Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (99 page)

A woman had appeared in the wide doorway behind Brant, smiling. She was dark-haired and pretty, wearing a European dress in sprigged red calico, with a white fichu secured with a gold brooch in the shape of a butterfly.

“My dear,” Brant said, bowing to her with an elegant assumption of London manners, “may I present Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah, and his wife and mother? And their companion,” he added, with another bow toward Silvia. “My wife, Catherine,” he ended, with what seemed a rather casual flourish toward the woman in red, who gave him a sharp look but resumed her smile as she curtsied to the travelers.

She looked astonished when none of the women returned her salute, and she glanced at her husband, as if to ask whether he took note of this rudeness.

“They’re Quakers,” he said, with a small shrug, and her shoulders relaxed.

And Jenny Murray wouldn’t curtsy to the King of England, let alone a man she thinks is a Royalist assassin,
Rachel thought, but kept her face pleasantly blank.

Catherine looked dubiously at Jenny, who could look inscrutable when she cared to, but wasn’t doing it at the moment. Mrs. Brant decided the younger women might be more approachable and turned to them, beckoning them to the table where tea was laid and bidding them to sit down.

“Are either of you by chance a peace-talker?” she asked, smiling as she took her own seat.

“I doubt it,” Rachel said cautiously, and looked at Silvia, who shook her head.

“I’m not,” she said, “but I have heard of them.” She turned to Rachel in explanation. “Since Friends are known to be impartial and dedicated to peace, some have been invited to conduct negotiations between…people in conflict?” she ended, with a dubious look at Catherine Brant.

“Yes, that’s right.” Mrs. Brant poured the tea through a silver strainer with flower-work around its rim, and a fragrant, half-familiar steam rose like a ghost.

“Tea!” Rachel said, involuntarily, then blushed. Thayendanegea grinned at her through the steam.

“It is,” he said, and raised one eyebrow. “Do I take it that you have not encountered tea in some time?”

That was a delicately pointed question. Ian was ready for it, though; he’d told Rachel that he meant to make no bones regarding politics, as there was no knowing how much Thayendanegea knew about them already.

“We have not,” Ian said easily, taking a bun from the flowered china plate offered him by a servant. “It makes my uncle sneeze.”

Brant’s eyes creased with humor.

“I have heard of your uncle,” he said. “ ‘Nine-Fingers,’ he’s called among some of the Iroquois?”

Rachel hadn’t heard that one, but either Ian had or he hid his surprise.

“Aye. The
Tsalagi
call him ‘Bear-Killer.’ ”

“A man of many names,” Brant said, amused. “And General Washington calls him friend, I believe.”

“He is a friend to liberty,” Ian said, with a shrug.

“It’s fine tea, to be sure,” Jenny said to Mrs. Brant, though she set her cup down undrunk. “And a handsome house. Have ye lived here for some time?”

Rachel didn’t know whether the word “liberty” was a signal agreed upon between mother and son, or merely the natural rhythm of a conversation that must necessarily hover between politics and politesse, but Catherine Brant answered Jenny’s question, and the women passed easily into talk about the house, the furnishings, and then—by way of the china patterns—food, at which point the conversation became truly cordial.

Despite a genuine interest in corn soup and frybread, Rachel kept an ear on the men’s conversation, which ranged easily between English and Mohawk. She caught a name now and then—she recognized Looks at the Moon’s Mohawk name, and “Ounewaterika,” the name the Indians gave General Lee. And then her ear caught the name she had been waiting for. Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa.

She tried not to listen and forced herself not to look at Ian. She felt, rather than saw, Jenny’s sharp glance at him.

It didn’t last long, whatever was being said about the woman, for after a little, Brant turned to her to ask after her brother, Denzell, whom he had met briefly in Albany, and the eddies of the table’s conversation converged into a smooth current.

Smooth enough, now that Works With Her Hands had been momentarily dealt with, that Rachel could draw breath and consider the peculiarities of this table and the man who owned it, who was chatting in the most amiable fashion now with Silvia Hardman, about turkeys.

How could they be sitting here, engaged in the most ordinary sorts of conversation, opposite a man of whom it was said that he had killed, and ordered to be killed, numbers of people?

You not only sit down to dinner with Jamie Fraser, you love and respect him,
her inner light pointed out.
Has he not done the same things?

Not to innocent people,
she thought stubbornly. Though in fairness, she knew well enough that anything might be said of a man, without its necessarily being true.

And both of them have done what they’ve done because it’s war, I suppose…
Her inner light was skeptical, but retreated at a sudden shift in the talk.

Brant had said something to Ian in Mohawk, in a casual tone, but with a sidelong glance at Rachel that made the hairs of her scalp prickle. Ian deliberately turned to one side, so she couldn’t see his face, and said something in the same language that made Brant laugh.

She became aware that Jenny, beside her, was giving Brant a very narrow look. And that Catherine Brant was watching them over the rim of her teacup, one brow raised. Seeing that Rachel had noticed, she set down the cup and leaned forward a little.

“He said that if Wolf’s Brother should find that he couldn’t keep two wives, he should know that Works With Her Hands has eighty-five acres of good bottomland in her own name—she
is
very good at farming. But Wolf’s Brother should not fear for your future”—she smiled at Rachel—“because a good peace-talker would be welcome at any hearth and Thayendanegea would himself offer to keep you.”

Despite her best intentions, Rachel’s mouth fell open.

“Oh—not that way,” Catherine assured her. “He means he would maintain you as a valued member of his household, not his bed.”

“Oh,” said Rachel, faintly.

Before she could think of a courteous rejection of either proposal, there was a cold draft from the hall as the front door opened, and soft footsteps in the hallway.

Everyone turned to look, and Rachel saw an older Mohawk man, still slender and upright, but with gray hair—this finely dressed with silver buttons and a pair of passenger pigeon wings dangling from a strand of braided blue thread—and a deeply weathered countenance, whose lines and dark eyes showed a man of self-assurance and deep humor. He bowed to the ladies, eyes creased with interest.

“Ah, there you are,” Joseph Brant said, sounding amused. “I should have known you couldn’t keep away from such visitors.” He rose and bowed likewise to the ladies. “Madame Murray, Madame Another Murray, and Madame…Hardman? Really, how strange…May I present to you the Sachem, my uncle.”

“Charmed, mesdames,” said the Sachem, whose accent hovered somewhere between educated English and French. “And you will be Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah, of course,” he added, with a cordial nod to Ian. “Yes, thank you,” he added to the servant who was bringing in another chair and another who bore serving plates, silver, and linen napkins. He sat down between Rachel and Jenny, smiling from one to the other.

Rachel wondered whether the Sachem’s appearance had been calculated, to entertain the women while Ian talked politics with Brant, but his conversation would have graced any drawing room, and within moments, his end of the table was enlivened by observations, compliments, and stories of all kinds.

Rachel was accustomed to watch people and listen to them, and was impressed by the Sachem: he asked intelligent questions and paid attention to the answers, but when pressed for his own particulars was sufficiently witty and entertaining as to—almost—keep her from dwelling on the implications of Brant’s remarks regarding multiple wives.

“D’ye have a name, sir?” Jenny asked. “Or were ye just born a sachem, and that’s it?” Rachel gave her mother-in-law a quizzical look. She knew very well that Jenny knew what a sachem was; Ian had spent the miles between Philadelphia and Canajoharie in explanations and descriptions of the Mohawk and their ways. She’d watched his face, alight with memory and expectation, and had spent those same miles torn between pleasure in his excitement and an unworthy wish that he wouldn’t look
quite
so delighted at the notion of returning to these people—who were, she reminded herself sternly,
his
people, after all…

“Oh, surely a person is entitled to more than one name,” the Sachem replied, his eyes creasing in amusement. “You have more names than Murray, I am certain—for after all, that one must have belonged to your husband.”

Jenny looked taken aback, but then realized, as Rachel had, that the Sachem was well enough acquainted with European custom as to have recognized her by her dress as a widow.
Either that,
Rachel thought, amused,
or he’s a good guesser.

Her amusement vanished in the next instant when the Sachem took Jenny’s hand in his and said, quite casually, “He
is
still with you—your husband. He says to tell you that he walks upon two legs.”

Jenny’s mouth fell open and so did Rachel’s.

“Yes, I was born with it,” the Sachem said, smiling as he released Jenny’s hand. “But the name of my manhood—should you prefer to use it—is Okàrakarakh’kwa. It means ‘sun shining on snow,’ ” he added, his eyes creasing again.

“Blessed Michael, defend us,” Jenny said under her breath in Gaelic. “Aye,” she said in a louder voice, and drawing herself up straight, managed the ghost of a gracious smile. “Sachem will do fine for now. My name’s Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Ye can call me Mrs. Janet, if ye like.”

IF THE SACHEM KNEW
anything else of an unsettling nature, he kept it to himself, instead telling them—in answer to their questions—that he had gone with his nephew to London, as companion and adviser, hence his familiarity with English and his fondness for tea and fried sardines with strong mustard.

It was a long and elaborate meal, and by the time they had reached the corn pudding with dried strawberries, Rachel’s breasts were beginning to tingle, pushing at her stays with increasing urgency. Now that Oggy could eat a little solid food, he nursed less often, and this sense of being about to burst hadn’t happened in some time.

She pushed the thought aside; think of Oggy for one minute more, and her milk would let down. She’d folded pads of cloth inside her stays as a precaution, but they wouldn’t withstand the gush for long. She caught Catherine’s eye and made a brief, questioning look with a nod of the head toward the door.

Catherine stood at once and, touching her husband’s shoulder with brief affection, beckoned Rachel with a nod to follow her.

“Oggy—my babe,” Rachel said, in the hallway. “Where is he just now?” She had been induced to let a young Mohawk girl mind Oggy while they had tea, but had no idea where the girl might have taken him.

“Oh,” said Catherine, with a little frown. “I saw Bridget take him outside a little while ago. Don’t worry,” she added kindly, seeing Rachel’s face. “He’s well wrapped up, and I’m sure they’ll come back soon.”

“Soon”
wasn’t going to be soon enough; Rachel’s breasts were beginning to leak at just the thought of Oggy.

“In that case,” she said, trying to preserve her dignity, “may I trouble you to show me to the necessary?”

The necessary was outside, a well-tended brick structure, and Catherine left Rachel there with a smile. Rachel thanked her and hastily moved behind the privy. Privacy was necessary, but she didn’t mean to express her milk into a cesspit.

She managed the stays barely in time. One thought of her son, heavy and boneless in his absorption, the sudden hard pull of his suckling, and milk jetted from both breasts, spattering among the tattered red creepers that grew up the wall of the privy. She closed her eyes, sighing in relief, then opened them almost at once, hearing the creak of the privy door on the other side of the building, then footsteps on the path.

She had barely time to clutch her cloths to her exposed breasts before a man came round the corner of the necessary, stopping dead when he saw her.

“Wehhh!”
he said, goggling at her. He was a white man, though very much tanned by the sun, like Ian. He had no tattoos, but wore clothes that were a combination of Indian and European dress, like Joseph Brant, though his garments were of a much lesser quality. He limped badly, she saw, and walked with a stick.

“If thee doesn’t mind, Friend, I would be grateful for a moment’s privacy,” she said, with what dignity was possible.

“What?” He jerked his eyes from her breasts and looked her in the face. “Oh. Oh, certainly. My pardon. Er…madam.” He backed slowly away, though he seemed unable to remove his eyes from her chest.

He turned hastily at the corner of the necessary and almost immediately collided with someone coming rapidly the other way. Rachel heard the impact, a feminine outcry, another Mohawk execration from the man, and then…

“Gabriel!” Silvia Hardman’s voice said in astonishment.

“Silvia!”

Rachel stood frozen, warm milk dribbling over her fingers.

Both voices together said, in tones of accusation, “What is
thee
doing here?”

“Lord, have mercy,” Rachel said, under her breath, and took two steps to the corner of the necessary, peering cautiously round it.

“I—I—” GABRIEL’S FACE
was pale with shock, but Rachel could see that he bore the signs of work, long months of exposure to the sun, and the marks of starvation, not that long in the past. “I— Silvia? It is thee? Really thee?”

Silvia’s shoulders were shaking under her gray cloak. She lifted a trembling hand to her face, as though wondering whether it really
was
her.

“It…is,” she said, sounding doubtful, but the hand dropped, and she took a few steps toward her husband and stopped, staring at him. Her head tilted as she looked down, and Rachel saw that in addition to the stick he had dropped, he had a crutch tucked under one arm, and the leg and foot on that side were oddly twisted.

“What happened to thee?” Silvia whispered, and her hand went out toward him. He made a small, convulsive movement as though to take her hand, but then drew back.

“I—was taken. By Shawnee. They brought me north; one night I escaped. That made them angry, and they—chopped my foot in half.” He swallowed. “With an ax.”

“Oh, Christ Jesus, have mercy!”

“He did,” Gabriel said, mustering a very small smile from somewhere. “They didn’t kill me. I still had value as a slave. What—”

“Thee is a slave here?” Silvia was beginning to get a grip on her emotions; her voice held indignation as well as shock.

Gabriel shook his head, though.

“No. The Lord did protect me; the Shawnee sold me to a band of Mohawk who had with them a Jesuit priest—they were escorting him to a mission in Canada. He spoke only French, and I had little enough of that, but he bound and poulticed my wound and I showed him that I could write and figure, and he persuaded my captors that I would be worth more to a man of property than working someone’s fields.”

“Mr. Brant?” Silvia sounded utterly horrified, and Rachel was, too.

“Eventually.” Gabriel sounded suddenly tired, and the lines in his face showed stark. “I am—not a slave here, though. I am…free.”

Free.

The word hung in the cold morning air, glistening and sharp as an icicle. No one spoke for a moment, but the unspoken words were as clear to Rachel as if they’d been shouted.

Then why did thee not come home? Or at least send word that thee was not dead?

“Have—has thee been well, Silvia?” Gabriel stood still, leaning on his crutch. He wore no wig and the cold wind lifted his fine, thinning hair so it shimmered for a moment, like a fleeting halo.

Silvia laughed at that, a high, half-hysterical titter.

“No,” she said, stopping abruptly. “No, I have not. I had no money and little help. But I have kept my girls fed, as best I could.”

“The girls. Pru and Patience, they’re with you? Here?” The excitement in his voice was unfeigned, and Rachel’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Perhaps he had been constrained from leaving, even though no longer a slave.

“Prudence, Patience, and little Chastity,” Silvia said, with a note in her voice that dared him to ask. “Yes, they are with me.”

He froze for a moment, looking closely at her face. Even from the back, Rachel could easily envision what Silvia’s expression must be: shame, defiance, hope…and fear.

“Chastity,” he repeated, slowly. “When was she born?”

“February the fourth, in ’78,” Silvia replied clearly, defiance uppermost, and Gabriel’s face hardened.

“I take it thee married again,” he said. “Is thy…husband…with thee?”

“I did not marry,” she said through her teeth.

He looked shocked. “But—but—”

“As I told thee. I kept my children fed.”

Rachel felt that she really must not be witness to such painful intimacies between the Hardmans. But a dried honeysuckle vine had attached itself to her clothing and her feet were sunk in the remains of dead tomato plants; the wind had died suddenly and there was no way she could move in the midst of this ghastly silence without detection.

“I see,” Gabriel said at last. His voice was colorless, and he stood for several moments, hands knotted before him, clearly making up his mind about something. His face changed as he thought, and the emotions of anger, pity, shame, and confusion smoothed into a hard surface of decision.

“I did marry,” he said quietly. “A Mohawk woman, the niece of the Sachem. He is—”

“I know who he is.” Silvia’s voice sounded faint and far away.

Another long moment of silence, and Rachel heard the tiny clicking noise as Gabriel licked his lips.

“The…Mohawk have a different notion of marriage,” he said.

“I would assume they do.” Silvia still sounded as though she were a hundred miles away, taking part in this conversation by means of smoke signals.

“I could—I
could
…have two wives.” He didn’t look as though the prospect of dual matrimony was a pleasant one.

“No, thee can’t,” Silvia said coldly. “Not if thee thinks I would be one of them.”

“I shouldn’t think thee would judge me,” Gabriel said stiffly. “I have uttered no word of reproach for—”

“The look on thy deceitful face is reproach enough!” The shock had worn off, and Silvia’s voice cracked with fury. “How dare thee, Gabriel! How long has thee been here, with every facility for writing and communication, and thee sent no word? Had I been a respectable widow, and had thee not separated us from Yearly Meeting and other Friends in Philadelphia—I
would
have married again, deeply though I mourned thee.” Her voice broke and she breathed audibly, trying to regain her control.

“But no one knew whether thee was dead, detained, or…or what! I couldn’t marry. I was left with nothing…
nothing…
save that house. A roof over our heads. The army took my goats and trampled my garden, and I sold everything other than a bed and a table. And after that…”

“Chastity,” Gabriel said, in a nasty tone.

Silvia was upright as an oak sapling, fists clenched at her sides and trembling with rage. When she spoke, though, her voice was calm and ringing.

“I divorce thee,” she said. “I married thee in good faith, I loved and comforted thee, I gave thee children. And thee has abandoned me, thee has treated me in bad faith and intend to continue doing so. There is no marriage between us. I divorce and disown thee.”

Gabriel looked completely flabbergasted. Rachel understood that divorce was
possible
between Friends but had never known anyone who had done it. Had such a thing really just happened in front of her?

“You. Divorce
me
?” For the first time, anger flushed his face. “If anyone was to declare the union between us void—”

“
I
did not deceive my spouse.
I
did not commit bigamy. But
I
will say that our marriage is ended, and thee has no means by which to prevent me.”

Rachel had edged out of sight in reflex, a palm clutched over her mouth, as though she might exclaim in protest at the scene before her. She was preparing to steal away when Gabriel spoke again.

“Of course, I will keep Patience and Prudence,” he assured Silvia, and Rachel froze. She felt obliged to peek cautiously round the building again, if only to be sure that Silvia’s silence did not mean she’d dropped dead from shock or fury.

She hadn’t, though she had turned slightly, and it was plain from her congested face that only inability to choose among the words flooding her throat was keeping her from speaking.

“I missed them cruelly,” Gabriel said, and from the look on his face, he probably meant it.

“Thee naturally didn’t miss Chastity,” Silvia said, her voice trembling—with rage, Rachel was sure, though from the expression on Gabriel’s face, a mingled look of pity and exasperation, she didn’t think
he’d
diagnosed his wife’s mood correctly.

“I—do not condemn thee,” he said. “Whether it was…rape, or…or choice, thee—”

“Oh, most assuredly choice,” Silvia hissed. “The choice between spreading my legs or seeing my children starve! The choice
thee
left me with!”

Gabriel stiffened. “What—Whatever the cause of her birth, the child cannot be condemned or held guilty,” he said. “She holds the light of Christ within her, just as all men do, but—”

“But thee is unwilling to acknowledge Christ in her—or me, I suppose!”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched hard and he struggled for a moment, clearly seeking to control his exigent emotions.

“Thee interrupted me just now,” he said evenly. “I said I will keep Patience and Prudence with me. They will be happy, safe, and well cared for. But I will give thee a sum of money with which to maintain yourself and the—child.”