“Mac na galladh,” he muttered.
“Is that a Scottish curse?” she asked, and sat up straighter, the handkerchief still twisted in her hands. “Perhaps I should find it easier to say bad words in another language.”
“Nay, Gàidhlig cursing’s a different thing. It’s … well, ye make a curse for the occasion, ye might say. We really dinna have bad words, but ye might say something like, ‘May worms breed in your belly and choke ye on their way out.’ That’s no a very good one,” he said apologetically. “Just on the spur o’ the moment, ken? Uncle Jamie can turn a curse would curl your hair, without even thinkin’ about it, but I’m no that good.”
She made a small hough sound that wasn’t close to a laugh, but wasn’t crying, either.
“What was that thee said, then?” she asked, after a moment’s silence. “In Gaelic.”
“Oh, mac na galladh? That’s just ‘son of a bitch.’ Something ye might say by way o’ description, maybe. Or if ye can’t think of anything better to say, and ye have to say something or burst.”
“Mac na galladh, then,” she said, and fell silent.
“Thee need not stay with me,” she added, after a few moments.
“Dinna be daft,” he said amiably, and they sat together for some time. Until the back door opened, and the black form of a man on crutches showed for a moment against the light. The door closed, and Ian stood up. “God bless thee, Silvia,” he said softly, and squeezed her shoulder briefly in farewell.
He didn’t, of course, go far. Only into the shadows under a nearby larch.
“Silvia?” Gabriel called, peering into the dark. “Is thee here? Mrs. Brant said thee had gone out.”
“I am here,” she said. Her tone was perfectly neutral, and Ian thought it had cost her quite a bit to make it so.
Her husband stumped through the hay-strewn mud to the target tree and bent to peer at her in the shadow.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Say what thee must.”
He snorted briefly, but laid his crutches on the ground and straightened up.
“Well, then. I wish the girls to remain here. They wish this, too,” he added, after a pause.
“Of course they do,” she said, her voice colorless. “They loved thee. They have constant hearts; they still love thee. Did thee tell them that thee has married again, that thee has another family?”
There was silence, and after a moment of it, she laughed. Bitterly.
“And did thee tell them that thee would have nothing to do with their sister? Or has thee changed thy mind regarding Chastity?”
“Has thee changed thy mind regarding our marriage? I can have two wives, as I said. Perhaps thee could find a place nearby, where thee could live with the … the child, and Prudence and Patience would be able to visit. And I, of course,” he added.
“I have not changed my mind,” she said, her voice cold as the night. “I will not be thy concubine, nor will I let Patience and Prudence remain here.”
“I am far from rich, but I can—I will—manage the expense,” he began, but she cut him off, leaping to her feet, visible now in the faint light from the house.
“Damn the ‘expense,’” she said, furious. “After what thee said, thee expects that I will—”
“What did I say?” he demanded. “If I spoke out of shock—”
“Thee said I was a whore.”
“I did not use that word!”
“Thee didn’t have to! Thy meaning was clear enough.”
“I didn’t mean …” Gabriel began, and she rounded on him, eyes blazing.
“Oh, but thee did mean it. And whatever thee says now, thee would still mean it. If I were to go to thy bed, thee would wilt from thinking of the men who had come before thee, and be consumed with yet more anger against me for causing thy disgrace.”
She snorted, steam rising sudden from her nostrils.
“And thee would wonder whether those men were preferable to thee. Worry did I think of any of them when I touched thy body, did I think thee weak and disgusting. I know thee, Gabriel Hardman, and by this time, I know a good deal about other men, too. And thee dares … thee dares! …” She was shouting now and could be heard from the barn, surely. “Thee dares to tell me it’s godly and acceptable that thee should take more than one woman to thy bed, only because thee lives with folk who do such things!”
Gabriel was pale with anger, but had himself under control. He wanted his daughters.
“I apologize for what I said,” he said, between clenched teeth. “I spoke out of shock. How can thee blame me for speaking wildly?”
“Thee was not speaking wildly when thee said thee would take Prudence and Patience from me,” she replied.
“I am their father, and I will keep them!”
“No, thee will not,” she said evenly, and turned toward Ian’s tree. “Will he?”
Ian stepped out from behind the tree.
“No,” he said mildly. “He won’t.”
Gabriel licked his lips and huffed out a great white sigh.
“What are we to do, then, Silvia?” he said, plainly struggling for calm. “Thee knows the girls want to be with me as much as I wish to be with them. Whatever thee thinks of me at present—how can thee be so heartless as to take them from me?”
“As for thee, I expect thy other children will comfort thee,” Silvia said, in as nasty a tone as Ian had ever heard from her. She rubbed a hand over her face, hard, also striving for calm. “No. Thee is right in that, at least. I do know how much they love thee and I will never say anything to them that would blacken thee in their eyes. I think thee should tell them, though, about thy children here. They will understand that, but they will not understand why thee would keep the truth from them—and they are bound to find out sooner or later, though not from me.”
Gabriel had moved into the light as well, shuffling his lame foot. He had assumed an odd, mottled appearance, like an old birch tree whose bark is peeling off.
“I will not go and leave them here,” Silvia said, having regained some control of her emotions. “But I will write to thee when we have found a home, and thee may come to visit them. I will help them to write to thee, and perhaps they may come here to see thee again, if it seems safe.” She straightened her back and smoothed her pinafore.
“I forgive thee, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “But I will never be wife to thee again.”
89
The Filature
Savannah
September 30, 1779
ALFRED BRUMBY DIDN’T LOOK like a smuggler, or at least not like Brianna’s notion of one. On the other hand, she was forced to admit that the only people she knew who were or had been professional smugglers were her father and Fergus. Mr. Brumby was a comfortably solid and beautifully dressed gentleman of medium height who, upon meeting her, had tilted his head back, shading his eyes as he looked up at her, and then laughed and bowed to her.
“I see that Lord John knows the value of a good artist,” he said, smiling. “Do you scale your commission by the inch, madam? Because if so, I may be obliged to sell my carriage in order to afford you.”