Dawn on a Distant Shore (8 page)

It was almost a relief
to see the man flush. He put his pipe aside, laid both hands flat on the table,
and rocked forward, as if to push it to the floor with his weight.

"I care naething
for gold, and had ye a pure ton o' it. It's your faither's fate that concerns me,
and getting him out o' gaol. Had I thought it could be done wi' coin alone, I
should ha' seen it done lang syne. My purse isna empty, man."

After a long moment,
Nathaniel nodded. "Fair enough."

Robbie cleared his
throat. "I suppose ye've got a better plan, Angus?"

"Aye, Rab,
perhaps I do. If you care to hear it told."

The serving woman came
to refill their tankards, and they were quiet while they waited for her to
finish. She took her time, leaning over the table to display her ample bosom to
Moncrieff. He patted her hand and murmured something Nathaniel did not quite
hear, but understood anyway. Adele left them with a smile.

Nathaniel held up a
hand to keep Robbie from answering the question that still hung in the air.
"Before this goes any further--"

Moncrieff sighed.
"You want an explanation for my letter. Aye, and I've earned some harsh
words. Go on, then."

"You admit
it?"

"Admit that I
lied in my letter, and that it wasna your faither's idea to send for ye? Aye, I
admit it. And tell me this: wad ye rather be hame the noo, and him in gaol? I
havena kennt ye verra lang, Nathaniel Bonner, but I didna think
that
wad
sit weel wi' ye."

With every swallow of
ale Moncrieff's English was giving way to Scots. Whether it meant the man was
telling the truth or moving farther afield of it, of that much Nathaniel could
not be sure. He said, "I would rather have had the whole story, and made
up my own mind."

With one fingertip,
Moncrieff traced the gouges on the table as if they were an alphabet he alone
could read. He had the hands of a man who earned his living with books and
paper and ink: fine fingered and unscarred. Nathaniel wished for five minutes
of his father's counsel, for he truly did not know what to make of Angus
Moncrieff.

On the other side of
the room, the sailor roused and hobbled out, tossing a coin to Adele. The man
in the corner called for more ale and began to sing softly to himself: a German
lullaby or maybe a love song, slow and melancholy. Outside, a girl scolded a herd
of goats as she hurried them along, the sound of the bells clear and true in
the cold air.

When Moncrieff looked
up again, his color had settled and his tone was calmer. "Aye," he said.
"You're right. I overstepped my bounds, and I apologize. But now ye're here.
You can ha' my help, or leave it. Which will it be?"

Nathaniel sat back to
consider.

Robbie had taken to
Moncrieff, and after thirty years in the bush Robbie was wary of strangers and
slow to give his friendship. He could make a mistake, certainly. But maybe he had
not. Elizabeth, who had a keen ear for things left unstated and no patience
with half-truths, had not been terribly worried by Moncrieff. She had put the
case before Nathaniel with her usual simplicity and clarity:
If Hawkeye
decides he needs to go to Scotland, then he will go. However unlikely it seems
to us that he might want to do such a thing, he has the right to decide for
himself.
And it was the truth; Nathaniel could admit it to her and to
himself, but he could not allow Moncrieff to see it in his face.

There were other
truths that couldn't be overlooked: they had made an enemy of the man who was
their only link to the gaol, whereas Moncrieff had connections, and an idea.

"First things
first," Nathaniel said. "Tell me what it is you want with my father
once he's free."

"It's verra
simple," Moncrieff said softly. "The Earl o' Carryck would like to
find his heir before he dies. The laird's wish is that the land and holdings
..." He paused, and then went on. "And the title stay in the family.
Nae mair, nae less than that. What I want from your faither is an hour o' his
time, to tell him o' his kin, and his birthright."

Nathaniel nodded.
"You'll have your hour. But listen first, and I'll tell you now what I
know in my gut to be true. Maybe my father was born a Scott of Carryck--you
seem to be sure of that, and I can't say you're wrong--but he was raised in the
wilderness and in his heart he's more Mahican than white."

"And yet he
married a Scotswoman," Moncrieff said.

"Who turned her
back on Scotland." Nathaniel leaned closer. "Listen to me. Even if
that earldom is rightfully his, he'll want nothing to do with it. He'll never
get on a ship for Scotland of his own free will. If he tells you that to your
face, will you leave here, and go home?"

A flicker in the deep
brown eyes: anger or disbelief or perhaps just stubbornness. But Moncrieff
inclined his head. "Aye, if your faither tells me sae, I'll be awa' hame to
Scotland."

"I'm not coming,
either," added Nathaniel. "I'll have no part of it. Are we clear on
that?"

"Aye," said
Moncrieff. "Verra clear."

Robbie clapped
Nathaniel on the back, laughing. "By God, laddie, ye should o' been a lawyer.
Angus, tell us wha' ye've got in mind."

Moncrieff took a long
swallow and then pulled a kerchief from his sleeve to wipe his brow. "The
cook," he said finally, and in response to the blank look he got from both
of them, he produced a slanted grin. "Martin Fink, the Somervilles' cook.
He has a weakness for cards and whisky, a verra bad combination for a man o'
limited resources."

Nathaniel frowned.
"Can a cook get us into the gaol, or our people out of it?"

"Ach, nothing so
simple as that," said Moncrieff. "But he can let ye bide in Pink
George's kitchen, and that's where ye need to be, this evening. Giselle's invited
me tae one o' her parties, and she intends to have Otter and Hawkeye
there."

Nathaniel remembered
Giselle's parties very well. She gathered men around her for the evening when her
father was away, more concerned with amusement than reputation. He had never
enjoyed them, and liked the idea even less now. "You're thinking we'll
just walk them out of the lieutenant governor's mansion?"

"At the right
moment, aye. And why not?"

Why not
. Nathaniel hid his
grin in his tankard. It was a beautifully simple plan. At the most it would
require that they waylay the redcoats assigned to guard the prisoners. With the
right management, they would be drunk, too.

But Robbie was
blinking at Moncrieff in disbelief, his color rising fast.

"Are ye saying
that Giselle has summoned Otter and Hawkeye tae entertain the lairds and officers,
like trained monkeys? Hawkeye will ha' nane o' that, and should she stand him
at the end of a musket."

"That may be
true," Moncrieff said, lowering his voice. "But think on it, Rab.
They'll aa be fu' o' drink by midnight. By morning they'll be sober, and we'll
be lang awa'."

"My father will
see the beauty of that, if we can get word to him." Nathaniel put a hand
on Robbie's shoulder. "He'd go a far sight further to get out of gaol than
sit next to Giselle Somerville at a dinner table."

Robbie frowned.
"Pink George will be in a puir temper when he comes hame and hears o' it. It
wadna be the first time he's raised a hand tae his dauchter."

"She'll have to
handle that on her own," said Nathaniel, more loudly than he intended. "She's
had to deal with him angry, she knows what she's about."

"Ye're an unco'
hard man betimes, Nathaniel Bonner." Robbie sighed, rubbing the bridge of
his nose with one broad thumb. "Wha's first then in this plan o' yours,
Angus?"

"The gaol. We've
got to get word to Hawkeye. Wee Iona would be willing to pay a call,
perhaps."

"No' Iona,"
Robbie said in a tone that brooked no discussion.

Nathaniel nodded in
agreement. "She's too well known to get involved in this."

Moncrieff studied the
tabletop. After a moment, he turned to look over his shoulder at Adele, who was
sitting on a stool by the hearth and tending a kettle of beans. She was up
before he could even wink at her, soft curves and a warm smile.

"Perhaps a
friend, then, wi' a bit o' beef, and a message tucked away in a safe
place." He rose with his tankard in hand, tipping back his head to get the
last swallow. "I need a private word wi' Adele. Tell me, man. How are ye
at cards?"

"I'm better with
a rifle," said Nathaniel.

"He's better wi'
a bluidy sewin' needle." Robbie grinned.

Nathaniel shrugged.
"I expect that's true," he said. "There ain't much I like less
than cards."

"You won't have
to pretend to lose, then." Angus nodded, satisfied. "Perhaps you and Robbie
would care to see if there's any interest in a game." He raised one brow
in the direction of the man singing into his ale, and then headed toward the back
room where Adele had disappeared.

Robbie straightened,
his face creased in confusion. "Why wad we want tae play cards wi' a
whey-faced sot like that?" he asked, sending a fierce look toward the
corner.

"Because that's
Martin Fink," Nathaniel said. "Did you think Moncrieff steered us
here by accident?"

Robbie started.
"The Somervilles' cook, d'ye mean? Mary bless me, and sae it must
be." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I wadna ha' guessed Angus tae
be sae verra sly."

Nathaniel picked up
his tankard to swallow the last of his ale, and along with it the worst of his doubts
about Angus Moncrieff. They were started down this road now and they would see
where it took them, but he would be on guard. He clapped Robbie on the back and
leaned over to whisper in the great shell-like ear. "You watch my back,
Rab, and I'll watch yours."

A forest away,
Elizabeth was half asleep in front of the hearth with both infants at her breast,
when faint laughter startled her into full wakefulness.

"What was
that?"

Hannah looked up from
grinding corn, and wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of
her hand. "What was what?"

Confused, Elizabeth
settled back into the rocker. "I heard something. Perhaps I was dreaming."

"About my
father," Hannah concluded.

With a yawn she could
barely hold back, Elizabeth pulled the pillows that supported the twins closer
to her. There were longer pauses now between gulps, and soon they would be
asleep. Elizabeth thought of the cradle and her own bed in the other room, but
she was simply too weary to move, and she let herself drift back toward sleep
just where she was. For three weeks now she had never had as much as three
hours of continuous rest; it was no surprise if she was beginning to confuse
waking and sleeping dreams.

Hannah looked worn
down, too. All day long she worked, she and Liam with Curiosity's help, to keep
the household running, food on the table, the firewood stacked, the hearth
cleaned. Seldom did Elizabeth miss her girlhood home, but she found herself
thinking more and more these days of Aunt Merriweather's legions of servants. At
Oakmere, little girls had been free to be little girls.

As long as they
weren't overly interested in the contents of the library,
she reminded herself.

Voices outside, coming
closer. Liam and Curiosity, and perhaps one of Curiosity's daughters or Martha
Southern, up from the village to bring a covered dish or a pound of butter, for
they kept no cow here on the mountain. She had good neighbors; they did what
they could to help. Elizabeth knew that she should rouse herself, put the
babies in their cradle, her clothing to rights, comb out her hair, wash her
face, make tea, help with the corn bread, the endless laundering of swaddling
clothes, the mending. The ash barrel, the candle box, the spindle, the mortar
and pestle--they all called out to her. But the fire crackled peaceably and the
babies were so heavy, pinning her down to her chair, to the earth itself: it felt
as if she would never be able to stand on her own two feet, to move
unencumbered, ever again.

And still, and still.
She could not look at them without having her throat close with tears that were
equal parts exhaustion and joy: Mathilde's round cheeks working rhythmically
even in her sleep; Daniel's small hand spread out on the white skin of her
breast.

Voices closer still;
Hannah listening now, too, her head cocked to one side, plaits swinging free to
her waist. Curiosity must be in the middle of a story. She had so many of them,
but the children were always asking for more. They were all storytellers, these
people who carved out lives for themselves on the edge of the frontier. It
would be years before she had heard all of Nathaniel's.

With her husband's
image foremost in her mind, Elizabeth finally let sleep claim her, thinking of
the stories he might bring back with him from Montréal, and wondering how much
longer it would be before she would hear his voice again.

Deeply asleep, she did
not see the flush of excitement and pleasure on Hannah's face at the sound of
steps on the porch. Her chores forgotten, Elizabeth and the babies forgotten,
Hannah flew across the room as the door opened for the travelers: her aunt Many-Doves
with a wide smile and a cradleboard peeking over her shoulder; Doves' husband, Runs-from-Bears,
grinning at her as he swung a willow carry-frame to the floor; and Falling-Day,
wrapped in a mantle of fisher pelts the same deep color as her eyes and hair,
so much like Hannah's own. With small sounds of welcome, of relief, of joy
beyond bearing, Hannah flung herself into her grandmother's open arms.