Fire Along the Sky (8 page)

“Cousin,” she said softly. “This work of yours will outlive us all.”

Lily opened her mouth as if to thank her and then shut it again, so sharply that Jennet heard the click of her teeth. When she had quieted herself she said, “Thank you, Jennet. That is the best compliment anyone has ever paid me.”

“And she had to come all the way from Scotland for you to hear it.”

Nathaniel Bonner was standing at the open door, his large frame filling the square of light. “I've had that thought many times, but I've never said it. For that I apologize, daughter.”

Lily's expression shifted from surprise to uneasiness to uneasy pleasure. “Da, what are you doing here?”

“It's too long since I came to visit.”

There was a small and tender silence. Jennet felt the warmth of it like the sunlight on her face.

Finally Lily said, “There's something wrong, isn't there.”

Nathaniel ducked his head to clear the low doorway and came into the middle of the empty meetinghouse. He hesitated, lifted his face into the light and then lowered it again to look at his daughter. This man called himself Bonner, but Jennet could not look at him without seeing Carryck in every bone. Just at this moment he reminded her so strongly of her own father that her eyes filled with warm tears.

In Nathaniel's expression she saw regret for pain about to be inflicted, and she knew what he had come to say.

Lily knew too. She had backed up until she was half sitting on the worktable, as if she must have this support to keep herself upright. Very calmly she said, “You're letting him go, aren't you? You're letting Daniel go to war.”

“At least you're consistent,” said Richard Todd, letting himself down into the straight chair beside the Widow Kuick's sickbed. “You'll neither pay me for my time nor will you follow my prescriptions.”

Richard's words hung in the air along with the hissing hitch and sigh of the old woman's breathing. The chamber was hardly big enough for the narrow bed and a chair; the shutters on the single window held in the early morning heat and the stench of old flesh gone soft, human waste, and sweat. Hannah knew that if she were to raise the woman on the bed she would find open sores the size of eggs on her back and buttocks and legs.

In the doorway stood Jemima Southern Kuick. She looked no different than she had when Hannah last saw her ten years ago. She was a sturdy woman, with plain, strong features and a mouth as curved and sharp as a sickle, and yet there was something different. She was angry; Hannah had never known Jemima to be anything but angry, but now weariness had the upper hand, or maybe—and this idea unsettled Hannah—it was not so much weariness as a resignation so complete that it went beyond despair.

Her daughter stood next to her and slightly behind, a slender girl who kept her eyes on the ground but even so hummed with curiosity.

Jemima said, “There's work in the kitchen, Martha.” Her tone was unmarked by affection or even concern; all her attention was on Hannah.

Martha Kuick's gaze flickered over the bed. The Widow—the woman she believed to be her grandmother—lay as peaceful and unmoving as a bundle of kindling loosely bound. The girl looked as if she meant to say something to the doctor, to ask a question or make a promise, but her courage failed her.

“The kitchen,” Jemima said again. “Now.”

When the girl was gone Richard said, “If you won't take proper care of this woman then hire somebody to do it.”

“I feed her,” Jemima said. “I wipe her shitty arse. I bathe her. Maybe not enough for your tastes, but then fine folks don't have to haul their own water, do they.”

She was talking to Richard and looking at Hannah. Her smile was meant to frighten, and still Hannah could find nothing inside herself but pity for the women in this house. It would make Jemima howl to know that, and so she kept her expression blank.

Richard said, “She's lost more weight.”

Jemima shrugged. “She eats as good as I do.”

For a moment Hannah thought the doctor might rouse himself into one of his old tempers, but then the tension in his face seeped away.

“I'm going to examine her now,” he said wearily. “And then I'll relieve her.” For the last week the Widow had been unable to let down her own urine; once a day someone had to help her with it by means of a probe as thin as a reed. Sooner or later an infection would set in and finish off the old woman, and it would be a blessing. In spite of the nastiness and ill will the Widow had spewed over the years, Hannah thought she had suffered enough; her rest would be well earned.

“I suppose you're going to be coming in his place,” Jemima said to Hannah. The corner of her mouth jerked as if the idea of such an arrangement amused her.

“When necessary,” Hannah said.

“Unless you want to do this yourself.” Richard looked up from the instruments he was laying out.

“Oh no, I wouldn't rob anyone of the pleasure,” Jemima said, laughing. “Especially not her.” There was some satisfaction in her voice, a mealy pleasure that made Hannah's stomach lurch. Such a quiet hate was far more frightening than any threats screamed in passion.

All through the examination, while Richard palpated the slack abdomen and put his ear to the dirty camisole and counted respirations, Jemima watched. The Widow offered no resistance, but her eyes, filmy with cataracts, flicked from side to side like a deer under the gun.

“She's nervous,” Jemima said. “She probably thinks you're here to poison her.” She said this as if she might have offered tea or asked about the weather. “She still thinks you killed her Isaiah.”

Hannah met Jemima's expression. “And what do you think?”

Jemima's mouth contorted. “Your sins are many, Hannah Bonner, but that is one death you are not responsible for.”

Richard was swabbing an open sore on the Widow's shoulder, but he raised his head to look Jemima directly in the eye.

“If there's any poisoning to be done here, I'll keep that pleasure for myself,” he said. “I should poison her and put her out of the misery you've made of her sorry life.”

The woman in the bed made a whining sound, like air let out of a bladder.

Jemima's face blanched of all color. “She's laughing at you. You made her laugh.”

“Is she?” Richard said softly. “Is it me she's laughing at?”

Hannah left the sickroom before Richard, made her way through the dark hallway and the kitchen to find young Martha in the dooryard. She was scrubbing out a cooking pot with sand, singing softly to herself. She had a clear, true voice and in that moment Hannah remembered how much Jemima had loved to sing as a girl.

She had her mother's voice, yes. But in the bright summer morning the girl's skin was as translucent as parchment and her hair alive with light. Not Isaiah Kuick's daughter but Liam Kirby's, without a doubt; anyone who had known the two men could see that truth no matter what lies Jemima told.

Most probably Martha didn't know that Isaiah Kuick wasn't her father; Isaiah had died when Jemima was pregnant, and Liam Kirby had never laid eyes on this daughter he could not claim. How Jemima had managed to get Isaiah to marry her because she was pregnant by Kirby was a question that would probably never be answered.

No doubt the Widow Kuick knew, and she would have taken delight in disowning the child to her face, had she not lost the power of speech and the ability to hold a quill. A strange blessing on the girl, but it was not the only one. Along with the color of his hair, Liam had given his daughter a sweet temperament and a forgiving spirit.

Hannah did not know where Liam Kirby was or if he was even alive.

The girl caught sight of Hannah's shadow and looked up, the long plait moving like a quicksilver snake over the thin back. Her expression was guarded, but hopeful; she said nothing, because, Hannah knew, any child raised in this household would not speak unless spoken to.

“We saw your friend Callie earlier today.”

Martha smiled shyly, ducked her head in acknowledgment. “Are you going to heal her ma?”

“I will try to help her,” Hannah said.

The girl chewed her lip nervously, glanced at the kitchen door and back again. “Can you make her better? Do you have the right magic to do it?”

“Ah.” Hannah looked out over the neat garden: cabbage, kale, potatoes. The kind of garden where flowers were as unwelcome as weeds. She said, “I'm sure you've heard things about me, but the truth is, there is no magic in medicine. Faith, yes, and science. But no magic.”

“You can't fix her then.” The girl went back to her scrubbing, her movements slow and deliberate. “Callie will be sad.” After a moment she cast Hannah an uneasy glance.

“I don't mean to be rude, Miz Bonner—”

“Your mother doesn't want you to talk to me,” Hannah finished for her. “Will you tell the doctor that I've gone ahead, and I'll wait for him on the bridge? I'd much appreciate it.”

Chapter 4

Later, Curiosity wanted to hear every detail about both visits; she asked questions about the examinations and listened closely to the answers. When Hannah had finished the older woman sat down wearily in the rocker next to the hearth and shook her head.

“Poor Dolly's in a sad state and the Widow even worse, but it's that girl that worries me. Such a tender little thing being brought up by Jemima Southern. Jemima Kuick,” she corrected herself.

“She looks well fed,” Hannah said, offering that small comfort.

Curiosity snorted. “Don't talk to me about food,” she said. “The girl need a kind word now and then as much as she need food.” She paused and then said: “Tell me now, don't Martha remind you of her daddy? Not just the color of her hair, but the way she go at the world. He had an affectionate heart as a boy, a forgiving nature if there ever was one.”

She was talking about Liam Kirby, but neither of them said the name out loud. Hannah said, “Let's hope she got his stamina too, because she is going to need it.”

“He surely was tough as old leather, even as a boy.” Curiosity laughed softly. “Wouldn't have lived through the beatings Billy dished out otherwise. My, those was hard days.”

Now that the subject had been raised, Hannah decided she would not turn away from it. “Do you ever get news of Liam?”

Curiosity raised her apron to wipe her face. “Not a word in all the years.” She sent Hannah a probing look. “You relieved, or disappointed?”

Hannah sat down on a stool opposite Curiosity. “I hardly know. Numb, I suppose would be the right word. I hadn't thought of him in such a long time until I saw the girl. His daughter. If he is alive he should know about her.”

There was a longer silence while each of them sorted through memories too obvious or painful to share. Curiosity seemed to come to some conclusion because she straightened and looked Hannah directly in the eye.

“Did you notice anything unusual about Jemima?”

The question took Hannah by surprise. She considered carefully. “It seems to me that some of the fight has gone out of her.”

Curiosity snorted a soft laugh. “I suppose it might look that way, but truth be told, she got me worried. That girl has got something cooking, you wait and see.”

She set the rocker moving with a twitch of her foot.

“I hope you're wrong,” Hannah said. “But you could always smell trouble on the wind.”

“And there's more, while we're at it,” Curiosity said. “While you was out with the doctor your daddy came looking for Lily with some news she didn't like much.”

“Ah. About Daniel, and Blue-Jay. They're going with Luke.” Hannah stopped herself before she could say anything more; it would do no good, and the words couldn't be taken back.

“We all knew the day was coming, but Lily just didn't want to see it.” Curiosity spread out her hands on her lap. “You know they quarrel something awful, those two—”

“They always have,” Hannah agreed.

“That's most usually the case with twins when they get to a particular age. But Lily and Daniel ain't never been apart for long, not really. She don't know what to do with the idea of him going off to war without her.”

“How angry is she?” Hannah asked. “Should I go find her?”

“Won't do no good,” Curiosity said. “She went up the mountain and hid herself. I expect we won't see her again for a good while.”

With more energy Curiosity said, “I'm going to make some cake to send along with those boys. It ain't much, but I got to do something.”

She pushed herself out of the rocker so hard that it thumped back and forth and sent the cat running for a safer corner.

“What is it?” Hannah asked, though she knew very well.

Curiosity gave her a grim smile. “I am mad enough to spit nails, and there ain't no use in pretending otherwise. What is the Almighty thinking, letting me live long enough to see more boys go off to war? I don't know as I can stand it, Hannah. The waiting and wondering and imagining. Sending off letters that never get where they supposed to be. Waiting for word that won't come no matter how hard I bargain with the Lord. I'm likely to turn into a bitter old woman if anything should happen to either of those boys, and that's one thing I promised myself I would never be. I'd rather die. Sometimes I'm just weary of it all.”

With her fury drained away Curiosity seemed almost to wilt and collapse inward. She sat down again, heavily.

Hannah let out the breath she had been holding. Now was the time to say things that were meant to be a comfort, to recite the facts they both knew to be true: Daniel and Blue-Jay would make the best of warriors; they were both excellent marksmen and woodsmen; they would look out for each other as no one else could. But truths like these were too fragile to bear the weight of fear.

Instead of talking, Hannah did something else, something harder for her. She knelt in front of Curiosity and put her arms around the woman's thin shoulders.

“We'll bear it because we have to,” she said.

Curiosity pulled away with a sigh and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Did my father say when—”

“Tomorrow, at first light.”

“Then we know when Lily will be back,” Hannah said. “She won't let Daniel go without trying to talk him out of it again. What I'm less sure about is Jennet, and how she'll react.”

Curiosity was rattling cake pans with a vengeance, but she paused to look at Hannah over her shoulder.

“She ain't going back to Montreal?”

“She says not,” Hannah said. “But I expect Luke could change her mind.”

Curiosity snorted softly. “Those two put me in mind of porcupines in mating season. They don't exactly mean to hurt each other but they don't seem to know how to get the business done without some bloodshed neither.”

It was an image that made Hannah laugh out loud, and one that stayed with her for the rest of the day while she looked, without success, for her sister and her cousin.

“You should have waited.” Elizabeth looked up from the quill she was sharpening; she could not hide her irritation or her worry, and neither did she care to. “It might have gone better if you had come to fetch me, Nathaniel.”

Her husband sat on a low stool leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees and his hands dangling. He looked up at her with his head cocked, an expression that meant he was calculating how much of an argument he wanted just at this moment. He could say what they both knew to be true, that the conversation with Lily might have been worse too, especially if Elizabeth hadn't been able to hold her tongue. But Nathaniel had never been cruel, and he was worried about his wife almost as much as he was worried about their troubled daughter.

“I made a promise to her, Boots. I kept it.”

The penknife slipped and she put her thumb to her mouth to still the welling blood.

“I been thinking about your aunt Merriweather a lot lately,” Nathaniel said. “We never gave her much credit for telling the future, but she was mighty good at it. She promised you that Lily would give us a run for the money, didn't she?”

Elizabeth blew out an exasperated breath. “Her exact words were ‘she'll lead you a merry chase,' I believe. But I do not think I was quite so much trouble to my aunt and uncle . . .”

Her voice trailed off suddenly and was replaced by a reluctant half-smile, one that Nathaniel was relieved to see.

“You needn't give me that look,” she said dryly, winding her handkerchief around her thumb. “I take your point. In spite of all the concern I was to them at Lily's age, their concerns were unfounded. Things did turn out in the end, though not exactly as Aunt Merriweather had hoped at first. Nathaniel Bonner,” she said, her tone sharpening suddenly. “Do you ever tire of being so irritatingly clever?”

“It ain't cleverness, Boots.” He got up and brushed one hand over her hair while he reached for his rifle with the other. “I don't suppose there's much either of us could say or do anymore—good or bad—that would surprise the other one.”

“Is that true?” Elizabeth frowned. “I'm not sure I like being so predictable.”

Nathaniel laughed. “Wait until we get the youngsters sorted out before you hatch any plans about surprising me. We got our hands full as it is.”

Elizabeth's smile faded away, and she looked out the window toward the falls. “You really think I shouldn't go look for her?”

Nathaniel said, “Right now she wants to be left alone,” he said. “And then she'll need to talk to Daniel. In the meantime I need to have a word with Luke.”

“It's a complicated business, this raising of children,” Elizabeth said. “It's almost a relief, knowing there won't be any more of them to bring up and worry about.”

“You sure of that, are you?” He raised a brow at her, and she blushed in spite of her resolution not to. “Reasonably sure,” she said, and blushed again. He laughed at her over his shoulder on his way out the door.

“Don't feel obliged to prove me wrong!” she called after him, but he did not hear her, or chose not to.

Nathaniel found Luke sitting alone in the spray of the falls, his hair still dark with water and his expression unreadable. A strange thing, that his firstborn should be the most mysterious of his children, but Nathaniel had never seen or known about the boy until he was already on the brink of manhood.

He had a good memory, and he prided himself on the fact that where many men seemed unable to tell their children one from the other he could summon pictures of all of his own as newborns, both the ones still living and ones who had not lived long enough to get to really know. Red-faced and screaming or wrinkled and curious about the world, each of them had come into the world showing signs of the person they would grow into.

Over the years three women had borne him eleven children, and five of those had survived. Of those, four were grown and ready to start families of their own. Gabriel, the youngest one, was the sweetest of them all but wild at heart; Gabriel would keep them hopping into old age. Sometimes Nathaniel woke in the deep of the night sure that he could hear the beat of the boy's blood through walls and floors. He knew the four younger children well, but Nathaniel could read Gabriel's mind just by looking at him sideways.

For Luke, for his firstborn, he had no such talent. He told himself it was because he had got to know him too late. They itched at him, all those missing memories, like a wasp sting in a hand left behind on a battlefield.

Now Luke was watching Nathaniel, as Nathaniel had watched his own father for all his life, reading mood and thought and intention from the set of Hawkeye's jaw or the flickering of an eyelid. No doubt he was as big a mystery to the boy as the boy was to him, but somehow that was little comfort.

“Tomorrow,” Luke said when Nathaniel was close enough. “We'll set out tomorrow.”

“And here I was thinking we didn't know each other well enough.” Nathaniel sat down close enough to talk without shouting over the noise of the falls but not close enough to make the boy uncomfortable. He rested the butt of his rifle on a convenient rock and leaned into it.

“Or maybe you read everybody's mind that easy.”

Luke snorted. “That would be a useful talent, but it's one I can't claim for myself.”

“You're too modest,” Nathaniel said. He brushed the wet from the falls out of his eyes. “I bet if you concentrated real hard you'll guess my next question.”

Luke gave him a sharp look, one edged with curiosity and irritation both. “If it's Jennet you're worried about there's no need. I'm planning to talk to her tonight and settle some things.”

Nathaniel raised a brow. “Reading minds again.”

Luke shrugged. “More Elizabeth than you. She watches me when Jennet's nearby.”

“That's true, she does. And I did come to talk to you about that very thing, but I can't claim I was especially worried about Jennet. She's got what she wants.”

Luke squinted at him. “And that would be?”

“You. Tied up nice and neat, just waiting to tire yourself out struggling. You might as well give it up now, son.”

Another man might have taken offense, but Luke was too much like his grandfather. Hawkeye hadn't been a man to expend energy on a battle he couldn't win, and neither was Luke.

“I always meant to marry her when she was free,” he said after a while. “But I couldn't admit that while she was married to a man her father picked out for her. It got to be a habit, I guess, keeping it to myself.”

“Time to break the habit,” Nathaniel said. “She'll be a good wife to you, though I expect you'll tangle more than most.”

Luke didn't bother trying to hide his grin. “I'm counting on it.”

Gabriel came out of the house on the far side of the lake and stood on the porch. He had made himself a toy rifle out of a branch and he had a crow in his imaginary sights. Nathaniel watched the boy stalk his prey. Next summer he would be big enough for a rifle of his own, and the thought struck Nathaniel that this would be the last child he would teach to track and shoot until some grandchildren came along, or he managed to prove Elizabeth wrong about the size of their family.

He said as much to Luke, who began to get dressed by pulling his shirt over his head.

“Well, then I guess I better get busy and give you some grandchildren,” Luke said.

“You don't much like the idea?”

“It's not that, not exactly.” Luke ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. “It's got more to do with where to bring them up once I've got them.”

This surprised Nathaniel, but he managed to keep his tone even. “I thought you were settled in Canada.”

Luke hesitated. “‘Settled' is a strange word, but maybe it fits. I've got a house, I've got land and a business and friends. I was born and raised there. But I don't feel like I need to stay there, and I don't call myself a Canadian.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. “Don't know if I want my children to either.”

Nathaniel said, “That's the first I heard of this. What do you call yourself, if not a Canadian? A Scot, like your grandmother?”

Luke shrugged. “She brought me up not to think of myself as anything. Not Canadian, not a Scot, not French, not American.”