Calen cut his fishing short and went back to camp with Will. As they neared the fire, which was blazing cheerfully, they could hear soft weeping.
"What do we do?" Will asked.
Calen wracked his brain. This was not a situation that he had ever dealt with and he could think of no solution. He ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture, and shifted his weight to his other foot.
"Well?" Will persisted.
"I don't know!," Calen whispered exasperatedly, "We should cook the fish. She'll stop soon."
But she didn't stop. Before five minutes were up, Calen couldn't take any more. He went to where Will was cleaning the fish outside of camp.
"I've decided what we do," he said, "You go get her trunk and bring it to her, and I'll get a rope and stretch it between two trees so she can dry her clothes."
Will swallowed loudly, "One thing," he said.
"What?"
"You get the trunk and I'll stretch the rope."
"Why?"
Will shot a quick glance at the tent. "Her crying makes me nervous."
Calen frowned. Micara's tears made him nervous too, but he wasn't about to let Will know that. "Fine," he said, "But get the rope as close to the fire as you can."
Will left the fish and jogged down to the canoes for a rope. Calen followed him at a slower pace. He paused, looked at the tent and then hurried down to the river. Will came jogging past him as he started down the embankment. He seemed eager to have his task completed.
Calen muttered to himself and kicked a pebble on the beach. He crossed his arms and surveyed the situation. Micara's trunk was in the back of Will's canoe and Calen would either have to get his buckskin leggings wet again or drag the whole onto the shore to get to it without tipping as Micara had done.
He looked heavenward as he sighed and slipped out of his moccasins. He went into the water, stepping carefully on the slippery pebbles. The day may have been warm, but the water was it's typically icy May temperature.
Calen felt a tad bit sorry for Micara being drenched the way she had been. He heaved the trunk from the stern of the canoe with a grunt.
Fool woman, he thought as he shouldered it, she likely packed the whole house in this wee trunk.
Again he felt remorse, even if she hadn't gotten dumped into the water, she still could not have hefted the trunk, not a woman of her stature.
Calen trudged out of the water and stopped by his moccasins. He bent, carefully balancing the trunk on his right shoulder, and picked up the moccasins with his left hand. No use getting them wet too.
He walked sluggishly, telling himself that he was just being careful. He knew that was not the only reason. He was scared. He didn't want to face Micara. Truth be told, he'd rather face an irritable grizzly bear. He'd had his share of sobbing women, living with first six female cousins and then his Mum and two sisters, he'd heard a lot of crying, some of it he had caused, but he'd never had to quiet any. His Uncle or Da had done that.
As he approached the tent, his throat went dry and his stomach knotted. The sobbing stopped at the sound of his footsteps.
He set the trunk down and cleared his throat. "Ma'am?" he asked hesitantly.
The sound of cloth rustling as she came towards the tent entry made him want to high tail it out of the whole clearing. He put his hands behind his back, concealing his moccasins, and glanced down at his bare feet that were hidden behind the trunk.
The tent flap opened and Micara peered out, not sure what to expect. She thought perhaps Will had come to her aid. The last thing she'd expected was Calen.
"Yes?" she asked in a thick, weary voice. Her hair hung around her face in wet masses of curls, her cheeks were red, and her eyes seemed to plead for kindness. She looked almost vulnerable.
Calen swallowed with effort. "Your trunk," he said gruffly.
Cara looked down. Her guarded stance relaxed for a second before she remembered who stood before her. "My thanks, Sir," she said coldly.
"My pleasure," he retorted with a scowl at her tone, nope, not vulnerable, not a bit.
They both stood there awkwardly for a moment, she trying to mask weary sadness with cold arrogance and he trying his best to keep control of his temper at her haughtiness. He took a deep breath and said with an anger checked voice, "Will strung up a line for yer wet things."
Her expression remained unchanged. "Give him my thanks," she instructed as she would a servant.
This got the best of Calen's control. "Aye, your Ladyship," he said with a bow, "He will be ecstatic at your gratitude."
Micara didn't flinch. "As you should be, sir," she said, her voice emotionless.
With all his might, Calen reined in his temper and managed to turn and stride away.
Micara waited until he had left the clearing before bending wearily and grasping one of the trunk handles. She used what was left of her strength to drag it into the tent. The door flap dropped and the only thing illuminating the tent was the late sunlight through the dirty white canvas. Already the tent had trapped and intensified the heat and Micara was thankful for it as she sank down to her bedroll in her sodden clothing. She knelt before the trunk, undid the buckle on the two leather straps that held it closed, and lifted the lid. Her mother looked out at her from the silver frame in the trunk. Micara picked the picture up.
"I'm lost Mama, help me find my way," she murmured.
She put the picture down carefully and looked again into the trunk. She removed her silver hairbrush and placed it beside the frame. She dug into the trunk and found all of the items to replace each article of clothing that she had soaked, a chemise, shirtwaist, skirt, petticoat, and stockings. Her shoes would have to dry by the fire.
She dressed, mentally checking off the items as she put them on. First the chemise, or under-dress as some called it, with its low neck and fitted elbow length sleeves. Bernetta had altered it by sewing stays inside to bypass the need of a corset. The stays provided some structure without hindering movement. The only downside was that the altered chemise required lacing up, unlike any of the others Micara had worn. Next came the petticoat. Fashion dictated at least three were needed to make up for the absence of side hoops or bustles. And though they weren't exactly sensible for travel, Cara tended to obey fashion's dictates, so on they went. Over these came the full, pleated brown and green plaid skirt. Next was a blouse of the same green in the skirt. It had a semi-modest, square cut neckline and laced up in the front from the waist to neck with thin brown braided cord. At the waist it flared out over the skirt till hip level. The only decoration besides the brown cord was a small ruffle on the end of the fitted elbow length sleeves. Micara had never before been in public in such a plain outfit.
The last item was a pair of stockings, but rather than let her only other pair be ruined without the protection of shoes, she placed them back in the trunk, showing for the first time a little practicality.
She placed her mother's picture back in the trunk and picked up her hair brush. She attacked the riot of black curls without mercy, cringing now and then when the brush would catch a snarl. She had no patience when it came to her hair, Bernetta had always done it; with her deft fingers, she had always managed to shape and style it perfectly. But under Micara's fingers, every strand fought for freedom.
She gave it the customary one hundred brush strokes before pulling it, still wet, sloppily behind her head and tying it with a ribbon. She didn't know what she looked like, but she was almost to tire to care. Besides, who was there to impress out here? Despite her weariness, decorum had been drilled into her since she was very young, so she still felt a bit self conscious about her appearance.
Her stomach growled in response to the aroma of frying fish from outside. She took a deep breath, gathered her wet clothes and shoes and stepped outside.
She hadn't been outside without shoes since she was nine. The cool grass beneath her feet gave her a little thrill. The camp was vacant, but the fire crackled cheerfully, inviting her closer. She set her shoes down directly touching the circle of stones around the fire, hoping that they would dry quickly. The line Will had strung was close by, and Micara went to it. She had never had to do her own laundry, so the task of hanging her clothes was a new one. When she had finished, they didn't look very neat, but it would do.
Her stomach was persistent, pushing her to inspect the fish that were held suspended over the fire by three sticks separately thrust into the ground. They smelled heavenly. She extended her hands to the warmth of the fire and watched the fish, her mouth watering.
She heard someone whistling and looked towards the river. Will was coming over the bank, carrying a wet leather pouch and whistling the melody of 'Katherine'. He paused when he saw her, but after a second, continued both walking and whistling. His pace was slow and he used careful movements, as if approaching a frightened animal. When he was within the range of the fire, he set his musket down. He carried the pouch past Micara to one of the trees that held her clothesline and hung it on one of the branches. He turned to face her and said in a kind tone, "There is fresh water in the water-skin here if you have a thirst."
For the first time, Cara detected a barely discernible Irish lilt in Will's voice. It sparked her interest, for she loved to learn about a person's heritage. "Will?" she asked, "Where are you from?"
Will smile. "I was born in New France, but my Mum and Da and my Seanathair (SHAN-a-her) came from Ireland two years after my older brother was born."
At the mention of a brother, Cara asked, "How many is your family numbered?"
Will walked to the fire and sat down cross-legged in front of it before he answered. "Now it is just four, my Seanathair used to live with us, but he died six years ago. My Mum, my Da and my brother make up my family now."
"What does shanaher mean?" Cara asked, trying out the unfamiliar word.
Will smiled. "It's the Gaelic word for Grandfather. He rarely spoke English, though he understood it and could speak it quite well, he only used Gaelic at home because that's how it was when he was raised. Before he died, my brother and I would sit at the fire place and listen to him tell stories about his youth in Ireland."
Micara could picture it, Will, a young red-headed boy sitting with his brother on a homemade rug, listening to countless tales told by a grey bearded man in a rocking chair while a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth.
"What was he like? Your Seanathair?" she asked, trying to pin a personality to the imagined face.
Will chuckled. "To judge from his stories, he was quite a rake, handsome, daring, strong, and brave. He was used to being chased by girls and stealing kisses, but that was before my Seanmhåthair (shan-a-WAW-her). She baffled him. She was beautiful, talented, brilliant, and seemingly unaware of his existence. When he showed off in front of her, she ignored him. He tried and failed many times to catch her eye. Seanathair was sly though, and his family was also wealthier than her's. He went to her Da and asked permission to court her. And what father would turn down such a prime candidate for a son-in-law? It took him a month of coaxing before she agreed to court him."
Cara smiled. "And let me guess, she fell madly in love with him?"
Will ginned. "She didn't. He failed to impress her at every try. He brought roses, she preferred common wildflowers. He learned the steps to a romantic slow dance, she danced the jig with someone else. He asked her out for a picnic, she invited her younger brothers along. He recited poetry as the walked, and she skipped ahead whistling."
Cara didn't want him to stop this bizarre love story. "What did he do?" she asked.
"Well, he asked her right out why she wouldn't give him a chance."
"What did she say?"
"She confused him yet again. She told him that she'd seen his foolishness with the other girls, how he'd gone around collecting hearts like a king collects taxes. She told him that before she could think about loving him, he'd have to make her like him first."
"What did he do then?" Cara coaxed.
"He treated her like a friend. He taught her how to fish and in return she taught him the names of the wildflowers in the meadows. He spent time with not only her, but her brothers too, and she forged a friendship with his Mum. He pulled pranks on her and she teased him mercilessly. In the end, she was the one who brought up marriage. At the first opportunity, Seanathair revealed the plans that he had for their future, most of which involved a cottage on his father' land and a yard full of children. Somewhere along, they added a dog, a horse, and flower garden, but basically that was their life."
Will looked down at the ground beside him, picked up a twig, and tossed it into the fire.
Cara clasped her hands together and smiled. "Oh, I love it," she said, "A true love story. It is so romantic, nothing could be better."
Will looked at her and chuckled. "I'd not let Calen catch you saying that," he advised.
Suddenly Calen's voice came from the riverbank rise. "Sayin' what?"
Micara thought quickly and answered, "Simply, Mr. Donelly, that I would never place so much as the smallest morsel of your so called pemmican on my tongue."
Calen scoffed. "Your Ladyship," he said, "when yer hungry enough, even shoe leather would look to be a feast."
He drew nearer and Cara watched his face change as he sniffed the air and looked down at the fire. "Speaking of shoe leather, it seems as if the fish are not the only things roasting."
Cara's eyes followed his gaze to the fire, as did Will's.
A strange charred smell that Cara had associated with the fire for the past few minutes, now made its true origins known. Micara's now dried boots sat by the fire, the toes of each starting to smoke and smoulder.
Will lunged forward from his seat on the ground, snagging the tops of the boots and yanking them to a safe distance from the flames. Micara walked to them and picked them up. The once supple brown leather was now stiff and blackened. One of the laces was singed half off and the still-smoking toes were cracked and rigid.
Calen cleared his throat. "I take back my earlier remark," he said, "I don't suppose shoe leather woud ever look like a feast."
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A/N
Hey everybody, hope you liked this chapter, remember to vote and comment and maybe check out my other stories, "Kings and Pawns" and "To Heal a Heart".
Enjoy