Judith E French (18 page)

To hell with England! To hell with the past! Books and silk gowns, music and art—she could forgo it all if she could keep these three people in her life.

But it was too good to be true.

Her own doubts and fears scratched at the windows of her house of cards. Fairy-tale endings were only for children’s stories—not for such as she.

. . . Plain as dirt and timid as a scullery maid.
Barbara’s hurting words surfaced to taunt her in the depths of the shadowy forest. Not only her mother’s rebukes but those of others . . .

Would a man such as Ross keep her to wife when he could have any woman he wanted? Would Cameron want to acknowledge her when he had Leah? Why did Leah bother with her at all?

Anne put her hands over her ears to drown out the hateful voices, but it didn’t help. The words came from within her own mind—there was no running from them.

She did not complain during the long hours of walking from the falls to the Shawnee village. She did not mention the mosquitoes that bit her, or the thorns that drew blood on her legs and arms. She did not ask to stop and rest when her breath came in gasps and sweat ran down her neck to dampen her dress and cause her tangled hair to stick to her skin.

She was so weary when they reached the Indian camp that she fell asleep within minutes of being shown into a hut. Vaguely, she was conscious of Ross cradling her head in his lap and wiping her face with something cool and wet. Then she knew nothing more than the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

 

She awakened to the smell of bread baking.

Kitate brought her water and corncakes still hot from the stone, and a stout Indian woman he introduced as Amookas offered Anne a bowl of delicious stew and a horn spoon to eat it with.

“Auntie say you be more than honored guest,” Kitate said shyly. “She say you family.” Grinning, he ducked out of the hut, leaving Anne alone with the strange woman.

“The food is good,” Anne said hesitantly. Amookas grunted and crouched, watching her.

When she had finished every bite and drained the water gourd, the woman motioned for Anne to follow her. Amookas led her out into the warm summer twilight. Immediately, Anne felt dozens of pairs of eyes on her. She forced herself to smile as she looked around at the curious Shawnee.

Most of the people staring at her were women and children. There were dogs and horses, and a few turkeys scratching around the bark houses. Anne saw only two men; they were old and white-haired. Shockingly, the small children were all naked, and most of the women wore only short skirts, leaving their breasts completely exposed.

Anne’s face grew hot, and she knew she was blushing. She kept her eyes down, trying not to stare back as Amookas led her through the scattered huts to the river.

“Wash,” the Indian woman ordered briskly.

Anne waded into the river and obeyed as best she could without soap and without removing her dress. When she was finished, Amookas signaled her from the water and directed her to a low stone and mud hut sunk into the ground. There was a fire pit full of round stones directly in front of the low door.

“Take off clothes,” Amookas said.

“Why?”

“No talk. Take off clothes.”

Before Anne could protest, two giggling women appeared and began to tug at her gown. To her dismay, they drew the skin dress over her head and shoved her inside the hut in less than a minute. One of the girls followed, taking Anne’s hand and leading her to a seat along one wall.

It was dark and steamy inside the hut. Hot rocks filled the center of the small room. The girl poured water from a container over the rocks to make even more steam, and Anne struggled to breathe.

“No have fear,” the Indian girl said over the hissing of the rocks. “Make clean. Good.”

They sat in the dark room until Anne thought her skin was boiled; then the girl grabbed her hand again and pulled her outside. Amookas and the other Indian woman were waiting. Anne tried to cover her nakedness with her hands, but the women pushed her down the bank into the river.

Anne gasped. After the steam house, the cool river water felt like ice. The heat followed by the cold water left her stunned, and she offered little protest as the women dragged her out and repeated the whole process again.

It was pitch dark when Anne was allowed out of the river for the last time, rubbed dry with soft skins by her attendants, and wrapped in a cloak of white otter. They combed her hair and spread it around her shoulders, then, laughing and talking among themselves in the Indian tongue, escorted her back to the hut where she’d slept. Leah was waiting for her with Cami in her arms.

“Leah,” Anne cried.

Leah laughed, a sound like the tinkling of bells. “Have they cooked thee, older sister? How do ye feel?”

Anne took a deep breath and settled onto a skin rug, trying to keep herself modestly covered with the cloak. “I think I lost my clothes somewhere.”

“Aye, but these be better.” Leah held out a white fringed gown decorated with beautiful quill and beadwork. “Fitting for the sister of a peace woman,” she murmured. “Ye have met our Amookas. She be the sister of my mother—aunt to thee and to me.”

Anne nodded, too confused to try and sort out Shawnee rules of kinship. Better to have the stern Indian squaw as aunt than enemy. Suddenly she smiled. “We are sisters, then Cami is my niece.”

“You are auntie, or”—Leah chuckled—“or little mother.”

Anne smoothed the deerskin dress over her hips. It had been worked so thin that it was as soft and light as velvet. “This is beautiful,” she said. Her eyes widened. “Your wound. Does it trouble you? Where is Ross? Did the council—”

Leah held up a hand in the firelight. “Nay. Too many questions. My wound will heal.” A look of sadness came over her face. “If Amookas was stern, blame her not. He that died on the river, brother of Niipan, was her beloved son.”

“Amookas is the mother of Niipan and Li—Oh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break the rule about not talking about—”

“Brandon says it be silly superstition. Do not blame yourself. Our ways be strange to thee, sister. As to your other questions, Ross speaks with Tuk-o-see-yah, the sachem. The council waits for other men to come. And Matiassu has not shown his face.”

“So we must wait.”

“Aye.” Leah pulled Anne’s amulet forward so that it hung over the fringed neckline of the deerskin gown. “My cousin Niipan is much taken with you. He calls you Meshepeshe-Equiwa, Mountain Lion Woman. The people whisper of your bravery to one another. I have much pride of you.”

“Me?” Anne was almost too astonished to reply. “But I didn’t do anything brave. I was terrified when we were attacked.”

“Bravery lies in deeds, Meshepeshe-Equiwa, not in fears.” She smiled. “Did you nay kill the enemy with your bare hands? Did ye nay put a magic spell upon them to drive them away when we were helpless and at their mercy? Did ye nay call upon the Eye of Mist to bring Ross back from the fangs of the Dark Warrior of Death?”

It was Anne’s turn to laugh. “Hardly. I nearly swooned when the arrows started flying around us. And as for Ross’s drowning . . .” She trailed off. “Ross . . .” Anne clasped her hands together. “What did happen on the riverbank?”

Leah sighed and leaned close, taking Anne’s hand. Points of flame from the tiny fire reflected in her dark, soulful eyes. “I know only what our father told us of the Eye of Mist,” she answered softly. “I know only that once my Brandon seemed lost to me and I called upon the power of the amulet to save him. I know only that Brandon lives and Ross lives.” She squeezed Anne’s hand. “Some things are not to be questioned. Be thankful and cherish your man. Remember, the magic of the amulet only works once.”

Anne raised her gaze to lock with Leah’s. “For a woman like you, I can believe in magic. For me, it comes hard.”

Leah shook her head. “Ye be strong and wise. What more could ye ask?”

Anne flushed and cast her eyes down. “Sometimes,” she confided, “many times, I would wish to be beautiful. So beautiful that men’s eyes would follow me when I passed . . . as beautiful as you are.”

Leah’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Ye really do not know, do ye?” She turned away and took down a skin bag from a hook on the wall. Carefully she unwrapped an oval mirror set in silver and held it out. “Ye look, but ye dinna see,” she said. “Now truly look.”

With trembling hands, Anne stared into her own face in the mirror.

“See, my English friend,” Leah pronounced in her soft, lilting accent. “There be a beautiful woman.”

As Leah spoke, it seemed to Anne that a transformation took place in the silver looking glass. Old cobwebs fell away from her inner vision, and her pulse quickened, as she realized the truth of her sister’s words. She really was seeing the reflection of a beautiful woman in the mirror.

“Who has blinded ye, sister, that ye dinna realize your own worth?” Leah demanded. “I know the English value their women as little as they do honor, but ye be a woman of great wealth and power.”

Anne continued to stare into the mirror, and secret joy bubbled up inside her as Leah’s words sunk deeply into her consciousness. “My mother,” she whispered breathlessly. “My mother, Barbara, told me that she was ashamed of me.”

“Aiyee. Can it be so? How could a mother—”

Anne made a low sound of derision. “If you knew Barbara, you wouldn’t have to ask.” She lowered the mirror with trembling hands and gazed into the fire. “I remember once, when I was very small. Barbara had been away for a long time. I wanted to see her so badly, but when I threw my arms around her, she pushed me away and scolded me for wrinkling her dress,” she murmured. “I was ashamed and . . .” The awful scene played out behind her closed eyelids as though it had happened yesterday.

The flickering fire, the warm darkness surrounding the two women, the danger that they had shared and survived together, made it easy for Anne to tell Leah things that she had never shared with another human being. All the grief and anger, the shame and fear of her childhood came spilling out. Anne talked for hours without stopping until her voice grew hoarse, and Leah listened.

“I have great sorrow for this mother of yours,” Leah said at last. The sound of her voice told Anne that her sister had wept with her. “She may be beautiful on the outside of her skin, but inside she is twisted and ugly.”

Relief made Anne giddy. “You’re right. I can see now that Barbara failed me. I never failed her.” Anne hugged herself and rocked back and forth. “I don’t hate her anymore—I don’t think I feel anything for her. When I was little, I used to think God would strike me dead in my sleep for thinking awful thoughts about Barbara. I’d have nightmares, and I’d wake screaming. It made the servants angry, and they’d pinch me or shake me.” She shivered. “I never woke Mother with my crying—she always slept too far away to be troubled by a worthless girl-child.”

Leah clasped Anne’s hand. “Among the Shawnee, a female baby is welcomed. We know that the woman is the heart of a family. She will choose the father of her own children, she will give wisdom to her people, and she will care for the old ones when they grow weak. A strong daughter is a mother’s greatest possession.”

“My father—my stepfather, Lord Langstone, wanted a son to carry on his title. My mother bore him no other children. Later, she said that he was unable to father a babe. He was always harsh to me, and I never knew why until a few years ago.”

“There was no love between your mother and this lord?”

“Barbara loves only her own mirror.” Anne swallowed the lump in her throat. “That and the contents of Langstone’s treasure house. She’s a vain, deceitful creature without a conscience.”

“Ye must feel pity for her. What will she have in her old age? When her face wrinkles and her yellow hair turns white? Will she have a daughter to sit by her feet and listen to her stories? Will she have laughing grandchildren to sing to her? Nay. This English Barbara will have her bright gems, but their fire will give no heat. And the men who flocked after her will laugh behind their hands and call her harlot.”

“I tried to be what she wanted me to be,” Anne insisted, “but I never could.”

“When I met ye in England, ye were a widow. Tell me of your first marriage.”

“I begged Barbara not to make me marry Scarbrough,” she began. “I was only fifteen and still more child than woman. I’d not even begun my monthly courses . . .” The telling eased Anne’s heart so that the words tumbled over each other. She found herself relating all that had happened to her as Scarbrough’s wife—even how she had been attracted to Brandon, the man who was now Leah’s husband. She told of her genuine sorrow at the marquis’s death and her time as a widow.

Finally, she shared with Leah how her mother and Langstone had imprisoned her in the tower and forced her to nearly become the bride of the Baron Murrane. “I’d be his wife now, if Ross hadn’t kidnapped me from the church in London.”

Leah was indignant. “He took ye against your will? He forced ye to wed with him?”

“Yes,” she admitted uneasily, “but—”

“Nay! Ross has treated ye no better than the rest. If he brought ye across the sea to America when ye didna wish to come?” Leah’s dark eyes glittered with emotion. “Ptahh! He is the son of a Delaware woman—he should know better.”

Anne shrugged. “Perhaps it was the curse of the necklace—perhaps Ross was as helpless as I was.”

“Ross Campbell is never helpless.” Leah rose and paced the wigwam angrily. “He knew what he did was wrong. He did so because he is a man who has never had his lead rope jerked tight. Always,” she exclaimed, “always he has had his way. Angus would have taught a wolf better manners than he taught Ross when Ross was a child. That one he let have his way. So long as his son could run faster, ride harder than any man—so long as he could hit every target he shot at and never show fear, there was nothing he could not have by putting out his hand and taking it.”