Fire Along the Sky (35 page)

Who grinned at her, and brushed the hair away from her face.

“Come, hen,” he said, catching her hand to bring her closer. “Come lay your head.”

“I will not,” she said. “I was not—not—”

“Of course not. It was gey wicked of me to say such a thing.” He crooned to her, soft and softer still. “I'm sorry I laughed, truly I am. Come, catch your breath. Breathe easy, love.”

“You—” she began. “You're—”

“Hopeless, aye, it's true.” Somehow she was lying beside him and he was bent over her, supporting himself on his arm. “A witless man. A fool in love.”

He kissed her then, softly and sweetly and with devastating effectiveness. His beard had already begun again and his cheeks were rough to the touch and cool, and in response something small and warm ignited deep in Lily's belly, something strange and oddly familiar at the same time.

“Will ye gang back tae your bed?” He was whispering against her neck, his mouth moving against the tender skin below her ear so that her flesh rose and shivered.

“Or will ye bide?” That damnable question she had hoped never to have to answer again. So she turned her head to touch his mouth with her own: an invitation, a demand, a plea for rescue from the decision he was pressing on her.

He pulled back to look at her. “Lily.”

“What?” She pushed out a great sigh. “What do you want me to say?” And bit her lip until it hurt, for she already knew what he wanted but now she must listen to him tell her.

He pursed his mouth in mock thoughtfulness and then rolled over to lie on his back, his hands behind his head.

“Repeat after me,” he began.

“Oh, no.” Lily pressed her face into the covers.

“‘Simon, please let me bide here with you, for I have no wish to go back to my lonely bed.'”

Lily summoned all the self-control she had. “I will not say that.”

“Good night, then.”

She sat up. “You are infuriating.”

“You only need say what you want, lass.”

“I don't know what I want.”

He blinked at her and said nothing.

Lily turned her face away. “I'm afraid.”

He put a hand over hers, ran it up her arm. “Afraid of me, Lily?”

“No. No, I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid of—”

Too many things to name, but the images were bright in her mind; blinding in their clarity.

“Getting with child,” he supplied for her and those words hit her as surely as a fist. When she opened her eyes he was looking at her with surprise, and unease, and dawning understanding.

“It's like that, is it?” he said softly, his hand closing more firmly around hers.

She turned her head away, or tried to, but he would have none of that. He caught her chin and studied her face, his expression keen and sharp, as if he were looking at something he had never seen before, and Lily supposed that that much was true: she was carrying his child, after all. She drew in a hiccupping breath.

“Ach, Lily.” He drew her down until her head was nested on his shoulder and closed his arms around her.

After a while he said, “You may not care to believe me, but I would not have had it happen so quick.”

She did believe him, and it did help, but she could not make herself say that out loud.

“And still, there's one thing to be thankful for,” Simon said more softly, his fingers tracing a pattern on the skin of her throat.

He was thinking of her father, no doubt, that he would not object to the marriage if she was carrying Ballentyne's child. Lily was just about to explain that her father might very well object when the warmth of Simon's breath distracted her.

He had shifted a little so that they were face to face. “If you've fallen pregnant already, why, the deed is done. We needn't worry about it happening, lass, for it already has.”

She found herself almost smiling, which would not do, not at all. “Trust a man to see it that way.”

One brow peaked, and on its heels a flash of the dimples he had hidden for so long. “You mean to sleep alone, then?”

Lily barked a sharp laugh. “You mean to make me ask, don't you?”

“Ach, aye.” Simon pressed her against him, so she would understand how serious his purpose, and how intent he was on getting the answer from her that she wanted to give him.

“Unless it's just a few kisses you're after,” he said, almost innocently. “Those I'll give you without asking. To start with. You tell me when you've had enough.”

Lily put her arms around his neck, suddenly at peace, ready to capitulate the battle, if not the war. It felt good to let Simon Ballentyne hold her.

Chapter 22

“Now this,” said Jennet, “this is curious.”

She tapped a finger on the table and sent Martha and Callie a questioning look. “What do you make of it?”

The girls leaned toward the two cards that lay face up and crossed one over the other.

Callie pressed a knuckle to her upper lip. “The empress?”

“And the wheel of fortune,” added Martha.

“The empress
crossed
by the wheel of fortune.” Jennet sat back and held out her hands, palms up, and wiggled her fingers. “We laid out this cross for Hannah. What is she to learn from it?”

“Change is coming.” Callie lifted her face and looked directly at Hannah, who sat across the table with her daybook open before her. “You must be diligent.”

On the other side of the kitchen Curiosity let out a gruff laugh as she took the lid off the lye barrel and dumped in a hopper full of ash. “Now maybe that's what those cards want to tell us,” she said. “But that ain't no news. We know the sun going to set, too, and come up again.”

Martha flushed a little. “But this means great change, doesn't it? Something
big.
”

Curiosity met Hannah's gaze, a smile jerking at the corner of her mouth. It was good to see that Martha was able to get up at least a little temper; the girl was too timid by far.

“It does,” Jennet said. “Something that calls for considerable caution and care.”

“I suppose there could be news of the war,” Lucy said from her spot at the big loom.

“The post rider is due tomorrow, and he's always got news,” added Sally.

“Och, you mustn't waste your time guessing,” Jennet said, gathering up cards from different piles to square them neatly. “Whatever it is will come soon enough. Now I understand the two of you have schoolwork, is that no the case?”

“Just once more, please,” said Martha. “Just one more cross for Hannah, maybe it will make things clearer.”

Jennet rolled her eyes and smiled, too, in case the girls understood her sigh for what it really was, no more than a bit of playfulness. In her hands the shuffling cards flapped like wings as they flew from hand to hand. Then she flipped one onto the table and laid another across it.

“The seven and the knight of swords.” Her smile faltered and then flickered back. “Silly me,” she said, scooping them up. “It's only the face cards you're meant to use when laying out a cross.”

The deck disappeared into her apron pocket as she got up. “Off with you now, the two of you, or you won't have your lessons ready and then Elizabeth will come looking for me, and what would I say in my defense? And I did promise Ethan that I would help him with his packing this afternoon . . .” Her voice trailed away, unconvinced and unconvincing.

But the girls did as they were told, still far too unsettled in this new home to even contemplate disobedience, though Martha cast a glance back from the door.

“The knight of swords, that card has to do with soldiering, don't it?”

Then she left without waiting for an answer, and the women in the kitchen were quiet together while they listened to the sound of the girls settling down to their work in the parlor.

“They are so serious, those two,” Jennet said finally.

“Cain't recall the last time I heard them laugh,” agreed Sally.

“Don't you change the subject,” Curiosity said, coming to the table to sit across from Jennet. “That knight of swords has got you worried, don't it?”

Hannah caught a questioning glance from her cousin and returned it with a smile. “Don't hold back on my account,” she said, and tried to mean it; she hadn't decided, yet, how she felt about Jennet's fortune-telling. For the most part she listened and kept her thoughts to herself.

“Well,” Jennet said. “It does, aye. The knight of swords crossed by the seven is worrisome. A dangerous trip over water for a military man.”

“Is that so.”

Curiosity kept her thoughts to herself while her granddaughters made the looms clack and thump, thump and clack. “Just as well you ain't got no menfolk in the navy, then, Hannah.”

“Just as well,” Hannah echoed. She smiled at Jennet to ease the concern she saw there in her face. “Why did you send the girls away?”

Jennet pulled a bowl of soaking beans toward her and began to sort through them. “Martha worries so about the war, surely you've noticed?”

“Better to worry about something far off that don't feel quite real than to be thinking about her mama all the time,” said Curiosity. And in mock outrage: “Why, are you laughing at me, missy?”

“Oh, no,” said Hannah. “I'm just wondering if I'll ever be as quick as you are. What a clan mother you would have been.”

That earned her a crooked smile and a sniff.

Jennet said, “She is a clan mother, look about you. A house full of girls and women and all of us happy to jump at her word. Those girls would do anything for you, Curiosity, but even you cannot keep them safe in their dreams. Martha is still screaming in the night?”

“She'll settle down in good time,” Curiosity said. And then they were silent again, because for once Curiosity was reluctant to say the whole truth out loud: it would take more than time to cure what ailed Martha Kuick, who ran a gauntlet every time they went into the village or to the schoolhouse. Just yesterday the Ratz boys had waited for her and Callie after school—well out of Elizabeth's sight or hearing—to ask was it true that Martha's mother had put a hex on Callie's?

The girls had walked away, stiff backed and blank of face, until they came into Curiosity's kitchen, where they wept openly.

“We cain't lock those girls up,” Curiosity said now, reading Hannah's thoughts as easily as words on a page. “Not even to keep them safe. Now I know Elizabeth has talked to the boys, but look to me like they need another kind of convincing. And your daddy is just the man to have a little set-down with those nasty-minded boys, show them the way of things. Yessir, Nathaniel will stop the talking.” She looked like she relished the idea. Then she lifted her head sharply toward the door, for the dogs had begun to bark in the way that meant that someone they knew and liked was coming to the door.

“That will be him now,” Curiosity said with some satisfaction. “He said he would stop by late afternoon.”

But it was Jed McGarrity, and his news was not good. When he had made sure the girls were out of hearing he laid it out plain.

“Jemima's got a gash on her head that needs stitching,” he explained, clutching his snowy cap to his middle. “She says she won't let herself be sewed up, but if she bleeds to death then I'll have to charge Nicholas Wilde with murder, and that's one thing I'd like to avoid.”

“Did he beat her?” Jennet asked, concerned but not surprised at the idea. In the village they talked constantly of the things that went on at the cabin in the orchard since Nicholas Wilde had come home from Johnstown without his divorce.

“Jemima says so, Claes says not.” Jed scratched at his head with his thumb. “I ain't sure what happened, to tell the truth, except when I come up to the cabin—I was stopping by like I do every couple days or so, given all the trouble—and I saw Mima standing on the porch. Bloody-headed and pitching plates against the wall and howling like one of them banshees you told us about, Miss Jennet. I thought it was best if I came to fetch you, Hannah, as she's in a family way. Will you come?”

Jed was not a coward, but Hannah had rarely seen a man look more relieved than he was when she told him she would go to the orchards on her own.

Lately she had so little chance to spend any real time alone, first and foremost because somebody seemed to come by at least once a day who needed medical attention, and second because her own people were so worried about her that they hovered. She didn't dislike either circumstance, exactly, but she needed this too, a world empty of people who wanted something from her or for her.

The air was cold on her skin, the snow such a deep and pure white that her eyes leaked tears that would have frozen on her cheeks if not for the good wool scarf that Curiosity had wrapped around her, clucking all the while. Hannah followed elk tracks through the woods to the orchards, and then she stood there, a little winded, and gathered her thoughts.

The last time Hannah had come to the orchard cabin was to see Dolly in the fall. They had sat together on the porch and listened to the workings of the cider mill, a great creaking that reminded Hannah of the noise of a ship at full sail, except it was not wind that moved the cider works but mules. Cookie had been stirring a big iron pot of apple butter and singing to herself, an old ballad well suited to her husky deep voice. The whole world had smelled of apples, and that afternoon, at least, Dolly had seemed a little better.

Those few months ago and so much had changed. When Cookie Fiddler had had the care of this place it had been comfortable, well ordered, and clean inside and out: the porch swept, the kitchen garden weeded and fenced from the attentions of a dozen fat and sassy hens.

Now the snow had wiped most of that away, and the drifts around the porch were littered with broken dishware, the remains of a shattered stool, and a spattering of blood. The cabin itself was quiet, so quiet that a shiver of unease ran up Hannah's back. She waited for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind in the bare branches of the apple trees. At the first step she hesitated and considered the evidence of mayhem at her feet: pottery shards covered with a pattern of twining roses, the handle of a jug, a dented tin cup.

She looked up to see Nicholas Wilde on the porch. He ran a hand over his face and blinked at her, as if he were trying to remember her name.

“Come in,” he said evenly. “Come in and see what there is to be done.”

“This must make you happy,” Jemima said. She was sitting, back straight, on a stool by the hearth. She met Hannah's gaze straight on and composed while blood dribbled over her cheek and neck from a deep gash just over her ear. “What a treat for you. You'll be writing to your sister about this, no doubt. To pass on the good news.”

“I'll need more light, Nicholas, please,” Hannah said as she took what she needed from her bag. And: “Could you open the shutters? Jemima, I'll have to cut some hair away from the wound to clean it out.”

“And what distress it will cause you,” Jemima said.

Nicholas brought the things she asked for while Hannah started her work, and through it all Jemima talked, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“They'll want all the details in the village too,” she said. “So let me tell you what happened. My good husband tried to throw me out of the house. He doesn't want me to wife, you understand, but the law won't oblige him. So he threw me out the door and I fell down the stairs and cracked my head. No doubt he was hoping I'd lose the child, but I'm not bleeding. Do you hear that, Claes? I'm still with child, and with child I'll stay until I bring it into this world, a son, if there's any justice, to carry on your sorry name. And I'll be sure to tell him, as soon as he's old enough to understand, that his father tried to do away with the both of us. He wants to divorce me, you see, and take up again with your sister Lily. I'll make that especially clear to the boy, that the Bonners were behind all of it. We'll sit right there at that table every day and I'll remind him what kind of man his father is, who would throw a pregnant wife off a porch.”

Nicholas said, “I'll fetch more water.”

“Jed wanted to know if I would press charges.” Jemima laughed. “Stupid man. As if I would deprive myself of my husband's loving care and company.”

Hannah cleaned the wound and drew it together, working as quickly and gently as she could and still, she knew, it must cause considerable pain. But Jemima gave no sign of it, not even when the needle pierced her scalp, though she shuddered like a woman in a deep fever.

“Of course, Jed will be back,” Jemima said, her voice cracking with effort. “Tomorrow or the day after when my good husband loses his temper again. Maybe next time he'll kill me. That's what he'd like to do, you understand. I'm sure he lays awake at night thinking of it, wherever it is that he sleeps. Just to be clear, now that I have such an honorable and respected witness, let me say this: if you find me dead, you'll know it was my husband who did it.”

Nicholas Wilde said, “If there's nothing else you need, I'll wait on the porch.”

“He doesn't talk to me, you're meant to understand,” Jemima said tightly. “Hasn't said a word to me since he got back from Johnstown. He'll talk to you. He talks to his horse and to the apple trees and to the clouds in the sky, but he won't say a word to me. He does his best to ignore me, does my good husband, but sooner or later he'll understand that I won't be ignored.”

“One more stitch,” Hannah said.

“You're cut of the same cloth, aren't you. Think you can stand there and ignore me, high-and-mighty Hannah Bonner.”

Hannah said, “Once I amputated a leg on the bare ground. The smoke was so thick in the air that I could hardly see the scalpel in my hand. There were horses screaming and men too, and the fighting was so close that my ears rang for a week afterward with gunshot. And that was the least of it. So maybe you'll understand, Jemima, that your whining doesn't slow me down at all.”

With that she tied off the last stitch and stood back.

Jemima's complexion had drained of all color. Her hands twisted convulsively in her lap and a shudder ran through her whole body, but she never turned her head toward Hannah.

“Get out,” she whispered. “Get out of my house and never come back. I'll bleed to death before I let you touch me again.”

“Do you want me to take a message to your daughter?”

Jemima looked at her then, a look so blankly hostile that a knot of fear rose up from Hannah's gut to lodge in her throat.

“I had a daughter once,” Jemima said. “But she's dead to me. All I've got now is this child I'm carrying and a husband who doesn't want me.”

“And a roof over your head,” Hannah said. “And a full belly. You've thrown everything else away, but maybe you can hold on to that much.”