Dawn on a Distant Shore (9 page)

The Somervilles'
basement kitchen was as deep and dim as a cave, but there was nothing cool about
it: the combined heat of hearth and ovens had set even the walls to sweating.
From a remote corner where they were supposed to be waiting to resume their day-long
card game with Martin Fink, Nathaniel and Robbie watched the man scramble to
send course after course up to Giselle and her guests.

She hadn't lost her
appetite for the unusual. In addition to platters of fancy meat pastries,
tureens of soup and ragout, a suckling pig, roast mutton, a haunch of venison,
three kinds of fish, every manner of pickled or potted vegetable, and breads
and rolls stacked in elaborate patterns, there had been a roast swan shouldered
by not two but four serving men. Dressed again in its own white feathers after
being stuffed, the long neck held up by hidden skewers, the bird went up the
stairs, surrounded by doves baked in nests of puff pastry.

Now Fink was laboring
over a huge meringue, decorating it with candied fruit. It reminded Nathaniel
of the powdered wigs that had gone out of fashion not so long ago. The cook
circled the platter with one eye squeezed shut and a finger pressed to his
mouth. Finally he stood back, looked over at the men in the corner, winked conspiratorially,
and burst into noisy song. Dish by dish, his mood improved and his songs became
louder.

"Aye, sing awa',
ye daft bugger," muttered Robbie. "The man canna wait tae take the
rest o' the silver frae ye, laddie." He might rarely play cards, but Robbie
was having a hard time purposely losing to a half-drunk Alsatian cook with the
habit of singing publicly, and off-key. In a burst of winner's generosity, Fink
had offered them the finest his kitchen had to offer, but Robbie had accepted only
bread and some cold venison. Now he tore off great chunks, never taking his
eyes from the cook.

Nathaniel swallowed
down a yawn. There would be at least another hour of this: the servants were fussing
over blue-veined cheeses, fruit compotes, liquors and coffees and drinking chocolate.
Things he had never heard of before he came to Montréal, or thought of much
since leaving it. Suddenly the wish to be home was strong enough to make him
get to his feet. He pulled on his mantle and picked up his rifle by its sling
and slipped it over his shoulder. "I think I'll have a look around
upstairs until Fink's ready to deal the next hand."

Robbie gaped up at
him. "And how d'ye plan tae do that, wi' a hoose fu' o' redcoats? I
suppose Giselle has a secret stair hidden awa'?"

"Not so
secret," said Nathaniel. "I wouldn't want to guess how many men know
about it, but it's likely that a few of them are at the dinner table right
now."

"Gin that's the
case," said Robbie, tucking the remainder of his bread and cheese into his
sack and lumbering to his feet, "I micht as weel come wi' ye. Yon glaikit
lump"--he pointed at Fink with his chin--"will ha' nae use for us
afore the eatin's done. Tell him we're goin' tae empty our bladders."

It was good to be out
of the kitchens, away from the accumulated smells of a thousand meals. Nathaniel
drew in cold air and paused in the courtyard, listening. There was no sign of
the guard; they were probably warming themselves inside, sloppy with Somerville
away.

With Robbie close
behind, Nathaniel made his way to a stand of evergreen bushes, and pushing them
apart, revealed a small wooden door without a handle. He pressed on two spots simultaneously
and it swung silently inward to disclose a narrow stone stair. It smelled of damp
and tobacco smoke and of Giselle, too--slightly musky, the scent of her hair when
it was uncoiled and free. It was strange and still immediately familiar, and it
made his own hair rise on the back of his neck, as if he were being stalked by
an enemy just out of sight.

Nathaniel made his way
up the short flight with Robbie following silently. They paused on a landing,
although the stairs went on into the dark. By touch he found the two stools he
remembered, and directed Robbie to one of them in a low voice.

On the other side of
the wall were the muffled sounds of laughter and tinkling glassware. Nathaniel
felt for the panel, andwitha moment's hesitation, slid it back to reveal two
sets of peepholes. Candlelight came to them in four perfectly round streams,
and the interwoven voices separated themselves into five or six distinct conversations.

His father and Otter
were there, to either side of Giselle. Before Hawkeye was a plate of sweets and
a full wine glass. Moncrieff was farther down the table, involved in a
conversation with a well-dressed man Nathaniel didn't recognize.

"Panthers among
peacocks," whispered Robbie. Hawkeye and Otter stood out in their worn
buckskin hunting shirts and leggings, flanked by army and cavalry officers in
scarlets and blues, green plaids, flowing ribbons, brass buttons, gold braid,
silk sashes, swords with ornate baskets.

"Hawkeye looks aye
crabbit."

"Testy, but in
good health," Nathaniel agreed, relieved just to see his father looking
himself. He was sixty-nine years old, a man who had spent most of his lifetime
out-of-doors, but he sat there as he would sit at his own table, or at a Kahnyen'kehâka
council fire, as lean and straight as a man in his prime, his eyes alert and
watchful.

There was only a
partial view of Otter's face, but the tension in the boy's shoulders was easy enough
to read. He was wound up tight and ready to spring. Adele's visit had primed
them well.

And there was Giselle.
Looking down over the room and not ten feet away from her, they were close enough
to count the pearl buttons at the nape of her gown. She sat with her back to
them; a good thing, for she had sharp eyes. Nathaniel let himself study her,
the dark blond hair pinned up to reveal the long neck, the white skin of her shoulders
against deep green silk, the curve of her cheekbone when she turned her head to
speak to the servant.

Now that he had got
this far Nathaniel couldn't remember why he had dreaded the sight of her so much.
She was still beautiful--he could see that even from here--but she wasn't
Elizabeth, and she had no power over him. To his surprise, the most he could
feel for her was a vague gratitude and reluctant admiration. Giselle did as she
pleased. She could be ruthless; she cared nothing at all for the good opinion
of others; and there was an air of casual danger about her. Because it suited
her to do so, she surrounded herself with men who were eager to amuse, taking
from them what she wanted and leaving the rest. Tonight she had placed a seventeen-year-old
Kahnyen'kehâka at her right hand over rich and powerful men, and none of them dared
challenge her. She had been having parties like these behind her father's back
since she was sixteen.

A cavalry officer was
holding up his glass toward Giselle, the wine picking up the candlelight and
flashing it back again. His own complexion was equally flushed.

"This
Paxareti," he announced in a voice slurred with drink, but just loud
enough to claim everyone's attention, "is proof that the Portuguese are
not total barbarians. It comes from a monastery a few hours' ride from Jerez,
but it is well worth the cost. Well worth it, by God."

"And how very
thoughtful of you to bring it to me, Captain Quinn," said Giselle. Her
tone was easy, encouraging but not engaging, and her voice was just as
Nathaniel had remembered it, deep and slightly rough, as if she had strained it
the day-- or the night--before. "And how sad that our American friends
resist so great a pleasure." She was looking at Hawkeye, but she leaned slightly
toward Otter as she spoke.

"It is said that
two glasses of strong sherry will render a reticent man more communicative
without ... impairing him," commented an officer of the dragoons who was
staring at Hawkeye. He was well grown and broad of shoulder, but when he grinned
he revealed a set of ivory teeth too large for his mouth.

Hawkeye raised a brow.
"When I've got something to say worth saying, I'll speak up, with or
without spirits. So far I ain't heard anything worth the trouble."

Robbie's grunt of
approval was lost in the mixture of laughter and protest from below.

"What of your
young friend, then?" The dragoon's gaze wandered toward Otter. "Or
has he no civilized languages?"

"Major
Johnson," Giselle said evenly, before Hawkeye could reply. The toothy smile
shifted in her direction; the tilt of his head said he expected her approval.

"At your service,
Miss Somerville."

"You are boring
me."

He drained of color.
"I only meant--"

Giselle turned her
attention to the opposite side of the table, ignoring Johnson's apologies.

"Captain
Pickering, it has been a very long time indeed since you have come to our cold
corner of the world. The navy abandons me at this time of year, but I can
always count on you."

The man Giselle was
addressing had been turned toward Moncrieff and deep in conversation, but he
looked up gladly at her request, and Robbie and Nathaniel both drew up in surprise
at this first clear sight of his face.

The bush was a hard
place; Nathaniel had grown up in the company of men and women who bore terrible
scars with a combination of forbearance and dignity. But Pickering's face was
not the result of a tomahawk blow or a battle with the pox or fire. Nathaniel
suspected it was much harder to bear. It looked as if his maker had finished
with him, disliked what he had produced, and attempted to rub out the errors,
mashing an overlarge nose into a face like a soggy oat cake. Everything on him
was lopsided, from the small, upward-slanted eyes to the low-hung shelf of
brow.

"Maria save us,
look at the man's snout," muttered Robbie. "He's mair pickerel than
Pickering. Nae wonder he went tae sea."

"Mademoiselle."
Pickering inclined his head. "I have brought you more than seafaring
tales. If you'll permit--" he half rose, and gestured to someone out of
sight in the next room.

Giselle laughed.
"Horace. I knew I could count on you. A surprise. I do love surprises.
Shall I try to guess?"

"Ha!" called
Quinn. "It's anyone's guess what Pickering's got tucked away in that merchantman
of his. Could have an elephant or two crashing about in the hold."

A servant appeared at
the door, carrying a small lidded basket. There was a great scramble of serving
men as plates and platters were cleared to make room for it just in front of
Giselle.

"You brought me
such a lovely set of ivory carvings from India when last you were here,"
she said, eyeing the basket. She had turned so that Nathaniel could see her
face. Time had not left her untouched, but there was the same spark in her eye
and high color in her cheeks, and he didn't wonder that Otter had got caught
up, despite the difference in their ages. Stronger and more experienced men had
floundered in the good fortune of attracting this woman's favor. There were
some prime examples around the table.

Pickering was drawing
out the suspense. "We were on our way to Halifax from Martinique ..."

Quinn put down his
glass with a rattle. "Pickering, you sly dog, were you there when Jervis and
Grey took Martinique?" They were no sailors, but the promise of direct
news of a victory over France would have been very welcome to the army
officers.

Pickering smiled
politely but did nothing to satisfy their curiosity. Instead he put one hand on
the basket, as if to quiet whatever was inside.

"I took these on
board not knowing if they would survive the journey, but I had some luck. And my
most excellent surgeon, of course, nursed them all the way." With a
graceful flourish he flipped back the wooden lid of the basket and reached
inside.

"You will note by
the sweet smell that they are quite perfectly ripe." And he drew from the
basket a pair of swollen and discolored human hands, no larger than those of a
child of ten, with lightly curled fingers.

There was a moment of
shocked silence as he held them up. Even Giselle's voice seemed to fail her.

A sandy-haired major
of the Royal Highlanders leaped to his feet. "By God, man, have you been
consortin' with cannibals?"

The room was suddenly
in chaotic movement as all the men surged forward. Nathaniel's view was blocked
by Otter, who stood with the rest of them. Robbie stood, too, and then, having
lost his peepholes, sat again.

"Let me put your
mind at rest, MacDermott. These grow on the islands," came Pickering's
calming voice from the center of the crowd. "They are called ti-nains by
the natives."

"That's a bluidy
fruit
?"
demanded one of the merchants.

"Ah," said
another, more composed voice. "Bananas. But not of the sort I et in India.
These are much smaller. Damned difficult to transport, in any case."

"Ha!" cried
Captain Quinn, heading back toward his wine glass. "Fruit! A good joke, that,
Pickering! Fruit!"

Johnson was still at
the head of the table, peering inside the basket suspiciously. "What civilized
person would put such a thing in his mouth?"