Petals on the River (17 page)

winds.
 
"It sounds like the storm has slackened.
 
I'd better leave while

I can.
 
It might start up again."

"But where should I bathe?" Shemaine queried, unfamiliar with the proper

procedure of preparing a bath in a cabin.
 
In her father's house, her

baths had been prepared by servants.

"There's water heating over the fire for you already, and there's a well

outside at the far end of the back porch from which you can draw more

water if you need it.
 
You'll find a washtub hanging in the storeroom.

For the time being, it will have to suffice for any baths you and the

boy take and any laundry that you do indoors.
 
One of these days, when I

have some time, I intend to turn the storeroom into a bathing chamber,

but until then, we'll all have to make do with what's available.
 
As

long as the weather is tolerable, I bathe in the stream that runs

through the inlet.
 
You might have noticed it near the growth of trees

on the way up to the cabin.
 
There's not a great deal of privacy to

offer a woman, only what the trees may provide, but if you're of such a

mind, I'm sure my men and I would enjoy the view."

"I'll bathe inside, thank you," Shemaine replied pertly, feeling a

warmth creep into her cheeks.

Once again Gage accepted her reply with a faint smile.
 
"Hannah usually

likes me to visit a while, so you should have plenty of time to bathe

and dress while I'm gone.
 
But it also depends on the weather." He faced

her with a question.
 
"Are you afraid to stay here alone?"

Shemaine smiled a lot easier than he seemed able to do.
 
"Tonight I

think I'll be happy to have some privacy.
 
As you can probably imagine,

there was a serious scarcity of it aboard the London Pride."

"The front door can be bolted from the inside once I'm gone," he

informed her.
 
"I'd advise you to take the precaution, just in case some

stranger spies the cabin and comes searching for food or valuables and

finds you here alone.
 
I'd hate for you to be stolen away before I've

even had a chance to see your face washed." Another meager glimpse of a

smile hinted at his humor.
 
"When I return, I'll knock three times to

let you know it's safe to open the door.
 
Otherwise, don't show yourself

at the windows.
 
Before the week is out, I'll try to get around to

teaching you how to shoot a musket.
 
I'm not gone that often, but when I

am, you'll feel safer knowing how to use it.
 
You can never predict when

you might see a bear or wildcatþ"

"Or an Indian?" she interjected, having heard rumors about their

ferocity on the voyage.

"Or occasionally an Indian," Gage admitted.
 
"But for the most part,

they've moved into the mountains or the valleys beyond the Al leghenies.

It's gotten too crowded for them around here with all the English,

Germans, and those tenacious Scotch-Irish settling in the area."

Shemaine followed him to the door, wondering if there was any need to

tell him about Jacob Potts and his threats so soon after he had bought

her.
 
But he had seemed distracted since buying her, and she didn't want

to give him any excuse for taking her back.
 
At a more convenient time,

she reasoned, when it won't trouble him overmuch.

Pausing at the door, Gage indicated the tall kitchen cupboard standing

near the hearth.
 
"There's bread and cheese in there if you get hungry

before I return.
 
Hannah usually packs some food for me to bring home

when she knows Andrew and I are here alone.
 
At least tonight you'll be

well fed.
 
I can make no guarantees for the morrow."

Opening the heavy portale he stepped out onto the porch, glanced quickly

around the area, and then pulled the door closed behind him. The

floorboards creaked slightly as he crossed to the front steps. After his

departure, a long moment of enjoyable silence ensued.
 
Then, with a soft

smile, Shemaine laid the heavy bolt in place across the door, for the

first time in many months feeling a surge of hope for the future.

._ .

., S iS,,, ,fe , , .
 
, i, .

CHAPTER 4

A lengthy shampoo and a warm, leisurely bath did wonders for Shemaine's

spirit.
 
She marveled at the enormous change in herself as she dragged

on a frayed chemise from the dead woman's trunk.
 
Once she would have

casually discarded the undergarment as a castoff, not worthy of being

used for anything but a servant's dust cloth or a scrub rag. Wearing a

riding habit relentlessly day in and day out for several months

certainly had a way of making one feel immensely grateful for any

apparel that was clean and reasonably intact.
 
Though there were nicer

shifts packed away in the chest, even a lace-trimmed one which had

obviously been the woman's best, Shemaine refused to take her new

master' s benevolence for granted.
 
In determining her future needs she

had also laid out a second chemise, a green gown, a pale blue one two

long white aprons, and a pair of black slippers, all of which had seen a

lot of use.

Once she had bathed and washed her hair, Shemaine began to sense the

importance of demonstrating her gratitude to Gage Thornton for having

bought her, and what better way of accomplishing that feat she decided,

than proving herself an enterprising cook and efficient servant.

Granted, it would take some time before she regained her strength and

stamina, but she wrapped a towel about her wet head and then, garbed

only in the chemise, set about testing her ability in the preparation of

food.

A few years had passed since Bess Huxley, their family cook, had tried

to stimulate her interest in culinary endeavors and teach her the basic

techniques required for success.
 
At the time, Shemaine had grudgingly

performed the tasks, doing them over and over again until she had

attained the perfection the woman had demanded, but she had loathed

stirring sauces endlessly so they wouldn't scorch and beating egg whites

until they peaked.
 
She had been convinced that Bess's instructions were

a wasted effort, for even at a younger age she could not imagine herself

marrying a man without the means and properties to warrant a house full

of servants.

So much for her expectations, Shemaine mentally jeered.
 
Bess had warned

her not to be so high-minded, for a mere girl could not predict what man

would ask for her hand or, for that matter, to whom she would give her

heart .
 
.
 
.
 
if she were fortunate enough to be allowed a choice.

Despite the cook's arduous drilling, Shemaine was sure there was much

that she had forgotten about her training.
 
Yet it was now necessary for

her to prove her capability and, if she could, to recall everything that

Bess Huxley strove so hard to teach her.
 
There was nothing quite as

motivating as desperation to make one acutely attentive to another's

sage advice.

Shemaine busied herself making crumpets from memory.
 
While serving out

her time in the solitude of the cable her, she had yearningly

remembered the relaxed afternoon teas she had once enjoyed with her

family.
 
Those cherished memories came drifting back now with poignant

clarity as she made the basic dough.
 
After mixing it, she covered the

bowl with a cloth and set it near the warmth of the hearth where the

bread could rise while she resumed her toilette.

It seemed an endless drudgery combing the stubborn snarls out of her wet

hair as she sat before the fire.
 
The task took much longer than

Shemaine had expected, and she became concerned about the time, for the

afternoon seemed to be flitting rapidly away.
 
In desperation she

searched about for a pair of scissors to make short work of her hair,

but she found nothing better than a butcher knife.
 
The disaster that

particular tool might wreak promptly dissuaded her.

While going through the articles stored in the trunk, she had found a

brush with several long strands of blond hair twined about the bristles.

Though her new master had given her leave to use whatever she had need

of, Shemaine could not bring herself to destroy such a precious

keepsake.
 
She searched through the man's possessions instead, finding

most of his clothes and underwear neatly stacked and separated in his

armoire.
 
The only exception was a clean bundle of wrinkled shirts that

were of much finer quality than the homespun garment he L...

was presently wearing.
 
They had been stuffed in the very back of the

cabinet and had been there so long they had taken on the scent of the

wood.
 
As pleasant as the smell was, Shemaine decided that one of her

very first laundry duties would be to wash, starch and iron the shirts

for her master.
 
After that, whether or not they were worn would be

entirely up to the man, but at least he'd have an option.

The rain began again in earnest, and not knowing whether the downpour

would deter or hasten Mr.
 
Thornton's return, Shemaine did not dare

dawdle over her hair any longer.
 
She finally located a brush in a

drawer in the man's shaving stand and made use of it to smooth the rest

of the tangles from her hair.
 
The heavy tresses were still slightly

damp when she plaited them and coiled the resulting two braids close

against her nape.
 
Then she quickly washed the brush, dried it, and put

it back where she had found it, hoping her master wouldn't notice that

it had been used in his absence.

Both gowns were too long, as Gage had predicted, and snug across her

breasts.
 
It amazed Shemaine that a man could remember his wife with

such unerring accuracy that he could correctly judge the sizes of other

women just by his memory of her a full year after her passing. The

bodices could not be let out, Shemaine discovered after examining the

seams, and any alterations to the hems would have to wait until she had