34

Taking Tessa up a back stair, Mistress Semple led the way to the end of a narrow hall. Where Clay would ready himself was a mystery. Since Mistress Semple seemed to have all in hand, Tessa wouldn’t ask. The faint clink of a key in the lock opened a door without a single creak to its brass hinges.

“I’ll have the maids bring up hot water.” Mistress Semple crossed the room and began drawing the drapes closed. “Every bride deserves a fragrant bath.”

Murmuring her thanks, Tessa took in the bower before her. The room might have been in Philadelphia, so lovely were its refined lines. Papered walls. A mahogany bedstead with brocade hangings. Bed steps. An uncracked looking glass. Sterling candlesticks. Framed floral artwork. The scent of beeswax was everywhere.

In such a sumptuous room she felt smaller and more homespun, dirtier and more disheveled than she’d ever been. But surely this was not Mistress Semple’s intent. Her appreciative gaze strayed beyond the immediate. In the adjoining room was a parlor. Two bookcases lined the walls, holding more volumes than she’d anticipated seeing in a lifetime. ’Twas all she could do not to run across the carpeted floor and ransack the shelves in delight.

Instead she took a step toward a striped brocade loveseat—but mightn’t she soil it if she sat on it? A knock sounded, sparing her the dilemma. Two servant girls delivered the promised hot water and hip bath. As they readied everything behind a painted screen in a corner, the memory of her own humble quilted curtain in the cabin turned her pensive.

Clay, one maid said, had gone to clean up in the men’s common area below. Pastor Guthrie had been sent for. The facts were coming hard and fast, cushioned by their genteel surroundings. A table was reserved for them in Semple’s dining room following the nuptials. Cook, having gotten wind of it, was fashioning a small cake. The maids chattered like a mob of sparrows, clearly enjoying waiting on a bride-to-be.

Towels and something called a sultana were laid out for her near the bath. Its steam was scented with lavender, the only familiar anchor in this strange new world. She tried to shed her unease along with the filth of travel, her soiled garments a tawdry heap on the carpeted floor. Soon they were whisked away by one of the maids to be washed—or maybe thrown out.

Stepping into the shiny tub, Tessa set her teeth, the bathwater was so blessedly hot. She was used to the startling chill of river water, cold in any season. On a small table within arm’s reach were toiletries laid out for the taking. No gourd of soft soap but carefully cut hard ivory bars and a wonderment of pretty-smelling creams in small pots, even a hair wash redolent of roses and mint.

Half an hour later, she stepped out of the bath and studied her water-wrinkled fingers and toes. A maid returned and helped her dress, combing out her hair before hauling the hip bath away. Powdered, pinned, and wrapped in the soft sultana, Tessa sat on the love seat by the window, parting the drapes and half expecting to see a lamplighter on the street like Clay had told her about. But this was still a rough border town, not the civilized likes of Philadelphia.

Laughter resounded below, followed by Clay’s reassuring voice. Had the preacher come? Were they waiting on her? She began rummaging through her belongings, searching for her best dress. About to embark on another journey, this one so new, so untried, left her near tears one minute and overcome with a strange joy the next. Hester’s presence seemed to hover, and regret stung her that she must deny her great-aunt the joyous moment to come.

Shift. Stockings and garters. Stays. Petticoats. A flurry of preparation, even a hastily plucked flower from Semple’s garden for her hair. The purple blossom was a bit limp, but it stayed put with a carefully placed pin. Drawing a breath, Tessa turned away from the ornate looking glass and readied to meet her groom.

Tessa came to him freshly washed, still damp and smelling of mint, in her best linen dressed up with a bit of lace at the sleeves and neck. She’d fastened a flower in her hair, the inky mass sun-lightened in places and glinting Scots-red, her skin tawny too. Frontier born and bred to the bone, she was. Clay wouldn’t have her looking like a city miss.

As for himself, out of buckskins he always felt a tad odd, though today he was as well groomed as she. For a few seconds they just stood a handbreadth apart, regarding each other with exhausted pleasure.

“Are you both ready to begin?” the pastor asked with a bearded smile.

“Aye,” they replied in unison like obedient pupils before a schoolmaster. The heavily Scots words of the marriage rites were somewhat lost to him as they stood in this frontier parlor, the best Pitt had to offer.

Clay’s roiling emotions settled as his bride-to-be looked so calm. More like the Tessa of old. And then a sudden qualm intruded on his ease. Was she missing her kin? Dogged by regrets?

They faced each other, holding each other’s hands, and he remembered the locket. At ceremony’s end, he kissed her lightly on the lips before he brought the heirloom out of his pocket. Her eyes lit with surprise, then darkened with emotion. His hands were a bit unsteady as he opened the clasp, moved behind her to encircle her throat, and draped the locket across her bodice once he’d fastened it securely.

“My mother’s,” he murmured.

Her fingers touched the gift, expression softening. It wasn’t as glittery as city baubles went, but it was all he had, and the sentiment behind it was priceless. She seemed to think so too, for she reached up and kissed him on his smoothly shaven cheek, eyes awash.

“How did she come by it?” she asked, holding his gaze.

Again that keen wistfulness took hold in his chest. “I wish I knew.”

Pastor Guthrie congratulated them, his hearty effusiveness raising their own quiet joy a notch. Before they could adjust to their newfound state, a servant led them into the overflowing dining room to a private table. Supper smells swirled around them, a tantalizing hint of the fare to come.

Tessa placed a callused hand on the linen tablecloth, eyes on the sterling candlesticks, her wondrous expression caught in the yellow glow. His mind leapt from supper to the night ahead. He’d not seen their upstairs rooms, but Tessa had whispered they held the biggest bed she’d ever seen, and books.

Their plates were heaped with veal chops, celery, and thyme. She sipped her Madeira wine as he did, saying little but caught up in the currents of conversation on all sides of them. Dessert was just as impressive, almond creams served in fluted glasses with tiny spoons. And cake.

She looked at him, fingering the locket. “I feel I’m in Philadelphia already.”

“Semple’s is a good imitation.” He set his napkin aside. “In all honesty, I recall none of this finery from when I was here last. But I was with Maddie and Jude and we stayed near the stables.”

From the connecting chamber came an oddly melodious sound. Clay smiled. “I think you’ll find the parlor worth visiting.”

They left the table and threaded their way past diners to the front parlor, which was, for the time being, empty. Anticipating her delight, Clay led her to a far wall where an elegant mahogany case clock stood, engraved with floral scrolls. Opening the glass window, he pointed a gilded arrow to some lettering and stepped back as the selected tune began playing. Above the clock’s face, several automaton figures tapped their feet in time to the music, a little dog jumping up and down.

“This is one of the wonders I told you about. Crafted by a Philadelphia clockmaker.”

Lips parting, Tessa studied the separate dials showing the phases of the moon and the alignment of the planets, until Clay took her in his arms and began dancing her slowly about the room. They had once danced in the blazing firelight of a fort frolic, the humid air and exertion leaving them all undone. Here all was closeted and cool and elegant.

“Superb!” Behind them came Mistress Semple’s gentle applause. “I know a good pairing when I see it. Our case clock boasts twelve lovely tunes.”

Their hostess selected another, “Shady Bowers,” and left them to their dancing with a smile. Pulling his gaze from the open parlor door, Clay mastered his self-consciousness and lost himself in Tessa’s pleasure. Let her have this one night away from the dust of the trail, the dark memories, and any cares of the unknown future. She seemed at her best, cheeks pink, smiling up at him without that taint of sorrow.

As the notes faded, he perused the other offerings. “Hob or Nob.” “The Maid of the Mill.” He bypassed “Indian Chief.” No need to remind her of that. Or himself either. He chose “Marquis of Granby,” a familiar, merry tune.

A half hour passed. Tessa yawned behind her hand. When a few sated diners joined them and the parlor became crowded, they slipped away up the back stairs. Clay drew a relieved breath to be free of trail companions and Semple’s staff and their fellow lodgers.

She led him to their rooms, pushed open the door, and stood on the threshold to await his reaction. The bedchamber still held the rose fragrance from her bath, her discarded robe draped over the dressing table.

“A big bed, aye,” he agreed, gaze straying from that to the small parlor beyond, which did indeed seem to hold a great many books. “Enough to keep you up all night reading.”

“’Tis early yet.” She turned to him, palms flat against his linen-covered chest. Her heart was in her eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him softly and said entreatingly, “Mind if I read to you a bit?”

Was she jesting? Or a mite bashful? Reading was not on his mind. Denied time alone till now and they would . . . bury their heads in a book?

In what seemed the first test of their married life, he gave a long-suffering nod and released her.

The room was growing dark, though one taper had been lit within a glass globe atop a small table. Into the parlor they went, taking the light with them. She stood before the bookcase as he held the light high enough for her to read the titles.

Though the events of the day were catching up to him, he’d rarely seen her so enthralled. She chose a thick, leather-bound volume, then curled up like a cat atop a sofa, not beginning till he’d settled down beside her.

Leaning back against the stiff brocade frame, he closed his eyes as she opened the book. Her dulcet voice wooed him.

“How Candide was brought up in a magnificent castle, and how he was expelled thence . . .”

By chapter two the weight behind his eyelids grew heavier, the sofa more comfortable. Her nearness excruciating.

Reaching out a long arm, he plucked the book from her hands. “How a borderman wed the belle of the Buckhannon and nearly missed their wedding night . . .”

Her soft chuckle followed the book’s fall to the floor. “Fooled you,” she whispered. “I was merely trying your patience like Daniel did Rebecca.”

“The Boones . . .” Understanding dawned. “When he cut her apron, aye.” Bemused, he reached for her, rewarded with her warm, rose-scented, linen-wrapped softness.

Enfolded in his arms, she reached up and unbuckled the small clasp that held his neck cloth. The linen strip fell to the floor like the discarded book. Heart a-gallop, Clay threaded his fingers through her hair in search of the carefully placed pins that bound it into a loose knot. The rush of anticipation that washed through him nearly jellied his knees.

Between kisses, she said, “Clay, why not keep to these rooms till week’s end? Push back Philadelphia a bit.” Her soft words suffused all the affection-starved, sin-darkened places inside him with healing light. “Let’s stay right here, just the two of us, till we know the beginning and end of each other. Every nook and cranny, heart, body, and soul.”

Leaning away from her, he snuffed the candlelight with a snap of his fingers.