Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (38 page)

Without further ado, the woman began to pour the steaming tea, making belated introductions. "I am the wife of Pierre
Loramie. Angelique is my French name, given to me by my
voyageur father. I am also called Straight Ahead by my mother's
people, the Shawnee:'

Morrow looked up. "And the children?"

"All those half bloods you see coming and going are mine as
well. They will make their own introductions in time. For now you must simply eat and bathe. There is a bell on the table there,
should you need me'

Famished, Morrow sampled each item on the tray and sipped
the tea-strong bohea by its bite and flavor-and felt her strength
return bit by bit. When she'd finished, she made her way to a
window, pushed back the shutters, and peered out on pickets
that seemed to impale a leaden sky. A sweeping glance told her
she was in a two-story log house that was part of a fortified post.
On every side, a winter tracing of trees held back bleak woods
as far as the eye could see, evidence that they were in the very
heart of the wilderness.

Turning away, she shed the strange shift and stepped into the
steaming tub. The pleasure it gave her nearly made her moan.
Hot water. Bayberry soap. A stack of soft cotton towels. Within
minutes she felt renewed but couldn't see a speck of clean clothing anywhere in the room. Angelique soon remedied that, carrying in an armful of garments and placing them on a chair.

Taking up a comb, the elegant woman began to work, and in
half an hour Morrow stood alone before a full-length mirror,
shaken to her stocking feet. Once before, she'd had this strange
feeling, when she'd first dressed in the clothing Red Shirt had
brought her. Now the reflected image was startling in a different way. Her hips and legs were encased in silk stockings and
garters and petticoats, her bosom buried beneath a camisole of
finely embroidered muslin. Atop everything was a snug dress
with faux pearl buttons, the soft apricot brocade overlaid with
fragile ivory lace.

Who am I, anyway?

Woozy, she sat down again on the crisply made bed, thinking she couldn't possibly go below stairs. The smells of supper
thickened on the air, and she could hear girlish laughter and
the clink of cutlery as someone set a table and readied for a
meal. She fingered the fine fabric, feeling a bit smothered by the too-tight bodice. There was no doubt she appreciated such
fine things. They warmed her with memories of Philadelphia
and Aunt Etta's fine dress shop and the old wardrobe in her attic
room. But dressed as she was, she looked waxen ... fragile as
eggshell. She felt fragile as eggshell. Red Shirt would no doubt
be even more careful of her, particularly if she told him what
she was now sure of ...

The door swung open without a warning knock, and he
stepped into the room. She couldn't look at him, trussed up
as she was, so she looked away, fixing her eyes on a crack in
the floor by her right foot. The feather tick gave way as he sat
beside her. He tucked in a stray curl that had come free of the
ribbon and lace Angelique had woven into her upswept hair.
Timidly her eyes skimmed the floor and fastened on one black
boot firmly planted just beyond the sweep of her skirts. Next
her eye trailed to seamless buckskin breeches before taking in
the ruffled cuff of an exquisite linen shirtsleeve.

His voice was low and amused. "What a pair we make, Morrow. The lovesick Metis scout and the beautiful Shemanese princess. At least that's what Loramie called us when we dragged
ourselves into this post"

At this she laughed and looked him fully in the face. His
hair was freshly washed and hung in ebony strands about his
shoulders, dampening his fine shirt. He smelled of bayberry and
tobacco and something else she couldn't place. And his eyes,
though tired, shone with pleasure.

"I hardly know you, she exclaimed softly, reaching out and
touching the wedding band that glinted on his hand.

"I hardly know myself," he said.

"I'm ready to go below," she said with forced eagerness, ignoring the nausea swelling beneath her snug bodice. "I want to
meet our host ... see where we are"

Though he said nothing, she sensed he saw past her pretense to the exhaustion beneath. But she'd not lie abed a minute longer.
Avoiding his eyes, she took in all the details of the charmingly
inconsistent room, lingering on the genteel painting above the
rough-hewn mantel. An oil landscape, she guessed, like the ones
she'd seen in Philadelphia. Who was this Pierre Loramie? Something told her he was as much a puzzle as their surroundings.

Through the cracked door came a sudden burst of childish
giggling and French chatter. She looked up and found several
children spying on them from the doorway, faces alight.

"Come, Monsieur Red Shirt, and bring your lovely bride. Our
dear papa is waiting"

Days before, Morrow had been carried into Loramie's Station
but had no recollection of it. Now, on Red Shirt's arm, she descended a wide set of steps, marveling at all she'd missed. Her
fingers brushed a swirl of pungent greenery tied with gold ribbon
along the polished handrail. Bayberry candles glinted abundantly
in the foyer below, their scent so pleasant after the stale, shutin bedroom. She smelled roasting meat-goose, she guessed.
And stuffing. Her mouth began to moisten. Across the way a
door was open to a dining room, and on the long table was an
enormous standing salt and salver of sweetmeats.

A bit awed, she turned to a small man standing at the head
of the table. Dressed with French flair, he wore a scarlet silk
waistcoat, the silver queue of his hair hanging over one shoulder and-could it be?-falling to his knees. "My name is Pierre
Loramie, Madame Red Shirt. Welcome to my table"

She smiled, flattered when he came forward and kissed her
hand then introduced her to his other guests. A curious assortment of British soldiers, frontiersmen, and Indians stood
at intervals about the room.

Loramie seated her then Angelique. Fleetingly, she wondered
where the children were. She could hear their playful voices
behind a closed door. Red Shirt sat beside her, his knee brushing her heavy skirt beneath the table. At the head of the table,
Loramie bowed his head and said grace-in French-and the
words struck a strange chord though she understood little.

As if on cue, two women in crisp cambric aprons brought
heaping platters of meat and stuffing, apple tansy, and other
dishes she had no name for. The men ate with gusto, speaking
a mishmash of Shawnee, French, and English, while the candles
smoldered in their holders, nearly overpowering the aroma of the
meal with their rich perfume. Everyone seemed in high spirits,
making her think it was some sort of French holiday.

Perplexed, she looked at Red Shirt. "What day is it?"

At this, all the chatter at the table seemed to still. Red Shirt
turned his head to answer, but another voice drew Morrow's
eyes to the end of the table. "To the Shawnee it is merely the
Cold Moon, Madame Red Shirt. To the French it is Joyeux Noel.
To the Americans it is almost Christmas"

She set her fork down and swallowed a mouthful of meat,
trying to contain her welling emotions. They were hours away
from Christmas Day. A crushing sense of homesickness stole
over her as she recalled her last winter with Pa.

"Tomorrow we celebrate our Savior's birth;' Loramie continued as if sensing her disquiet. "After divine service we will meet
here to exchange a present or two and partake of another meal
that is even finer than this one. We are not so uncivilized that we
neglect the Almighty or each other, even on the frontier, no?"

She offered him a grateful smile, glad when the merry conversation around her resumed. Red Shirt joined in, filling her
with wonder at his French. On her sickbed she'd heard him
speaking such but thought it just a dream. Now little eddies
of disbelief swirled inside her as she listened to a man she had
known intimately yet felt she didn't know at all.

She darted a quick glance at him, taking in all the little heartstopping details that made him so handsome. It wasn't simply
the elegant English-made shirt or the sheen of hair tied back
with silk ribbon, nor the new breeches and boots from Loramie's
stores. Here in this room amidst other men, he had a presence, just as Pa had once said. When he spoke, they listened or deferred, and he seemed to know a great many things she didn't,
like the status of the war raging in the East, treaties being made
and broken, and the standing of other tribes.

Despite all that was going on about them, he was remarkably
attentive to her, even now looking at her like she was not Morrow
at all but someone else entirely, brought back from the grave,
perhaps, and into his arms again. Though he'd said little about
it, she knew she'd nearly died since coming to this place. The
shadows beneath his eyes told her so, as did the lean lines of his
tanned face, made more pronounced in the candlelight.

"What say you, Red Shirt? Will General Hand summon you as
interpreter for the tribal council at Fort Pitt this spring?" Loramie's voice rose and silenced the din as he looked down the table.
"Supposedly he has dispatched such a request, and a Shawnee
courier is even now on his way to your father's village:"

Red Shirt took Morrow's hand beneath the table and leaned
back slightly in his chair, his profile thoughtful. "I've heard nothing of it until now"

Loramie's face was grave. "Since our great chief and friend
Cornstalk traveled the Kanawha in good faith and met with
treachery, the violence has been increasing even during socalled peaceable treaty-makings. I must caution against Fort
Pitt in the future. If you go, I fear for you, mon ami. It seems
there were no repercussions for the soldiers who committed
such a crime at Fort Randolph, thus the path is prepared for
more of the same"

At his words, a volley of voices erupted around the table, but
the frontiersman nearest Loramie was the most vocal. "There
is a half blood at this very table who righted that particular
wrong, or so I've been told. The murdering soldier chief at Fort
Randolph is no more:"

Loramie's eyes swung to Red Shirt, a knowing smile stealing over his face. Morrow felt Angelique's eyes on her as if gauging
her reaction to so indelicate a subject, but the pressure of Red
Shirt's hand settled her. Still, the image of Major McKie's russet
scalp seemed to cast a sudden pall over the festivities.

"Ah, so there is justice at the hands of a half blood, after all. I
rejoice!" Springing up, Loramie went to an ornate liquor cabinet
behind his chair, fumbled in his waistcoat for a key, and opened
the door to reveal a dizzying assortment of bottles. "We must
celebrate such a victory, however belated. Gentlemen, what shall
it be? Brandy? Madeira? Port? A votre saute! To your health!"

Every man stood but Red Shirt. In moments their host had
emptied two bottles of cranberry-colored liquid into crystal
glasses, at last coming around behind them where they sat. Red
Shirt reached out and covered the top of his goblet with one
hand. "Nekanoh, I am not the man I was."

Loramie hesitated. "So the rumors I have been hearing are
true. You have buried the hatchet. You are a man of peace"

"I am a murderer and a horse thief," he answered. "But I have
been forgiven"

"You have made your peace with God, then," Loramie mused,
raising his glass. "Well, mon ami, I am glad you did so after
avenging Major McKie."

Goblets were raised high in a toast, and then the room stilled
again, every eye turned toward them. Morrow felt Angelique
touch her shoulder and motion her away. She stood up reluctantly, but it was clear the men had matters to discuss and wanted
to do so apart from feminine company. She followed her hostess
into an adjoining room, smaller but equally bright with candle
flame. The children were finishing their meal and looked up,
making exclamations of pleasure in French.

"This is Pierre, Josee, Minon, Albert, and Esme" Angelique
seemed to glow as she shut the door and studied each face. "And
this, my dear children, is Madame Red Shirt"