The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
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Usually, Martha ran forward to hug her and exclaim delightedly. Today she had been grim and tight-lipped. Nothing, it seemed, would bring a smile to her face.
Cotton Schofield had appeared pleased to see Charity. He was a soft-spoken, almost inarticulate man with thick brown hair and skin the color of tanned leather. He grinned a shy welcome.
“How’s the baby?” Charity demanded tightly.
Martha did not reply.
It was Cotton Schofield who answered. “Oh, she’s thriving now. We’ve been giving her the cordial regular, like you said, ‘n’ now you’d hardly know her. Look.”
Relieved, Charity smiled. It must have been the longest speech he’d ever made. Cotton led the way to the wicker basket and turned back the shawl from the little face.
Charity felt her heart stir at the sight of the petite creature. “Oh, Martha! She’s truly bonny. There’s even color in her cheeks. You are truly blessed to have a girl child.”
“Perhaps when you and Amos marry, you will be as fortunate.”
“I don’t intend to marry Amos Saybrook.” Charity’s head lifted in its familiar, proud way. “I don’t want to marry at all. Nor do I need to. I have Mystic Ridge and the boys.”
“It isn’t good for a woman to remain single. No good at all.”
Charity was not so sure. An unwed woman might own her own property, contract debts and run her own business. But a married woman, so far as the law was concerned, existed only in her husband. He had the use of all her real property and absolute possession of all her personal property, even the clothes on her back, and he could bequeath them to somebody else in his will. He was entitled to beat her for any faults. He had complete power over his wife and children. A wife’s duty was submission to whatever a husband commanded.
It was far better and safer to remain unwed. Except to conceive a girl child, of course. A lump tightened in her throat. Why did she suddenly think of the bondman? Her heart palpitated at the thought.
“I’ll marry the man I want…” Her gaze went to the cradle. “And then maybe I’ll have…” She placed her fingers on the baby’s soft cheek, the touch as light as thistledown.
Martha’s lips twisted. She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Don’t get too high-flown, Charity. Ezra is gone. You’re bound to marry again. Amos Saybrook is a good size and as strong as an ox, well able to defend you if there is an Indian uprising.”
“I’m not high-flown, Martha. I just know what I want, and I intend to get it.” Charity was quite surprised to find that her voice was steady. “Same as Jeremy here. He wants up, don’t you, young man?”
Clutching her skirts was Jeremy, who could scarcely walk upright. The child’s small, unstable legs still betrayed him occasionally, and he was fretful with the fever that often accompanied a new tooth. Charity lifted him to her hip. He cried loudly and fiercely and clung to her neck with both arms.
Before Martha could reply, Cotton cut in. “It ain’t any of our business what you do, Charity. Just remember, you’ve got to be practical. Would you like some refreshment?”
Charity accepted the offer of some fresh milk and corn bread. She sat on a stool beside the table, Jeremy cuddled on her lap, and sipped at the cup of milk Cotton had given her.
There was talk of the weather, how hot summer was this year. No mention was made of the bondman, nor was there any embarrassing reference to the auction and her extraordinary conduct.
More important matters concerned the Schofields. It seemed that several sacks of corn had disappeared from their barn. The unspoken question hung heavily in the air.
Cotton again surprised Charity by launching into a long speech. “It’s not likely you came across any Indians. They’re like foxes, those Pequots. Nobody sees them till they’re ready to show.”
“Oh, my God.” Charity gripped her hands together around Jeremy, her drink forgotten beside her. “I didn’t see any.” Her voice had gone quite low.
Cotton spread his hands. His head shook from side to side. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Charity, just wanted to warn you. I don’t think there’s any danger—not yet, anyway. You just drink your milk, and think about findin’ yourself a good man.”
A good man. Rafe Trehearne. The words forced themselves into her brain. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. She seemed to be breaking up into two people. One part was sitting there listening to Cotton and Martha; another part was causing her fear and confusion by unexpectedly thinking about her bondman.
Cotton gave a slow, easy shrug and excused himself. He wanted to get the flax harvested before it rained. It always seemed to rain at seedtime and harvest. Just to spite a man.
The older children, Zackary and Caleb, went with their father to keep an eye out for wild beasts and Indians while he worked. Charity dutifully admired Martha’s brownand-white-speckled hen and the tiny chicks that poked their heads through their mother’s wings, the little beaks shining like pink flower buds. There was nothing so wonderful as new life.
Martha suddenly became tongue-tied. Taking Jeremy from Charity, she settled him on her hip. The boy whimpered, his face pressed in the hollow between his mother’s neck and shoulder.
Charity looked at her friend closely. She felt uncommonly disturbed. Martha’s eyes were dull and darkly circled, and her blond hair was lank and drab.
It was not like Martha to be withdrawn and secretive. To find the cause of her friend’s misery, Charity started small talk on a variety of subjects. How were the children? Had they enough food? Was there anything she could help them with?
Unexpectedly, Martha’s lower lip began to quiver and tears filled her eyes. Charity wondered if she was ill, but then it had all tumbled out: Martha was pregnant again. This would be her fifth child in as many years. She could no longer keep up with her market orders.
Charity thought her heart would break in sympathy. Martha was as industrious as her husband. With her spinning wheel, loom and dye pots, she produced clothing, blankets and quilts for her family. The balance was sold or exchanged on market day.
A good man. Cotton Schofield was a good man. He had cut a road from Whitewater to the King’s Highway wide enough for the lumber company to bring in their ox wagons and cart the timber he cleared to the sawmill at Mystic. He wanted to save his wife the effort of helping to make ends meet with her sewing.
And his wife had sobbed her heart out because of it!
On the way home now after her visit, Charity sat very still and gazed on the scene below.
Beneath her the ground fell in a gentle incline toward the river, a loop of which vanished from sight behind the farmhouse and reappeared just past the stone wall in back of the barn. From beyond the stream came the sound of chopping. The steady blows filled the air, permeating it so that it seemed to vibrate before her eyes.
She couldn’t help remembering what Cotton Schofield had said about Indians, although the one or two Pequots who came to Mystic Ridge always seemed peaceful enough. They had dark hair and eyes, and high, broad cheekbones like Rafe Trehearne, and like him, they went their own silent way.
The thought of Indians in the same breath as Rafe Trehearne made her uneasy. But she was soon soothed by the splendid view from her vantage point. Her sense of time slipped away.
Willow, birch, spruce, fir and buck oak merged in a sea of misty green. Sparks from a controlled burn-off of undergrowth in a small, cleared area sailed upward. Smoke billowed into the air and shimmered against the summer sky, dancing and distorting her vision.
The rhythmic thrumming was more insistent now. Balancing her elbows on the ground, Charity leaned back and closed her eyes briefly.
A good man. Rafe Trehearne. She let the word husband trickle