Fire Along the Sky (40 page)

Simon drew in a breath, and she rounded on him as if he had struck her.

“We can't leave them there,” she said. “We have to get them out. My father would get them out. My
mother
would get them out. How can I do any less?”

“This is Nut Island we're talking about,” Simon said. “The fortifications alone—”

She would have said things to him then that she could never have made right, but Spotted-Fox stopped her with a raised hand. He said, “He is right. No one man could get them out, not even your father. It would take an army.”

Lily felt the panic rise up from her belly into her throat, but she forced herself to swallow it.

“What then?” she said. “You must have a plan. You were traveling with the King's Rangers and on your way there. Can you get close to them? Can you get me close to them? I could join the camp, you said there are women—”

Her voice spiraled up and broke, and for a moment there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the hiss of the fire. She was proposing to join the ranks of the camp followers, the ones who washed for the soldiers and gave them the other things they required of women, in exchange for food and a place to sleep in a tent. In exchange for the chance to save her brother, Lily would have done that and more.

But Simon was looking at her, his expression guarded. He would never allow her to do such a thing, even if Sawatis and Spotted-Fox could be convinced. In that moment she hated this man she had bound herself to, for standing between herself and her twin.

Sawatis said, “We can be close enough to see that they get extra food and blankets. But there is something more important for you to do.”

“You want me to go home,” Lily said dully. “And tell my father, what? To raise an army?”

“No,” said Spotted-Fox. “There is something your people can do. Something your sister Walks-Ahead can do.”

On the back of her neck Lily's skin prickled, and a wave of nausea rose into her throat. The men took no note, and Spotted-Fox went on.

“There are only two doctors in the garrison, and they have no time for American prisoners. Walks-Ahead is a Kahnyen'kehàka healer, and she has experience on the battlefield. The British will be glad of her help as long as they don't know who her people are.”

“A well-thought-out plan,” Lily said, and Simon threw her a sharp look.

Sawatis said, “One of us would have gone to Lake in the Clouds to fetch her, if we hadn't come across you.”

“One of you will still go fetch her, if you must,” Lily said. “I'm not leaving Canada until my brother and Blue-Jay are free.”

She was being childish and selfish and eventually she must give in; Lily knew that, and still she turned her face away when Simon tried to talk to her.

They were back in the narrow bed behind the blanket, in the cold dark. Lying on her back with her hands crossed over her stomach Lily tried to make out Gabriel Oak's drawing on the wall and could not. She was so determined not to listen to any more arguments that it was a moment before she realized the latest thing Simon had said.

He was so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek, but she would not look at him.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“I did.”

“And?”

“You would do that. You would go on to Lake in the Clouds without me.”

“Aye, if you will promise to stay with Sawatis and Spotted-Fox and not do anything foolish.”

“And you would bring my sister back.”

Maybe it was her tone that warned him, for he turned away to stare at his own bit of the ceiling. After a moment he said, “Do you have another plan?”

“You mean, there is nothing for me to do here. You mean that I will only be in the way and cannot help my brother.”

“I said none of that.” Simon's tone was edgy now; it was late in the night, and the day had been long and difficult and maybe, Lily thought, maybe she had finally found the limits of his patience.

“And yet it's true. Daniel needs Hannah but he doesn't need me.”

She heard herself, full of self-pity and bitterness; her mother would be ashamed. She was ashamed. It should have been enough to stop her, but Lily found she was no longer master of her own tongue.

“It's nothing new,” she continued. “I've heard it my whole life, you know.”

Simon said, “Your brother has need of your sister, aye. And your mother will have need of you. Or had ye no thought of that?”

Before Lily could turn to bury her face in the bedding a moan escaped her, and on its heels came the tears she had been holding back.

Simon got up from the bed and disappeared behind the blanket, into the darkness. For a moment Lily was satisfied: it had taken a great deal of work, but finally she had driven him away.

He was back before she could turn her head on the folded blanket that served as a pillow. His weight pulled down the edge of the bed and she shifted toward him against her will.

“Sit up,” he said in a firm voice.

She gave him no answer, and did not move. After a moment he leaned over her and took her by the shoulders, pulled her up until she was sitting, and then she felt his fingers in her hair.

“What are you doing?”

He worked her plait until her hair hung free to the waist and then Lily felt the brush at the crown of her head; it caught and held and began the long journey down and down, pulling nerves to life as it went. In the dark Simon brushed her hair from scalp to waist: ten strokes, fifty, a hundred. Her hair, too curly, too thick, too everything for fashion, resisted. He pressed on.

As her father brushed her mother's hair, every night. Lily tried to remember if she had ever told Simon about that, but she was so weary that her memories slid away. A shudder ran through her, and then another. Her head felt too heavy to hold up and still the brush continued on and on.

When he stopped, finally, she lay down. Her face was wet with tears, but she fell asleep before she could wipe them away.

In the morning Lily found that her courses had begun, after all. The evidence was impossible to deny, or hide. She wondered if she had been mistaken altogether, or if this was another loss to mourn.

Simon's expression was carefully blank. He asked what he could do for her and what she might need; if they should stay another day here in the cabin. He said this as if it were a possibility; as if there were endless fodder in the little stable; as if there were no reason to hurry.

All the anger had drained out of Lily; she pressed his hand and thanked him and saw how relieved he was to be released.

Simon went out to see to the horses and the sleigh. Lily wondered what he was thinking, really; if he was sad, as she found herself to be. Oddly sad and relieved at the same time. He had never used the child as an argument for her to go home, an act of generosity, it seemed to her now, and kindness.

It seemed a strange dream she had had, the idea of rescuing her brother. She would go home with Simon, to her mother and father and the rest of her people, and she would stay there with them until there was word of Daniel and Blue-Jay.

While she made ready Sawatis gave her news from Good Pasture to carry back to Lake in the Clouds, and she committed it all to memory. It was something to think about, and she was thankful.

At the door her cousin took her free hand in both his own and looked at her face. He looked so much like his father that for a moment Lily found it impossible to speak. Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears did not know about their eldest son; it would be up to her to give them the news. Better news than she had for her own parents.

She said, “Do what you can for them. I will send my sister.”

His lips were cold where he pressed them to her forehead. Spotted-Fox blinked his eyes, not in disapproval this time but because the sun on the snow was so bright that even his eyes must tear. They helped her to the sleigh and saw her settled.

Lily turned to wave goodbye but they had already disappeared into the forests.

Chapter 24

“Ain't no music in the world so fine as little girls laughing,” said Curiosity.

Ethan looked up from the box of books he was packing. “They are having a high time. Elizabeth, take this copy of Cicero, there are two.”

Elizabeth accepted the small leather-bound book from her nephew and looked at it more closely. “He never even cut the pages.”

At that Curiosity made a gruff sound in her throat. “Unless it was something about medicine, Richard didn't care much about books. He bought them because he thought a fine gentleman should have them on his shelf.”

Ethan's face clouded, and it was not lost on Curiosity. “You think I'm speaking bad of him, but I ain't. What I'm saying is, the man spent his whole life trying to be something he wasn't, and didn't really want anyway. Don't you make the same mistake, you hear me?”

Elizabeth hissed softly. “As if he were even in danger of such a thing.” It earned her a sharp glance from Curiosity and an amused one from Ethan.

He said, “I appreciate your faith in me, Aunt Bonner—”

“Then say nothing more on the subject,” she interrupted him. “The only promise I care to hear from you is that you will make the most of your travels, and then, when you are ready, that you will come home to us again.”

With a very pointed look, Curiosity stopped Elizabeth before she could say more. She said, “Don't matter that they never got read before,” she said. “These books sure will look fine in the new schoolhouse.”

“If you insist on changing the subject,” Elizabeth said, “please change it in another direction.”

“You are reluctant to talk about the new schoolhouse, Aunt.” Ethan put another small pile of books in her lap. “But I saw you yesterday, inspecting the lumber.”

It was true that she had selected a spot for the new school, and it was also true that she had paid Peter Dubonnet to cut and haul the lumber that must wait until spring before building could begin. But still she chafed at the whole business, and could not even tell why except in terms that she did not like to admit. The whole venture seemed to her somehow a challenge to fate, and fate was too nebulous and irrational a concept for her comfort.

It had to do with the war, of course. With the fact that her children were away, and that she couldn't see to their welfare; it had to do with getting older. It had to do most of all with the fact that she had hoped that Ethan would take over the school, and that now he could not. Because Richard had willed it so.

Curiosity said, “Now look, here's old Mr. Shakespeare who went missing some weeks ago right while we was in the middle of reading about that foolish child Juliet and her Romeo, just as bad. I'll ask Jennet to read some more to us tonight, though I expect it'll take a bad end, the whole sorry business. Don't know what the girl's folks was thinking, letting things get out of hand the way they did.”

Elizabeth and Ethan exchanged smiles.

“Don't you be laughing, you two. You know I'm right.”

“Curiosity,” Ethan said. “You know that these stories are pure invention but you always talk as if the characters might show up at your door for advice.”

The older woman put both hands on her head kerchief to right it. “If only they would,” she said. “I'd send that Romeo into the bush with Joshua. Let him chop a few trees, raise a few blisters. You tire a boy out good, he won't get such foolish ideas in his head. Climbing up walls in the middle of the night.” She sniffed.

“No doubt you're right,” Elizabeth said. “Though I doubt Shakespeare would have come up with such a novel solution.”

“He don't like happy endings, ain't no secret in that,” Curiosity agreed. “But the words sound pretty, the way he wrote them down. If you got the right person reading, that is.”

“I imagine that Jennet must read these characters very well,” Elizabeth said. “She has just the right dramatic flair.”

At that the door flew open so abruptly that it cracked against the wall. Callie and Martha burst into the room, pursued by Jennet. All three of them were flushed with high color and almost breathless with laughter and running.

Callie had one arm extended up over her head, and in her fist, a sheet of paper. Jennet lunged, and Callie hopped backward just out of her reach. Together the two younger girls backed around a wing chair while Jennet advanced.

“Now!” Curiosity said. “What is all this thundering and shouting?”

They spared her not a glance.

“You said we might!” Martha squeaked. “You said we could!”

“I'll pluck ye bald, ye wee de'ils,” Jennet crooned in a sweet voice. “And use your hair tae stuff ma pillow.” Her fingers wiggled before her.

“You did say so!” Callie echoed, as Jennet snatched and the girls jumped.

“Och, I said nae sic thing.” Jennet circled to the other side and the girls pivoted with her. “I said I'd share the tale wi' ye, but no the letter! That's for ma brither.”

Curiosity marched forward and inserted herself between Jennet and her prey. She held out her hand, palm up. “You two girls know better than to go reading somebody else's private mail. What are you thinking?”

Callie looked at Martha and Martha at Callie. With a bob of the head, the stolen letter was put into Curiosity's hand.

“But it's a new story she's writing down for Alasdair, and she said she'd share it!” Callie's bright eyes blazed defiance, first at Jennet and then, subdued, at Curiosity.

“What I said was that I would tell ye the tale. When I was finished with it. Which I am not.” Jennet drew herself up to her full height, which was not so very tall, and raised her chin. What she could not do, Elizabeth saw, was hide her smile.

“But it's taking so long,” Martha said, wheedling now. “We can't wait.”

“Och, but ye will wait. When I'm finished working it out you'll hear it. Or perhaps not.” She sniffed. “It will take some wooing to get me back in the mood to tell tales.”

“Tea?” said Callie, brightly.

Jennet pursed her mouth. “And some of the little cakes Sally baked this morning too, I think.”

At that the girls laughed out loud and ran out of the parlor, followed closely by Jennet. She stopped and turned, and saw that Curiosity was holding out the stolen letter at arm's length, her eyes narrowed to read the small hand.

Jennet snatched it away. “Et tu, Brute?” Then she laughed and, tucking the rumpled paper away, she left for the kitchen.

“My Lord, what I wouldn't give for a half of that girl's energy,” Curiosity said.

“I'd settle for a quarter of it,” Elizabeth said. “In any case, it is certainly doing those girls some good.”

“I will miss Jennet's stories,” Ethan said. “By the time I come back here I suppose she will be married and settled in Montreal.”

That silenced both women, who exchanged sober looks over the boxes of books.

“Montreal ain't so far off,” Curiosity said finally. “I suppose folks have traveled that far to hear a good story. Once folks got full bellies and warm feet, a story's what they like best.” And then, looking out the window: “Here come Nathaniel now, and by the look on him he got a story of his own to tell.”

Elizabeth turned to look out the window. Then she put the book she had in her hands down and left the room.

“What is it?” Ethan said, still sitting on the floor before the hearth.

“Your cousin Lily is come home,” said Curiosity from the window.

“Is Luke with her?” asked Ethan as he got to his feet.

“No,” said Curiosity. “But that Simon Ballentyne surely is, and all the rest of the Hidden Wolf folk. Something's up, for sure.”

Hannah, dragged against her will and wishes back into the practice of medicine, found that of all the small tasks she was called on to do, midwifery was the thing she liked the best.

Or had been, until she was called to Dora Cunningham in travail, and found herself in the middle of a scandal the village had been talking about for months. Now she wished she had paid more attention.

The woman on the narrow cot was thirty-five years old, unmarried, and about to bring her fourth child into the world. Only one of the others had survived beyond its fifth birthday, and that boy sat playing with blocks in the corner, his too-small head wobbling atop a spindly neck. He was called Joseph, and while he had little language he was sweet and biddable, content to sit by himself or work at the small tasks he had been taught to take on.

“I want to push now,” Dora said, grabbing for the ropes tied to the foot of the bed.

“Not yet,” said Hannah. “But soon.”

“You listen to her now, Dora, or you'll tear up your fundament worse than last time.” Goody Cunningham had a single tooth left in her head, but somehow she managed to speak clearly enough that Missy Parker heard her from her spot at the door. Hannah knew she had heard by the sharply indrawn breath that was louder even than Dora's moan.

Dora's face was contorted, her eyes near popping out of her skull, as she lifted herself up on her elbows.

“Listen to your mother,” Hannah said. “She's right, you'll tear, and badly.”

Hannah said it calmly, and with little hope that Dora would listen. Curiosity had warned her that Dora Cunningham, normally an even-tempered woman, could turn into a hellion when the misery was at its worst. And still she would find herself in this situation again, no doubt; every village had a woman or two whose generosity or need for affection outstripped good sense. In Paradise, that woman was Dora Cunningham. It was enough of a scandal that her brother Praise-Be had taken his wife and children and moved to another cabin, leaving his mother and sister without male protection.

“I want it OUT!” Dora bellowed. “Get it OUT!”

Hannah had come to the conclusion long ago that no man could really know the woman he called his wife unless he had seen her in travail. The man who had fathered this child had no idea what his few minutes of pleasure had wrought. Not that he would care; men were endlessly philosophical about the agony of childbirth. This one, at any case, might never even know he had a child. Not unless Dora gave up his name and demanded the little bit of support the law promised her.

And that explained Missy Parker standing at the door of the cabin with her hands folded primly in front of herself. Since Paradise had lost its last man of the cloth, Missy Parker had taken many of those responsibilities on herself.

“It's coming,” Dora said. “It's coming now.”

Dora Cunningham was a big woman, well built and comely, strong in body and mind, if not especially bright. If she got it in her head, Hannah thought to herself, she could probably expel her own internal organs. Her first push was evidence of just that, for it brought the child's head to crowning. The next pushed it into the world, but only as far as the neck.

Hannah, all her concentration on the proper rotation of the baby's shoulders, had not noticed Missy Parker moving. From the other side of the bed she leaned over and said, “Now is the time you must ask the question.”

“Ask it yourself,” Hannah answered.

“Oooooooh!” Dora wailed.

Missy Parker leaned in closer. “Dora Cunningham, in accordance with the laws of God and man, I ask you, who is the father of your child?”

Dora opened her mouth and wailed again and shook her head, this time covering her inquisitor with a shower of sweat and spit. Thus it happened that as Dora delivered her fourth child, a girl, Missy Parker was howling as loud as mother and child.

“The name of the father!” Missy thundered, using her immaculate apron to wipe her cheeks. “Tell me now, is Horace Greber the father of this child?”

Dora fell back against the bed and howled one last time. Then her gaze focused on Missy Parker, and something sour came into her expression.

When she had caught her breath she said, “You want the truth?”

“Of course,” said the older woman, unable to hide her eagerness. Three other times she had carried out this ritual with Dora, and three times she had gone away disappointed.

A deep sense of unease came over Hannah, but she forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. While she examined the child and cut the cord, she listened.

“Then here it is,” Dora said, her hoarse voice raised above the cries of her daughter. “As you're so eager to know. You remember last May, when the letter come from Johnstown saying Mrs. Greber had run off from her husband and wasn't coming back?”

In Missy Parker's round, full face her eyes darted from side to side. One corner of her mouth jerked.

“Yes. Yes, I remember. Mr. Littlejohn brought the letter and Mr. Greber asked Mrs. Bonner to read it for him, right there at the trading post. And all those people right nearby.”

She seemed to relish the memory.

“I need another push,” Hannah interrupted. “Not too hard. For the afterbirth.”

Dora's face knotted while she gave Hannah what she had asked for. When it cleared again, she blinked the sweat from her eyes and looked at Missy Parker.

“You remember it was Jonas Littlejohn who rode post that day.”

Missy drew back. “Well, of course. Yes. What does he have to do with Mrs. Greber and her letter?”

“Listen and I'll tell you. Jonas Littlejohn left more than bad news behind him when he rode off the next morning. Say hello to his daughter.”

Missy Parker clutched fists to her bosom, her mouth working wordlessly. A great rash of color had broken out on her face and neck. “You're
lying
.” She turned on her heel and marched to the door, where she fumbled with the latch, and then out into the cold.

The fire in the hearth roused at the sudden draft and then settled again. In the quiet the new mother and grandmother giggled softly.

“You gave her a shock,” Hannah said, handing the swaddled newborn to her mother. “But what does Mrs. Parker have against Jonas Littlejohn?”

“He's married to Missy's youngest, her Thea,” said Goody.

“Oh, dear,” said Hannah. “I fear you'll have a hard time getting any help out of Mr. Littlejohn, then.”

“Never thought I would,” said Dora. “Never would have said his name, except—” Her chin trembled and she let out a squawk of laughter, rocking the mewling baby to her breast. “It was worth it though, wasn't it? Here she was hoping to get a new club to hit Horace Greber over the head with, and instead— Wasn't it worth it, to see the look on her face?”