The Colonel's Lady (4 page)

5

Roxanna stood on the fort’s frozen parade ground, her pale face tilted toward the same blue sky her father was walking beneath as he came back to her from wherever he was. Though she didn’t know just how far he had to go, she had a feeling, with the weather worsening, he’d soon slip past the gates of the fort and swing her off the ground in welcome.

Simply thinking about it made her smile. She felt like a little girl again, awaiting him after a particularly lengthy enlistment, about to search his pockets for a sugar cone or some fascinating trinket from afar.

Two years they’d been apart. So much had happened inside those years. Thinking of it squeezed her heart into little pieces. That was why she stood here in the bitterness of mid-December, stirring a steaming kettle of lye-soaked laundry with a wash paddle. Staying inside Papa’s cabin was too dangerous, the solitude resurrecting a host of memories she was desperate to forget. Yet she couldn’t help but think of what her genteel mother, born and bred in Williamsburg, would make of this.

You must not act like the daughter of a common soldier, Roxanna. Never forget you have refined and polished roots. I may have married your father for love and cast away my own chances at becoming a Carter or a Randolph, but I’ll not let you do the same.

Oh, what high hopes her mother had had for her! Sometimes Roxanna wondered if all the social scheming, the expense of finishing school, had led Mama to an early grave. Lifting a hand, she wiped away a tear as it slashed across her cold cheek. Papa had been a bitter disappointment to her mother. As a daughter, Roxanna had been no better. Though she tried to recall only pleasant things about her former life, there was more gall than good. This was why she must lose herself in work, as Papa always advised—even work that wasn’t her own.

Minutes before, the black woman who served them supper each night had been tending to the wash and then disappeared. As Roxanna had watched from her window, studying the unfamiliar moods and rhythms of this strange fort, she soon saw that the fire beneath the huge copper kettle was dwindling and threatening to go out. Snatching up her cloak, she slipped onto the parade ground and began to feed the flames, adding dry wood stacked nearby, aware that the sentries at the gate were watching.

For several long minutes she waited for the woman to return, finally taking up the paddle to stir the dirty shirts and breeches. A sagging clothesline had been strung up between two posts, awaiting the wash to be wrung out and hung. Carefully, Roxanna began to lift each garment out of the gray water and place it in a draining trough till it was cool enough to handle.

She knew her help might not be appreciated, but she’d be doomed if she didn’t do something—and she’d not lie abed like her wayward friends in the far cabins. She had awakened in the night to muted laughter and fiddle music but had soon fallen back asleep on the thin pallet made for her father’s sturdy frame. Last night it seemed she was the only one abed. This morning it seemed she was the only one who wasn’t, save the sentries and the elusive washerwoman.

Forehead furrowing, she thought again of Abby. Truth be told, she missed her, waif that she was. Olympia seemed intent on keeping her shut in with the Redstone women, and that was precisely what troubled her. What was going on behind their doors? Moreover, what would Colonel McLinn say when he arrived to find all this feminine company? Something told her he might not be as welcoming as his affection-starved men.

“Law, Miz Roxanna, you get away from that mess!” The strident voice seemed almost to shout, stinging her with embarrassment as she stood wringing out the first shirt. The sentries turned dull eyes on them, amusement enlivening their cold features.

The washerwoman was behind her now, scolding mightily. “What would your pa say to see you so? Washin’ filthy breeches! Ain’t no daughter of Richard Rowan gonna scald her hands on soldiers’ rags!”

Roxanna kept right on wringing and looked over her shoulder with a half smile. “At least let me finish what I started.”

She crossed thin black arms over a skeletal chest, her scowl slipping. “I know you is only tryin’ to help me. But it pains me to see a lady doin’ such.” Casting a backward glance at the silent cabins in the morning shadows, she sighed. “Now, them hussies might need somethin’ to do besides cattin’ around all night and makin’ mincemeat o’ soldiers come mornin’. ”

Flushing at such plain talk, Roxanna took the first shirt and pinned it to the line. But would it dry? The wind gusted and tossed a few snowflakes about as she studied the surly sky before returning to the drain trough. “I don’t believe we’ve met, at least properly.”

The woman took up the wash paddle and began to stir idly. “My name’s Bella, Miz Roxanna. Just Bella.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bella.” She took up some steaming breeches and began wringing them free of water. “You already know who I am, obviously.”

A wide smile spread over the woman’s lined, mahogany face. “Law, but you is just yo’ pa in a dress. Nobody had to tell me so.”

Pa in a dress, indeed.
Roxanna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Do you really think he’d mind my helping you this fine morning?”

Bella grimaced and shook her head. “Naw. Reckon I got too many things goin’ on all at once. Since them hussies come, Captain Stewart’s given me a heap of washin’—and a mess of orders for victuals.”

“I’m a fair hand in the kitchen. Love to cook, truth be told. When my mother took ill, the only thing she could keep down was a broth I concocted.” This tidbit was tossed out and then Roxanna held her tongue, wondering how it would be received. But Bella pretended not to hear. They continued to work side by side in silence till all the wash was hung and not a dirty garment remained.

When Bella finally turned toward the far blockhouse, Roxanna followed. She was headed to the kitchen, she guessed, the same place they’d eaten last night. Her stomach growled a complaint, and she thought she could smell coffee when Bella opened the door.

Mercy, but what I’d give for another steaming cup sweetened with molasses . . . and an egg and a crust of bread besides.

An amused smile pulled at Roxanna’s face as she walked in Bella’s footsteps. The washerwoman well knew who shadowed her but didn’t say a word, just trooped past long trestle tables in the dining hall, finally slipping through a squeaking door into a cold, dimly lit kitchen. Bella wouldn’t ask for her help, she guessed, but neither would she shoo her away. Relief washed over her as she surveyed the friendly fire blazing in the huge hearth and the generous assortment of cooking vessels all around. This was like home, and felt familiar and safe and necessary.

“Shouldn’t the men be up and at breakfast?” she asked.

Bella swung a skillet over the flames and huffed, “Should be . . . but ain’t.” Her lean fingers sliced bacon from a side of pork hanging from a hook in the corner. Tossing the pieces into the sizzling skillet, she poked at them with a long-tined fork. Spying a grinder, Roxanna began to make coffee, marveling at the abundance all around her in light of their meager meal last night.

Strings of yellowish-orange pumpkin slices hung from the rafters like festive Indian necklaces alongside garlands of shriveled-up apples and beans. Bushel baskets of potatoes and onions rested along a far wall beside kegs of flour and other essentials. And there were eggs—at least two dozen of them—big and brown in a wooden bowl atop a trestle table. And in the corner stood a churn.

“I already milked this mornin’ and poured the old cream in, but I ain’t churned.” This revelation seemed more an invitation, and Roxanna wasted no time in donning an apron and taking a seat on a stool, her hands enfolding the smooth handle of the dasher like a long-lost friend. In time Bella went out and left her to all the little domestic details she’d so missed since leaving home.

Once the butter came, she wondered where the springhouse was or if she even needed it, given the cold. Poking around in every corner and crevice, she found a tub of lard and set about making biscuits, eyeing the dried apples overhead and dreaming of pies. Before Bella returned, two pans of biscuits rose to flaky, golden heights, and she began frying eggs in the bacon grease.

Ambrose always said I was the best cook in Fairfax County.

With a sigh, she let her thoughts drift. Perhaps if she’d been better at kissing . . . or bundling . . . or whatever else won a man’s heart, she’d be standing in her own kitchen and not this crude one on the far frontier.

She’d come so close to being the wife of the gentleman her mother desired for her. They’d met at a horse race at Thistleton Hall, the estate that bordered their humble home. Soon Ambrose was coming round to court her, taking her and Mama to dine at a fine ordinary or to see a stage play. Twice they were guests at his townhouse in Richmond. Mama was smitten; Roxanna was unsure. And her uncertainties sprang up like poisonous weeds between them, thwarting her mother’s best hopes. When she’d finally decided to give her heart away, having convinced herself he was the man for her, Ambrose had found comfort in the arms of another.

Taking a pewter plate, Roxanna slid an egg onto its tarnished surface, buttered the smallest biscuit, and sampled the chicory coffee. Divine.

“Law, but you look like you own the place!” Bella sputtered.

Heavens, I hope not
, Roxanna mused. Sheepish, she slid off her stool and presented Bella with a plate, pouring her some coffee and sliding a crock of honey toward her. For a moment the tired eyes that met hers were a deep, damp brown. The silence in the shadowed kitchen stretched on till footsteps could be heard on the other side of the kitchen door. It swung open, and there stood Captain Stewart, unshaven and unpressed, his breeches and fine linen shirt looking sorely in need of a sadiron.

“Cap’n, sir,” Bella said between bites of biscuit.

“You’re just in time for breakfast,” Roxanna told him, taking up another plate.

Heaping it full of food, she moved past him to the dining room where she plunked the plate down at the place he’d occupied last night. He followed meekly and sat as if speechless, watching as she served coffee and left him to his appetite.

“Law, but you gonna work me out of a job,” Bella exclaimed when Roxanna returned to the kitchen.

“Just till Papa comes,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Then you can have it all back again.”

“Maybe I don’t want it back,” Bella breathed, eyes wide as Roxanna took a chair and climbed up to steal two dried apple strings from the timbers above.

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Can I have me another biscuit?”

“Certainly. Take two.” Roxanna began measuring out flour and lard for pie dough, thinking she could flesh out Bella’s spare frame, if not the remnant of men at the fort. “What shall we make for supper tonight?”

“Best talk to LeSourd—the fort hunter. He’ll bring down anythin’ you want to cook. Cap’n Stewart’s partial to buffalo. But Colonel McLinn likes them beef cattle that come with the supply train.”

“I don’t see any sign of beef. Or Colonel McLinn. One buffalo, then. That should feed these men—about thirty, did you say?—and us guests.” Her forehead furrowed as she added water to the dough. “I’m not familiar with buffalo, though. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.”

“I’ll fetch LeSourd,” Bella said, going toward the dining room door and pushing it open a crack. “Law, but we got a mess o’ men to feed this mornin’. They must have smelled yo’ biscuits. If you cook, I’ll serve. LeSourd’ll have to wait.”

The scraping of chairs along the puncheon floor and the men’s muffled voices made Roxanna abandon her pie making. “It seems discipline is a bit lax among the men. I didn’t hear reveille this morning.”

Bella turned away from the door. “Colonel McLinn keeps his men strung tight as fiddle strings, but Cap’n Stewart—well, he ain’t cut o’ the same cloth. He and the colonel don’t see eye to eye so the cap’n gets left behind to man the fort. And things get a little lax.”

Expelling a relieved breath, Roxanna said, “So Captain Stewart isn’t likely to turn me out of this kitchen, then.”