Too Far to Whisper (3 page)

Rosalind remained silent, her hands clasped in her lap. She did not wish to respond to Abigail’s comment.

“I apologize,” Abigail said. “I can see the topic is not one you care to discuss. I did not mean to pry. ‘Tis just that most girls your age are eager to wed, or have already been made brides.”

Rosalind lifted her eyes to meet Abigail’s. “I am not like most girls, ma’am.”

“Indeed you are not.” Abigail’s smile contained a hint of amusement. “I do believe you are someone special, Rosalind, and I am certain you and I shall become very close friends during your stay here.”

“I pray we shall,” Rosalind said.

* * * * *

The early May air felt cool against Rosalind’s face as she followed Nathaniel about the Corwins’ property later that afternoon. She tilted her face toward the sun, enjoying its warmth. Abigail’s chamber, in her opinion, was much too dark and stuffy, and she had been eager to escape it.

With each step, the enormity of the Corwins’ wealth became more apparent to Rosalind. Their dairy house held flitches of bacon and more cheese than she had ever seen in one location. In the outer buildings and yards there were sheep, cows and pigs, and in the stables, several fine horses.

Leisurely, Nathaniel and Rosalind strolled past the stables and to the top of a grassy knoll. “We are clearing more of the land,” Nathaniel indicated, waving his arm in the direction of a large expanse of land that was partially cleared but mostly covered by forest and rocks. The majority of the trees surrounding the clearing were pine and maple, dotted with clusters of white birch.

As Rosalind’s eyes swept over the vast acreage, she spied two silhouettes toiling in the area being cleared. “Who are they?” she asked.

“Two of our workers,” Nathaniel said.

“May I meet them?”

He shook his head. “There is no need.”

“But if I am to live here, sir, would it not be to my advantage to be able to distinguish friends from strangers?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But I would not call those two friends.” He turned to look at Rosalind and, noticing her look of disappointment, added, “Alas, if you would like to meet them, I shall grant your wish. But once I have, I strongly suggest you not go near them again.”

Rosalind was about to ask him why, but Nathaniel hastened off in the direction of the workers. She scurried after him.

At Nathaniel’s beckoning, the two men halted their work and moved toward the approaching couple. Nathaniel paused and turned a stern gaze on the pair. He assumed an authoritative stance, his arms folded across his chest, his feet braced apart, as he awaited their arrival.

They were Indians.

Rosalind silently scolded herself for allowing that fact to unnerve her. After all, it was not as if she rarely encountered Indians. They frequently ventured into town to trade. Still, whenever she was in the presence of one, she felt ill at ease. 

The two workers, both carrying spades, now stood directly before her and Nathaniel. Rosalind’s gaze instantly was drawn to the younger of the two. He wore snug leather breeches, nothing more. His muscular chest and taut, flat stomach glistened with a light film of perspiration. His chest was hairless and smooth, something she was not accustomed to seeing. Her eyes rose. His hair, well past his shoulders in length, was glossy and so black, it shone blue in the sunlight, and was held back with a strip of leather. Rosalind decided that his face, with its high cheekbones, strong chin and jaw, and large, dark eyes with their thick fringe of lashes, was one of the most striking she had ever seen.

The other Indian, who was similarly attired, was several inches shorter, much older and not nearly as muscular nor as visually appealing as his companion. Curiously, he also had two prominent slits carved just above each nostril on his hawk-like nose.

“The Indians who trade in town have told us this one is called Shadow Runner.” Nathaniel inclined his head toward the younger man. “Shadow, for short. Last summer, my father caught him trying to steal one of our finest ewes. The savage so badly injured the animal, it had to be slaughtered. Had the decision been mine, he would have been swinging from the gallows, but my father instead chose to put him to work here until he is satisfied the sheep’s value has been met. For some reason, my father seems bent on keeping peace with the savages.”

Rosalind eyed Shadow somewhat warily. His unblinking black eyes returned her gaze. The way he stood – straight, with his shoulders back – and the way he held his head with his chin tilted upward, gave him an air of importance, even regality. Shadow, she was convinced, was more than just some common sheep thief.

“Although he appears to understand some of what we say,” Nathaniel continued, “he has never spoken. I do not know if it is because he cannot or will not.” He shrugged. “From what I have heard, he is the son of a sachem, but I am finding that bit of information difficult to believe. No son of a chief ever would have allowed himself to be disgraced by being caught doing something as paltry as stealing a sheep.”

Shadow’s expression remained closed, but Rosalind noticed his fingers tighten around the handle of his spade. The Indian was neither shackled nor guarded, which puzzled her. “Why does he not escape?”

“Getting caught for thievery dishonored him,” the older Indian responded in surprisingly good English. “He now must accept his punishment, not run from it like a coward.”

“That one is called Silver Cloud,” Nathaniel said. “He stole from his own people, repeatedly. Offenders such as he are oft permanently branded to mark them as thieves. In Silver Cloud’s case, the sachem slit his nostrils.”

Rosalind grimaced at Nathaniel’s words. In all of Ben’s frightening tales about Indians, he never once had mentioned nostril slitting. And even if he had, she doubted she would have believed him.

“He is an outcast, shunned by his people,” Nathaniel added.

Rosalind noticed that Silver Hawk’s jaw clenched in response to Nathaniel’s words.  She thought it odd the captain would speak of each man as if he were invisible, when both were standing right before them.

“He was seen wandering about here so frequently,” Nathaniel continued, “my father, with pistol in hand, finally confronted him and threatened to jail him for trespassing. Alas, as you can see…he did not. Silver Cloud has been with us for three years now.”

Rosalind began to suspect Elias Corwin was not the heartless brute the rumors had led her to believe he was. In fact, from what Nathaniel was describing, he seemed to have more compassion than she ever would have imagined.

“So, is this your new woman?” Silver Cloud asked Nathaniel.

His bold question brought an immediate blush to Rosalind’s fair skin. “Nay,” she responded before Nathaniel could. “I am here to see to the care of Mrs. Corwin. My name is Rosalind Chandler.”

“You are too pretty.” Silver Cloud’s compliment was spoken with no warmth. “Be careful.”

The warning look in his eyes did not escape Rosalind’s notice. She opened her mouth to ask him for what purpose she should be careful, when Nathaniel interrupted. “Well, enough of this idle chatter,” he said, directing a scowl at Silver Cloud. “You men still have work to complete ere nightfall, so I suggest you hasten back to it. Come, Rosalind.” He took her by the elbow. “We already have been away from my mother far too long.”

Not wishing to defy Nathaniel, Rosalind allowed him to lead her away from the clearing…and the Indians.

As she and Nathaniel slowly walked back up the knoll, Rosalind could not dismiss the feeling she was being watched. So disturbing was the sensation, she heard only bits and pieces of Nathaniel’s lengthy narrative about his last voyage to France. Finally, when she could bear the feeling no longer, she stole a glance over her shoulder and spied Shadow, still standing where they had left him, his hands resting on the handle of his spade, his eyes burning into her back. She gasped and snapped her head back toward Nathaniel.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

“Indians make me uneasy. They always have.”

“’Tis not unusual. Many people feel ill at ease around savages…and with good cause.”

* * * * *

Rosalind supped with Abigail in her chamber that evening. The woman had invited her to sit on the large bed with her and share a trencher of bread, cheese, boiled pork and dried apples. As they nibbled on the fare, Rosalind seized the opportunity to learn more about Abigail.

“May I inquire as to how long you have been ailing?” she asked, hoping Abigail would not take offense at such a personal question.

“For the better part of a year.” She drew a long breath. “At first, the weak spells lingered not more than a day or two, and then several weeks of good health would follow. But now I am constantly weak and tired. There no longer are good days…only bad. I fear I have not much longer to live.”

“Please, do not say such a thing.” Rosalind took a sip of cider, then gathered the courage to ask, “Have you no desire to live to witness the births of your grandchildren?”

Abigail shook her head. “’Tis too far away to even consider. Neither of my sons is yet betrothed, and neither seems eager to remedy that situation, despite my constant urging. I shall consider myself fortunate if I am still breathing when…or if, one of them finally decides to wed.”

Rosalind noticed that the tray on Abigail’s lap was sliding to one side, so she moved to adjust it before any of the food or drink spilled onto the bed quilt. It was such a beautiful quilt, Rosalind thought – soft and white and covered with what resembled an entire garden of embroidered flowers – it would be such a pity if it were to become stained.

“You cannot predict fate’s plan,” Rosalind said. “Why, Matthew might very well return home from college with a bride on his arm.”

Abigail smiled. “You do not know Matthew. He is more likely to return home with a stack of books in his arms than a wife. Were he given the choice of a willing woman in his bed or a newly written book, he would opt to take the book to his bed.”

Rosalind giggled. “You jest!”

“Nay, I swear ‘’tis the truth.” Abigail’s smile grew. “I do suspect if anyone takes a bride, ‘twill be Nathaniel, long before Matthew even considers the notion.”

“From what I have heard,” Rosalind said, “the young women in this town would gladly chop off their right hands for the opportunity to wed either of your sons.”

“Are
you
one of those women?” Abigail’s eyebrows rose.

Rosalind’s bite of bread nearly lodged in her throat. “Oh, I did not mean to imply…I –I mean, no, I am not here to pursue one of your sons. I pray I did not give you that impression.”

Abigail placed her hand over Rosalind’s. “Nay, my dear child. I have become quite gifted at determining which women are out to snare one of my boys. I liken them to spiders, hungrily awaiting their prey to be caught in their webs. You, Rosalind, are not one of those spiders. Of that, I am certain.”

“I am much relieved to hear you say that. Believe me when I say I have no interest in wedding either of your sons…though I am sure they would make fine husbands. But truth be known, I do not
ever
wish to wed, and I shall firmly discourage any man who attempts to make me his bride.”

“’Tis strange talk for such a charming young woman. Tell me, child, what has so poisoned your mind against marriage?”

“Many things. Trust me when I state that I know what is best for me.”

Abigail’s brow creased. “And what is best for you is to spend the rest of your life alone, never knowing the joys of motherhood or the warmth of a babe against your breast?”

“Aye.” The response came in a whisper. “’Twas not meant to be.”

“I do not understand.”

“’Tis really not something I care to discuss.” Rosalind lifted pleading eyes to Abigail. “Would it be too terribly rude of me to request a change of topic?”

Although the girl’s obvious discomfort greatly piqued Abigail’s curiosity, she decided it best not to upset her on the first day of her employ. The topic of men and marriage would be dropped…for now. Nevertheless, Abigail thought, soon enough she would learn the whole truth about Mistress Chandler.

“So,” Abigail said, “Have you had the opportunity to meet everyone here yet?”

“I have met your housemaids, Grace and Marian, and also Shadow Runner and Silver Cloud, who were out clearing your land.”

“Then you have not met Jonathan?”

Rosalind shook her head.

Abigail took a nibble of bread that scarcely was larger than a crumb. The woman’s lack of appetite concerned Rosalind. She never would regain her strength if she continued to eat nary enough to fill an ant’s belly.

“Jonathan frequented our tavern,” Abigail said, frowning at the memory. “The man was always alone and had a fondness for ale, which he drank until he barely could stand. We learned he had lost his wife during childbirth on the first anniversary of their marriage. The babe lived but only a few hours, which probably was why Jonathan took to drinking so heavily.  Elias felt sorry for him and decided perhaps what he needed was a purpose in life, so he offered him a job here, caring for our stock. ‘Tis a very rare occasion now when you will spy him lifting a tankard.”