighs. Yes, she’d lost a considerable amount of poundage, but she was clean. Blessedly clean.

Making her way to the bank, she retrieved her cloth from the bush, dried her face, then raised her chin. The sun wrapped its rays around her, enveloping her with warmth.

Never had she bathed in the daylight hours, much less out in the open. After the dark confinement of the ship, it was precisely the catharsis she needed. Not only did it give her an unprecedented sense of freedom, but it made her feel as if she were sharing this Eden with God Almighty himself.

She smiled. The thought of bathing every day wasn’t nearly as daunting as it had been last night. With a satisfied sigh, she wrapped her hair up in the cloth and reached for the dress.

Unlike the dresses she was accustomed to, this homespun frock was all one piece. The sleeved bodice had been sewn directly onto the skirt, and there was no chemise at all, nor was there need of one. She slipped it on, and though the crude material grated against her skin, never was she more appreciative of a gown. No matter that the sleeves hung below her hands or the hem drug on the ground. The cut of its bodice covered every inch of her while its cleanliness and open-air scent intoxicated her.

She wondered whose it was, then tenderly rolled up the sleeves and made a cursory effort at drying her abundance of hair. It was a useless endeavor. She threw the cloth back over a nearby bush.

At the creek’s edge, she wrung out her wash cloth, watching the leftover suds butt up against the bank before scattering and eventually dissipating.

Finding a soft patch of fragrant grasses, she lay down, fanned out her curls, and studied this wilderness called America. A duck squawked at his companion and then dove beneath the water while a bird hovered above the surface, snatching the food away just as the duck reappeared.

She frowned. He should work for his own supper instead of stealing someone else’s. She quickly shied away from that thought, but not quickly enough. Not before it transformed for a fraction of a second into
When have you ever worked for your own supper?

She hastily rolled onto one elbow and turned her attention to the land. A grand maple, shouldering back a prolific beech, craned its limbs over the creek at a gravity-defying angle. Flowers of all kinds and colors grew wild within the grove, their beauty rivaling many richly designed gardens and orchards back home.

Back home. Surely she’d be back home in less than six months. She sighed. Not so for Uncle Skelly. He would
never
make it home. Not subscribing to the king’s supremacy usually meant death. But because of Papa’s influence, Uncle Skelly’s sentence had been reduced to deportation. In the end, it hadn’t mattered.