Wild Rapture

A woman with the reputation of performing grandly as the commandant’s lady, Abigail was beautiful, with raven-haired tresses that nearly reached the ground. She was slender, with an oval face and dancing green eyes with thick lashes shadowing them. She was surely the most lovely of all the women today at the fort, in her highly gathered pale blue velveteen dress with lace at the high collar and at the cuffs of its long sleeves.

Mariah knew firsthand that Abigail was full of compassion, for not long ago, upon discovering that Mariah was a girl instead of a boy, dressed in boy’s garb because of a paranoid father, she had scolded Mariah’s father almost unmercifully.

“Mariah?” Abigail gasped, paling as she took in Mariah’s cropped hair. Her hands crept slowly to it, her lips parted in horror. “Your beautiful hair! Lord, Mariah, did your father . . . ?”

Mariah sighed heavily, relieved that her hair appeared to be the only cause for Abigail’s alarm—not that Mariah was a fugitive at her door, asking for asylum!

“Yes, my father cut my hair,” she said softly. “I begged him not to. But . . . but . . . he wouldn’t listen.” Her bottom lip stiffened angrily. “Mrs. Snelling, nothing anyone said or did could dissuade my father from wanting to turn me into a man! My being a woman threatened him, somehow.” She lowered her eyes. “He . . . he even burned all of mine and mother’s dresses. All that was left of my wardrobe were the horrid men’s breeches and shirts.”

Abigail smoothed her fingers over Mariah’s hair, tsk-tsking, then placed a gentle hand to Mariah’s cheek as she roved her eyes over her attire. “You are not wearing men’s clothing today,” she murmured, then gazed into Mariah’s sad eyes. “Mariah, you are wearing a buckskin dress—one quite beautifully decorated with beads. Did your father approve of the dress? P

erhaps he got it in a trade with the Chippewa?”

Then Abigail placed a hand to her mouth, gasping behind it, her eyes wide with remembrance. “Mariah, I am just now recalling a visit from your father!” she cried. “Seeing your hair cropped short momentarily stole my memory from me.”

“My father was here?” Mariah asked, panic filling her. “When? What did he say?”

“Mariah, he was here at Fort Snelling searching for you,” Abigail said, cocking an eyebrow quizzically. “He did not give any details as to why. After he found out that no one had seen you at the fort, he rode away without any further explanation.”

Tears filled Mariah’s eyes; she understood her father’s desperation to find her, since he had ruled her life for so long. Upon discovering her gone, he had lost control. Victor Temple was not a man who ever let anyone dictate to him about anything. His alarm was surely not caused by having possibly lost her, but because she had openly defied him by leaving!

Down deep inside himself, he had to know that she had not been abducted . . . that she had left on her own initiative.

“Oh, my dear, you are about to cry,” Abigail said softly, placing an arm around Mariah’s waist. “Do come inside my home. Let me get you a lemonade to make you feel better. And then we will talk this out.”

“Thank you,” Mariah said, wiping a tear from her cheek as she was whisked into the parlor.

“I shall return shortly,” Abigail said, guiding Mariah to an upholstered chair that sat before a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace. “Sit yourself down, dear. You do look in need of my special refreshment.”

For a moment, while awaiting Abigail’s return, Mariah was catapulted into another world as she gazed with awe around her at the handsomely furnished sitting parlor. The room, furnished in the best European traditions, bespoke the Snellings’ polished tastes. Lemon-colored satin draperies hung at the windows, a thick Brussels carpet covered the floor, and cherrywood tables with marble tops were positioned around the room. A tall clock ticked away time close by; a Latin dictionary stood open on a stand beside a massive oak desk.

Something quite grand grabbed Mariah’s full attention.

A piano, she marveled to herself as her eyes locked on the ebony-wood upright that sat against the far wall, a candelabrum, its half-dozen candles burning, gracing its top.

She had only seen pictures of pianos in books, and heard them described by her mother, but never had they seemed as beautiful as the one in the Snelling parlor.

She was tempted to go to it and run her fingers across the keys, but thought better of it when Abigail entered the room carrying a tray which held a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

“You will feel much better after drinking my lemonade,” Abigail said, setting the tray on a table beside Mariah. She enthusiastically poured two glasses of lemonade, handing one to Mariah. She then sat down opposite Mariah, sipping from her own glass.

Although she was hungrier than she was thirsty, both Mariah’s tongue and her lips seemed parched from the grueling ride.

And she had never tasted lemonade before!

As the sweet liquid rolled down her throat, her eyes widened. Never in her life had she experienced anything to compare with this delicious drink!

She drank it in fast gulps, then blushed with embarrassment as she took the glass from her lips and noticed Abigail watching her with a soft smile.

“Let me pour you another,” Abigail said, her eyes dancing. She gazed over at her box of imported chocolates, then picked it up and handed it toward Mariah. “And please have a chocolate.”

Mariah’s lips parted in another slight gasp as she peered into the box of cream-filled chocolates. She had never seen any such delicacy, much less eaten one.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the one closest to her. “Why, thank you,” she said, plucking the chocolate from the others.

When she placed it between her lips, her taste buds danced wildly, the chocolate even more wonderfully delicious than the lemonade! She chewed it slowly, savoring the taste as long as possible.

“And now more lemonade?” Abigail asked, setting aside the chocolates and again lifting the pitcher.