Bay Leaves and Bundles Read online

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  The Wild Rose Press

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  Copyright ©2007 by Sarita Leone

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Bay Leaves And Bundles

  by

  Sarita Leone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Bay Leaves And Bundles

  COPYRIGHT ©

  2007 by Sarita Leone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First American Rose Edition, May 2007

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my American Rose editor, Nicole D'Arienzo. A woman who doesn't hesitate to share her love of history and writing, she makes polishing every story an exciting adventure. I am very grateful to be one of her roses.

  Chapter One

  Amy was determined to find a husband. And not just any husband would do. She'd set her heart on marrying the handsomest man in Williamsburg, if not, in her opinion, all of Virginia. He was tall, with deep brown eyes and seductive black curls that peeked out from beneath his tri-corn hat and hung down his back, the leather thong he used to hold them fairly bursting, it was so full. She dreamed of someday running her fingers through that lush tangle of curls, of feeling it against her unclothed skin in places that made her blush to think of them.

  But before she touched any part of Ben Warner, she knew she'd have to find a way to marry him. After all, although it was 1775 and they were living in a new land with hitherto unheard-of freedoms, unrestrainedly touching men who weren't legally yours was still something that was frowned upon.

  In the flickering light of the sputtering tallow candle, Amy used straight pins to affix five bay leaves to her pillowcase. One in each corner and the remaining leaf pinned securely in the center of her corn husk pillow made for a fragrant, if dangerous, place to lay her head.

  From the other side of the bed, Martha snorted. “I cannot believe you're sleeping with those in place again. You would think that you'd dreamt of your sweetheart by now, that he would have appeared in your nocturnal visions often enough there would be no need to keep pinning those on your pillow. One of these nights you're going to poke yourself in the eye."

  Older and wiser, and betrothed to a local politician, Amy's sister set store with other methods of divining one's true love. She'd first seen Herbert Grindell in the reflection of a mirror in the village well. Granted, Herbert had been looking down the well at nearly the same moment with his own shard of glass, but still, she'd seen him. And that was all the matrimonial prognostication Martha needed.

  "I have seen my sweetheart—on several occasions,” insisted Amy, settling her head on the pillowcase with infinite care. “But it never hurts to have the bay leaves in place when I dream of him, which I do nightly, I assure you."

  "Then what do you hope to accomplish? If you've already seen him in your dreams there is no need for the leaves—or the pins,” Martha said, weaving the final inches of her long blonde hair into a braid.

  "I'm simply hoping to ... to ... oh, I don't know. Speed things along, perhaps? You're lucky; you've already got a date set for your wedding. But me, I have yet to get a man to propose marriage, let alone set the date.” Lowering her voice as they heard their parents climb into their creaky rope bed in the room next to theirs, Amy said, “Valentine's Day is next week. I've been praying he'll come calling, maybe even ask to spend the night. I've been praying, night and day it seems, that my sweetheart would come to me and then maybe my life could move forward. Oh, Martha, I've been praying!” Amy laced her fingers together and waved them toward the low-beamed ceiling.

  Martha shook her head as she leaned over and blew out the candle. Settling herself on her own pillow, she murmured, “You'd best pray you don't poke your eye out with those straight pins."

  Chapter Two

  The braided rugs hung heavy across the lines stretched between two sturdy maple trees behind the house. It had taken four trips to get all the rugs out and hung without soiling them further by dragging them across the hard-packed dirt yard but they'd done it. Beating them, however strenuous an activity it was, was easier in comparison. At least the brief interludes while the dust cleared gave the women a chance to talk.

  "Ben Warner. I can't for the life of me comprehend why you would choose a man like that to become enamored with,” said Martha. She rested against the tree trunk, tucked her willow-switch rug beater beneath one arm and lifted her face to the midday sky. Only beginning to bud, the tree offered no shade from the late-winter sun.

  "I chose him because ... because ... well, just because, that's why.” Amy leaned on the opposite side of the tree, too preoccupied to notice the sun or its warmth.

  "Well, it's obvious to everyone why a woman would be attracted to a man like that. He's got lovely eyes. And he's good-looking, I'll grant you that much, sister. He makes quite a picture in those Sunday breeches of his, the ones with the silver buttons on the flap. And yes, he fills them out nicely, doesn't he? We've all noticed how he doesn't seem to be challenged one bit in the manhood area, not if the lay of his breeches is to be believed.” A devilish grin flitted across Martha's face.

  "Stop it, Martha! Don't speak of such intimate things, not with regard to my affianced."

  "Oh? So he's you're affianced now, is he? Is dear Mr. Warner aware of that fact?"

  "You know he's not,” admitted Amy, her shoulders falling as she spoke. “I feel it in my heart, though. That should count for something, I'd think. I, too, have noticed his ... um, his breeches. But that is most definitely not the reason I feel the way I do for Ben. No, it's more than that. He's gentle and intelligent and he speaks with a sense of humor behind every word. I like that in a man, Martha. I like it very much."

  Pushing herself upright, Martha took the beater in hand and gave a half-hearted swat at the nearest rug. “He's a cooper. Doesn't that matter to you?"

  "Not a whit. Should it?"

  Raising one eyebrow, Martha stopped working on the rug and put her hands on her hips. “Yes, it should. Coopering is hard, smelly work. The wife of a cooper would have to put up with that every day of her life."

  Amy scowled. “Everyone needs casks, or have you forgotten that fact? For flour, wine, shoes, leeches, dry goods, beer, water—for goodness sake, casks carry everything. A man with his own cooper shop is one with a guaranteed future, a means of supporting his family without having to worry about finding employ elsewhere for as long as he lives. Yes, the work is loud, with the roaring fires going constantly. And I'll admit, the scent of oak wood isn't one of my favorites but I'm sure I'll grow accustomed to it. ‘Putting up’ with these things, as you so eloquently put it, i
s something I'd do gladly. And I'd remind you, coopers will always be needed. Not so with politicians.” Although Martha was taller, Amy held herself as straight as she could and raised her chin so that the two were nose to nose.

  With a sniff, Martha turned away. “At least with a man like Herbert, a man of social stature, I'll have a fine, brick home, with glass windows and someone else to smack my rugs. And I'll have a three-hole brick necessary out back, one with a clean-out instead of a pit. I'll have rose bushes planted beside it so that the aroma is intoxicating. That, dear sister, is something a cooper's wife will never have."

  As she raised her rug beater and swung it with more force than was called for, Amy retorted, “I'd think unless one was contemplating living in the necessary, bricks and roses would be like so much else in the life of a politician's wife—decidedly unnecessary."

  Chapter Three

  Herbert and his sister Eugenia arrived early in the afternoon to convey Martha and her small satchel to their parents’ home on the other side of town. Martha was to stay the night with Eugenia, something Amy was overwhelmingly thankful for.

  The house seemed emptier without Martha's presence but it wasn't at all lonely. Hours passed quickly as Amy bustled about, finishing her chores in record time and using the rest of the daylight hours to prepare for what she hoped would happen that night. There had been no word, but still she was optimistic. Her anticipation was enough to spur her to action.

  By the time the knock sounded Amy was primped, lotioned, curled and ready for entertaining. When her father returned to the front parlor with their guest, she'd artfully arranged herself on the sofa, her needlework in hand.

  "Mother ... Amy. Look who's come calling."

  "Why Ben, how nice it is to see you,” Amy's mother said, smiling. “You're looking well."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Prentiss. I'd hoped you wouldn't mind an unannounced visitor.” His voice was full and deep, and his smile charming. Holding his hat loosely in one hand, he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in the other. He held them out in front of him, “I hope you like yellow flowers, Ma'am. That's pretty much all that's growing at this time of year, it seems. I did manage to find a few bunches of wild daisies, but they're mostly common yellow daffodils. I apologize."

  With ease born of years of entertaining, Mrs. Prentiss waved away his words with one fine-boned hand. “Oh, surely you tease, Ben. Why, everyone knows my favorite color is yellow. And I'm particularly partial to wild daffodils. I'll go put these in some water. Thank you very much for the kindness. Would you like to help me, Father?” Linking her arm through her husband's, Amy's mother led the whiskered man from the room with finesse.

  "Amy, you're looking well. Very pretty, too, if I may be so bold."

  When she motioned to the space beside her, Ben sat, his muscular form filling the area completely. He placed his hat on the table before them, folded his hands on his thigh and let his gaze travel over her.

  Amy's eyes did some traveling of their own, lingering appreciatively on the contours of his breeches. Martha was right. This was a man who filled out his trousers well.

  "Be bold, Ben,” she said without shyness. Waiting, praying, dreaming and hoping had removed every trace of inhibition from Amy's personality. “Boldness can be tolerated in the spirit of the day, I am sure."

  "Yes, the day. I'd hoped that you wouldn't be otherwise engaged this evening."

  "Otherwise engaged? Whatever do you mean?"

  He shrugged. “It is Valentine's Day, after all. I thought you might be entertaining some other man, someone who vied for your affections. Tell me, please. Is there someone else, Amy?"

  There was no need for coyness, not when they both wanted the same thing. It was so patently obvious that it would have been futile—ridiculous, even—to prolong the inevitable with denial.

  "No, there is no one else."

  "That is a relief I am thankful for. I must admit I asked your father for your hand in marriage a fortnight ago. He has advised me to enquire with you as to the disposition of your emotions.” Ben's eyes fixed on hers. “Can you tell me, then, how your affiliations lie? Would you consent to becoming my wife, Amy? It would please me greatly, I assure you."

  Her heart flipped within her chest. She swallowed thickly, fighting tears of joy as she nodded. “It would please me, as well. I do consent to become your wife—wholeheartedly."

  Their first kiss was more fulfilling than she'd dreamed it would be. His lips, warm and tender, pressed hers slowly at first, then more passionately as their ardor increased. With a stifled moan, Ben finally put her away from him and held her body at arms’ length from his own.

  A blush had risen on Amy's fair skin and her nipples pressed against the fabric of her Sunday best dress. Her chest rose and fell swiftly as she fought to contain her desire.

  When Ben spoke his voice was hoarse. “I may stay the night, then? It is a far walk to the coopery and darkness is already upon us. If I were to stay we could spend the night talking together—nothing more. Planning our future together. Would that be agreeable to you, my dear?"

  She smiled. “It would be very agreeable to me if you were to stay the night. And fortuitous as well, for my sister Martha is spending the night elsewhere. There will be ample room for you in my bed."

  Taking a deep breath, Ben said, “That is good to hear. But I feel certain we will need the bundling board placed between us as well as the usual bundling sack sewn around us. That is, if your virtue is to remain intact. For, you see ... I must admit you excite me greatly and I fear I would not be able to otherwise contain myself."

  Amy's laughter echoed throughout the house. “I'm sure my father would agree to produce the board for our use. In fact, Ben, I think he'd insist upon it."

  Bringing his face close and pulling her against his body, Ben whispered, “Good. Because once we're snugly bound I'm going to want to discuss plans for the remainder of our lives. The first thing we'll need to do is set a date for our wedding. It will need to be a date in the very near future, if you don't mind. I don't think I can wait all that long to have you for my own, darling."

  "I don't mind at all. We've both waited long enough for this day, haven't we?"

  His answer was lost in the meeting of their lips. The last thing either of them was thinking about was bundling boards, bay leaves or wedding dates. They had more than enough to occupy their minds—without speaking.

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