16

Today was the day.

Xander stood before his shaving stand with its looking glass, something he rarely made time for, and took in the man before him. Hardly a gentleman. No powdered wig. No ribbons or bows. No lace. His ruddy Scots coloring, the red threads in his beard, bespoke his roots. He was the image of his rough-hewn father with some of his mother’s gentling features. At hand were neatly pressed clothes fit for the governor’s chamber, a minor duty before he sought out his beloved.

“On your way, Nephew?” His aunt stood at the bottom of the stairs as he came down them. Her eyes shone. “My, how handsome . . . and fragrant. Such a welcome change from the sweat of your brow.”

“Too much sandalwood?” he asked her, smoothing a sleeve.

“On the contrary. Sandalwood is sublime and hints of exotic ports. You wear it well.”

She followed him out the riverfront door, where bricklayers paused in their work to watch him pass. He gave a greeting but didn’t slow his gait.

“Something tells me the council is not the only place you’re headed,” she called after him as she veered toward the milk house. “Rarely do you wear such a handsome lawn shirt and doublet.”

He let that pass without comment and sought the stables, beset by last-minute doubts.

How would his would-be bride receive him?

Leagues later, his arrival in James Towne left him wishing he’d taken his smallest shallop instead, his dawn bath in the river a distant memory. The pleated falling band encircling his neck was little more than a damp rag, and a fine powdering of early July dust coated all that he wore. But the refined sandalwood scent was intact. Though he was not a vainglorious man, today, the hour that might well decide his future, he wanted to look his best.

He hobbled his horse in New Towne’s pasture and skirted Pitch and Tar Swamp to reach the governor’s residence, which doubled as a statehouse. The brick dwelling was spared the spiking heat by the cluster of elms providing deep shade. Was he late?

A few of those invited took their seats. Two places remained empty—his own and Ustis Hopewell’s. Such did not bode well.

Xander’s disquiet didn’t settle when Governor Harvey opened the meeting with a lengthy prayer, his clipped English tones a drone in the still room, save the mosquitoes buzzing. “We beseech Thee, O heavenly Father, giver of life and health, to comfort and relieve Your sick servants, and give Your power of healing to those who minister to their needs . . .”

Xander felt a chill. A foreboding. Had Ustis sickened again? He had little time to consider the matter as they delved directly into the all-important exchange, the Naturals expected on Monday next.

Xander had been tasked to handle the proceedings. As translator, having taken part in such affairs since the earliest days of James Towne, he had been delegated all details. With Claibourne and Laurent absent, there were but a few dissenting voices regarding how and where the exchange should occur. These were hammered out to the satisfaction of all in an unprecedented hour, and the meeting adjourned in the forenoon.

Thirsty, belly rumbling, Xander passed outside in the elms’ rustling shade and returned his hat to his head.

“Let us take the noon meal at Swan’s, aye?” His friend Emanuel Murray began walking that way.

“My stomach will offer no complaint.” Xander fell into step beside him. “’Tis good to see you again. My heartiest congratulations on your nuptials at Charles Cittie.”

“Mistress Murray and I both thank you for sending round that salted ham with your felicitations.” Murray’s walking stick tapped a merry beat on the cobblestone path. “She’s expressed a desire to meet you.”

“Rose-n-Vale’s doors are always open to you and your bride.”

“Expect it, then. I deeply regret your resigning from council, which means we shall see you seldom. But I suppose your recent acquisition of further acreage requires you to be more at home than here.”

“A trifling matter soon forgotten.”

“Trifling?” Murray’s laugh held mockery. “I would not call a parceling of land that makes you owner of an entire western shire a small matter. Especially since Virginia has but eight of them.”

“An entire shire is an exaggeration.” Still, Xander felt a beat of pride. “But what is land without indentures to work it?”

“I admire your unwillingness to enslave Africans. ’Tis becoming commonplace.” Frowning, Murray kicked at a stone in his path. “My new wife brought several Ashanti to our marriage. House servants. A far cry from indentures.”

“I’d rather speak of Ustis Hopewell.” Xander tipped his hat to a passing matron. “Do you ken any particulars regarding his health?”

“Only that he’s been quite ill the last sennight or so. Much as he was this past winter.”

With a sinking inside him, Xander eyed the sign of the swan swaying in the wind above the door they sought. The ordinary’s well-kept brick façade with four interior rooms made it the most genteel offering in James Towne. And blessedly close to the Hopewells’.

Several heads turned and hats lifted as the two men entered. Yet Xander felt uneasy anticipating a meal and a pint when a good man lay ill.

He turned his plan for the afternoon over in his mind as they ordered and then ate, the rumble of men’s voices around them. Talk was heated regarding the latest furor over the current tobacco inspector, an irascible Welshman who burned more hogsheads in the warehouse kiln than he approved.

“Hard to market the very crop Priddy disdains,” Murray said as the object of their ire came into the Swan.

“Ardent smoker he is not,” Xander replied, returning his attention to his mutton pie.

“’Twas Priddy who swayed the governor to limit our tobacco cultivation to fifteen hundred plants per grower.” Murray lowered his voice. “What are we to make of that?”

“Petition to plant north of the York River on virgin soil that hasn’t been depleted.”

“North as in Northumberland?”

“Aye. ’Tis our future. The future of tobacco in Virginia.”

“And owned in part by Selah Hopewell. A misbegotten dowry, some say, for prime land that sits idle.” Murray forked a bite but looked like he’d lost his appetite. “To muddy matters, Laurent is rumored to have been awarded the plantation of your deceased neighbor, which borders both your and the Hopewells’ plantations.”

Xander stopped eating. “Hearsay, hopefully.”

“What’s more, he may be making inroads with Mistress Hopewell.”

“Laurent? You jest.”

Murray flashed him a wary gaze. “Word is she’s been accompanying him to see how the tobacco brides are faring. From all reports, they look quite . . . companionable. Fancy gaining the hand of the cape merchant’s daughter and prime tobacco land to boot.”

Xander managed to finish his pint if not his plate. “God forbid.”

Selah bit her bottom lip, the warmth and chatter of the shop fraying her final nerve. Shay ran hither and yon fetching this or that, managing the scales, while she tallied orders and tried to keep up a brisk pace as more customers crowded into the store that held but a dozen comfortably. ’Twas a torment to function normally while Father lay more ill today than he had all the days before. Mother was out of remedies, for nothing seemed to be of much help. By now, most would have called for a physic. But Father had no fondness for Laurent, and other physics were far removed from James Towne.

Selah cast a glance at the back door. At any moment Mother might enter and deliver the dreaded news. Death stalked the colony with little warning. Would they be next?

“Selah.”

Her name, though softly spoken, broke through the tumult of her thoughts. Her gaze lifted from the ream of papers she perused. How Xander had navigated his way unnoticed to the counter where she stood trying to add sums was no small feat. She stared up at him without focus, his features undimmed by the shadow of the felt hat he usually wore. Swallowing, she marshaled all her wits and tried to smile.

“Afternoon, sir.” Sir. What she meant to say, at least discreetly, was Xander. Her voice sounded brittle, a testament to all the rest of her.

His hat dangled from one fisted hand. “Might I speak with you in private?”

A bold request. One she hardly had time for. But he was not a man to be denied. His unusually earnest expression had her choose the fragrant, shadowed confines of Father’s lair, as Mother oft called it. There they faced one another an arm’s length apart.

“You look distraught,” he told her bluntly, his eyes never leaving her face, “though ’tis your father I’ve come to inquire about.”

“Father—” Tears that had remained unshed all morn now made her dig blindly in her pocket for a handkerchief, to no avail. “He—”

“He is gravely ill, and your countenance tells me all the rest.” He reached into his doublet and removed his own handkerchief. Finely made, it looked out of place in his work-worn hand.

This time she made no move to quash her tears. They fell unhindered, spotting her bodice. Gently, he dried the trail of emotion on her face. The linen held his masculine scent, enveloping her as if he’d embraced her instead. For a time, the shop with all its haggling and clinking of coin faded away. ’Twas just the two of them, caught up in a tender moment, despair and uncertainty suspended.

Finally, she mastered her voice, fisting the handkerchief he gave her. “Mother is urging a move upriver to Hopewell Hundred. She thinks, as Father does, that James Towne’s miasmas and swamp fevers are too much for him now that he’s nearly sixty.”

“I’ve long thought this a dismal spot to settle.” He took her hand and sat her in her father’s chair. “There’s even an empty warehouse sitting idle near Hopewell Hundred that would serve well for merchanting once he recovers.”

If he recovers.

“You have no need of it?” At his nay, she felt a beat of hopefulness. “Perhaps that will suffice.”

He looked toward the front, where Shay’s voice carried. “I also ken this might not be the best time for your brother to be away.”

The peace exchange. Would he send someone else in Shay’s stead?

“Please . . . stop and see my father.” Selah laid a hand on his coat sleeve. “Your presence will do him a world of good.”

“Consider it done. One more matter . . .” He hesitated a moment, clearly uncomfortable with broaching it. “What have you to do with Laurent?”

“As little as possible.” Her stomach turned. What had he been told? “Governor Harvey insisted we call upon the tobacco wives. One visit is behind us, but more are to come.”

“My inquiry comes with a warning. Safeguard yourself when he is near.”

“I find him disagreeable at best. I—”

“He is not a man to be trusted.”

“Then I shall refuse to accompany him further.”

“And I shall make sure that is the case.”

With that, he let himself out the back into the sunlit lane with all its heated, fetid smells. The safety she always felt in his presence fled with him. Somehow, Laurent seemed to stand between them. Did Xander believe there was more to their pairing than the governor’s dictum?

She stared at his handkerchief, noting the lovely embroidery of his initials in indigo thread. His aunt’s handwork? Having something so personal heartened her, had her straightening her shoulders and retying her apron. She went back into the fray of the busy store, though her grieved heart followed after Xander on his way to their door.