Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (39 page)

"Oui, oui! The Shemanese princess!" they shouted in unison,
making Morrow laugh despite her weariness.

"Now, you mustn't tire her. She will be staying with us until
she is well. Perhaps she would like some music. Esme, will you
play for us?"

A tall girl in ivory brocade got up from the table and sat down
at a harpsichord near a shuttered window. Morrow took a chair,
smiling as the smallest girl-Josee?-came near and climbed
onto her lap. She melted as the child leaned into her, her plump
body smelling of talcum powder, her mouth rimmed with cocoa
from her cup. Morrow rifled her dark curls, lost in thought.

The music coming from beneath the hands of the girl across
the room was lovely and soft and soothing. Morrow breathed a
prayer of thanks to have come to this rough yet strangely refined
place after so long a journey. She was sorry when the music
came to an end, but after half an hour Angelique urged her to
return to her room and rest, excusing herself and herding the
children off to bed.

The door to the main dining room was ajar, and Morrow
slipped through the opening. The men were now gathered
around a crackling hearth in the sitting room opposite, shoulder to shoulder, most with glasses or pipes in hand. Snatches
of conversation drifted to her in a variety of languages. She
didn't mean to eavesdrop, nor wanted to, particularly when it
concerned matters of war.

The tobacco-laden air seemed rife with intrigue and speculation, full of the latest rumblings from across La Belle Riviere.
Since they'd left the Red River, the Shawnee and their British
allies were preparing to raid the settlements again in retaliation
for McKie's attacks upon the Shawnee towns. Their planned
assault would commence in late summer, when the settlement's
crops were most vulnerable, thus creating a lean winter for the
Kentuckians. The grim news, related so matter-of-factly, kicked up a whirlwind inside her. Late summer. By then, if her calculations were right ... if she hadn't miscounted ...

She took a steadying breath and started up the stairs, torn
between telling Red Shirt her secret or tucking it away. Best
keep it close till morning. 'Twould make a fine Christmas gift
in light of the fact she had none other to give.

Should she ... or shouldn't she? All through Christmas dinner, nausea rising, Morrow weighed the wisdom of sharing her
secret as she pushed her uneaten food around her china plate.
She didn't want to tell Red Shirt just yet, but if she tarried,
emptying her stomach in a chamber pot would soon give her
away. And then how would she explain her reluctance to share
such news?

Raising her eyes, she flushed to find him studying her through
the haze of candle flame. Astute as he was, might he already
know? Feeling feverish, she dropped her eyes to the napkin in
her lap. Just this morning at breakfast, Angelique had whispered
her startling question, yet it hadn't felt right to confess to her
hostess what she'd held back from her own husband.

As if urging her on, the grandfather clock just beyond the
dining room struck nine times. Only three hours left till the day
was done. But would the gaiety never end?

The snap of a Yule log and glint of candles lent an inviting air
to the spacious sitting room they adjourned to after supper. All
within was crowded and congenial and exhausting, while beyond
the shuttered windows, icicles sharp as saber points hung from
the frozen eaves. There'd been a startling absence of war talk
today, just feasting and toasting and good wishes, and now, at
last, Loramie's guests began to disperse. Soon even their host
slipped away, bidding them a merry good night.

Morrow lingered by the fire on a brocade sofa, hands clasped in her lap. Red Shirt sat beside her, looking decidedly out of
place upon the stiff sofa, not only dwarfing it but making it seem
ridiculously ornate. The spectacle made her smile, and then
she almost laughed as he reached up and yanked at the stock
binding his neck like a noose. Balling it in a fist, he deposited it
in an urn on the hearth.

"Reminds me of Brafferton, he said quietly, unbuttoning his
waistcoat.

Bending down, she removed her too-tight shoes, taking a deep
breath. The clock in the hall struck midnight, and he moved to
put another log on the fire as if inviting her to linger and tell
him everything. But the practiced words seemed to stick in her
throat. What if the news only made him more careful with her?
What if... She swallowed down her dismay, hardly able to complete the thought. What if he wasn't happy with the news?

He was reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, his features
suddenly solemn. "Close your eyes"

Did he have a present for her, then? Shutting her eyes, she
felt him take her hand and kiss her callused palm. The tender
gesture turned her heart over, and a tear slid beneath her lashes.
Next he placed something in her hand and closed her fingers
around it. A delicious anticipation eclipsed her angst.

"For you, he said, "from your father."

Pa? She opened her hand and looked down at an oval miniature. Instantly she knew whose picture was contained within
that tiny silver frame. Ma and Jess. Not Jess as she'd known him
but Jess as a baby, small and pink and round, his hair the hue of
bittersweet. Their firstborn. Biting her lip, she brought the gift
to her breast, too moved to speak.

He leaned nearer, one arm encircling her. "I didn't mean to
make you sad-"

She stemmed his words with her fingers. "It means so much
... even more tonight ..." She looked down at the miniature again, knowing now was the time to tell him. When she hesitated, he reached into the urn to retrieve his stock and began
to dry her face with the soft linen.

"I'm not done crying yet;' she whispered with a smile, taking
the neck cloth away from him. "I still haven't given you your
gift:"

"I have nothing for you, he said.

"Oh, but you do. The gift you've given me is the same one
I'm giving you"

Setting the stock and miniature in her lap, she took his hands.
She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fine cloth
of her dress as she pressed them to her middle. He looked at
her, stark wonder in his eyes.

"Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I've known for some
time" She gave him a half smile. "Perhaps clear back to the Falls
of the Ohio"

"Our first time?" He sounded amazed, even amused.

"If a woman can know such things, yes"

His handsome face held a touch of disbelief-and something
akin to grief. Was he sorry? Thinking they'd not make it to Missouri? "I would have brought you here sooner if I'd known"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now ... and
ready to leave for Missouri when you are. The baby isn't coming
for months yet"

"When?"

"Summer ... August, perhaps"

"We'll winter here, then," he said with characteristic calm.
"Loramie is in need of a hunter and scout:"

A shadow of alarm gripped her. "But what about going
west?"

"Spring is a better time to travel:"

Looking down at the miniature again, she felt disappointment
crowd out her anticipation, yet she couldn't deny the wisdom of waiting. She'd been on her feet but two days since the fever
and was still weak. And now, with a baby coming ...

He bent his head till his mouth was warm against her ear.
"We'll make our way to Missouri, Morrow. There's plenty of
time yet to travel before next winter sets in"

She heard the promise and the pleasure in his voice and tried
to smile.

Morrow peeked past the massive oak doors of the trading
room. Within the lantern-lit space, she watched as capable clerks
transacted business, bartering and trading in furs and English
currency. Red Shirt had yet to trade, so she held her anticipation tight, like a child with an unopened package, knowing the
pleasure was largely in the waiting. Loramie's Station was more
hospitable than any frontier post she'd ever seen. Large parties
of Indians from the Great Lakes to the warmer southern climes
frequented the post that bordered Loramie's Creek, throwing
up temporary shelters just beyond the picketed walls. The distillation of rum and tobacco and smoking meat filled the air day
and night, and a festive feeling lingered.

She found their French host charming, shrewd, and breathtakingly blunt. He bore a deep grudge against the Americans who
ate up the land as they pushed west, decimating game, bringing
disease, and feeding the Indians lies by serving up worthless
treaties. And he didn't hesitate to discuss such matters with
anyone who cared to do so.

"You listen hard, Madame Red Shirt, Loramie remarked one
evening after dinner as they gathered about the sitting room
fire. "Where do your loyalties lie?"

She looked up from the handkerchief she was embroidering,
realizing she could no longer plead neutrality in the growing
conflict. "My father schooled me to consider both sides"

"Wise words. Your dear departed papa was a man of God,
no? Principled and unprejudiced? Your husband has told me
of him"

"You must know of my brother, then. The Shawnee took him
captive nearly fifteen years ago"

He nodded thoughtfully, drawing on his pipe. "If your brother
remains with the Shawnee, he is by now more Indian than white.
There are many captives willing to stay missing. Do not grieve
unduly. I doubt he grieves for you:"

His words saddened her, but she noted a telling sympathy
in his eyes. Returning to her sewing, she listened to the steady
cadence of their voices and worked to stay awake. But the bright
fire and the hot cocoa Angelique had served made her feel as
lethargic as the calico cat curled up at her feet. She glanced at
Red Shirt, now speaking French with Loramie an arm's length
away. Lately she wondered if they lapsed into the melodious
language to avoid unsettling her.

Since she'd shared the news of her pregnancy, they seemed
to treat her like the exquisite porcelain china that graced the
shelves of Loramie's store. Though every piece was packed in
straw and shipped in metal-banded barrels from France, not
all survived the journey. Was that how she seemed to them?
Fragile? About to break? The fever she'd survived still seemed
to hover-and now there was this unbridled nausea.

"You must rest," Angelique cautioned, urging her upstairs.
"Tomorrow is the day you will trade and move into your own
cabin:"

Morrow tried to summon some excitement for the task
ahead.

The next morning, standing in the middle of Loramie's wellstocked store, she was surprised to find she felt as enchanted as a child. An intoxicating blend of things embraced her the moment
she walked in. Freshly ground coffee and leather. Perfume and
pickling spices. Smoked hams and lamp oil and the feral scent
of furs. The beaver plews they'd taken coming north netted a
small fortune. Of all the furs, beaver fetched the highest price,
bundled and sent East to become fine hats for wealthy colonists
and Europeans alike.