A Wild Yearning (21 page)

"'Tis here," Delia whispered. "This is the city of gold." When she turned to Ty again, she caught a look of almost worship on his face.

"Merrymeeting Bay..."

He loves it, she thought. He loves this place. And she was glad for him, glad there was a place where he could be so happy. A place he could think of as home.

Ty shook himself slightly as if waking from a dream. "The Abenaki call it the Quinnebequi. It's the same name they give to the river spirit. They believe he dwells within these waters. It's a sacred place."

A cold shiver slithered up Delia's spine. "Is he a friendly spirit, this Quinnebequi?"

"Of course." He smiled and waved his arm in a broad arc, as if drawing all that surrounded them—the bay, the trees, the rivers—unto himself. "Do you think evil could be at home among such beauty? This land here, the Kennebec basin, used to be the fishing and hunting grounds for my peo— for the Norridgewocks."

"Used t' be?"

A spasm of pain crossed Ty's face. "The Yengi live here now."

"But you're..."

She had started to say, "But
you're
Yengi. Your blood is English." But she knew that although Ty's blood was all English, within him there had been created two souls, or perhaps it was that his soul had been torn in two. And she suspected that here, at the hunting grounds watched over by the river god Quinnebequi, there dwelled easiest the part of Ty's soul that was Abenaki.

There was a flap of sails as
The Sagadahoc Maiden
came about, heading for the mouth of the Kennebec River, and Delia got her first view of what was to be her new home—the Merrymeeting Settlement.

Her first impression was of a short, broad wharf covered with barrels where tall white pine masts were being winched into the hold of a ship. Overlooking the area was a tidal sawmill for turning logs into timber and planking and, beside the mill, a fine red brick manor house with a gambrel roof.

Delia could catch only glimpses of simple, framed clapboard houses among the thick stands of trees along the shore. To the left, on the high ground, stood a palisaded log blockhouse, two stories tall, with loopholes in the walls and a spy loft in the sodder roof, equipped with an alarm bell. It was a grim reminder that although Merrymeeting might have a mill and a meetinghouse, and though it might call itself a town, it was still an uneasy oasis in the middle of a wild and hostile wilderness.

The Sagadahoc Maiden
maneuvered around a string of gundalows tied together stern to bow, then tacked toward an open pier. The Hookers emerged on deck. Delia was glad to see that although her face was still unnaturally pale, much of Elizabeth's seasickness had abated as they approached land.

"Look," Elizabeth said, pointing to the mast landing. "They're expecting us."

Delia narrowed her eyes against the glare of the setting sun. A handful of people stood together on the pier. Most were men and she supposed one of them must be Nathaniel Parkes. One beamy figure in quilted skirts, mobcap ribbons snapping in the breeze, stood at the forefront of the group like the blunted point of an arrow. Sara Kemble.

Beside her she heard Ty swear.

"How do you figure she got here ahead of us?" Caleb asked, a worried frown marring his thin face.

"Her brother-in-law's a fisherman," Ty answered. "She probably made him bring her over last night in his sloop. Damn the gossiping, malicious bitch."

Shame brought a stain of color to Delia's cheekbones and although her chin automatically came up, it quivered a little. All of Merrymeeting now knew that Ty was bringing back with him from Boston a foul-mouthed, slovenly tavern wench to be wife to Nathaniel Parkes and mother to his two girls.

As the passengers from
The Sagadahoc Maiden
debarked, a man and a woman separated themselves from the group and came forward. Delia could tell immediately by the man's dress that he was the local gentry. He wore a fine cloth coat lined with scarlet satin, silver buckles at his knees and shoes, and a high-crowned beaver hat over a light-colored bobwig. His rotund and dimpled face with its patched, florid complexion gave him the strange appearance of a scalded apple.

The gentrified man walked toward them with a swing of outthrust elbows. The woman who accompanied him, Delia took to be his servant, for she was dressed in a spotted bodice with a kerchief beneath, a striped apron, and a heavy wool skirt. Her faded brown hair had been pulled severely off her face and flattened down against the sides of her head before being covered with a white cap. She was so thin her high shoulder bones poked through her bodice and she jerked awkwardly when she moved, as if her joints were held together by twine.

The gentleman spotted Caleb and stuck out his hand while he was still a good five feet away. "You must be the Reverend Hooker! Welcome. Welcome to Merrymeeting."

Ty performed the introductions while Delia hovered nervously at his side. She scanned the few remaining people for a man who could be Nathaniel Parkes. The gentleman, she heard Ty say, was Colonel Giles Bishop, mast agent and commander of the local militia, and the thin woman Delia had taken for the man's servant was his wife, Anne. Just then Delia spotted a tall, rangy man with hair the color of straw standing within the shadow of the mast house. He was flanked by two little girls. Their eyes met for a moment, then they both looked quickly away.

The man took the girls by the hand and started toward her.

Ty slipped his arm around Delia, casually caressing her waist as he drew her forward. It was the first time he had touched her since they had made love. The shock of his palm, warm and hard, pressing against her back caused Delia to stumble and her breath to catch in her throat.

Ty mistook Delia's reaction for fear and gave her a gentle squeeze. "Nat's a fair man," he said, keeping his voice low even though the Hookers and the Bishops had slipped into an animated conversation about mutual acquaintances in Boston. "He won't have judged you before he meets you."

But Delia thought Sara Kemble must have given Nat an earful, for he wore a worried frown as he approached them, and he looked at Ty with a question in his eyes.

Ty pulled Delia in front of him, his hands clasping her arms. She wished he wouldn't touch her like that. Somehow she didn't think it right to be greeting her future husband while her heart beat wildly for another man.

"Nat, this is Delia McQuaid of Boston," Ty said, trying to reassure all concerned with his dazzling smile.

Delia met the man's assessing gray eyes squarely. He was dressed simply, in drab homespun breeches, a jersey coat with no cravat, and an old felt hat cocked up in back. He was as tall as Ty, perhaps even a little taller. But whereas Ty's body was all muscular leanness, Nat's was thin and rawboned, with big hands and feet, giving him an awkward look. His face could by no stretch be called handsome, for his ears stuck out from the sides of his head like the handles of a butter crock and his nose was flat and slightly crooked. He had a wide, loose mouth with creases at the corners that gave the impression he had once smiled a lot, although he wasn't smiling now.

At last Ty's hands left her arms and she realized he had turned back to rejoin the Hookers, giving her and Nat some privacy.

"I'm the one who answered yer advertisement for a wife," Delia stated, breaking the silence between them.

Nathaniel Parkes nodded sharply, then cleared his throat. "It was good of you to take pity on my situation."

"It wasn't yer situation I took pity on, Mr. Parkes. 'Twas my own."

Nat blinked in surprise. He started to smile, but thought better of it, giving her another nod instead. "Well then, it seems we have come to each other's mutual rescue." He looked down at a young girl of about nine who clung to his right arm. "This is my elder daughter, Margaret. We call her Meg."

"Hello, Meg." Delia smiled at the girl. Meg's little pointed chin jerked up into the air and she scowled ferociously back at Delia, as if challenging Delia to find anything the least bit lovable about her. Delia responded to the challenge, loving her instantly.

How like her I was at that age, Delia thought. Awkward and gangly with limp, dark hair twisted into braids that curved out like commas from her thin face. She was outgrowing her clothes so fast that a good portion of her skinny, scratched, and bitten legs stuck out from beneath the hem of her petticoat.

Delia could guess exactly what Meg was thinking:
She won't like me, so I'll get even right off by not liking her.

"And this is my baby. Tildy," Nat said, pride coloring his voice. Tildy truly was adorable, a chubby toddler with a head of curly blond hair and dimpled cheeks. She wore a pinner over her petticoat and hanging sleeves—extra sleeves that hung down the back to assist a child in learning how to walk and were usually worn by custom until the age of six.

"I'm three and a half," Tildy stated.

"My, three years old!" Delia exclaimed.

"And a half!"

Delia laughed. "And a half even."

Tildy clutched in her arms a cornhusk doll that was tied with vines and dyed with berry juice. She held it up for Delia's inspection.

Delia knelt before the little girl and took the doll's tiny straw hand. "An' who is this?"

"Her name's Gretchen," Tildy announced proudly.

"How d' ye do, Gretchen. What a fine an' pretty lady ye are."

Tildy laughed with delight and looked up at her father. "She likes Gretchen."

"Indeed she does," Nat said. He had a solemn and deliberate way of speaking that Delia found disconcerting.

Tildy turned back to Delia, two round dimples the size of shillings indenting her fat cheeks. "Are you going to be our new ma?"

"She can't!" Meg put in harshly. "Even if Papa does marry her, it doesn't mean she's going to be our ma. Not just because our real ma died!"

"Meg—" Nat began, but Delia interrupted him before he could scold the girl.

"Of course I won't be takin' the place of yer ma," Delia said matter-of-factly as she stood up. She didn't smile, although she did look carefully down into the girl's worried dark brown eyes. "I'll be yer da's new wife an' that's a different thing altogether, isn't it?"

The girl said nothing and the hostility remained on her face.

She'll not be won over easily, Delia thought, and loved her all the more for that stubborn pride.

"You'll be staying with the Bishops for the time being," Nat said. "I'll see you settled there." He looked around the pier. "Where are your things?"

Delia realized she had left her grist sack with its pathetic contents on board
The Sagadahoc Maiden.
Perhaps Ty would see it was brought to her later, but even if he didn't the few rags it contained would hardly suit her now. Of course there was the mare he had bought her. But that she would insist he have back.

So she gave Nat a brilliant smile, holding her hands out from her sides. "I come as ye see me, Mr. Parkes."

Delia's smile slowly faded as he stared at her, a faint mark of disapproval on his face. Evidently what he saw didn't please him in the least.

"I suppose you'd better call me Nat," he finally said.

"Nat," Delia repeated obediently, her voice throaty and pitched low with nervousness.

Nat continued to stare at her, a crease deepening between his brows, until Delia had to stiffen her muscles to keep from squirming. Finally he released a sigh. "Well... the Bishop place is this way."

They began to stroll slowly down the wharf toward the brick manor house, the two girls between them. They crossed in front of the lumber works. Walking this close to him, Delia realized Nathaniel Parkes moved stiffly and with a definite limp. He wore large heavy leather sea boots that flapped against his calves and thudded unevenly on the wooden wharf.

In spite of Nat Parkes's less than enthusiastic welcome, Delia's blood began to sing with excitement as she looked around her. This was going to be a new beginning for her, a new life, and she couldn't have picked a more beautiful place.

The air was filled with, the fragrance of freshly cut pine and cedar mixed with the more pungent aromas of fish, tar, and sea slime. On the hills in the distance, the spruce and fir looked black and soldierly among the tall and slender white pines. The setting sun gilded the surface of the bay and river waters. From the lumber yard came the steady thunk of someone riving clapboards.

They passed a couple of men working a piece of timber, who paused to stare openly at Delia. They waved and called out to Nat. One of the men was squaring the timber with a broadax while another followed behind, dressing it with an adz.

Meg pointed to the man with the adz, but her relentless brown gaze was fastened on Delia. "That's how our papa lost his foot. Doing that."

Delia glanced at Nat with surprise, for although she had noticed his limp, she hadn't thought it possible for a man to walk with only one foot. "Ye've only got the one foot?"

His eyes shifted away from hers. "Didn't Ty tell you? I used to work from time to time at the yard here, whenever my Mary—" He stopped, coloring slightly. "Whenever we needed a little extra something around the house. It happened a year ago last March. Just a year before my Mary..."

His voice dwindled and Delia suspected he had been about to say the accident had occurred a year before his wife died. Obviously, he still missed her so deeply he couldn't bear to mention her name, and Delia wondered if perhaps it was a mistake for Nat to be taking a new wife so soon. But then she looked down at Meg's thin, pinched face and she understood.