Too Far to Whisper (4 page)

“Has he no desire to wed again and have a family?”

“Aye, he does, but I fear the tales of his past drunkenness have made him less than a desirable choice for a future husband in the eyes of most women here in town.

“Where do Jonathan…and the Indians…sleep?” Rosalind broached the subject somewhat hesitantly. “Here, in the house?”

“Nay,” Abigail replied. “They sleep in one of the sheds near the stables. ‘Tis quite comfortable there.”

Rosalind was relieved to learn she would not be sleeping under the same roof with savages. She remained silent for a moment as she stifled a yawn. Suddenly she felt unbearably tired. “I fear the hour has grown late,” she finally said. She stood and lifted the trencher and Abigail’s tray from the bed and set them on a nearby stool. “I think it would be wise for you to get some rest now.”

“But I am so enjoying our conversation,” Abigail protested.

“And I, also. But we both could benefit from some sleep. Truth be known, I am feeling quite weary. My anxiety about leaving home robbed me of a good night’s sleep last night.”

“Oh, dear child!  How inconsiderate of me! I should have realized that today would be very trying for you. By all means, feel free to return to your chamber. Do not allow me to delay you a moment longer.”

“First,” Rosalind said, “I must make certain you take your medicine. Your husband has informed me that despite Dr. Tuthill’s orders to take a spoonful each day, you have been most uncooperative.”

“It tastes terrible,” Abigail said, sticking out her tongue. “I dare not imagine what dreadful ingredients Dr. Tuthill combined to make the vile potion!”

Smiling and shaking her head, Rosalind removed the bottle from the waist of her apron and opened it. She then poured a drop of the liquid onto her index finger and licked it. “It tastes of rosemary and hyssop,” she said. “’Tis not unpleasant at all. I am going to give you a spoonful and you
will
swallow it, will you not?” She raised an eyebrow at Abigail.

Abigail sighed and scowled, though her eyes could not conceal her amusement. “I was hoping you would be a timid sort, but ‘tis quite apparent you are just the opposite!” She opened her mouth just wide enough to accept the medicine from Rosalind.

“There, that was not so bad now, was it? You will probably be a new woman by sunrise!”

“If I could be assured this medicine were indeed some miracle cure, I would gladly drink every last drop of it. I am still not entirely convinced, however, that it is not some foul poison.”

“Get some sleep now,” Rosalind said. “I shall see you bright and early in the morn.”

Struggling to carry the trencher, tray and a candle to light her way, Rosalind departed Abigail’s chamber and stepped out into the hallway. As much as she wanted to go directly into her own chamber and collapse onto the soft bed, she first had to return the trencher and tray to the kitchen downstairs.

She took but three steps when the wooden tray slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

“Allow me to get that for you,” Nathaniel’s voice startled her. The man was like a cat, she thought, creeping silently about the house and springing out of darkened corners when least expected.

Nathaniel bent to pick up the tray but did not hand it to her. “Go to your chamber,” he said. “I shall take this and the trencher down to the kitchen for you. That is where I am headed anyway.”

“Thank you, sir, but ‘tis my duty,” Rosalind said. “I shall do it myself.”

Nathaniel did not step aside to allow her to pass. “Do not your duties cease when my mother goes to sleep?” he asked.

“I do not believe my duties ever cease, sir. If she calls out for me, what then?”

“Then ‘tis it not better if you are in your chamber adjoining hers and not down in the kitchen?”  His lips curved into a smile, causing the dimples in his cheeks to appear.

“I suppose so.” Sighing, Rosalind handed the trencher to him and then moved back toward the door to her room. “Thank you.”  Her fingers were on the handle when she felt Nathaniel’s hand on her shoulder.

“Were you not even going to wish me a good night?” he asked.

Rosalind turned to look up at him. His eyes locked with hers and he moved a few inches closer.

“Good night, Captain Corwin.” She opened the door to her chamber and stepped inside.

“Call me Nathaniel,” he called after her.

CHAPTER THREE

“Mistress Rosalind,” Grace’s voice halted her as she walked into the kitchen the next afternoon. “Would you be kind enough to fetch a bucket of water and take it out to the workers?  I would do the deed myself but I am in the midst of preparing Mister Corwin’s favorite dish – eel pie.”

“Eel pie?” Rosalind wrinkled her nose. Although the pie also had been one her father’s favorites, she never had acquired a taste for it.

“Do not look so concerned, child.” Grace chuckled. “A tasty meat stew is already simmering on the lug pole, and Marian baked several loaves of bread this morn.”

Grace was not telling her something she did not already know. The scent of freshly baked bread had filled the house all morning.

“Stew sounds more to my liking,” Rosalind said. She walked over to the hearth and grabbed the water bucket that sat on the floor next to it, then headed out the door.

The warmth of the afternoon sun surrounded her like a soft blanket as she slowly walked to toward the knoll.  She welcomed the opportunity to be outside, away from Abigail’s dark, musty chamber.  She had spent the morning tending to the woman’s needs – bathing her, reading the Bible to her, changing her bedding, brushing her hair and braiding it, and completing what seemed like a hundred other tasks. Although Rosalind was fond of Abigail, the thought of being confined with her for countless hours day after day, was far from appealing. Perhaps, Rosalind, decided, Abigail’s health and mood might improve if she were able to sit out in the sun for a short spell each day. The woman’s wan complexion begged for color, and her lungs could only benefit from a breath of fresh air. Rosalind had offered to open the shutters and let some light enter Abigail’s chamber, but the woman had protested, saying she preferred the dark.

The Corwins’ land stretched out from the top of the knoll to as far as the eye could see. Rosalind paused at the top to watch a raven flying overhead. A part of her wished she could be like that raven and fly…far away from her new life and back to her old one. To her, it already seemed as if she had been away from her family for weeks instead of only a day.

She was relieved to spy the two Indians, who were separated by a short distance, toiling in a section of the clearing that was closest to her. Her arm was beginning to ache from carrying the heavy bucket.

As Rosalind approached the two men, her eyes immediately cut toward Shadow Runner.  The Indian wore no shoes or shirt, and his deeply bronzed chest glowed as he worked to dig a stump from the soil. His snug breeches clung to his narrow hips and solid thighs, and when he bent over, Rosalind found herself unable to tear her gaze away from the hollows of his back, just above his buttocks.

Shadow abruptly straightened and turned to look at her. For reasons Rosalind did not understand, the moment she set eyes on his face, she felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

“I-I brought you some water,” she said. She plunked the bucket down in front of him with such force, a good portion of the water splashed over his feet.

Shadow squatted before the bucket, cupped his hands, dipped them into the water and drank from them. He then rubbed some of the water on his face and neck.  He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded his silent thanks to her.

Rosalind stood there, as if frozen to the spot. She felt a sudden, strong urge to linger in the company of this magnificent-looking man. She wanted to talk to him, to find out more about him and his people…about being the son of a sachem. She knew it was futile to imagine a conversation of any sort with Shadow, for he did not speak, nevertheless, she could not suppress the desire. And although a part of her feared him, she, to her bewilderment, felt more inclined to remain than to walk away.

Inhaling deeply, Rosalind grasped the handle of the bucket and lifted it, then straightened and said, “I shall take this over to Silver Cloud now. If you crave more water, I shall leave the bucket beneath that oak over yonder, after Silver Cloud has had his fill.” She quickly strode away.

In the distance, Nathaniel Corwin stood leaning against a pine tree, his watchful gaze trained on Rosalind as she moved toward Silver Cloud. When Shadow spied the captain and the object of his attention, his eyes narrowed and his fingernails dug into the wooden handle of his spade. From the first moment the Indian had observed Nathaniel and Rosalind together, it had been disturbingly obvious to him that the captain desired the blond beauty. What troubled Shadow was he knew that Rosalind, in her innocence, had not even the slightest notion of the captain’s intentions.

Shadow knew first-hand that the rumors about Nathaniel’s insatiable appetite for women were true. The Indian vividly recalled the scene he had witnessed the summer before at the pond that lay on the Corwins’ property. Nathaniel and a buxom, red-haired woman had first enjoyed a swim together, then emerged from the water, their naked bodies glistening in the sunlight, and had passionately fondled and caressed each other, using their mouths and hands in ways that Shadow at first had found shocking…then enticing. Unable to tear his gaze from the erotic scene, he had secretly observed the pair’s lusty mating and the woman’s cries of obvious pleasure. On that day, Captain Corwin unwittingly had taught him how to please a woman in ways he never had imagined possible.

Shadow directed his thoughts back to the present and to Rosalind, who cheerfully was serving water to Silver Cloud. For a brief moment he envisioned her lying naked beneath Nathaniel as he pounded into her in the same manner in which he had done to the red-haired woman. Unable to suppress the anger that rose in his throat, Shadow closed his eyes against the disturbing thought. He would do everything within his power, he vowed, to keep the captain and Rosalind apart.

Shadow set down his spade and lifted a hoe that was lying nearby. He then began to assault the earth with it, sending large clumps of dirt flying in every direction. Both Rosalind and Silver Cloud turned to look at him.

“He seems angry,” Silver Cloud said, rubbing a handful of water on the back of his neck. “Did you say or do something to offend him?”

“I said nothing, I assure you,” Rosalind answered.

“Something certainly has turned his mood foul,” Silver Cloud said. “But then, he has always been moody, that one – silent and serious, always keeping to himself.”

“Has he ever spoken to you?”

Silver Cloud shook his head. “Not a word. But I know he understands the English tongue, so mind what you say around him.” He spared her a slight smile.

“Do not worry,” Rosalind assured him, lifting the bucket. “’Tis my nature to speak kindly to people.”

“Even to us savages?” Silver Cloud asked.

Rosalind smiled at him. “Even to you savages!”

On her way back to the house, Rosalind caught a glimpse of a man entering the stables. She assumed he must be Jonathan, the subject of Abigail’s tale of drunken woe last eve. Although she feared Abigail might already be growing impatient for her return, Rosalind allowed her curiosity to lead her to the stables.  Inside, she found a man grooming a chestnut mare.

He turned to look at her when she entered.

“I am Rosalind Chandler, Mrs. Corwin’s new companion,” she introduced herself, smiling. “May I assume you are Jonathan?”

“Aye, I am he,” he said, returning her smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Chandler.”

His steel-gray gaze boldly swept over the length of her. He was short in stature with greasy black hair, a pitted complexion and rotted teeth. His round stomach swelled above the waist of his breeches, giving him an apple-like appearance.

“You live in the main house?” he asked.

Rosalind nodded. “I have been here but one day, but I have been made to feel as if I am one of the family. I feel fortunate to be in the Corwins’ employ. I hear tell that many young women would love to be in my position.”

“Indeed they would,” he said, smirking. “For the sole purpose of laying claim to one of the Corwin boys. Pray tell, Miss, is that why you have come to work here?”

Rosalind’s chin rose slightly. “I can assure you, sir, I have no desire whatsoever to wed a ‘Corwin boy.’  My only purpose for being here is to aid their mother.”

Jonathan’s smug grin grew broader. “Oh, we shall see. If I were a betting man, I would wager a goodly sum on your eager acceptance of a marriage proposal from either one of the lads if you were ever presented with the opportunity.”

“Perhaps you should place that bet, sir,” Rosalind said. “For it shall give me great pleasure to see you lose.” She turned and stormed out of the stable.

“Spirited little thing!” Jonathan said aloud, his hand rubbing his stubbled chin as he watched Rosalind hasten toward the house. “I like that in a woman.”

* * * * *

Ben and Faith were invited to dine at the Corwins’ on a Friday evening two weeks later. Rosalind’s eagerness to once again see her brother and his wife made the day crawl by, each minute seeming lengthier than an hour.

Determined to impress the guests, Grace and Marian spent countless hours cooking what appeared to be a kingly feast. The aroma of roasted goose, baked beans and gingerbread wafted through the house, whetting the appetite of anyone within sniffing distance. Rosalind, however, was too excited about her brother’s impending visit to think about food. It seemed like a lifetime since she last had seen him.

Shortly before the guest’s anticipated arrival, Grace, her hair and face damp with perspiration from long hours of cooking, pointed to a large wooden platter of boiled meats, bread and cheese, and asked Rosalind if she would mind taking it out to the men in the shed.

“Grab a pitcher of cider for them, too,” Grace added, wiping her brow with a corner of her apron. “I would tend to the errand myself, but Marian and I still have to polish the silver ere the guests arrive. Tonight is very special for another reason…Master Matthew is returning home!”

The woman’s announcement surprised Rosalind. No previous mention of Matthew Corwin’s return had been made – not even by Abigail, who usually shared every tidbit of news with her.

The workers’ shed was larger and more comfortable looking than Rosalind had anticipated. Three pallets, covered with straw, lined the floor. In the center of the room stood a thick oak table surround by benches. And in the back corner, a hearth.

Smiling at the men, Rosalind set the platter of food and the pitcher on the table, but neither Shadow, Silver Cloud nor Jonathan made any move to reach for it. They stood as stiffly as soldiers at attention and stared at her.

Rosalind could not resist indulging in a lingering look at Shadow. He looked freshly scrubbed, a loose white shirt complementing his dark good looks.  His thick hair hung long and straight past his shoulders, and to Rosalind’s surprise, she found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.  She might have stared at him all eve, had Silver Cloud’s voice not broken the spell.

“Thank you, Miss,” he said. “You caught us by surprise, as Grace always delivers our meals.”

“’Tis a welcome change,” Jonathan added, winking at Rosalind. The action earned him a disapproving glance from Shadow. Rosalind could not help but notice Jonathan’s stained clothing and the perspiration-streaked dirt on his face and neck. She began to suspect his past history as the town drunkard was not the only reason why women were not eager to be made his wife.

“Well, I shall leave you men to your meal,” Rosalind announced, feeling suddenly awkward in the men’s company. For one thing, Jonathan was looking at her in a way that made her feel as if she were standing naked before him. “Matthew is due to arrive home at any moment.”

“Oh, you will like Matthew,” Jonathan said, his decayed smile widening. He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you still so certain I shall lose that wager we discussed?”

“More so than ever,” she said evenly. She turned to look at the two Indians. “Enjoy your supper, men.” Forcing a tight smile, she took her leave.

* * * * *

Matthew’s arrival was met with a round of welcoming handshakes and embraces.

“Rosalind!” Nathaniel called to her as he stood with his arm draped around his brother’s shoulders. “Allow me to present my brother Matthew, the scholar.”

“He exaggerates,” Matthew said, laughing. He clasped Rosalind’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you. Nathaniel tells me you already have done wonders for our mother.”

“I have done little,” Rosalind said. She removed her hand from Matthew’s. “Your mother has had much to do with her own progress.”

“You are too modest, Rosalind,” Nathaniel said. “Ere your arrival, Mother seemed content to lie back and await her death. Now, she seems eager to join the living once again.”

Rosalind did not respond. Abigail did appear to be much happier of late. Her appetite had improved and she no longer balked at taking her medicine. Perhaps, Rosalind was forced to admit, she indeed had been a positive influence on the woman in some way.

“Speaking of Mother,” Matthew said, “I am eager to see her. If you good people will excuse me, I shall hasten up to her chamber.”

As Rosalind watched Matthew disappear up the stairs, she concluded that Jonathan had been correct. Matthew indeed was a likable sort. His manner seemed more genuine and less polished than Nathaniel’s – his smile warmer. Matthew was not as tall as his brother, but more muscular and broad-shouldered, with wide-set blue eyes and slightly curly dark hair. He exuded warmth, while Nathaniel gave the impression of being less approachable…and more conceited.