Authors: Juliet Waldron
Laughter followed this. Some heavy-handed jokes were aimed at the guard, who had apparently been looking for Jack most of the day.
***
Angelica spent the
rest of the day seated at a chair in the shady window in her room with her needles and thread. Among the trunks in the attic, she’d found some beautiful odds and ends of material. Taking the scissors, she had set to measuring and snipping.
She held her creation up. Every pin she had was in use. Patches were set onto a muslin backing salvaged from an old sheet. She’d raided one of the trunks and found it full of clean and torn clothing, apparently put away by some frugal housewife for exactly the purpose she now intended.
Quilting had always given her a feeling of strength and purpose. It was as if in the process of using scraps to create a whole cloth she was reborn, renewed. In the midst of this village of the damned, the familiar, beloved activity was like an anchor of purpose and meaning.
It was all such a muddle. Beyond the immediate danger, there was Jack, his kisses and his passionate and insistent courting. No matter how Angelica examined this development, and from whatever angle, there seemed to be no resolution. He was a Tory; she was a patriot. To do this, to do that, or more pointedly, not to do this or not to do that, seemed beyond her ability to reason.
“How is it,” she muttered to herself, “that I could get into this mess, but not out?”
Her fingers, with minds of their own, restlessly sorted through the heap of scraps and patches. What to do?
As she picked and sorted the pieces, a vague shape began to form. A star! Rough, to be sure, but a star nonetheless. Here, a point in velvet; there, a center in the wool of an old cloak.
Ah! There was enough of the velvet to make the other points. Her fingers moved faster, coaxing out stray bits of burgundy velvet, arranging them around the small bottle- green wool square.
Yes, she thought. It comes together, a piece at a time.
Suddenly, her fingers stilled. It was all there in front of her!
Oh, certainly not the details, not the finer points yet to be worked out, but the idea was there.
Now, a row of stars. A piece at a time...
It was so simple, she wondered she had not seen the key before. It begins, she mused, with a single piece, and everything else follows in ordinary procession.
Gently, she nudged the top points of the star into better alignment. You only need to suggest, she thought, not force!
Her shoulders dropped into a natural slope, the tension flowed out her fingertips into the scattered snips and bits of cloth before her on the table.
First, do this, and then do that. Whatever it is and, if it is logical, it will work.
So simple. And so complex. Just like the quilt steadily building in her mind, gaining momentum, colors and shapes and pieces tumbling every which way, sorting themselves into a smooth blanket of peace and harmony.
Surely I can trust myself to do the right thing—I am Angelica TenBroeck, after all, a lady of good sense and good breeding. And, surely I can trust Jack to do the right thing...this knight in shining armor who has so magically arrived to save me!
Then, with a start, she realized he was behind her. She had been so deep in thought, so deep in contemplation of the puzzle before her— as well as the puzzle in her mind—that she hadn’t heard him come up the ladder.
“What are you at, busy hands?” Jack asked cheerfully. He smiled down at her and rested a palm, with gentle familiarity, on one shoulder. “It calms me.”
“Very pretty,” he said, leaning down to examine what she’d laid out. “And what are those burgundy scraps going to be? Ah, I see. Stars!”
“I was afraid I didn’t have enough material,” Angelica said. “Most of this fabric has been stained badly, but if I appliqué them onto this white material and cut like so—” She held up the one she’d been working
on
.
“How you women don’t go blind with this rage for stitchery, I don’t know,” Jack said, admiring the work she’d done.
“We do eventually.”
“Now, there’s a gloomy thought.” He grabbed one of the chairs and drew it up right beside hers. “Shall I tease you?” he asked, slipping an arm around her. “My father always used to tease Mama when she was quilting.”
“I don’t think teasing a contented woman is ever a good idea,” she replied, relaxing against him. “I’m certain it didn’t bring anything nice his way.”
“Growls, mostly,” Jack admitted. “He used to ask her what she was doing—cutting fabric into smaller and smaller pieces and then sewing them all back together again. He used to declare her quilting a most monstrous waste of time, and a pastime only a woman could devise.”
“And, is that how you see it, sir?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to pulling the finished product up to my neck and curling up in bed with you.”
“You may have to wait longer than you—”
The sentence was never finished. His mouth, ever hungry, had found hers.
Chapter Eleven
The wedding party outside was getting wilder, fueled by oceans of whiskey. The haunting discord of fife and fiddle, accompanied by a rhythmic drum, drove the dance. As Angelica watched from the roof hole, a vicious nose-breaking and blood-splattering fight broke out. The savage crowd cheered.
From below came the sound of a ladder being pulled into place. A moment later, the trap door popped up.
“What’s keepin’ you?” M’Bain’s head, now topped by a magnificent gilt-trimmed military hat, emerged. “We’re a waitin’ on you both.”
Jack said nothing. He looked wary, ready to meet whatever challenge was about to be offered.
“Come on. Don’t be a gloomy bachelor. Tie the knot with the rest of ‘em,” M’Bain encouraged with a cheerful leer.
“You heard the man,” Jack said, turning to Angelica. “Let’s go, Miss TenBroeck.”
“Ah—Mr. Church—” Angelica shuddered. The idea of going down was terrifying—from any way she looked at it.
Taking her hand, he drew her close and whispered, “Don’t fuss. We’ll play the fox to their hounds and live to fight another day, just like your General Washington. Courage, Miss TenBroeck.”
A huge bonfire in the street roared skyward. At first Jack and Angelica stood at the back of the crowd. The young men were dancing, leaping and skipping like rams. The whiskey bottle, addressed lovingly as Black Bet, was passed and passed again.
Next came the women’s turn. They swirled their skirts, showing with equal abandon legs that were young and shapely or roped with the purple of veins of childbirth. They tossed their loosened hair and swayed.
Angelica had never seen anything like it in her life and whispered so to Jack.
“The only thing that surprises me is how exactly it is like Irish bandits.
”
Men and women alike were drinking, passing Black Bet hand to hand. Finally, Angelica was pressed to take a sip. The stuff burned her
throat, then made her cough and her eyes water.
Beside them, M’Bain roared with laughter. He took the bottle back and lifted it high.
“To the Dutch princess and our fat ransom!” he cried.
Nancy Bankhead,
looking
splendid tonight in the satin gown, a crown of wilting spring flowers in her black hair, was making the rounds with her stumbling drunk, red-headed Johnny. She was shaking a basin as she moved among the onlookers, calling for her brideswain. As she passed, coins and jewelry were dropped in.
Nancy stopped in front of Angelica and aggressively shook her basin.
“You cain’t do that, honey,” someone said. “She’s a bride, too.” “She can give me brideswain easier than anyone here,” Nancy shrieked.
Angelica stared at the woman before her, and then took off her small gold earrings and dropped them, one at a time, into the basin. It made her want to choke. Still, with the pressure of Jack’s hand in the small of her back, and the expectation on the thuggish faces surrounding them, she did what she had to do.
“Thumping luck and big children,” Jack added mildly. Angelica could feel the warm pressure of his hand.
The onlookers seemed surprised he knew the proper blessing to give, then they grinned, showing gums and broken teeth. The cry began to be repeated.
“Thumping luck and big children!”
“Ha!” Nancy exclaimed, reaching in to take the earrings up. In spite of herself, she smiled very prettily at Angelica.
“What about me?” It was Ima who stepped forward next, pushing through the throng.
Angelica wondered what to do. Ima had been a bulwark between her and the other women, especially in the fight at the creek. She’d a thousand times rather have given her earrings to Ima than the vain, bullying Nancy.
“Here, ma’am,” said Jack. He dropped something into the basin. Angelica saw a silver sovereign make a magical appearance among the gifts.
Ima’s eyes widened. Jack winked at her.
“Thank ‘ee, sir,” Ima said softly.
Being who she was, Ima understood quite well that where there was one such coin there might be more, but she was also friendly enough to stay mum.
“What’d he give ya?” Her Donnie, another reeling drunk, staggered forward to peer into the bowl.
“This,” Ima suggested, pointing to a thick gold finger ring.
“The last thing you fellows left on me,” Jack explained. He grinned ingenuously.
“Hey! Thar’s a real English George!” Donnie cried, his eyes lighting on the sovereign. He picked it out and tested it with his teeth. “Who gave it?”
“Chief M’Bain, I think.” Ima was all discretion. “It sure was nice of him.” Then, Donnie in tow, she moved away, calling for her brideswain.
Jack and Angelica remained, leaning against the wall of the cook shed. “I thought they stole all your money when they got your pistols and sword,” she murmured.
“So did they,” he replied, winking again.
A circle dance began. It was played faster than Angelica had ever heard, so the participants had to dash through the steps. She leaned against Jack, feeling a strange elation as the rhythm of the shrill music beat in her ears.
The central bonfire, loaded with pine, whistled and sent up showers of sparks. Hard-faced men and women drank and sang and danced around it. The sun had gone and the blaze threw everything into black and red relief.
Jack’s arm around her was a saving grace. It might have been unfounded, but she felt entirely secure as long as he was beside her— even in the middle of this devil’s banquet.
Then, suddenly, the music stopped. Jack and Angelica found themselves pushed forward to stand with the other couples who faced Parson Witherspoon.
“Mr. Church? Miss TenBroeck?” Reverend Witherspoon stared at them. He looked shocked.
“Yes,” M’Bain cried. “What do you think o’ that? Another pair for you to join, parson.”
Witherspoon looked sharply at Jack, but Jack just nodded. “Go ahead, reverend,” he said. Then the reverend leaned forward and put his hand on Angelica’s. “And you, miss?”
“It seems to be for the best, sir.” Somehow Angelica managed to keep her voice level.
“Get to it,” Donnie Graham grumbled drunkenly, giving Witherspoon a quick, shoulder-bruising punch.
The reverend raised his head and surveyed the scene around him.
Then, though clearly daunted, he cleared his throat and began.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and this—uh—”
The reverend stumbled and Angelica sympathized. The very idea that this gang of cut throats might be called a congregation!
“Make it fast, parson.”
“Yes. Get to it!” came shouts from all sides.
“Yes! Before one of these rascals changes his mind.”
In spite of the harassment, Witherspoon doggedly went on reciting the words of his prayer book.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.
”
“For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God. Neither is their matrimony lawful.”
He stuck to it, even through a loud chorus of, “Enough of yer Popish nonsense!”
Angelica’s knees were knocking. Sparks shot skyward, red clots into the spring night. As she stared at the Reverend Witherspoon, his prayer book in hand, it struck like a fist. This was a real marriage. Not in the clean and quiet parlor of Uncle Jacob’s house, not before the hearth with friends and family gathered, but in Hell, in the midst of a gathering of rustlers and murderers, their twisted drunken faces leering from every side.
She swayed, but Jack’s arm around her waist supported. The warm strength of it and the assurance she found in his beautiful eyes held her steady.
“Now,” said Reverend Witherspoon, “I will put the question to you together and you will answer together.” He cleared his throat portentously.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Women said, “I do.” And one of those voices, she thought, is my
own.
lined faces. Everything looked small, bright and far away.
M’Bain’s powerful body intruded. He was holding out a gourd dish with five or six rings in it.
“Take yer pick,” he said. “We’re gettin’ to that part, ain’t we?”
There was a pause while Nancy rummaged and chose the gaudiest one. The preacher didn’t speak, but a weary disdain showed in his thin face.
“Look ‘ee! I got a good ring here,” cried Donnie Graham proudly. He held it up so everyone could admire it. “Got it off a damned scurvy Frenchman afore I cut his throat.”
“Well, what’re ye waitin’ for, gal?” M’Bain asked, shaking the bowl with the remaining three rings under Angelica’s nose. “Don’t look so haughty,” he chided. “The fingers ain’t still in ‘em.” A burst of his loud, mirthless laughter followed.
Jack reached in and took out a plain, worn gold band—a ring that looked as if it might have spent fifty years on someone’s hand.
“Thank you, Chief M’Bain,” he said mildly. “I was wondering what to do at this part.”
Reverend Witherspoon, perspiration from proximity to the huge fire running down his face, cleared his throat again and began to complete the ritual.
“With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Angelica heard the man beside her repeat those words. With a shock, she felt him firmly slide the worn, thin band onto her finger. Oddly, it was a perfect fit.
Jack’s gray eyes, when she met them, surprised her. Instead of the fellow conspirator’s wink, the laughter she saw in his eyes seemed, for just an instant, to be that of a trickster.
Laughing at me, not with me!
Uncertainty and fear shot through Angelica, but the whoops which followed the end of the ceremony distracted her and drew her attention away. When she sought his eyes again, the mockery had evaporated.
People began to cry for quiet, and the noisy throng fell silent. The fiddler stepped up, bow in hand, and began in a fine tenor voice to sing a hymn tune called The Heavenly Bridegroom. Angelica had heard this ballad-like song before at far more decorous Scots-Irish weddings.
Let Christ the glor’ious lover
Have everlasting praise,
He comes for to discover The riches of his grace
He comes to wretched sinners To woo himself a bride, Resolving for to win her,
He will not be denied.
The marriage is made ready, The parties are agreed,
The holy son of David,
And Adam’s wretched seed; The sinner is attir’d,
With raiment clean and white, Her sins are freely pardoned And she’s the Lord’s delight...