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Authors: Laura Frantz
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distinctly different. She could almost imagine the writer taking up a goose quill and dipping it quickly into an inkpot, writing with strong, slashing pen strokes that dominated the page before her.
There, on the outside, he’d penned her name. Miss Roxanna Rowan. Twice folded, the letter bore McLinn’s indigo wax seal. For a time she could only hold it, preparing herself for what she knew lay within. He was trying to tell her on paper what he had been unable to tell her in person, in private. The thoughtfulness of the missive touched her, only she couldn’t read it. Not yet.
It had come early Christmas morn, before the day was touched by dawn, making her wonder if he’d lain awake all night like she. At noon Bella came round with a tray of the finest soldierly fare Fort Endeavor had to offer. Roast goose. Chestnut stuffing. Apple tansy. Mashed potatoes and turnips with a well of gravy. Beaten biscuits and gingerbread. Only she couldn’t eat a bite.
“I got me some help in the kitchen,” Bella said. “A couple of them Jezebels decided to rouse and help once they heard about your pa.”
Toward dusk something else appeared. A small package. This she opened. The lovely contents made her want to weep. She was sitting in Papa’s chair by the flickering hearth, having forgotten to light a single candle, yet the exquisite offering in her hands needed no illumination.
Never had she seen so fine a china cup—perfectly white, so fragile she feared it might crack if she simply looked at it. Around its rim was a lovely thistle pattern, the handle fluted and gold-trimmed and painted with a fleur-de-lis. Instinctively she knew it came from the stone house, not this roughshod fort. But that was not all. A sealed tin of tea was within, smelling of refinement and ease and the olden days under British rule. Did Colonel McLinn know she was partial to tea and not coffee, like her father? Next came a dainty silver strainer with hooked chain for keeping the leaves from the cup. He’d thought of everything, truly.
Bella appeared and watched her from the doorway. Despite her grief, could her friend sense her pleasure? Was this Colonel McLinn’s intent? Unable to speak, she simply set the things on the low table next to her and began to prepare hot water, swinging the copper kettle over the flames.
“Come, Bella, and we’ll share this fine gift.”
Though her voice and hands quavered, she brewed a fine Christmas tea, rich with fresh cream from the springhouse and a crock of honey from the fort’s hives. Bella made her take the thistle cup, choosing a common pewter one for herself. They sat in silence and sipped the steaming brew, watching the fire pop and spark, aware of the twang of a fiddle across the parade ground.
With a sigh, Bella drained the last of her cup. “This is the sorriest Christmas I ever spent, with you in mournin’ and Colonel McLinn sick over in the stone house and all them Injuns in the guardhouse lookin’ like they’re ready to burn the place down.”
Roxanna set her cup aside, recalling the unnatural flush in the colonel’s face and his bloodshot blue eyes. “I knew he was unwell when I first saw him. Is there someone to tend him?”
“Not a soul ’cept my Hank. The post surgeon’s long buried, remember?” She stirred from her chair and cast Roxanna a baleful look. “The colonel did send word he wants to see you when you’re able—and he’s able.”
Roxanna eyed the letter. She didn’t want to face him a second time, nor did she want to read the letter. But once Bella went out, she broke the wax seal. The fine paper bore the watermark of a Continental soldier, musket in arms, with the legend Pro Patria beneath. His boldly penned words seemed to leap from the page, and before she’d finished the first line, her eyes were swimming.
M y dear M iss R owan,
S even times I ’ve taken pen in hand yet find I cannot summon the words to express how I feel about your heartrending
There, on the outside, he’d penned her name. Miss Roxanna Rowan. Twice folded, the letter bore McLinn’s indigo wax seal. For a time she could only hold it, preparing herself for what she knew lay within. He was trying to tell her on paper what he had been unable to tell her in person, in private. The thoughtfulness of the missive touched her, only she couldn’t read it. Not yet.
It had come early Christmas morn, before the day was touched by dawn, making her wonder if he’d lain awake all night like she. At noon Bella came round with a tray of the finest soldierly fare Fort Endeavor had to offer. Roast goose. Chestnut stuffing. Apple tansy. Mashed potatoes and turnips with a well of gravy. Beaten biscuits and gingerbread. Only she couldn’t eat a bite.
“I got me some help in the kitchen,” Bella said. “A couple of them Jezebels decided to rouse and help once they heard about your pa.”
Toward dusk something else appeared. A small package. This she opened. The lovely contents made her want to weep. She was sitting in Papa’s chair by the flickering hearth, having forgotten to light a single candle, yet the exquisite offering in her hands needed no illumination.
Never had she seen so fine a china cup—perfectly white, so fragile she feared it might crack if she simply looked at it. Around its rim was a lovely thistle pattern, the handle fluted and gold-trimmed and painted with a fleur-de-lis. Instinctively she knew it came from the stone house, not this roughshod fort. But that was not all. A sealed tin of tea was within, smelling of refinement and ease and the olden days under British rule. Did Colonel McLinn know she was partial to tea and not coffee, like her father? Next came a dainty silver strainer with hooked chain for keeping the leaves from the cup. He’d thought of everything, truly.
Bella appeared and watched her from the doorway. Despite her grief, could her friend sense her pleasure? Was this Colonel McLinn’s intent? Unable to speak, she simply set the things on the low table next to her and began to prepare hot water, swinging the copper kettle over the flames.
“Come, Bella, and we’ll share this fine gift.”
Though her voice and hands quavered, she brewed a fine Christmas tea, rich with fresh cream from the springhouse and a crock of honey from the fort’s hives. Bella made her take the thistle cup, choosing a common pewter one for herself. They sat in silence and sipped the steaming brew, watching the fire pop and spark, aware of the twang of a fiddle across the parade ground.
With a sigh, Bella drained the last of her cup. “This is the sorriest Christmas I ever spent, with you in mournin’ and Colonel McLinn sick over in the stone house and all them Injuns in the guardhouse lookin’ like they’re ready to burn the place down.”
Roxanna set her cup aside, recalling the unnatural flush in the colonel’s face and his bloodshot blue eyes. “I knew he was unwell when I first saw him. Is there someone to tend him?”
“Not a soul ’cept my Hank. The post surgeon’s long buried, remember?” She stirred from her chair and cast Roxanna a baleful look. “The colonel did send word he wants to see you when you’re able—and he’s able.”
Roxanna eyed the letter. She didn’t want to face him a second time, nor did she want to read the letter. But once Bella went out, she broke the wax seal. The fine paper bore the watermark of a Continental soldier, musket in arms, with the legend Pro Patria beneath. His boldly penned words seemed to leap from the page, and before she’d finished the first line, her eyes were swimming.
M y dear M iss R owan,
S even times I ’ve taken pen in hand yet find I cannot summon the words to express how I feel about your heartrending
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