Petals on the River

  After his wife’s death, Roxanne had once more proven herself determined to take over that intimate position in his life. By being immediately at hand at the time of Victoria’s fatal fall, she had obviously thought she had been provided with some strange sort of leverage by which she could force him to the altar. Though unspoken, the threat had been there all along. She would tell the truth or even lie, but this time she meant to have him . . . or he would have nothing at all.

  Having fully comprehended what he chanced by thwarting Roxanne’s aspirations, he had gone to the London Pride literally to buy back his own freedom and to set the course of his life on a different bearing than she had mapped out for him. He had anticipated beforehand that Roxanne would have difficulty accepting his purchase of a bondslave. No doubt, in her mind, any woman he bought would be just another usurper, perhaps in the same way she had imagined Victoria had been. Sad to say, Roxanne had lived up to the precise letter of his expectations.

  Hugh Corbin had been just as difficult, and Gage knew it was not beneath the man to use Shemaine’s presence as an excuse to pick a quarrel with him. The smithy would have snatched at limp straws if they had provided him with such leverage. Hugh’s hatred of him was clearly conveyed in every spitting word the man issued.

  “In the eight or nine years I’ve known him,” Gage reflected, glancing aside at Shemaine, “Hugh Corbin has been surly and contentious, but recently he has become almost intolerable, about as mean and ornery as Ol’ One Ear. He’s free with his insults and seems to go out of his way to provoke me, especially when I’m with my family . . . or, as I saw tonight . . . with you. Once, not very long ago, I caught him watching Andrew with a strange, haunted look in his eyes. It unnerved me considerably. I don’t know what the man might be capable of . . . if he’d ever take his spite out on a young child, but his actions worried me. Several times in the past, Roxanne asked me to let her take Andrew home with her so he could stay the night, but I just couldn’t bring myself to give my consent. I dared not trust her father.”

  “Mrs. McGee told me that Mr. Corbin had wanted a son of his own,” Shemaine rejoined softly. “The only one he fathered arrived stillborn four years before Roxanne was born. Perhaps when he sees you with Andrew, Mr. Corbin is reminded of his own failure to sire a son. It might well be envy he feels toward you instead of hatred.”

  The brooding rage that had vexed Gage’s mood for the last hour began to slowly dissipate as he considered her conjecture. From his past experiences with the smithy, he had to admit that her supposition had merit. Though he had met the cantankerous blacksmith and his then-nineteen-year-old daughter shortly after his arrival in the colonies, it had only been within the last couple of years that the man had displayed such a serious aversion to him.

  Gage shook his head in wonder, berating himself for not having considered the idea before. It had taken a girl younger than a score of years to enlighten him to the possibility. He marveled at her insight. “You’re very perceptive, Shemaine. Far more than I have been. I just couldn’t understand why Hugh had taken such a dislike to me.”

  “Perhaps you were too close to the situation to recognize his jealousy for what it is,” she suggested, glancing up at him. What she saw warmed her heart considerably. His expression had softened and his lips now bore the slightest hint of a smile. He turned to meet her gaze, and she held her breath as his eyes caressed her face. Then they swept downward to the small head cradled against her breast.

  “Your arms must be getting tired.” Gathering the reins in one hand, Gage lifted his free arm and laid it along the upper portion of the seat behind her, carefully avoiding the mistake of touching her and frightening her off to the far side. “Why don’t you slide close to me and lay Andrew’s head in my lap? ‘Twill relieve the weight on your arm, and then you’d be more comfortable.”

  Shemaine was more than willing to ease her cramping muscles, but when she sought to move, she realized she lacked the strength to lift the boy and herself at the same time so she could scoot across the seat. After several aborted attempts, she confessed in helpless defeat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton, I don’t seem able to.”

  Clamping the reins between his legs, Gage wrapped his right arm behind her waist and slid his left hand beneath her knees. It required no real effort on his part to resettle her snugly against his right side. His arm remained as a sturdy support behind her back as she withdrew her own arm from under the boy’s shoulder and eased the small dark head into Gage’s lap. A deep sigh escaped Andrew, but he never woke.

  Gage glanced down at his sleeping son, seeing the small, upturned face bathed in soft moonlight. Long lashes rested in peaceful repose upon the boy’s cheeks, but with his jaw slackened in sleep, his mouth soon fell agape. Shemaine reached across and very gently laid her hand alongside the boy’s cheek, placing a thumb beneath the tiny chin and closing the small mouth. Immediately Andrew stirred, flopping over on his right side toward his father as he flung an arm across Shemaine’s, entrapping her arm and the hand that was caught between his cheek and the elder’s loins.

  A shocked gasp was torn from Shemaine as she sought to extricate herself from the tightening wedge into which her hand had been caught. Though restrained no more than a fleeting moment, a grueling eternity might as well have passed before she managed to drag her hand free, in the course of which she heightened a multitude of sensations that had already been sharply stimulated in the man.

  The hot blood had surged through Gage with swift and fiery intensity at the very instant of her hand’s entrapment, making him achingly aware of his ravaging desire. Now, long moments after her hand had been safely clasped within her other, the ravenous flames still pulsed with excruciating vigor through his manly loins, searing holes in the thin wall of his restraint. With every fiber of his being, he was acutely aware of the elusive fragrance of his bondslave filling his head, that same which he had breathed in with intoxicating pleasure every time he had touched or drawn near her that day. It was the sweet scent of a woman, one which he had not even been cognizant of having craved until this very moment. Her soft bosom drew his sweeping perusal, and when he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, he found himself staring into widened eyes filled with dismay. Even in the meager light, he thought he could detect her cheeks deepening to a vivid hue beneath his scrutiny.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry!” Shemaine’s strangled whisper seemed to fill the night, attesting to her shame. Though she clutched the offending hand against her breast, she could still sense the branding heat of his maleness against the back of it, the unexpected firmness that had grown rapidly pronounced, leaving her breathlessly aware of the bold, mature difference between the man and his son. Despite the instincts that urged her to hold her silence and pretend it never happened, Shemaine implored his pardon, hoping to banish any notion that it might have been a deliberate act on her part. “I didn’t mean to touch you, Mr. Thornton.”

  Facing the shadowed road once more, Gage made no comment, but clicked to the mare, urging her to a faster pace. It was nigh impossible for him to ignore the soft, womanly form beside him and, more difficult by far, the memory of her hand brushing deliciously hard against his manhood.

  Settling into a regular routine would probably take time, Shemaine decided after the morning meal a week later, since her primary concern, as her master had pointed out, would be taking care of Andrew. Even so, between cooking and attending the needs of the boy, she found herself accomplishing far more than she had previously thought herself even remotely capable of.

  Gage had received word from his primary customer in Williamsburg that delivery of the new furniture would have to be delayed for an indefinite time. The workmen were still trying to complete his house, and he could not accept the furnishings until the rooms were ready. In the meantime Gage had started work on the dining room pieces he had recently contracted for in Newportes Newes. In the evenings he drafted out the plans, drawing patterns for the arms and legs of the chairs and designing a ne
w sideboard. During the daylight hours, he worked with his men on several other pieces, but frequently he could be found aboard the ship, helping Flannery with some of the more precise work.

  Before leaving the cabin on this particular morn, Gage had announced that he would be working on the ship for most of the day. If she were of such a mind, he told Shemaine, she could bring Andrew and victuals enough for the shipwrights and the cabinetmakers around noon, and they could all enjoy a midday repast on the deck of the ship, as it promised to be a fine, sunny day.

  “Ring the bell by the front steps when you’re ready to come to the ship,” Gage instructed after she had assured him that she would be able to do such a thing, “and I’ll send someone to fetch the food.”

  Shemaine immediately accepted the challenge of preparing a tasty feast to satisfy the appetites of hardworking men. While roaming around the immediate area several days earlier, she had ventured into the root cellar which her master had dug into a hillock near the cabin. It was there that Shemaine and Andrew went to collect carrots, onions, and an assortment of other vegetables for the venison stew she would make. It would be her own version of a hearty Irish dish that Bess Huxley had often made for Shemaine’s father. In no time it was simmering above the fire.

  Shemaine had set bread dough to rising earlier that morning. After punching it down, she separated it into smaller loaves and placed them near the warmth of the hearth for a second rising. She peeled a goodly number of potatoes and put them in a kettle to boil. Then she proceeded to make a spice cake. While the latter was baking, Shemaine busied herself doing other tasks around the cabin.

  The laundering techniques of a chore maid had been an integral part of the instructions that she had received while still under her mother’s tutelage, if for no other reason than to learn firsthand how to manage a houseful of servants. Shemaine had no trouble recalling the advice that she had once been given. With Andrew’s eager assistance, she stripped the sheets from the beds and washed them along with several linen towels, a few of the boy’s garments and the shirts which she had found in Gage’s armoire soon after her arrival. She hung the clothes outside where they could catch the breezes and the full light of the sun. While they dried, she aired the pillows, swept and damp-mopped the recently scrubbed floors, polished the furniture and generally cleaned the interior until it gleamed, all the while making a game of the chores to keep Andrew entertained. She even began to teach him a counting song and laughed with pleasure at his pronunciations. He was delighted with it all and giggled uproariously, trying hard to mimic her.

  For the outing on the ship, Shemaine collected a goodly supply of utensils, tin plates and cups from the storeroom, added a tablecloth and napkins that she had found among the kitchen linens, and packed them all in a basket, along with the cake that she had frosted. She cut the bread, tied it in a clean cloth, and set part of it aside for Andrew to carry. A jug of cool cider was drawn up from the well, and the kettle of stew from the hearth was covered and placed with everything else at the edge of the front porch. Lastly she whipped and flavored the potatoes, spooned them into a dish with a lid, and wrapped a small quilt around it to keep them warm.

  A few moments after Shemaine rang the bell hanging from the post near the front steps, a tall gangly young man sprinted up to the cabin to help carry the supplies and food back to the ship. As he halted pantingly on the steps, he tipped his hat politely and grinned, transforming his rather rugged face into a very likable one. Shemaine was sure he had the deepest blue eyes and the blackest hair she had ever seen, even in Ireland.

  “Morn’n, miss,” he bade cheerily. “I’m Gillian Morgan. The cap’n sent me ta fetch the vittles back ta the ship.”

  Shemaine’s fleeting frown revealed her bemusement. “The captain?”

  “Mr. Thornton, I mean, miss,” Gillian readily explained. “Exceptin’ he don’t like ta be called that. But seem’s as how Mr. Thornton is the master-builder what designed the ship and the man what pays our wages, not ta mention him bein’ ’bout ten and three years older’n meself, me pa raised a fair ta middlin’ fuss over the idea o’ me callin’ Mr. Thornton by his Christian name. So’s me an’ Pa dubbed him the cap’n.”

  “I see.” Shemaine nodded and smiled. “Mr. Thornton did tell me that he has an aversion to people calling him by his proper name, but I can’t bring myself to be so familiar with the man that I would feel right using anything else.”

  It was Gillian’s turn to be confounded. “An aversion?”

  “Loathing . . . or dislike,” Shemaine explained, and cocked her head curiously. “Has Mr. Thornton ever explained why he doesn’t like being addressed by his proper name?”

  “Well, he just said that when he was still buildin’ ships for his pa, he’d work alongside other men doin’ the same job as them, but his pa always insisted they call him Mr. Thornton, ’cause he was the proprietor’s son. The cap’n hated it, for sure.”

  Shemaine gestured to the covered kettle of stew and the quilt-bound bowl of potatoes. “We’d better get this food to the ship before it cools or Mr. Thornton will be hating us!”

  “Aye! Chewin’ our hides, he’ll be,” Gillian offered in chuckling agreement. “He definitely has a way o’ lettin’ us know when he’s riled.”

  “He isn’t mean, is he?” she questioned apprehensively.

  “Nay, not mean, just particular ’bout the work we do for him. He expects the best we can give him. Ye’ll do well ta do the same, miss.”

  Shemaine released a soft, fretful sigh. “I will surely try.”

  She hung the cloth that had been tied around a loaf of bread over Andrew’s arm and took his other hand as she picked up the basket. Gillian loaded himself down with the kettle, bowl and jug, and then led the way as she followed more slowly with the child. When they came near, Gage came down the building slip to meet them and, lifting Andrew, took the basket from her and escorted her to the partially finished deck.

  The four cabinetmakers and the older shipwright were already waiting on board with amiable eagerness to make her acquaintance, having hinted (and teased) loudly enough that it was about time that Mister Thornton stop his worrisome fretting over losing her to one of them and commit himself to making the introductions. Gillian took Andrew from his father and started wrestling and rolling about on the deck with the boy, evoking shrieks of giggling glee from the youngster as Gage finally performed the formality. Shemaine recognized Ramsey Tate as the man who had been helping her master outside the cabinet shop the day following her purchase. Sly Tucker, a large, rather portly man with reddish-blond hair and a bushy beard, was another full-fledged cabinetmaker. The two apprentices were close in age, perhaps no more than two or three years past a score of years. One was a German by the name of Erich Wernher, an even-featured young man with dark hair and eyes; and the other was Tom Whittaker, a handsome colonial with tan hair and gray eyes. Flannery Morgan was a grizzled old man with nigh as many wrinkles in his weathered face as the night sky had stars. Yet he had a sharp wit that could easily set the others to guffawing in loud mirth.

  Each and every one of them showed Shemaine the proper respect due a lady, which she readily assumed was in deference to their employer. They rushed to lay planks across carpenter benches as she brought out a tablecloth and then, after the linen had been spread over the makeshift table, helped to lay out the plates and cups. Because he doubled as a circuit rider on rare occasions, Sly Tucker offered grace before the meal. Raves of delight and appreciation soon followed as the workers began to devour the stew they had piled on the potatoes and to wolf down the bread. The jug of cool cider was handed around several times to fill the tin cups, quenching the thirst of the men. By the time the spice cake was passed, some of them had begun to groan in mock agony.

  For the first time since being bought by Gage Thornton, Shemaine found herself able to eat the portion of food she had taken on her plate, but the weight of it on her stomach made her drowsy. She yearned to take Andrew back to the cabi
n for his afternoon nap, but it was obvious, with Gillian near at hand, that the boy would not be willing to leave soon.

  Gage had chosen to sit on a keg of nails at the end of the makeshift table, and when he finally pushed away his plate, he tilted the keg back slightly, leaning against the roughed-in structure of the rail. From that particular vantage point, he was able to consider his men and the enjoyment they had derived from the meal. He was sure at the moment that Shemaine could have been a warty old toad and his men would have admired her just the same for her talent with food.

  Gage allowed his men a few moments of rest before they returned to their labors, for it was evident they needed it after such a hearty meal. The younger men were given the chore of collecting the dirty dishes, the empty kettle and the last bit of food, which they carried back to the cabin while Shemaine remained on deck with Andrew for a few moments longer. She wandered around with the boy, admiring the fine workmanship of the craft as Gage discussed the difficulties they were having with some improperly seasoned compass timber that Gillian had brought up from the shed.

  “ ’em shakes’ll be splittin’ on us afore the week is out, Cap’n. We’ll be havin’ ta take ’em out soon an’ replace ’em,” Flannery Morgan advised his employer.

  “Then do it if it must be done,” Gage replied with simple logic. “ ‘Twould appear we’ve no other choice.”