Peace seeped into her soul with the chill of the night, and she sought it, welcomed it. But there was still an unquiet part of her mind, and a burning in her heart, at odds with the vast quiet that surrounded her.
Ian would never lie to her. He’d said so, and she believed him. But she wasn’t fool enough to think that meant he told her everything she might want to know. And she very much wanted to know more about Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa, the Mohawk woman Ian had called Emily … and loved.
So now she was perhaps alive, perhaps not. If she did live … what might be her circumstances?
For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder how old Emily might be, and what she looked like. Ian hadn’t ever said; she hadn’t ever asked. It hadn’t seemed important, but now …
Well. When she found him alone, she would ask, that’s all. And with determination, she turned her face to the moon and her heart to her inner light and prepared to wait.
IT WAS MAYBE an hour later when the darkness near her moved and Ian was suddenly there beside her, a warm spot in the night.
“Is Oggy awake?” she asked, drawing her shawl around her.
“Nay, lass, he’s sleeping like a stone.”
“And thy friends?”
“Much the same. I gave them a bit of Uncle Jamie’s whisky.”
“How very hospitable of thee, Ian.”
“That wasna exactly my intention, but I suppose I should take credit for it, if it makes ye think more highly of me.”
He brushed the hair behind her ear, bent his head, and kissed the side of her neck, making his intention clear. She hesitated for the briefest instant, but then ran her hand up under his shirt and gave herself over, lying back on her shawl beneath the star-strewn sky.
Let it be just us, once more, she thought. If he thinks of her, let him not do it now.
And so it was that she didn’t ask what Emily looked like, until the Mohawks finally left, three days later.
IAN DIDN’T PRETEND not to know why she asked.
“Small,” he said, holding his hand about three inches above his elbow. Four inches shorter than I … “Neat, with a—a pretty face.”
“If she is beautiful, Ian, thee may say so,” Rachel said dryly. “I am a Friend; we aren’t given to vanity.”
He looked at her, his lips twitching a little. Then he thought better of whatever he’d been about to say. He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them and answered her honestly.
“She was lovely. I met her by the water—a pool in the river, where the water spreads out and there’s not even a ripple on the surface, but ye feel the spirit of the river moving through it just the same.” He’d seen her standing thigh-deep in the water, clothed but with her shirt drawn up and tied round her waist with a red scarf, holding a thin spear of sharpened wood and watching for fish.
“I canna think of her in—in her parts,” he said, his voice a little husky. “What her eyes looked like, her face …” He made an odd, graceful little gesture with his hand, as though he cupped Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa’s cheek, then traveled the line of her neck and shoulder. “I only—when I think of her—” He glanced at her and made a hem noise in his throat. “Aye. Well. Aye, I think of her now and then. Not often. But when I do, I only think of her as all of a piece, and I canna tell ye in words what that looks like.”
“Why should thee not think of her?” Rachel said, as gently as she could. “She was thy wife, the mother of—of your children.”
“Aye,” he said softly, and bent his head. Emily had borne him one stillborn daughter and miscarried two more babes. Rachel thought she might have chosen her place better; they were in the shed that served as a small barn and there was a farrowing sow in a pen right in front of them, a dozen fat piglets thrusting and grunting at her teats, a testament to fecundity.
“I need to tell ye something, Rachel,” he said, raising his head abruptly.
“Thee knows thee can tell me anything, Ian,” she said, and meant it, but her heart meant something different and began to beat faster.
“The—her—Emily’s children. I told ye I’d met them when I saw her last. The two young ones—she had those by Sun Elk, but the eldest, the boy …” He hesitated. “She asked me to name the baby—that’s a great honor,” he explained, “but something made me name the boy, instead. I called him Swiftest of Lizards—he was catching lizards when I met him, catching them in his hand. We—got on,” he said, and smiled briefly at the memory.
“I’m sorry, Rachel, I ken ye’ll think that’s wrong, but I’m no sorry I did it.”
“I see …” she said slowly, though she didn’t. She was beginning to have a hollow feeling in her middle, though. “So what thee is telling me is—”
“I think he’s maybe mine,” Ian blurted. “The boy. He would ha’ been born about the right time, after I left. The thing is … ken, I told ye the Mohawk say that when a man lies with a woman, his spirit fights with hers?”
“I wouldn’t say they’re wrong, but—” She flapped a hand, interrupting herself. “Go on.”
“And if his spirit conquers hers, she’ll get wi’ child.” He put his arm round her, his hand big and warm on her elbow. “So maybe Auntie Claire was wrong about the things in the blood—I mean, our wee man is fine. Maybe it was Emily’s blood that … aye, well …” He bent his head and rested it on hers, so they stood forehead-to-forehead, eye-to-eye.
“I dinna ken, Rachel,” he said quietly. “But—”
“We have to go,” she said, though her heart had gone so small she could barely feel its beating. “Of course we must go.”
56
Thee Would Make a Good Friend
“THEE WOULD MAKE A good Friend, thee knows,” Rachel remarked, holding back a laurel branch for her mother-in-law, who was burdened by a large basket of quilting. Rachel herself was burdened with Oggy, who had fallen asleep in the sling she carried him in.
Janet Murray gave her a sharp look and made what Claire had privately described to Rachel as a Scottish noise, this being a mingled snort and gargling sound that might indicate anything from mild amusement or approval to contempt, derision, or impending forcible action. At the moment, Rachel thought her mother-in-law was amused, and smiled herself.
“Thee is forthright and direct,” Rachel pointed out. “And honest. Or at least I suppose thee to be,” she added, slightly teasing. “I can’t say I have ever caught thee in a lie.”
“Wait ’til ye’ve kent me a bit longer, lass, before ye make judgments like that,” Jenny advised her. “I’m a fine wee liar, when the need arises. What else, though?” Her dark-blue eyes creased a little—definitely amusement. Rachel smiled back and thought for a moment, threading her way over a steep patch of gravel where the trail had washed out, then reaching back to take the basket.
“Thee is compassionate. Kind. And fearless,” she said, watching Jenny come down, half-sliding and grabbing branches to keep erect.
Her mother-in-law’s head turned sharply, eyes wide.