Into the Wilderness (18 page)

"Not
out of season, at least, not legal. But we can keep trespassers off and maybe
we can manage then."

She
stood up suddenly, her lips pressed hard together. "My father?"

"No,"
Nathaniel said. "I'm sure of that much."

Elizabeth
began to pace in the room, up and down, her skirts swirling, her boots
clicking. Nathaniel could see the next question coming, but he waited for her
to ask. "Richard Todd doesn't believe you have enough cash to buy the
mountain." She ran her knuckles over her brow. "Was it him,
Richard?"

Nathaniel
inclined his head. "Maybe."

"But
you told me that Richard deals straight with people."

He
got up to join her before the hearth. "I told you he deals straight with
white men."

"But
you are white."

"To
you maybe."

Elizabeth
looked up at him, her face tight with worry and guilt.

"You
can't be responsible for what every man of your acquaintance does," he
said easily.

"But
what can I do to help?"

There
were dark flecks in her gray eyes; her brows arched out, like wings. He
inhaled. She smelled sweet, of dried summer flowers and talcum. Above the filmy
fabric that was tucked into the neckline of her bodice, her skin was very
white; there was a pulse in the hollow of her throat. He knew his nearness was
making her uneasy, but he just didn't want to move away.

Elizabeth
said: "I have some money. Is there anything at all I can give you that
would help?"

Give me your mouth
, he
wanted to say to her. Maybe she saw this in his face, because she drew in her
breath in a soft sound of surprise and froze, like a doe surrounded by torches
in the night, her eyes burning furiously.

"This
is dangerous business," Nathaniel said. He did not know himself exactly
what business he meant.

"It's
too late for that," she said with a calm that surprised him. "I'm
already in it."

"So
you are." Nathaniel murmured.

It
was not the first glimpse he had had of the iron core in her, but it was the
clearest. Of its own accord, one finger raised itself to touch her cheek. He
wanted her to come to him of her own free will, but it was very hard to be here
with her and not touch her.

Startled,
Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it.

Hannah
came streaking into the room suddenly, and they separated, moving to opposite
sides of the hearth, as if they had been doing what they had both been thinking
of doing. Nathaniel turned to catch his daughter, who threw herself at him and
began to climb up one arm, dragging herself up by his hair until he cried out,
half laughing, and managed to get a hold of her long enough to disentangle
himself. "Finished with the chores," she panted. "That poor old
moose is hanging in the beech, and I want to sit by Elizabeth before Otter
comes and takes the best spot."

* * *

There
was nothing more for it, and so Elizabeth allowed Hannah to pile books on her
lap and took the seat she was offered by the corner of the hearth, where
Hawkeye had set a pine knot burning on a slab of stone. Its light was clear and
bright enough to read by.

"This
is my favorite," she said. "And Grandfather is fond of this one, and
this is Father's—"

"Enough,"
said Falling—Day, exasperated. Her hands were full of mending, but she paused
to give Hannah a meaningful look. The child sighed, and sat at her grandmother's
feet, accepting the bit of sewing that was passed into her hands.

They
all had work to do: Many-Doves was piecing leather into a moccasin, Hawkeye
picked up where he had left off with the traps, Otter set himself to making
bullets. Nathaniel sat on a stool across from Elizabeth, and began to braid
rawhide. Only Chingachgook had the leisure to both watch and listen to
Elizabeth, but the look in his eyes was anything but critical or judging, and
she did not mind him so much.

"Start
with some of the
Poor Richard,"
he suggested.

Elizabeth
opened the volume and began to read at random:

"It
would be thought a hard Government that should tax its people One—tenth part of
their TIME, to be employed in its service. But Idleness taxes many of us much
more; if we reckon all that is spent in absolute sloth, or doing of nothing;
with that by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life
 
. . ."

* * *

Chingachgook
murmured in amusement each time Poor Richard's pronouncements were put forth.
When Elizabeth stopped to turn the page, she looked up and saw Falling—Day's
look of disbelief and scorn.

"A
man who talks so much as that Poor Richard has little time to use his hands to
work," she said, to which Chingachgook only smiled, but both Otter and
Nathaniel laughed out loud.

Hannah
was inching her way across the floor slowly as Elizabeth read, never raising
her eyes from her needlework. Eventually she managed to come close enough to
lean against Elizabeth's knee. Touched by this sign of the child's affection,
Elizabeth was tempted to reach out and stroke her hair, but she felt Many-Doves
' gaze on her and pulled back her hand.

After
a while, Elizabeth put aside the
Almanac
and picked up
Gulliver's Travels
, a
volume more familiar to her. She settled into the story, and read for a good
time, the only other sound being the fire in the hearth, and the wind caught
now and then in the chimney. When she thought to glance up at her audience, she
sometimes caught one or the other looking at her: quite often it was Many-Doves
, who seemed to be focused in a thoughtful and reserved way on Elizabeth
herself, and less interested in the story. Most often it was Nathaniel's direct
but guarded gaze. Twice Elizabeth became flustered, and lost her place, until
she forced herself to keep her eyes on the page.

At
one point, Falling—Day rose to put more wood on the fire. Elizabeth took this
opportunity to take up the last volume.

"Oh,"
she said, so that her audience looked up. "I'll do my best, but I'm afraid
my Scots is lacking." And she opened the Burns.

Here Stewarts once in glory reign'd,

And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;

But now unroof'd their palace stands,

Their sceptre fallen to other hands;

Fallen indeed, and to the earth,

Whence grovelling reptiles take their
birth.

The injured Stewart line is gone,

A race outlandish fills their throne: An
idiot race, to honour lost
—

Who knew them best despise them most.

"A
man after my Cora's own heart," Hawkeye noted with a half smile, even as
he winked at Elizabeth solemnly. She wondered at the strangeness of this: did
he regard her as an exception to the "idiot race" his wife had so
despised, or did he not see the insult in it? Elizabeth thought he must be
testing her, and so she only raised a brow in reply.

Then
she realized that Many-Doves was staring at the book in Elizabeth's hands, and
it came to her with a shock that she had been given Many-Doves ' place, and
taken over a duty she held dear. Elizabeth leafed through the slim volume while
she thought this through, and wondered how she might fix the slight without
offending anyone else.

"This
looks a likely poem," she said finally. "But I'm afraid the dialect
is a bit beyond me. Do you know it?" she asked, extending the book toward
Many-Doves .

Many-Doves
accepted it with a glance at her mother. She cleared her throat and began not
to read, but to sing in a clear voice:

Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary,

Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary,

Charlie Grigot tint his plaidie,

Kissin Theniel's bonie Mary.

In comin by the brig 0 Dye,

At Darlet we a blink did tarry;

As day was da wing in the sky,

We drank a health to bonie Mary.

Her een sac bright, her brow sac white,

her haffet locks as brown's a berry,

And ay they din pl wi a smile

The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary.

We lap an dane'd the lee—lang day,

Till piper—lads were wae and weary;

But Charlie gat the spring to pay,

For kissin Theniel's bonie Mary.

* * *

Many-Doves
was already turning the pages in a familiar way. She paused and began to sing
again softly, of "Peggy's Charms," and then in rapid succession, a
series of songs, each with more energy than the one before. Finally, with a
grin at her mother, she launched into a tune that set Hannah to laughing. She
jumped up and joined Many-Doves , dancing as she sang along:

I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young,

I'm o'er young to marry yet!

I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin

To tak me frae my mammie yet.

Hallowmass is come and gane,

The nights are lang in winter, Sir,

And you and I in ae bed,

In trowth, I dare na venture, Sir!

Fu loud an shrill the frosty wind

Blaws thro the leafless timber, Sir;

But if ye come this gate again,

I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.

Elizabeth
tried very hard not to be shocked, or show what an effort it was not to be, but
Falling—Day put down her sewing to praise the girls, and Chingachgook spoke
encouraging words. Nathaniel lifted up his daughter over his head as if she
weighed nothing, and tossed her into the air while she screeched with laughter.

"I
must say I didn't expect to find you fluent in Scots," Elizabeth said to
Many-Doves . "But it's good fun that you are."

Hawkeye
had been observing in silence, but he spoke up now and there was a bit of a
hoarseness in his voice. "Cora never let the girls go to bed without some
Scots to fall asleep by," he said. "They come by it honest."

Otter
spoke up from the table where he had been pouring lead into bullet molds.
"Many-Doves is good, it's true," he said. "But you should have
heard Sings—from—Books. You would have thought she just got off the boat from
Aberdeen."

"Sings—from—Books?
Who is that?" Elizabeth asked, still laughing.

"Sarah,"
said Nathaniel. "Sarah was my wife." He let Hannah slide to the
floor, leaned over her, whispered in her ear. With a few words and a curtsy to
Elizabeth, she scooted away into the shadows.

* * *

Later
that evening, Elizabeth climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft where the women
slept. Many-Doves and Falling—Day followed her, and in quick motions they had
undressed and slipped into the larger bed while Elizabeth still paused next to
Hannah.

The
child was curled under her covers, her head just a dark blur against the
bedding. She never stirred when Elizabeth sat on the edge of the pallet to
remove her shoes. Hannah had a damp, sweet smell about her, a little—girl
smell. Elizabeth wondered if she looked very much like her mother. Like Sarah.

It
was some time before she could put away the thought of Nathaniel's face when he
had said her name. Finally, she slept deeply, and for the first time in a week,
without dreaming.

Anna
Hauptmann usually didn't hold much with men who wouldn't work, but Julian
Middleton had a charming way about him. He spent a good deal of his time in her
trading post warming his hands before the hearth, so she supposed it was a good
thing he made pleasant company.

"So
she didn't come down again?" Jed McGarrity asked Julian.

Moses
Southern frowned. "You didn't go after her? Left her up there with them
indians?"

Julian
sat before the hearth with his feet crossed on a barrel of molasses and the old
tom in his lap. "Father thinks she's safe enough. And how would we get to
her, anyway, with three feet of new snow on top of the old? Does it ever stop
snowing in these mountains?"

The
farmers exchanged glances.

"And
I must say," Julian continued, when it was clear that they weren't going
to make excuses for—or promises about—the weather. "I don't see what harm
they could do her in such a short time."