Courting Morrow Little: A Novel

  A bit awed, she turned to a small man standing at the head of the table. Dressed with French flair, he wore a scarlet silk waistcoat, the silver queue of his hair hanging over one shoulder and-could it be?-falling to his knees. "My name is Pierre Loramie, Madame Red Shirt. Welcome to my table"

  She smiled, flattered when he came forward and kissed her hand then introduced her to his other guests. A curious assortment of British soldiers, frontiersmen, and Indians stood at intervals about the room.

  Loramie seated her then Angelique. Fleetingly, she wondered where the children were. She could hear their playful voices behind a closed door. Red Shirt sat beside her, his knee brushing her heavy skirt beneath the table. At the head of the table, Loramie bowed his head and said grace-in French-and the words struck a strange chord though she understood little.

  As if on cue, two women in crisp cambric aprons brought heaping platters of meat and stuffing, apple tansy, and other dishes she had no name for. The men ate with gusto, speaking a mishmash of Shawnee, French, and English, while the candles smoldered in their holders, nearly overpowering the aroma of the meal with their rich perfume. Everyone seemed in high spirits, making her think it was some sort of French holiday.

  Perplexed, she looked at Red Shirt. "What day is it?"

  At this, all the chatter at the table seemed to still. Red Shirt turned his head to answer, but another voice drew Morrow's eyes to the end of the table. "To the Shawnee it is merely the Cold Moon, Madame Red Shirt. To the French it is Joyeux Noel. To the Americans it is almost Christmas"

  She set her fork down and swallowed a mouthful of meat, trying to contain her welling emotions. They were hours away from Christmas Day. A crushing sense of homesickness stole over her as she recalled her last winter with Pa.

  "Tomorrow we celebrate our Savior's birth;' Loramie continued as if sensing her disquiet. "After divine service we will meet here to exchange a present or two and partake of another meal that is even finer than this one. We are not so uncivilized that we neglect the Almighty or each other, even on the frontier, no?"

  She offered him a grateful smile, glad when the merry conversation around her resumed. Red Shirt joined in, filling her with wonder at his French. On her sickbed she'd heard him speaking such but thought it just a dream. Now little eddies of disbelief swirled inside her as she listened to a man she had known intimately yet felt she didn't know at all.

  She darted a quick glance at him, taking in all the little heartstopping details that made him so handsome. It wasn't simply the elegant English-made shirt or the sheen of hair tied back with silk ribbon, nor the new breeches and boots from Loramie's stores. Here in this room amidst other men, he had a presence, just as Pa had once said. When he spoke, they listened or deferred, and he seemed to know a great many things she didn't, like the status of the war raging in the East, treaties being made and broken, and the standing of other tribes.

  Despite all that was going on about them, he was remarkably attentive to her, even now looking at her like she was not Morrow at all but someone else entirely, brought back from the grave, perhaps, and into his arms again. Though he'd said little about it, she knew she'd nearly died since coming to this place. The shadows beneath his eyes told her so, as did the lean lines of his tanned face, made more pronounced in the candlelight.

  "What say you, Red Shirt? Will General Hand summon you as interpreter for the tribal council at Fort Pitt this spring?" Loramie's voice rose and silenced the din as he looked down the table. "Supposedly he has dispatched such a request, and a Shawnee courier is even now on his way to your father's village:"

  Red Shirt took Morrow's hand beneath the table and leaned back slightly in his chair, his profile thoughtful. "I've heard nothing of it until now"

  Loramie's face was grave. "Since our great chief and friend Cornstalk traveled the Kanawha in good faith and met with treachery, the violence has been increasing even during socalled peaceable treaty-makings. I must caution against Fort Pitt in the future. If you go, I fear for you, mon ami. It seems there were no repercussions for the soldiers who committed such a crime at Fort Randolph, thus the path is prepared for more of the same"

  At his words, a volley of voices erupted around the table, but the frontiersman nearest Loramie was the most vocal. "There is a half blood at this very table who righted that particular wrong, or so I've been told. The murdering soldier chief at Fort Randolph is no more:"

  Loramie's eyes swung to Red Shirt, a knowing smile stealing over his face. Morrow felt Angelique's eyes on her as if gauging her reaction to so indelicate a subject, but the pressure of Red Shirt's hand settled her. Still, the image of Major McKie's russet scalp seemed to cast a sudden pall over the festivities.

  "Ah, so there is justice at the hands of a half blood, after all. I rejoice!" Springing up, Loramie went to an ornate liquor cabinet behind his chair, fumbled in his waistcoat for a key, and opened the door to reveal a dizzying assortment of bottles. "We must celebrate such a victory, however belated. Gentlemen, what shall it be? Brandy? Madeira? Port? A votre saute! To your health!"

  Every man stood but Red Shirt. In moments their host had emptied two bottles of cranberry-colored liquid into crystal glasses, at last coming around behind them where they sat. Red Shirt reached out and covered the top of his goblet with one hand. "Nekanoh, I am not the man I was."

  Loramie hesitated. "So the rumors I have been hearing are true. You have buried the hatchet. You are a man of peace"

  "I am a murderer and a horse thief," he answered. "But I have been forgiven"

  "You have made your peace with God, then," Loramie mused, raising his glass. "Well, mon ami, I am glad you did so after avenging Major McKie."

  Goblets were raised high in a toast, and then the room stilled again, every eye turned toward them. Morrow felt Angelique touch her shoulder and motion her away. She stood up reluctantly, but it was clear the men had matters to discuss and wanted to do so apart from feminine company. She followed her hostess into an adjoining room, smaller but equally bright with candle flame. The children were finishing their meal and looked up, making exclamations of pleasure in French.

  "This is Pierre, Josee, Minon, Albert, and Esme" Angelique seemed to glow as she shut the door and studied each face. "And this, my dear children, is Madame Red Shirt"

  "Oui, oui! The Shemanese princess!" they shouted in unison, making Morrow laugh despite her weariness.

  "Now, you mustn't tire her. She will be staying with us until she is well. Perhaps she would like some music. Esme, will you play for us?"

  A tall girl in ivory brocade got up from the table and sat down at a harpsichord near a shuttered window. Morrow took a chair, smiling as the smallest girl-Josee?-came near and climbed onto her lap. She melted as the child leaned into her, her plump body smelling of talcum powder, her mouth rimmed with cocoa from her cup. Morrow rifled her dark curls, lost in thought.

  The music coming from beneath the hands of the girl across the room was lovely and soft and soothing. Morrow breathed a prayer of thanks to have come to this rough yet strangely refined place after so long a journey. She was sorry when the music came to an end, but after half an hour Angelique urged her to return to her room and rest, excusing herself and herding the children off to bed.

  The door to the main dining room was ajar, and Morrow slipped through the opening. The men were now gathered around a crackling hearth in the sitting room opposite, shoulder to shoulder, most with glasses or pipes in hand. Snatches of conversation drifted to her in a variety of languages. She didn't mean to eavesdrop, nor wanted to, particularly when it concerned matters of war.

  The tobacco-laden air seemed rife with intrigue and speculation, full of the latest rumblings from across La Belle Riviere. Since they'd left the Red River, the Shawnee and their British allies were preparing to raid the settlements again in retaliation for McKie's attacks upon the Shawnee towns. Their planned assault would commence in late summer, when the settlement's crops were most vulnerable, thus creati
ng a lean winter for the Kentuckians. The grim news, related so matter-of-factly, kicked up a whirlwind inside her. Late summer. By then, if her calculations were right ... if she hadn't miscounted ...

  She took a steadying breath and started up the stairs, torn between telling Red Shirt her secret or tucking it away. Best keep it close till morning. 'Twould make a fine Christmas gift in light of the fact she had none other to give.

  Should she ... or shouldn't she? All through Christmas dinner, nausea rising, Morrow weighed the wisdom of sharing her secret as she pushed her uneaten food around her china plate. She didn't want to tell Red Shirt just yet, but if she tarried, emptying her stomach in a chamber pot would soon give her away. And then how would she explain her reluctance to share such news?

  Raising her eyes, she flushed to find him studying her through the haze of candle flame. Astute as he was, might he already know? Feeling feverish, she dropped her eyes to the napkin in her lap. Just this morning at breakfast, Angelique had whispered her startling question, yet it hadn't felt right to confess to her hostess what she'd held back from her own husband.

  As if urging her on, the grandfather clock just beyond the dining room struck nine times. Only three hours left till the day was done. But would the gaiety never end?

  The snap of a Yule log and glint of candles lent an inviting air to the spacious sitting room they adjourned to after supper. All within was crowded and congenial and exhausting, while beyond the shuttered windows, icicles sharp as saber points hung from the frozen eaves. There'd been a startling absence of war talk today, just feasting and toasting and good wishes, and now, at last, Loramie's guests began to disperse. Soon even their host slipped away, bidding them a merry good night.

  Morrow lingered by the fire on a brocade sofa, hands clasped in her lap. Red Shirt sat beside her, looking decidedly out of place upon the stiff sofa, not only dwarfing it but making it seem ridiculously ornate. The spectacle made her smile, and then she almost laughed as he reached up and yanked at the stock binding his neck like a noose. Balling it in a fist, he deposited it in an urn on the hearth.

  "Reminds me of Brafferton, he said quietly, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  Bending down, she removed her too-tight shoes, taking a deep breath. The clock in the hall struck midnight, and he moved to put another log on the fire as if inviting her to linger and tell him everything. But the practiced words seemed to stick in her throat. What if the news only made him more careful with her? What if... She swallowed down her dismay, hardly able to complete the thought. What if he wasn't happy with the news?

  He was reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, his features suddenly solemn. "Close your eyes"

  Did he have a present for her, then? Shutting her eyes, she felt him take her hand and kiss her callused palm. The tender gesture turned her heart over, and a tear slid beneath her lashes. Next he placed something in her hand and closed her fingers around it. A delicious anticipation eclipsed her angst.

  "For you, he said, "from your father."

  Pa? She opened her hand and looked down at an oval miniature. Instantly she knew whose picture was contained within that tiny silver frame. Ma and Jess. Not Jess as she'd known him but Jess as a baby, small and pink and round, his hair the hue of bittersweet. Their firstborn. Biting her lip, she brought the gift to her breast, too moved to speak.

  He leaned nearer, one arm encircling her. "I didn't mean to make you sad-"

  She stemmed his words with her fingers. "It means so much ... even more tonight ..." She looked down at the miniature again, knowing now was the time to tell him. When she hesitated, he reached into the urn to retrieve his stock and began to dry her face with the soft linen.

  "I'm not done crying yet;' she whispered with a smile, taking the neck cloth away from him. "I still haven't given you your gift:"

  "I have nothing for you, he said.

  "Oh, but you do. The gift you've given me is the same one I'm giving you"

  Setting the stock and miniature in her lap, she took his hands. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fine cloth of her dress as she pressed them to her middle. He looked at her, stark wonder in his eyes.

  "Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I've known for some time" She gave him a half smile. "Perhaps clear back to the Falls of the Ohio"

  "Our first time?" He sounded amazed, even amused.

  "If a woman can know such things, yes"

  His handsome face held a touch of disbelief-and something akin to grief. Was he sorry? Thinking they'd not make it to Missouri? "I would have brought you here sooner if I'd known"

  She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now ... and ready to leave for Missouri when you are. The baby isn't coming for months yet"

  "When?"

  "Summer ... August, perhaps"

  "We'll winter here, then," he said with characteristic calm. "Loramie is in need of a hunter and scout:"

  A shadow of alarm gripped her. "But what about going west?"

  "Spring is a better time to travel:"

  Looking down at the miniature again, she felt disappointment crowd out her anticipation, yet she couldn't deny the wisdom of waiting. She'd been on her feet but two days since the fever and was still weak. And now, with a baby coming ...

  He bent his head till his mouth was warm against her ear. "We'll make our way to Missouri, Morrow. There's plenty of time yet to travel before next winter sets in"

  She heard the promise and the pleasure in his voice and tried to smile.

  Morrow peeked past the massive oak doors of the trading room. Within the lantern-lit space, she watched as capable clerks transacted business, bartering and trading in furs and English currency. Red Shirt had yet to trade, so she held her anticipation tight, like a child with an unopened package, knowing the pleasure was largely in the waiting. Loramie's Station was more hospitable than any frontier post she'd ever seen. Large parties of Indians from the Great Lakes to the warmer southern climes frequented the post that bordered Loramie's Creek, throwing up temporary shelters just beyond the picketed walls. The distillation of rum and tobacco and smoking meat filled the air day and night, and a festive feeling lingered.

  She found their French host charming, shrewd, and breathtakingly blunt. He bore a deep grudge against the Americans who ate up the land as they pushed west, decimating game, bringing disease, and feeding the Indians lies by serving up worthless treaties. And he didn't hesitate to discuss such matters with anyone who cared to do so.

  "You listen hard, Madame Red Shirt, Loramie remarked one evening after dinner as they gathered about the sitting room fire. "Where do your loyalties lie?"

  She looked up from the handkerchief she was embroidering, realizing she could no longer plead neutrality in the growing conflict. "My father schooled me to consider both sides"

  "Wise words. Your dear departed papa was a man of God, no? Principled and unprejudiced? Your husband has told me of him"

  "You must know of my brother, then. The Shawnee took him captive nearly fifteen years ago"

  He nodded thoughtfully, drawing on his pipe. "If your brother remains with the Shawnee, he is by now more Indian than white. There are many captives willing to stay missing. Do not grieve unduly. I doubt he grieves for you:"

  His words saddened her, but she noted a telling sympathy in his eyes. Returning to her sewing, she listened to the steady cadence of their voices and worked to stay awake. But the bright fire and the hot cocoa Angelique had served made her feel as lethargic as the calico cat curled up at her feet. She glanced at Red Shirt, now speaking French with Loramie an arm's length away. Lately she wondered if they lapsed into the melodious language to avoid unsettling her.

  Since she'd shared the news of her pregnancy, they seemed to treat her like the exquisite porcelain china that graced the shelves of Loramie's store. Though every piece was packed in straw and shipped in metal-banded barrels from France, not all survived the journey. Was that how she seemed to them? Fragile? About to break? The
fever she'd survived still seemed to hover-and now there was this unbridled nausea.

  "You must rest," Angelique cautioned, urging her upstairs. "Tomorrow is the day you will trade and move into your own cabin:"

  Morrow tried to summon some excitement for the task ahead.

  The next morning, standing in the middle of Loramie's wellstocked store, she was surprised to find she felt as enchanted as a child. An intoxicating blend of things embraced her the moment she walked in. Freshly ground coffee and leather. Perfume and pickling spices. Smoked hams and lamp oil and the feral scent of furs. The beaver plews they'd taken coming north netted a small fortune. Of all the furs, beaver fetched the highest price, bundled and sent East to become fine hats for wealthy colonists and Europeans alike.

  "I've never seen finer," Loramie's clerk said as he examined the pelts. "I hardly have to glance at them to know they are your husband's, Madame Red Shirt. Every season it is the same:"

  "They're more Morrow's than mine;' Red Shirt replied, selecting powder and shot further down the wide counter. "She cured them"

  Surprised, she looked at him. He'd not shown his appreciation till now, and it warmed her like the potbellied stove at her back.

  Taking her arm, Pierre Loramie gestured to row upon row of trade goods. "What catches your eye today? I have fine silks, embossed flannel, vermillion, gartering, ribbon, pinheads, handkerchiefs, and some brocade recently arrived from d'Etroit."

  "Might you have a thimble and some thread?" she asked.

  "For you, madame, I have more"

  Crossing the plank floor, he led her to a lantern-lit corner. There she grew wide-eyed at sewing chests finer than Aunt Etta's own and a rainbow of fabrics she couldn't even name. Elaborate tins held countless spools of bright thread, thimbles, metal needles, and a bounty of buttons.