Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (7 page)

Morrow nearly winced. The memory was hardly pleasant.
She'd felt like a fool with all the male attention and vowed she'd
never attend a settlement frolic again. Jemima hadn't spoken to
her for a month after, sweet as she was on Lysander. Even now
her plump face was pinched with displeasure, as if resurrecting
every detail.

Morrow took a steadying breath, wanting to steer the conversation in a safer direction, and gestured to the gifts atop the tablecloth. "I've brought you both a little something from the city."

Lizzy's face softened. "But it's your birthday, Morrow. I
thought these presents were for you:"

"I'm wearing mine, she said, fingering the lace fichu of her
dress.

Jemima finished her tea, her fingers plucking at the shiny
ribbon on her package. "I didn't bring you a thing, Morrow
Mary"

I don't need anything but your company," she said, pushing
the presents closer. "Now go ahead and open them. Or do you
want to guess?"

"Mine's mighty small," Jemima mused, toying with the ribbon.

Looking at her dark features, Morrow stifled a sigh. She'd
almost forgotten how hard Jemima was to please-and how
easy Lizzy.

Flushing with pleasure, Lizzy opened hers first, exclaiming
over the soft, sepia-toned gloves within, the wrists cinched with
tiny glass buttons that winked like diamonds. "Perfect for my
weddin' day." With a little sigh, she looked back into the box and
withdrew a tiny lace cap, silk ribbons dangling.

"I know you've always loved babies, Morrow told her, her voice a touch wistful. "I hope you and Abe are blessed with a
son or daughter real soon'

Jemima snorted. "I'm sure Abe won't waste any time commencing that. Now, what do we have here?" It was the first genuine smile
Morrow had seen all day. Looking about for Pa first, Jemima pulled
a pair of silk stockings from the box and held them aloft, admiring
the scarlet garters. "You do have some sense, Morrow. I've had a
hankering for silk stockings since I was eight years old"

"They're all the rage in Philadelphia, Morrow said, taking
another queen's cake. "Looks like you'll have something to wear
to Lizzy's wedding"

Jemima chortled and stroked the silk. "Maybe I'll catch
Lysander's eye after all:"

Reaching beneath the table, Morrow drew out two large
bundles tied with ribbon. "Aunt Etta was kind enough to give
me some scraps of fabric to sew you both something" At this,
both friends leaned forward at once, reaching out eager hands
as if the offerings might vanish before their very eyes.

Jemima tore hers open and shook out the gift, watching with
delight as it unfurled like a flag into a lovely gown of bronze silk.
Wide-eyed, she sputtered, "Why, I never.. "

"Why, indeed, Jemima Talbot, I never saw you speechless
before now," Morrow teased.

Across from them, Lizzy's thin, work-hardened hands caressed the rich rose brocade in her lap, and she looked up with
tears in her eyes. "How'd you do it, Morrow? How'd you make
us such fine things with nary a fitting?"

"There were plenty of Philadelphia belles just your size, Lizzy.
'Twas a good guess, truly'

"Fits like a glove, I reckon, Jemima exclaimed, holding her
gown close. "Maybe you should think of setting up shop at the
fort. Folks would come miles for such as these, though I daresay
nobody could afford a one"

But Morrow simply shook her head. She'd lost her hankering
to sew after so much time spent doing it, though she appreciated
their pleasure. Her delight deepened when they insisted they
change into their new gowns, bustling up the stairs to her room
and coming back down looking badly in need of an ironing.

They passed a pleasant afternoon, talking and laughing and
erasing the time and events two years had wrought. As the afternoon sun tilted further west, Pa hovered between the barn
and pasture, seeing to the horses and waiting to return the young
women to the fort. Morrow pondered whether to go with him,
then pushed down her uneasiness. She'd promised Aunt Etta a
letter and needed to see to supper.

Jemima's strident voice cut into her wandering thoughts.
"Morrow, it must be hard on you leaving the city and coming
back into the wilderness. You're so far from anybody here on
the Red River. Maybe you and your pa should come to the fort
for a spell till the trouble's quelled"

The trouble. Morrow looked up and felt a sudden chill. Years
before, Jemima's family had been touched with tragedy, much
as Morrow's own. Her eldest brother had gone hunting one
fall and never came back. His bones were discovered later in
some distant cave, identified solely by the initials on his powder horn.

Lizzy set down her cup and looked toward the wall of woods.
"My pa didn't want me comin' out here today, given all the fuss
over at Fort Click' At Morrow's startled look, she said, "Two
girls went out to get water from the spring early one mornin'
and never came back'

Morrow set down her empty cup. "Shawnee?"

Lizzy nodded, fingering the tiny lace cap in her lap. "A search
party went after them, but it was little help. The Indians took
off into the cane and the militia lost their trail, though they did
find some bloody shoes and a bonnet:"

The words fell flat, the silence tense. Morrow knotted the napkin in her lap, glad when Jemima stood suddenly and said, "Best
be getting home. We'll see you on the Sabbath, I reckon"

Nodding absently, Morrow got up, walking with them to the
wagon where Pa waited. They hugged her goodbye, and she
breathed a silent prayer for them. 'Twas far safer to stay behind
than risk the distance to the fort. Ignoring the tiny arrows of
alarm that pricked her, she hurried to the cabin and placed the
heavy bars across each oaken door with a decisive thud. Though
the heat was intense, she drew the shutters and locked them,
her gaze swiveling to the mantel where Pa's rifle hung. It was
primed and ready for hunting, she knew, but she doubted she
could use it. From end to end it stood as tall as she.

It felt strange to leave the party dishes beneath the elm, but
common sense told her she'd best stay inside till Pa returned.
Leaving her party dress on, she set about making supper, keeping an ear tuned for trouble. Lumbering so slow in the wagon,
Pa surely wouldn't be home till after dusk.

As the mantel clock chimed four times, her hand gripped the
wooden spoon. Suppose the two Shawnee came? The thought
was so troubling she sat down hard on the bench at the trestle
table, the spoon plopping out of the bowl and spraying batter
onto her lovely dress. She dabbed it clean, remembering Pa's
words at breakfast. Since the tragedy that had befallen them years
ago, he'd been saying one verse in particular, and the Scripture
now wended through her mind like a melody, the words lofty
and noble and reassuring.

And we know that all things work togetherforgood to them that
love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.

All things? Even visits by Indians? Even the death of a mother
and a sister she hardly remembered? Or the disappearance of
a brother, whose puzzling absence left them forever wondering
what had befallen him? She'd rather have found his body and known he wasn't coming back, like Jemima's kin-the act final and
complete-instead of this infernal, forever-after wondering.

Tears stung her eyes. She'd memorized the beautiful words
Pa quoted by heart and ached to believe them. But another
Scripture seemed to trump them just the same.

Oh Lord, help mine unbelief.

Half-asleep, Morrow sat in her rocking chair by the hearth,
thinking of baby Eli and planning to sew him some under things,
when the welcome sound of the wagon made her leap up. Night
had fallen like a curtain half an hour before, and she felt keen
relief when she unbarred the door and Pa's comforting shadow
crossed the threshold. But sapped as he was from the heat and
lurching wagon, he was in no mood to eat the supper she'd made.
He simply took his worn chair across from her and brought out
his pipe. Emptying the cold ashes into the fire, he looked tired
but satisfied.

"I was afraid you'd gone to bed after all the fuss;' he said, stuffing the bowl full of tobacco crumbles. "It's a pleasure to come
home to a lovely daughter and a fine pipe"

She took a little shovel and retrieved a live coal for him from
the fading fire, then sniffed the air, perplexed. "I've been gone
a long while, Pa, and forgotten a good many things. But that's
the queerest tobacco I ever did smell:"

Studying her, he chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "You're
not smelling settlement tobacco, Morrow. It's kinnikinnik our
Shawnee brethren brought last winter"

Shawnee brethren, indeed. She wouldn't admit it smelled far
finer than the crude tobacco consumed in the settlement. A
cloud of dried roots and herbs perfumed the air between them,
creating wispy spirals of smoke. She smelled dogwood and willow and inhaled appreciatively despite his troubling words.

"It's mighty fine, he added, drawing deeply and giving her a
wink. "I've been thinking of what to give you for your birthday.
Maybe I'll whittle you a pipe:"

At this she smiled, remembering how little amusement she
and Aunt Etta had shared in the dress shop on Elfreth's Alley.
There simply hadn't been time to be lighthearted, and her dear
aunt was always so concerned with appeasing her hard-to-please
customers.

Morrow looked about the tidy cabin, lingering on an unopened gift atop the trestle table. She'd nearly forgotten the
package from Aunt Etta, hidden away in her trunk until today.
Untying the leather string, she peeled back several layers of
brown paper, enjoying the rustle of anticipation. A sewing chest
was nestled inside, the mahogany polished to a rich brown sheen.
Carefully she lifted the lid. Within the silk-lined space was an
assortment of sewing needles, a box of buttons, spools of colorful thread, and several lengths of bright ribbon.

"A fine gift," Pa exclaimed.

"Aunt Etta is nothing if not generous, she said, pleased beyond
measure. But it was the letter at the very bottom that piqued
her curiosity. She opened it quickly, and the very first line set
her heart to pounding.

Dearest Morrow,

I've dreamed that you're to marry a man of rank ...

She nearly sighed. Aunt Etta was always dreaming of a great
many things. The price of tea ... the status of the war with England ... whether or not the popular sacque gown would be
replaced by the robe a lAnglaise. With a quick look at Pa, Morrow
folded the letter and put it in her pocket, hoping he wouldn't
ask her to read it aloud. Best savor it later, she decided, in the
privacy of her room. Besides, there were no men of rank that
she knew of in the settlement, busy as they were fighting in the
East. Just roughshod militiamen. And one too many Indians.

'Twas an easy paddle to Trapper Joe's cabin further down the
Red River. With Pa's help, Morrow uncovered a canoe buried in
a thick stand of mountain laurel along the rocky shore. As she
tugged on the hemp rope to launch it, she tried not to think of
whose hands had held the paddles or crafted the boat to begin
with. Made of elm, it was smooth and sleek, its bulk taking to
the water like some woodland fowl. A gift from the Shawnee,
Pa had told her, when she'd been in Philadelphia.