Forever by Your Side (Willamette Brides #3) - Tracie Peterson Page 0,47

every word. Around twelve thirty, Connie opened the basket she’d brought with her and pulled out leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rosy seemed grateful, especially for the generous slices of cake.

“Rosy, I remember you once told me about the bridewealth. It was a price paid for the bride, but it was also used to reckon certain crimes,” Connie commented.

“Yes.” Rosy smiled. “If someone murdered one of the wife’s family members, it required the killer or his family to make a full payment of restitution equal to the bridewealth—the money her father was originally paid by the groom. The bridewealth also determined what a woman’s children would inherit. This made it very important for her father to be paid a good price for his daughter so that the family would gain in importance and wealth.”

Tom looked up. “How was the bridewealth determined?” He had finished his meal and took out a journal to make notes.

“It was based on the woman’s beauty, moral character, and her rank. The common payment was made in dentalia shells and clamshell disk beads. Woodpecker feather scalps were also required, and one or two deerskins. The more that was paid, the more it increased the woman’s value and that of her children. My father received thirty-five long dentalia shells for me and forty woodpecker feather scalps. I don’t remember how many clamshell beads, but he was paid four deerskins. I was ranked very high, and my family was highly regarded.” Her voice betrayed her pride. “And I was once quite beautiful.” She laughed and touched her cheek. “But that beauty has been given to another who is young.”

“You are lovely in your old age,” Connie told her.

Rosy smiled. “You would have fetched a great price, Connie.”

Tom smiled and glanced down at his paper as he continued jotting notes. He thought about what it would be like to pay Connie’s father in shells and skins for the right to marry his daughter.

“Could we see your baskets, Rosy?” Connie turned to Tom. “Rosy makes the most beautiful baskets.”

Rosy went to her bed, which stood against the wall. She knelt down and pulled several baskets from underneath it. “I must keep them hidden or that awful Reverend Summers will force me to sell them. He once forced his way in here and took many of my old pieces—things my mother and father had given me. So now I keep a few things that do not matter on the shelves over there so that when he comes, he will be content.”

“That’s terrible, Rosy.”

“The government says it is all right, and so nobody cares to stop it. Our police try to stop him, but Reverend Summers always says that he paid for the pieces. And he does, but not all wanted to sell.”

She brought the tightly woven baskets to the small table. Connie had already removed the extra food and placed it on Rosy’s kitchen counter.

Rosy held up a basket that was about four inches across and the same in height. “This is the first basket that I made completely by myself. When my mother approved it, I was so excited that I ran through the village, declaring the news to anyone who would listen.”

Tom began to sketch it.

Rosy continued her explanation. “This shows the four important weaving methods for twining a basket. Here is the solid line. Then the rows that stack.” She pointed to the design. “And then you learn the weaving of rows that swirl to the right and then rows that swirl to the left. At the top we finish the basket with a simple weave that we do three times.”

“It looks braided,” Tom commented as he went back to drawing.

“Yes, but it is not.” Rosy put the little basket on the table, then picked up another. This one was bigger—about the size of a small dinner plate.

“I’ve always loved this one,” Connie declared. “Rosy’s mother made it for her when she married.”

Tom paused again. Where the other basket had been woven in dark and light tones of a dried grass, this one consisted of various dyed grasses in hues of black, red, and even blue. He finished his quick sketch of the first basket, then began drawing the second.

“What kind of grass are these made from?” Tom asked as he drew the basket.

“Bear grass. It’s rather wiry and very long,” Connie said before Rosy could reply.

“It was taller than me when my mother helped me gather it for the baskets.” Rosy laughed. “I sometimes got lost