“Jesus.”
“Aye.” She stretched herself, groaning a little, and shook her skirts, which were thick with foxtails by now. Jamie could feel the prick of them through his stockings, dozens of tiny needles. The thought of Jenny’s going was a dirk right through his heart. It hurt to breathe.
He knew she could tell; she didn’t look at him but coiled up the pearl rosary neatly and, taking his hand, dropped it into his palm.
“Keep it for me,” she said, matter-of-factly, “and if I dinna come back, give it to Mandy, when she’s old enough.”
“Jenny …” he said softly.
“See, when ye come to reckon your life,” she said briskly, stooping to pick up the goat’s rope, “ye see that it’s the bairns are most important. They carry your blood and they carry whatever else ye gave them, on into the time ahead.” Her voice was perfectly steady, but she cleared her throat with a tiny hem before going on.
“Mandy’s the farthest out, aye?” she said. “As far as I can reach. The youngest girl of Mam’s blood. Let her take it on, then.”
He swallowed, hard.
“I will,” he said, and closed his hand over the beads, warm from his sister’s touch, warm with her prayers. “I swear, sister.”
“Well, I ken that, clot-heid,” she said, smiling up at him. “Come and help me catch these goats.”
Part Four
* * *
A JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES
59
Special Requests
JAMIE HANDED IAN A small, heavy purse.
“I can manage, Uncle,” he said, trying to hand it back. “We’ve horses, and I’ve got enough coin to feed us, I think.”
“You’d be happy enough to sleep in the woods along the way, and Rachel’s young and strong, and doubtless she’d do it for love of ye. But if ye think ye can make your mother travel seven hundred miles, sleeping by the side of the road and eating what ye can catch along the way … think again, aye?”
“Mmphm.” Ian acknowledged the reason in this, though he weighed the purse reluctantly in the palm of his hand.
“Besides,” his uncle added, and glanced over his shoulder. “There’s a favor I’d ask of ye.”
“Of course, Uncle Jamie.” Auntie Claire was out in the side yard, helping with the laundry; he saw his uncle’s eye rest on her, with a mingled look of affection and wariness that piqued Ian’s interest. “What is it?”
“Rachel says ye mean to stop in Philadelphia for a few days on your way, so that she can visit some of her Quaker Friends and go to a proper meeting.”
“Aye. So …?”
“Well. About five miles outside the city, along the main road, there’s a small lane—it’s called Mulberry; I’ve drawn ye a map, but ye can ask your way, too. There’s a wee falling-down sort of house at the end of the lane; that belongs to a woman named Silvia Hardman.”
“A woman?” Ian glanced involuntarily at Auntie Claire, too. She was laughing at something Jem had once said to her, her face flushed from the heat of the fire and her mad hair escaping from the scarf she had bound round her head.
“Aye,” his uncle said tersely, turning slightly so his back was to the launderers. “A Quaker lady, a widow wi’ three small girls. She did me a great service, before Monmouth, and since ye’ll be passing by, I’d like ye to see what her condition is, and no matter what it is, oblige her to take this.” He fished in his sporran and came out with another, smaller, purse.
Ian accepted it without question, putting it away in his own pouch. Uncle Jamie was frowning slightly, hesitant.
“Anything else, Uncle?”
“If—I mean—I dinna ken whether …”
“Whatever it is, a bràthair-mhàthair, ye ken I’ll do it, aye?” He smiled at Uncle Jamie, who relaxed and smiled back.
“I do, Ian, and I’m grateful. The thing is—Friend Silvia is a virtuous woman, but her husband was killed, maybe by the British army, maybe by Loyalists, maybe by Indians. He left her badly off, she’s no kin, and … there aren’t so many ways for a woman alone to provide for three wee girls.”
“She’s a hoor, then?” Ian had lowered his own voice, keeping an eye on the steam rising from the laundry kettle. Wee Orrie Higgins was minding Oggy and apparently trying to teach him to play patty-cake, though the bairn couldn’t manage more than waving his chubby arms and crowing.
“No!” Uncle Jamie’s face darkened. “I mean—she sometimes …”
“I understand,” Ian said hastily, suddenly wondering at the nature of the service Mrs. Hardman might have rendered his uncle.
“Not me, for God’s sake!”
“I didna think it was, Uncle!”
“Aye, ye did,” Uncle Jamie said dryly. “But beyond rubbing horseradish liniment into my backside and poulticing my back, the woman never laid a hand on me—or I on her, all right?”
Ian grinned at his uncle and raised both hands, indicating a complete acceptance of this story.
“Mmphm. So, as I said, I want ye to see what her condition is. It may be that she’s found a man to marry her—and if she has, you be damned careful about giving her the money so he doesna see; even if he’s a good man, he might assume things that aren’t true—” And here he gave Ian a hard look. “But if she’s entertaining men that come to her house, you find that out and make sure that none of them are threatening her or seem a danger to her or her wee lassies.”
“And if they are …?”
“Take care of it.”
I FOUND IAN in the springhouse, sniffing cheeses.
“Take that one,” I suggested, pointing at a cheesecloth-wrapped shape at the end of the top shelf. “It’s at least six months old, so it’ll be hard enough to travel with. Oh, but you might want some of the softer cheese for Oggy, mightn’t you?”
There were at least a dozen tin tubs of soft goat’s cheese, some flavored with garlic and chives—one adventurous experiment with minced dried tomatoes that I had severe doubts about—but four unflavored, for use in feeding people with digestive upset and for mixing in medicines that I couldn’t get anyone to swallow otherwise.
“Rachel thinks he might be teething,” Ian assured me. “By the time we reach New York, he’ll be gnawing raw meat off the bone.”
I laughed, but felt a sharp pang at the realization that he was right; by the time we saw Oggy again, he would likely be walking, perhaps talking, and fully equipped to eat anything that took his fancy.
“He might even have a proper name by that time,” I said, and Ian smiled, shaking his head.
“Ye never ken when a person’s right name will come—but it always does.” He glanced down to one side, by reflex. To where Rollo would have been.
“Wolf’s Brother?” I said. That was the name the Mohawk had given him when he became one of them. I was quite aware—and I thought Rachel and Jenny both knew it even better—that he had by no means stopped being a Mohawk, even though he’d come back to live with us again. He hadn’t stopped looking down at his side for Rollo, either.