by Sara Donati
With Robbie close behind, Nathaniel made his way to a stand of evergreen bushes, and pushing them apart, revealed a small wooden door without a handle. He pressed on two spots simultaneously and it swung silently inward to disclose a narrow stone stair. It smelled of damp and tobacco smoke and of Giselle, too—slightly musky, the scent of her hair when it was uncoiled and free. It was strange and still immediately familiar, and it made his own hair rise on the back of his neck, as if he were being stalked by an enemy just out of sight.
Nathaniel made his way up the short flight with Robbie following silently. They paused on a landing, although the stairs went on into the dark. By touch he found the two stools he remembered, and directed Robbie to one of them in a low voice.
On the other side of the wall were the muffled sounds of laughter and tinkling glassware. Nathaniel felt for the panel, and with a moment’s hesitation, slid it back to reveal two sets of peepholes. Candlelight came to them in four perfectly round streams, and the interwoven voices separated themselves into five or six distinct conversations.
His father and Otter were there, to either side of Giselle. Before Hawkeye was a plate of sweets and a full wine glass. Moncrieff was farther down the table, involved in a conversation with a well-dressed man Nathaniel didn’t recognize.
“Panthers among peacocks,” whispered Robbie. Hawkeye and Otter stood out in their worn buckskin hunting shirts and leggings, flanked by army and cavalry officers in scarlets and blues, green plaids, flowing ribbons, brass buttons, gold braid, silk sashes, swords with ornate baskets.
“Hawkeye looks aye crabbit.”
“Testy, but in good health,” Nathaniel agreed, relieved just to see his father looking himself. He was sixty-nine years old, a man who had spent most of his lifetime out-of-doors, but he sat there as he would sit at his own table, or at a Kahnyen’kehàka council fire, as lean and straight as a man in his prime, his eyes alert and watchful.
There was only a partial view of Otter’s face, but the tension in the boy’s shoulders was easy enough to read. He was wound up tight and ready to spring. Adele’s visit had primed them well.
And there was Giselle. Looking down over the room and not ten feet away from her, they were close enough to count the pearl buttons at the nape of her gown. She sat with her back to them; a good thing, for she had sharp eyes. Nathaniel let himself study her, the dark blond hair pinned up to reveal the long neck, the white skin of her shoulders against deep green silk, the curve of her cheekbone when she turned her head to speak to the servant.
Now that he had got this far Nathaniel couldn’t remember why he had dreaded the sight of her so much. She was still beautiful—he could see that even from here—but she wasn’t Elizabeth, and she had no power over him. To his surprise, the most he could feel for her was a vague gratitude and reluctant admiration. Giselle did as she pleased. She could be ruthless; she cared nothing at all for the good opinion of others; and there was an air of casual danger about her. Because it suited her to do so, she surrounded herself with men who were eager to amuse, taking from them what she wanted and leaving the rest. Tonight she had placed a seventeen-year-old Kahnyen’kehàka at her right hand over rich and powerful men, and none of them dared challenge her. She had been having parties like these behind her father’s back since she was sixteen.
A cavalry officer was holding up his glass toward Giselle, the wine picking up the candlelight and flashing it back again. His own complexion was equally flushed.
“This Paxareti,” he announced in a voice slurred with drink, but just loud enough to claim everyone’s attention, “is proof that the Portuguese are not total barbarians. It comes from a monastery a few hours’ ride from Jerez, but it is well worth the cost. Well worth it, by God.”
“And how very thoughtful of you to bring it to me, Captain Quinn,” said Giselle. Her tone was easy, encouraging but not engaging, and her voice was just as Nathaniel had remembered it, deep and slightly rough, as if she had strained it the day—or the night—before. “And how sad that our American friends resist so great a pleasure.” She was looking at Hawkeye, but she leaned slightly toward Otter as she spoke.
“It is said that two glasses of strong sherry will render a reticent man more communicative without … impairing him,” commented an officer of the dragoons who was staring at Hawkeye. He was well grown and broad of shoulder, but when he grinned he revealed a set of ivory teeth too large for his mouth.
Hawkeye raised a brow. “When I’ve got something to say worth saying, I’ll speak up, with or without spirits. So far I ain’t heard anything worth the trouble.”
Robbie’s grunt of approval was lost in the mixture of laughter and protest from below.
“What of your young friend, then?” The dragoon’s gaze wandered toward Otter. “Or has he no civilized languages?”
“Major Johnson,” Giselle said evenly, before Hawkeye could reply. The toothy smile shifted in her direction; the tilt of his head said he expected her approval.
“At your service, Miss Somerville.”
“You are boring me.”
He drained of color. “I only meant—”
Giselle turned her attention to the opposite side of the table, ignoring Johnson’s apologies.
“Captain Pickering, it has been a very long time indeed since you have come to our cold corner of the world. The navy abandons me at this time of year, but I can always count on you.”
The man Giselle was addressing had been turned toward Moncrieff and deep in conversation, but he looked up gladly at her request, and Robbie and Nathaniel both drew up in surprise at this first clear sight of his face.
The bush was a hard place; Nathaniel had grown up in the company of men and women who bore terrible scars with a combination of forbearance and dignity. But Pickering’s face was not the result of a tomahawk blow or a battle with the pox or fire. Nathaniel suspected it was much harder to bear. It looked as if his maker had finished with him, disliked what he had produced, and attempted to rub out the errors, mashing an overlarge nose into a face like a soggy oat cake. Everything on him was lopsided, from the small, upward-slanted eyes to the low-hung shelf of brow.
“Maria save us, look at the man’s snout,” muttered Robbie. “He’s mair pickerel than Pickering. Nae wonder he went tae sea.”
“Mademoiselle.” Pickering inclined his head. “I have brought you more than seafaring tales. If you’ll permit—” he half rose, and gestured to someone out of sight in the next room.
Giselle laughed. “Horace. I knew I could count on you. A surprise. I do love surprises. Shall I try to guess?”
“Ha!” called Quinn. “It’s anyone’s guess what Pickering’s got tucked away in that merchantman of his. Could have an elephant or two crashing about in the hold.”
A servant appeared at the door, carrying a small lidded basket. There was a great scramble of serving men as plates and platters were cleared to make room for it just in front of Giselle.
“You brought me such a lovely set of ivory carvings from India when last you were here,” she said, eyeing the basket. She had turned so that Nathaniel could see her face. Time had not left her untouched, but there was the same spark in her eye and high color in her cheeks, and he didn’t wonder that Otter had got caught up, despite the difference in their ages. Stronger and more experienced men had floundered in the good fortune of attracting this woman’s favor. There were some prime examples around the table.
Pickering was drawing out the suspense. “We were on our way to Halifax from Martinique …”
Quinn put down his glass with a rattle. “Pickering, you sly dog, were you there when Jervis and Grey took Martinique?” They were no sailors, but the promise of direct news of a victory over France would have been very welcome to the army officers.
Pickering smiled politely but did nothing to satisfy their curiosity. Instead he put one hand on the basket, as if to quiet whatever was inside.
“I took these on board not knowing if they would surv
ive the journey, but I had some luck. And my most excellent surgeon, of course, nursed them all the way.” With a graceful flourish he flipped back the wooden lid of the basket and reached inside.
“You will note by the sweet smell that they are quite perfectly ripe.” And he drew from the basket a pair of swollen and discolored human hands, no larger than those of a child of ten, with lightly curled fingers.
There was a moment of shocked silence as he held them up. Even Giselle’s voice seemed to fail her.
A sandy-haired major of the Royal Highlanders leaped to his feet. “By God, man, have you been consortin’ with cannibals?”
The room was suddenly in chaotic movement as all the men surged forward. Nathaniel’s view was blocked by Otter, who stood with the rest of them. Robbie stood, too, and then, having lost his peepholes, sat again.
“Let me put your mind at rest, MacDermott. These grow on the islands,” came Pickering’s calming voice from the center of the crowd. “They are called ti-nains by the natives.”
“That’s a bluidy fruit?” demanded one of the merchants.
“Ah,” said another, more composed voice. “Bananas. But not of the sort I et in India. These are much smaller. Damned difficult to transport, in any case.”
“Ha!” cried Captain Quinn, heading back toward his wine glass. “Fruit! A good joke, that, Pickering! Fruit!”
Johnson was still at the head of the table, peering inside the basket suspiciously. “What civilized person would put such a thing in his mouth?”
“I understand the king is verra partial to bananas, when he can get them,” said Moncrieff, leaning in closer to peer at them.
Johnson grunted suspiciously as Pickering held up a single example. “Looks like that dev’lish surgeon of yours lopped ’em off some poor bugger when he wasn’t paying attention.”
Quinn raised his glass. “If that’s all a man has to lose, perhaps he’s better off on t’other side of the fence!”
There was a moment of frozen silence, but Giselle’s smile set the room at ease. “Please, gentlemen, sit down. James, I believe Captain Quinn would do well with some coffee, but do serve Major Johnson more of the candied quince, that seems more to his liking. Horace, tell me, where does one begin with your lovely ti-nains?”
Johnson looked on in sour disapproval, as if he expected to hear the snap of bone as Pickering peeled away the dark brown outer shell. The flesh inside was a pinkish tan, and the sweet smell was clear to them even behind the carved wooden panel.
“They are best eaten directly from the tree,” Pickering said, putting the fruit on a small plate and presenting it to Giselle. “But I believe you will still find them very tasty.”
As she leaned over to draw in the scent, the serving men quickly peeled and distributed the fruits to the rest of the table.
Giselle said, “We will all sample something so rare, will we not, gentlemen? And perhaps a glass of Madeira or champagne, and then it’s time we roused ourselves a bit. Shall we have music, or games? What do you think, Mr. Bonner?”
“Suit yourselves,” said Hawkeye, his arms crossed across his chest and the plate of banana untouched before him. “I’ll watch.”
She brought up her gaze slowly. “Really? In my experience, the men of your family are all very energetic sorts.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt they can be distracted from the work at hand, on occasion,” Hawkeye said easily. “It’s something a man grows out of, though. For the most part.”
Giselle let out a small laugh of surprise at this challenge, but a young lieutenant broke in before she could respond.
“This cannot surprise you, Miss Somerville,” he said, waving a hand. “Surely you know that Americans are not good sportsmen.”
“Not by English rules we ain’t, that’s true enough,” Hawkeye agreed.
Giselle interrupted the young man’s sputtering reply. “Lieutenant Lytton, what I have in mind is not an English game, but a Scottish one, directly from Carryckcastle—Mr. Moncrieff tells me it used to be played there regularly, when the earl had guests.”
“Hmmpf.” Robbie sat up straighter, looking interested.
As Giselle explained the fine points, grins began to appear around the table.
“Ah,” said MacDermott. “Razzored Harries is what we called it when I was young. In the end you’re all packed together like herrings in a dish of cream.”
Johnson pushed away his untouched banana. “It’s just the reverse of hide-and-seek. It’s played in Shropshire, as well. We called it pickle packing.”
“Do I understand correctly?” interrupted Quinn, trying to make sense of the game through a fog brought on by Portuguese sherry. “Should I find the hiding place instead of announcing that fact, I simply … join the group already there.”
“Yes, and try to keep quiet,” Giselle confirmed.
“Quite good sport.” Pickering rubbed his hands in anticipation.
“Miss Somerville, may I assume you will be the first to hide?” asked a young merchant.
“But of course, Mr. Gray,” said Giselle. “What fun would it be otherwise?”
“Grown men, runnin’ aboot and playin’ at children’s games,” muttered Robbie as they made their way back down to the kitchen. “There’s nae dignity in it.”
Above them there was a shout of laughter and the sound of breaking glass.
“It’s not dignity that brings them here,” Nathaniel noted dryly.
Robbie pulled up short. “Ye dinna mean—she couldna, no’ wi’ aa those men—”
“No,” Nathaniel said. “I ain’t supposing she would. But one of them won’t be going straight home. As long as it ain’t Otter, that’s all that concerns us.”
They paused at the door into the kitchen, where two young girls were coping, bleary eyed and short tempered, with great piles of dirty china and crystal. For the moment there was no sign of Fink.
“I wasna cut oot for this kind o’ warfare,” Robbie announced with a sigh. “A musket wad suit me far better than parlor games wi’ a crowd o’ nut-hooks.”
“Then we’d best get gone,” said Hawkeye from the stairs behind them. Nathaniel pivoted. His father was there, with Moncrieff just behind. Hawkeye’s grip on his shoulder was still like iron, and the hazel eyes blazed at him with a furious joy.
“Da,” he said, hearing the break in his own voice. “High time.”
“I cain’t say I ain’t glad to see you, son. Rab, it’s been too long.”
Nathaniel said, “Fink will be looking for us.”
“Nivver mind about him,” said Moncrieff. “He’s too drunk tae remember where he put his own nose, and he willna be thinking o’ us while he’s got a card game with the guards in the upstairs pantry. I’ll go fetch Otter.” And he ran back up the stairs.
They were itching to be gone, but they could only hope Moncrieff would be fast in cutting Otter loose from the game. Hawkeye was as tense as Nathaniel had ever seen him, but he didn’t wonder at that after a few weeks in the garrison gaol. He caught Nathaniel’s gaze, and produced a weary grin. “I want the news from home, but first we’re best shut of this place, and Moncrieff. I don’t trust the man.”
Robbie bent in closer. “Wi’oot Moncrieff ye wad still be in gaol, Dan’l.”
“I’m not free and clear yet,” Hawkeye pointed out. From overhead there was the sound of running feet, a door opening and slamming. A lot of swearing followed, and the footsteps ran off again.
“Moncrieff went to some trouble,” Nathaniel said, meeting his father’s eye. “He got us in here. I promised in return that you’d listen to what he has to say.”
“I ain’t hanging around, son. Not for anybody. What is it that he wants?”
Nathaniel glanced up the stairs, and lowered his voice. “You won’t believe it when he tells you, Da. But I’d rather he do it himself. We can let him come along as far as Chambly, that will give him opportunity enough.”
Hawkeye grunted. “If he can keep up, aye. But first there’s t
he matter of pulling the boy out of her damn game—ah.” He nodded, clearly relieved, as Otter appeared at the head of the stairs and started down, with Moncrieff at his heels. Otter came directly to Nathaniel to grasp him by both lower arms.
“Raktsi’a,” he murmured. Older brother. This was the traditional greeting for the husband of his oldest sister, but it struck Nathaniel that Otter had outgrown it. He was a man now, broad of shoulder and almost tall enough to look Nathaniel in the eye. There was an earnestness in his expression that was new since they had last seen each other.
“How did you get away?” Hawkeye asked.
Otter shrugged. “Maybe I ain’t so good at finding her as she wants me to be.” He looked away, his expression guarded.
Robbie picked up his pack and his weapons. “We’re awa’, then, lads.”
It had clouded over; there was a spattering of snow, and the wind was bitter. When Nathaniel was sure they wouldn’t run into any guards he signaled and the others came out into the open.
Against the far corner of the house nearest the stables, Treenie came to her feet silently, tail wagging.
Otter hissed, “A light!”
The five of them slid deeper into the shadow of the house. Nathaniel forced his breathing to slow, throwing his senses outward into the dark.
It was Captain Quinn, stumbling over the path and laughing to himself. He carried a pierced tin lantern that seesawed an arc of jagged light over his face. He stopped, peered at the house owlishly, and then tried to fight his way through the bushes one-handed. At first Nathaniel could not make sense of it, and then he realized that Quinn was drunk enough to be searching for the hidden door on the wrong wall of the house.
“Come on, Giselle,” he called. “You can’t hide from me. I’ve got your drag, I do. Pickle packing, eh? All tied up in a knot with your savage, but I’ll put an end to that.”
He drew his short sword and thrashed at the bushes, grunting with the effort. Nathaniel edged backward, just out of his reach. They continued like this for ten yards, until Quinn took a holly branch across the face and pulled up short.
“Moved your little door, have you? Won’t do you a bit of good, lovey, I’ll find you out in the end. Ask any man jack in the Sixtieth if Jonathan Quinn don’t have a way with a woman’s doors.” He snickered at his own wit, threw back his head and bellowed in earnest. “Giselle!”