divine plan for her life and it seemed this was how it was to start. Jess slowly slid off the bed. She began to pray what had become her personal litany. It was a prayer of Ignatius of Loyola. In a shaky whisper she prayed aloud.
“Teach me, good Lord to serve you as you deserve; to give and not count the cost; to fight and not heed the wounds; to toil and not seek for rest; to labor and not ask for any reward; except that of knowing that I do your will; through Jesus Christ my Lord, Amen.”
By the end of her prayer, Mother Marguerite Marie had joined her. The girl felt Mother’s hand perch atop Jess’s pesky sliding wimple as the old woman began to pray, “Precious Lord Jesus, please protect your servant Jessamine. Give her wisdom and strength to do your blessed will. And Lord, bless Captain McLeod. Draw him nigh unto you.”
Chapter 3
The, forest was a dark, tangled maze of vines and briars punctuated sporadically by patches of fierce light where the sun was able to fight its way through the dense leafy canopy above. Insects buzzed persistently around the plodding horses. As the day progressed, the air became more and more damp and humid. Autumn in Virginia was nothing like autumn in Ireland. Any fool knew that fact, and the old woman was no fool. Dorcas’s memories of Ireland were rather hazy now. Too many years had passed since she’d left its green and fertile loveliness to make a new life in an unknown land.
Dorcas Moore had been just a young colleen. The ship made landfall in America during the fall, all those years ago. She’d been a sweet miss of but fourteen. Frightened by the stories she’d heard about savages and raw, rough living conditions. What she’d found surprised her. Virginia was as sophisticated as Dublin. Fine manor houses dotted the landscape and the latest fashions were paraded up and down the wide, clean streets of Williamsburg. Erudite men spoke out against tyranny regularly and society was as tonnish as could be imagined anywhere in civilized Europe. She’d loved it. She’d adored everything about it. Well, everything except the weather and the insects. Dorcas blew at a fly buzzing near the brim of an extravagant bonnet Dylan had sent her at Christmastide. Virginia weather could be beastly, like today, she fumed.
Here it was, the second week of September and she was sweating. Not mildly perspiring mind you, or even dewing as proper ladies should. Dorcas Moore was sweating. They’d been on these smelly animals since dawn. Jess had insisted. Dorcas sighed and pushed a wet grey curl away from her neck. Jess always insisted, the older woman thought darkly. Her niece was convinced they could make town before nightfall. Dorcas wasn’t so sure. And she was tired of following the hindquarters of Jess’s horse as it bobbed up and down like a lazy row boat on an equally lazy bay.
“Jess?” Dorcas called out mildly. There was no answer, so she tried again. “Jess?” The word was louder, but still carefully modulated. Silence fell once more. Dorcas felt her mood sour before she snapped at the girl ahead of her. “Jessamine St. John, I am speaking to you.”
Jess turned in her sidesaddle. She answered with an air of distraction, “What is it, Aunt Dorcas?”
“I’d like to stop for a few moments.” The older woman pulled back heavily on the reins of her sleepy horse. It lumbered to a slow stop.
“If we stop now, we’ll not make Port Wentworth by dark,” the girl explained patiently.
Her aunt had been complaining off and on all day. Aunt Dorcas did not like traveling, not even in the extravagant town coach Dylan bought them three years ago. It was padded and cushioned inside like an invalid’s chair. Still Dorcas didn’t like to travel. And, her aunt considered going any distance on horseback a sacrifice of monumental proportions.
“If we were riding the winners of this year’s Derby, we would still not make town before nightfall,” the older woman grouched.
T. A. Martin
William McIlvanney
Patricia Green
J.J. Franck
B. L. Wilde
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Karolyn James
R.E. Butler
K. W. Jeter
A. L. Jackson