None of the women had bright clothes, Jenny being still in her widow’s black, Silvia possessing only one dress without holes, and Rachel’s modest traveling wardrobe sporting nothing more ornate than a fur lining in her best cloak, Ian having insisted on it as a matter of survival rather than vanity. But they were all clean and decent, the fabrics good wool—and Jenny’s bodice was a heavy black silk, at least.
“And we havena got soil or animal leavings under our fingernails,” Jenny pointed out. “And we’ve good caps, though a bit of lace wouldna come amiss.”
Ian shook his head good-naturedly and put on three bracelets over the sleeves of his jacket, two of silver and one of polished copper. He bent to peer into the tiny shaving mirror the landlady had provided, in order to fix in his hair the spectacular blue and red feathers John Quincy Myers had brought him—from a “macaw,” Myers had said, though he was unable to describe what such a bird might look like, having never seen aught of it himself save a handful of feathers.
“Tell me again how to pronounce the gentleman’s name, will thee, Ian?” Rachel said, nerves getting the better of her.
“T’ay’ENDan’egg-e-a,” Ian replied, squinting into the mirror, hands busy behind his head. “But it doesna matter; his English name is Joseph Brant.”
“Brant,” Rachel repeated, and swallowed.
“And my—the woman we’ve come to see about—is Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa,” he added, with apparent casualness. He grinned at Rachel in the mirror. “Just so ye’ll ken when we’re talkin’ about her.”
Jenny sniffed and drew Rachel away to the outer room, to leave Ian space for his toilette, the bedroom being small and cramped.
“I shouldna imagine we’ll be talkin’ to her,” she said to Rachel under her breath as they emerged into the tiny parlor. “Or I’d be askin’ him how to say, ‘Clear off, ye brazen-faced trollop,’ in Mohawk. Though that’s maybe no just polite …”
“Possibly not,” Rachel said, feeling her spirit lighten a little. “If you find out, though, do tell me. Just in case.”
Jenny shot her a sideways look.
“And you a Friend,” she said in mock disapproval. “Though I suppose having the light o’ Christ inside her doesna necessarily keep a woman from bein’ a brazen-faced trollop …” She squeezed Rachel’s wrist with her free hand. “Dinna fash, lassie. The lad loves ye. Surely ye ken that?”
“I haven’t any doubt,” she assured Jenny. And she didn’t—truly, she didn’t. It was the children who troubled her. Emily’s children.
But this was Ian’s choice to make; it had to be. He came out of the bedroom then, resplendent. He was outwardly grave, but she could almost hear excitement humming in his blood. She had picked up her cloak but stood holding it, looking at him.
“Perhaps I should stay with the children. Surely thee should go alone, first?” she asked. “To—to—”
“No,” he said, in a tone indicating that he didn’t mean to argue about it, and swung Oggy up into his arms. “We’re invited to tea.”
TO HER EVERLASTING surprise, it was tea. A formal tea, in an elegant parlor, in a house that could have been built by a moderately successful Boston merchant. Joseph Brant was dressed rather like a merchant, too, in a good blue suit—though he wore a wide silver bracelet that clasped the blue broadcloth just above his elbow and had his hair plaited in a queue and tied with a lace from which dangled two small—but bright—red feathers.
Rachel thought that no one would have mistaken him for anything but what he was, no matter what his dress. He wasn’t a tall man, but had a broad-shouldered presence and a wide, square-jawed face with a firm, fleshy mouth and heavy black brows.
“I thank thee for thy kindness in receiving us,” she said, looking him in the eye as she smiled. Friends neither bowed nor curtsied, but she gave him her hand and he bowed low over it and rose with a look of interest on his face.
“You’re a Friend?” he said.
“I am,” she replied, and nodding toward Silvia, “as is my friend, Silvia Hardman.”
“Be welcome,” he replied, bowing low to each lady in turn, and lower still to Jenny. “Madam, I am honored.”
“Well, I’m no a Friend myself, sir,” she said. She eyed his feathers and jewelry. “But I’m friendly.” For the moment, her face said plainly.
Brant smiled at that—a genuine smile that reached his eyes.
“I am relieved to hear that, madam. I think I shouldn’t care to have you for an enemy.”
“No, you wouldna,” Ian assured him, straight-faced. “But by good fortune, we all come in peace. My uncle sends ye a token of his friendship.”
Jamie and Ian between them had decided on the gift for Brant, and Ian had had it made in Philadelphia: a handsome inkwell whose heavy crystal was banded with silver, this stamped with the four triangles that symbolized air, earth, fire, and water, and had upon the cap the two triangles lying atop each other, pointing in different directions, that stood for “all that is.” With it was a quill, also banded with silver, made from the forefeather of a great horned owl, supplied by Jamie.
Brant looked at the feather with interest, then at Ian. It was the first feather of the wing, the barbs shorter at one side, so that the feather had a long indented curve at the leading edge, while the barbs on the trailing edge were serrated, like a comb. It was this that let an owl fly silently, with no hint of its presence until it dropped suddenly out of the night to seize its prey. As a present, such a feather might be taken as compliment—or warning. Owls were a symbol of wisdom—but also might be harbingers of something dire or dangerous.
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.