Of course, we all did. We were drawn here like bear cubs to honey.'
'Why was that?' Noelle asked, trying to imagine this house full of children.
'Because of Amanda. We all loved her.'
Although Noelle had never heard her name, she knew Emily must be referring to Quinn's mother. 'Tell me about her. Quinn speaks so little of his childhood.'
'Oh, Noelle, she was something, 'deed she was. We all had secret guilty dreams about our parents disappearing. Not
'Our mothers all called her 'Poor Amanda' because her servants took advantage of her, and she couldn't keep house. They'd give her their recipes for furniture polish or tell her how to get the muddy tracks off the stairway carpet. She'd just laugh and tell them she was too busy playing with her son and keeping her husband happy to have time for such foolishness. Oh, my, how they used to sigh over her. But they loved her, too. She'd delivered most of their babies.'
'What did she look like?'
'There's a painting of her somewhere. I suppose Simon took it down after she died. She wasn't beautiful, not like you are. But she was striking. Strong features. Dark hair that she always wore in a sort of braided coronet on her head and, ob, my, you never saw a woman who cared less about clothes. Why, she'd take us into the woods, wearing a new dress, and before you'd know it, she'd be dragging her hem in the mud at the riverbank while she showed us how to catch fish without poles. Simon used to complain that he had to build an extra ship every year just to replace the clothes she ruined. He'd always laugh when he said it, though, and we knew he didn't really mind.'
Emily smiled, and there was a faraway look in her eyes. 'We all envied Quinn so much. They treated him differently than our own parents treated us. They were always touching him, I remember. Every time he walked by, one of them would rumple his hair or hug him or sometimes just pat his arm. I remember one day Simon kissed him on the top of his head in front of the other boys. How they all teased him! But he only laughed and said that if they didn't mind themselves, he'd tell Simon to kiss them, too.'
Emily sighed. 'Of course, it all changed after she died.'
'How did it happen?'
'Malaria. It was real bad that summer. What a sad time that was. Nothing ever stays the same, I guess.'
She gave a small embarrassed laugh. 'Goodness me, Noelle, I sound just like Julian's Aunt Cornelia with my reminiscing. He says I've been acting strangely ever since I discovered I was in the family way.' There was pride in her voice as she confided that after seven years of marriage, she and Julian were finally expecting a child in the summer.
'I hope it doesn't take so long for you and Quinn. It would be nice to have our babies close together.'
Noelle smiled noncommittally, glad now that she had not shown Emily the upstairs of the house. Somehow, she doubted that her new friend would understand why she and Quinn were sleeping in separate bedrooms.
After Emily had gone, Noelle poured herself a cup of tea and wandered distractedly into her sitting room, her footsteps echoing on the bare floor. She ambled over to the front window and gazed thoughtfully out. She didn't see the hedges that were now clipped back from the walk or the brick driveway that curved so gracefully up to the front of the house and no longer had weeds growing between its cracks. All she saw was Amanda Copeland.
How vivid Emily had made her. Was that why, now, she seemed so close? Did she know, even from her grave, what a hard, driven man her son had become, hating the father he had once loved, happy only with his ships? Was she trying to reach out to Noelle? Tell her to help her son?
Abruptly Noelle set down her cup and made her way, as if by instinct, to a room she had entered only once before. It had been a nursery, she guessed, before it had become a schoolroom. Among the dusty trunks and old chests, she found the evidence of her husband's boyhood: primers with childish pictures and misspellings in the margins; a wooden ark; a battalion of lead soldiers, their bright red uniforms chipped and faded. There was an airy wooden cradle with spindle sides and, behind it all, as she had somehow known it would be, the painting of Amanda Copeland, carefully wrapped in layers of protective cloth.
It was a full-length portrait of a woman wearing a red dress with a white fringed shawl draped over it. At the base of her throat hung a small silver disk, the same one that Quinn now wore. Emily had described her well: black hair, a strong nose, dark eyes set a bit farther apart than fashion dictated.
Noelle sat for some time studying the portrait and thinking about the woman Amanda Copeland must have been. Finally she replaced the cloth and left.
Quinn had left word with the grooms that Noelle was only permitted to ride to the south and east of the house, not into the wooded area that bordered the rear. The restriction had begun to chafe at her even before the incident with Luke Baker. Now that he was safely in jail, she decided there was no longer any need for such caution. And so, the afternoon after Emily had made her visit, Noelle impulsively turned toward the woods, ignoring the groom who called out to her from the stable door. Chestnut Lady's hooves silently crushed the sprouting seedlings that had unwisely sought haven on the narrow path. She wouldn't go any distance, she decided; just far enough to ease her resentment.
She had been exploring the clearing for some time, humming tunelessly to herself and wandering around the ruins of an old cabin before she realized she was not alone. Her first thought was of Baker. As the icy, prickly warning of danger shot down her spine, she was conscious of how well the dense overgrowth had shut out the strength of the late afternoon sunlight and of how far she had strayed from her tethered mare.
Still humming softly, she bent over and adjusted her riding boot as if there were something wrong with the heel and, at the same time, slowly extracted her knife from the other boot. Sliding it into her pocket, she began casually making her way toward her horse.
She still had some distance to go when a twig cracked ominously close to her. She began to run, darting around the back of a clump of cypress in a rapid change of direction designed to lose her pursuer. She wove through the trees as agilely as she had once run through the twisting streets of London. But she was city bred, and she had not counted on the small roots growing loosely above the surface of the sandy loam; roots thin, but strong, and ready to snare the leather toe of a riding boot.
The side of her hip hit first. Just before the rest of her body slammed against the ground, she felt her hair snag on the jagged crown of a severed tree trunk. Turning to free herself, she sucked in her breath. There, planted firmly on the ground next to her, was a pair of moccasins.
Her heart hammering, she pulled herself up, first noting the buckskin leggings and then the rifle slung across the front of a tuniclike homespun shirt before her eyes fell on his face. All that Quinn had told her about the Indians adopting the ways of the white men fled from her mind as soon as she saw the series of concentric circles tattooed on one broad cheek and the silver disks hanging from his ears. He looked surprised at the knife she thrust toward him.
'Don't come near me!' she shouted, beginning to back away toward her mare.
But he didn't heed her warning. As she saw him prepare to spring she jerked her body to the right. He had already made the leap in the direction of her movement before he realized she had tricked him. Flipping the knife over into her left hand and pulling herself back, she caught him on his side with the blade, just below the bottom rib.
It was only a glancing blow. The Indian looked down at his side, more startled than hurt at the crimson stain spreading slowly on the side of his tunic.
'You've drawn blood,' he said. 'A woman.'
It was somehow startling to hear English words come from his mouth, even though she already knew many of the Indians spoke English.
'You threatened me!' She kept the knife blade pointed toward him. 'Why were you spying on me?'
'You were running toward the swamp.'
Cautiously she lowered her knife, still holding it firmly in her fist but beginning to feel foolish. Something in his straightforward gaze told her he was speaking the truth, that he had been trying to protect her, and it was merely her prejudice that had made her assume she was being attacked.
'I am Wasidan. And you are the white woman Kalanu has married.'
Kalanu? Did he mean Quinn? 'I'm Noelle Copeland' was all she said.
'Yes. Get your horse. I will lead you back to Televea. You should not have come in this direction; the swamps
