“Has he come back here—since?” Ian asked, watching her closely. She looked startled.
“I—well … yes. I only saw him twice, mind, and it’s been a long while, so I maybe don’t recall his name for sure.”
Ian sighed, gave her a direct look, and handed her a golden guinea.
“Vaskwez,” she said without hesitation. “Sebastian Vaskwez.”
“Vas—was he a Spaniard?” Ian asked, his mind having smoothly transmuted her rendering to “Sebastiàn Vasquez.”
“I don’t know,” Trix said frankly. “I’ve never had a Spaniard—knowin’-like, I mean—wouldn’t know what they sound like.”
“They all sound the same in bed,” Meg said, giving Ian an eye. Trix gave her friend a withering look.
“He sounded foreign-like, no doubt about that. And no talking through his nose or that gwaw-gwaw sort of thing Frenchies do. I’ve had three Frenchmen,” she explained to Ian, with a small showing of pride. “Was a few of ’em in Philadelphia while the British army was here.”
“When was the last time Vasquez came here?” he asked.
“Two … no, maybe close to three years ago.”
“Did he go with Jane then?” Ian asked.
“No,” Trix said unexpectedly. “He went with me.” She made a face. “He stank of gunpowder—like an artilleryman. He wasn’t one, though; they’ve all got it ground into their skin and their hands are black with it, but he was clean, though he smelled like a fired pistol.”
A thought occurred to Ian—though thinking was becoming difficult. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that his body was taking strong notice of the girls, but arousal seldom did much for the mental faculties.
“Could ye tell if he was still a sea captain?” he asked. Both girls looked blank.
“I mean—did he mention his ship, or maybe say he was taking on crew, anything like that? Did he smell of the sea, or—or—fish?”
That made them both laugh.
“No, just gunpowder,” Trix said, recovering.
“Mother Abbott called him ‘Captain,’ though,” Trix added. “And ’twas clear enough he weren’t a soldier.”
A few more questions emptied both bottles, and it was clear that the girls had told him all they knew, little as it was. At least he had a name. There were sounds in the house, opening doors, heavy footsteps, men’s voices and women’s greetings; it was just past teatime and the cullies were beginning to come in.
He rose, arranged himself without shame, and bowed to them, thanking them for their kind assistance.
At the bottom of the stairs, he heard Trix call down to him and looked up to see her leaning over the rail of the landing above.
“Aye?” he said. She glanced round to make sure there was no one near, then scuttled down the stairs and took him by the sleeve.
“I know one thing more,” she said. “When Mother Abbott went to sell Arabella’s maidenhead, she hadn’t one, so they had to use a bladder of chicken blood.”
SILVIA SENT HER girls off with a tray loaded with food, to eat in the bedroom. Then she sat down at the table, where Jenny and Rachel had laid out thick slices of bread on which to serve the bacon and beans, they having no more than the two warped wooden plates that had been provided with their rooms.
Ian thought the smell of food might be enough to knock him over; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten—he thought it might have been yesterday sometime, but he’d been too busy to notice. He broke off a corner of bread with a good bit of beans cooked with bacon and onions on it, shoveled it into his mouth, and made an involuntary sound that caused all the women to look at him.
“Ye sound like a starving wolf, lad,” his mother said, raising her brows.
Rachel laughed, and Silvia smiled, very gingerly. She ate the same way, owing to her split lip, and he thought, from the tentative way she chewed, that a couple of her teeth might have been loosened as well. If he’d had any compunction about killing Judge Fredericks—and he hadn’t—it would have vanished on the spot.
He felt much the same toward the so-called Friends of the Yearly Meeting. Rachel had told him a good bit about the nature of Quaker meetings, and he understood that while anyone was welcome to sit and to worship with them, it was a different thing to be part of the meeting: people were accepted only after consideration and conference.
There was something akin to the way a clan worked in this; there was an expectation of obligation that went both ways. So he could understand, he supposed, why the Friends of Philadelphia hadn’t simply scooped Silvia into their bosoms. Still, he resented them for it.
“Friends are ideally meant to be compassionate, peaceable, and honest,” Rachel said, frowning. “This does not mean that they reserve judgment, nor that they don’t possess strong opinions, which they are, of course, welcome to express.”
“And they gossip?” Ian asked. Rachel sighed.
“We do. I mean,” she added, “we discourage anything in the way of ill-natured gossip, spreading scandal or personal disparagement—but by the nature of a meeting, everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Aye.” Ian scraped a last bit of bread around the rim of the pot, salvaging the rest of the succulent juice. “Well, Friend Silvia’s business is none of theirs. Do ye have a notion what ye’d like to do, or where ye want to go, lass?” he asked, addressing Silvia. “We’ll help ye do it, regardless.”
“I wish to go with you,” Silvia blurted. A red tide surged up her thin neck and blotched her cheeks. “I know I haven’t any right to ask you—but I do.”
Rachel at once looked at Ian, and so did his mother. Well, he was the man, and it was his fault they were here, so he supposed he had a right to decide how many women he could reasonably juggle. Still …
“I do not wish to remain in Philadelphia,” Silvia said. She’d got hold of herself and her voice was steady. “Since Yearly Meeting knows who I am—both by name and reputation,” she added, with a slight note of bitterness, “I will find no acceptance here. Any meeting that took me in would soon realize their mistake. And while I could earn a living as an actual whore, I will not on any account expose my daughters to such a life.”
“Aye,” Ian said reluctantly. “I suppose ye’re right, but—we’re bound for New York, lass, and the country of the Hodeenosaunee.”
“That’s the Iroquois League,” Rachel put in. “More specifically, we’re bound for a small town called Canajoharie, inhabited by the Mohawk.”
“I suppose I might find a place somewhere before we reach Canajoharie. But if not—have the Mohawk any objection to whores?” Silvia asked, a small frown creasing the flesh between her brows.
“They dinna really have a word for that,” Ian said. “And if they dinna have a word for something, it’s no important.”
Oggy, who had been having an earnest conversation with his toes, looked up at this point, said “Da” very clearly, and then returned to his toes.
Ian smiled, then sighed deeply and addressed his son.
“Three women and three wee lassies. I’m sure ye’ll be as much aid to me as ye can, a bhalaich, but there’s no help for it. I’ll need another man.”