A Wild Yearning (8 page)

Ty said nothing. It was this awkward silence that caused Delia to look from the young woman back to Ty... and at the expression on his face, Delia thought her heart would surely break.

For Tyler Savitch was staring up at the minister's wife with warm admiration in his eyes.

They took a flatboat ferry across the Charles River, sharing it with a stack of rum kegs and a herd of bleating goats. Elizabeth Hooker, fearful of either the river, the goats, or both, clung to the cart and shut her eyes. Ty hovered around her, looking manly and protective.

The sight of them together, the friendly admiration in Ty's eyes, was so painful to Delia that she wondered if she could bear it. How greedy is the human heart, she thought. Only last night it had been enough for her to be near him, to see his face. But already she wanted more. She wanted what she could never have.

Delia decided she could endure it more easily if she didn't have to see them together, so she went to the stern of the boat and watched the landmarks of her past slip away from her—the steeples of Boston's many meetinghouses sticking like thistles into the sky, the wharves jutting into the harbor, the sun reflecting off the copper roof of the lighthouse on Beacon Island, dazzling her eyes. She told herself she wasn't sorry to be leaving; it was only the bright sun that was making her blink away tears.

Oh, Da...

Her da must have passed out in a grog shop somewhere because he hadn't been asleep on his tick when she went home last night. She hadn't been able to tell him goodbye, but it was probably for the best. He'd be drunk for a day or two anyway, and he'd only have come after her with his fists.

But when he sobered up later he would miss her. Like as not he wouldn't even remember her taking a clout at him with that piece of wood. He would search the waterfront for her, worry about her, and then figure out that she was gone for good, because he wasn't stupid, her da, leastways not when he was sober. And then he'd cry, because there was never one like her da for crying when he got to feeling sorry for himself.

Shame and guilt overwhelmed Delia. She promised herself she would have someone help her write a letter once she got to Merrymeeting, to tell him she was all right. At least then he wouldn't worry. Poor Da... Who would care for him now that she was gone?

And who would he use his fists on now when the drink got the best of him?

She shut her eyes, and her father's face came into her mind. But it was not her da as she'd last seen him—his eyes glittering with rage, his lips pulled back in a snarl. It was a dim memory of him on a day when he had seemed a god to her, so towering and strong to her little girl's eyes. They had stood on the end of the Long Wharf, just she and her da, as he pointed out the ships in the harbor to her. She could remember the strength of his large hand enveloping hers as they looked at the ships, the mysterious ships. She'd felt a scary excitement, thinking how wide and grand the world seemed. But mixed with that excitement was a warm feeling of security that her da was right there beside her to take care of her. She had looked up at him and he had smiled and said, "I love you, little puss..."

But then her ma had died. And the god had turned into a monster.

"Do you have family in the Merrymeeting Settlement?"

Delia turned and looked into the Reverend Caleb Hooker's thin face. He was smiling, and she noticed for the first time that his front teeth overlapped a bit. She liked that about him; it made him seem less saintly.

"I'm goin' to Merrymeeting t' be wed to a widower an' be a mother t' his two daughters," she replied, returning his smile.

"I see," he said, though he didn't sound at all as if he did.

Spoken so baldly, it sounded incredible to Delia's own ears.

She reminded herself that it was a new life she was going to. A new life and respectability.

And to be near Ty,
a niggling voice teased. But Delia ignored it.

Delia and the reverend looked at each other in silence, then of one accord they turned toward the front of the ferry where the reverend's wife sat in the ox cart and Tyler Savitch stood beside her. His head was tilted up to her and he was saying something that caused her to laugh. But only for a moment. Then her eyes fell back down to the Bible she held in a white-knuckled grip.

"My wife... she's frightened of the idea of journeying into the wilderness," Caleb told Delia. "She's happiest tucked up snug and warm inside with her spinning. She's prodigious good with her spinning and her weaving." He took off his hat and ran his fingers through limp seaweed-brown hair. "This journey's going to be hard on her. But once we get settled into the parsonage at Merrymeeting she'll be fine," he added, sounding as if he were trying hard to convince himself.

Delia gave him an encouraging smile. "Aye, I 'spect she will."

They stood, smiling inanely at each other, then he said, "Will you be joining the Meeting?"

"Well..." She blushed and looked down at her bare toes sticking out from beneath the torn hem of her petticoat. "I guess I've never been much of a one for churchgoin'."

The sound of soft laughter caused them to turn around. Tyler Savitch stood tall before them, and the deep blue of the river at his back matched the color of his eyes. His fingers were hooked into the waistband of his breeches, his cocked hat was tilted back on his head. The fringes of his hunting shirt stirred in the breeze, drawing attention to the broad, corded muscles of his chest. He was such a fine sight that Delia felt a poignant ache in her breast.

"I'm afraid you won't be finding a big Community of Saints in The Maine," Ty said. The mischievous twinkle was back in his eyes again, the dazzling smile transforming his face. Evidently the time spent in Elizabeth Hooker's gentle company had restored his good humor, Delia thought unhappily, wishing
she
could have been the cause of that smile.

"But I was told my services had been requested," Caleb protested, oblivious to the misery that had crept into Delia's eyes. Ty wasn't even bothering to look at her.

"Massachusetts law says a settlement's got to have both a minister and a schoolmaster if it ever wants to be considered a proper town. But to be honest, Reverend, community funds are a bit strapped at the moment for us to take on the salaries of both. So it came down either to hiring you or taking on that schoolmaster, and you won by two votes." He pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek and stared out over the water. "Course, there's some say the election was rigged."

Once across the river, they were about to start out on the post road going northeast when Ty and Delia had their first altercation over the horse.

"I'm not ridin' on that beast with ye," she said, backing away from him when he started to put his hands around her waist to lift her into the saddle.

She made it sound as if it were the horse she feared. But it was he, or more precisely the dangerous and useless infatuation his nearness aroused in her. She knew she couldn't bear to ride for hours with her arms wrapped around that hard waist, her cheek pressed against that warm back, especially if
his
eyes were going to fall again and again on Mrs. Hooker.

"So what are you planning to do—walk all the way to Merrymeeting?" Ty demanded, not bothering to hide his exasperation.

"Aye!" she shot back at him. "Since I bloody well can't fly there!"

"Jesus Christ!" he bellowed, forgetting the presence of the reverend and his wife. "Why are you being so unreasonable I'll buy you a horse first chance I get, but in the meantime—"

"I told ye afore, Tyler Savitch, I don't want none of yer charity."

"Oh, you want none of my charity, do you? And just who do you think is going to pay for your meals and lodging on this little jaunt?"

Hot color flooded her cheeks, but her chin jerked up in the air. "I'm no fool, Tyler Savitch. I know I can't make it all the way to The Maine without eatin' somethin' along the way, and I intend to pay ye back for whatever expenses I tot up"—Ty's brows arched, incensing Delia to further heights of aggravation —"but I'm not gettin' on that bloody horse with ye, nay, nor on any other horse or beast or method of conveyance that comes from yer filthy hands!"

Ty was laughing at her now. "Christ, what's got you madder than a wounded skunk all of a sudden?"

Delia whirled around and started down the road, calling him all manner of foul names under her breath.

"Delia, wait!" Caleb Hooker shouted after her. "We could probably find a place for you with us. I mean, well... it's a long way to walk."

Delia turned and looked back, first at Elizabeth Hooker, who regarded her husband with panic on her face, and then at the cart loaded to overflowing with a bedstead, chairs, chests, and two different kinds of spinning wheels—one for wool and one for flax. There wasn't
room
for her on the cart, even perched on the end of the tailboard, and even if the reverend's wife would have countenanced her lowly company.

She smiled at Caleb, shaking her head. "Thank ye just the same, Reverend."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Now that we've got that settled, can we get started?" Ty said dryly. "I'd like to get to Merrymeeting sometime before the first snowfall."

Giving Delia an apologetic smile, Caleb hurried to scramble onto the cart. But as he picked up the goad, Elizabeth said, "Caleb, shouldn't you say a prayer before we begin?"

"Oh... yes, of course." He bowed his head. "May the will of Jehovah guide us on this journey, which we perform in humble service in this Thy name, O Lord. Amen," he finished with a rush, glancing up to give Ty a big grin.

Then he pricked the high ox with the goad, the cartwheel screeched in starting, and they were on their way to Merrymeeting Settlement, Sagadahoc Territory, The Maine.

It was slow going. The road was overgrown with skunk cabbage and jewelweed and full of boulders, stumps, and mudholes. They had to stop often to open gates as they rode through some farmer's pasture. Delia walked beside the reverend's fine red oxen. She enjoyed the company of the plodding, heavy-shouldered beasts. She found their lethargic tread oddly soothing, certainly easier on the nerves than riding on the horse with Ty would have been.

Ty, on the other hand, was so edgy he conveyed his feelings to the pacer, which danced along the trail, its ears flattened against its head, its tail flickering. Delia wondered at the cause of this restlessness and disquiet that were so much a part of Ty's character. No doubt it was due to his strange upbringing— ten years of living among the savages only to be brought back to civilization and made into an English gentleman. Perhaps a part of him had never quite been civilized, and that part didn't set too well with the gentleman physician he had become.

Delia pondered the enigma that was Tyler Savitch as they passed farms and tiny hamlets—five or six houses gathered together for company and protection. They went through gardens in small, irregular patches marked off with crude stone walls, and skirted newly planted mounds of Indian corn, their green tendrils of rolled leaves just piercing the earth. Once, they passed a couple of young girls drying flax over a pit on the hillside. The girls returned Delia's wave and she felt so happy, so carefree, she laughed out loud—only to look around and catch Ty watching her, a scowl marring his handsome face.

No doubt proper ladies didn't indulge in such vulgar displays of emotion, Delia supposed, and vowed to be more careful in the future.

Toward late afternoon they entered a stretch of salt marsh meadows and battalions of enormous, blue-colored flies that drew blood when they bit descended on them. Delia broke off a maple branch and switched the air above the oxen's heads to offer them some relief. But the insects were voracious, and Ty's horse's neck was soon swelling from the bites.

On the edge of the marshland, the road widened a bit and they came to a small village. Ty said they would stop there for the night, for when the flies got this bad it meant a rainstorm was coming. They'd have a wet day tomorrow, but at least the blood-sucking hordes would be gone. Delia didn't need the flies to tell her rain was coming, for her bruised ribs throbbed like rotten teeth.

Delia thought it a pathetic village, so small a body could spit from one end to the other. The meetinghouse lacked a steeple and the village green was just a muddy paddock upon which grazed a few scraggly cows. The last building in town was the only inn. Its signboard was a faded gray anchor suspended from a rusty chain that groaned in the wind. As they pulled up to the front door, they could smell the pigs and the necessary house from the yard out back.

The proprietor ambled out, scratching under his armpit and chewing vigorously on a quid of tobacco. His woolen breeches were unraveling at the ends and he sported "country boots"— simple leggings made from lengths of an old blanket, tied at the ankles and below the knees. A scraggly hound came trotting out of the door after the man, collapsing at his feet.

The innkeeper bobbed his shaggy head and spoke around the plug of tobacco bulging his cheek. "How ye folks doin'?"

Ty eased down off his horse. "Oh, fair to middling. You open for business?"

"Aye, that I am, esquire. This here is the Blue Anchor." He sized them up carefully, judging what the traffic could bear. "That'll be four shillings for the night's lodgin', esquire, an' that includes yer supper. Two shillings for the beasts."