Dawn on a Distant Shore

by Sara Donati

  “I think not,” said Sir Guy. “The Mohawk will stay on board the Isis. We have no need of your cousin the Viscount, Mrs. Bonner.”

  The flush of anger was on her; she could feel it and she knew he could see it. “Are your inquiries concluded then, sir?”

  The governor shook his head. “We are not even begun, Mrs. Bonner. But I always conduct these … discussions at the Château St. Louis. You needn’t worry for your reputation. It is not the gaol, but my residence. My lady wife is present.”

  Behind the governor, Captain Pickering blanched visibly, but that was a luxury that Elizabeth could not afford. To show this man panic or even the simplest shred of fear would be to surrender.

  Pickering said, “My lord, surely you do not wish to take two infants and a young girl out into such weather, and in the dead of night.”

  “Of course I do not,” said the governor, never looking at the captain. “You know me better, Pickering. I have no need for wailing babies. They will stay here in the care of the Mohawk. I will not keep her long.”

  Elizabeth let her expression go as soft and blank as she could make it, but her mind scrambled frantically. The man thought to shock her into a confession, hoping that she would fumble and send her men to the gallows in the first flush of fear for her children. He could not keep her long away; Will would see to it.

  She squared her shoulders and spoke to Bears in Kahnyen’kehàka.

  “I will be back by sunrise. See if you can get word to Will.”

  Hannah made no sound but a single tear, scalding hot, fell on Elizabeth’s hand.

  Elizabeth met the governor’s hooded eyes. “You will permit me to dress, my lord?”

  He inclined his head, all generosity now; he thought she would give in.

  In the corner cabin where the babies slept peacefully, Elizabeth took Hannah by the shoulders. “I will deal with them and then I will return. Nothing could keep me away.”

  Hannah nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I will take good care of the babies until you get back.”

  Elizabeth ran a hand over the smooth dark head. “I know that you will.”

  There was a shuffling in the main cabin, men’s voices raised and then a run of notes on the spinet. It made her flush with a fine, hot anger. After a moment’s hesitation, she went to the twins’ carry basket and rummaged under the covers at one end until she came up with the sack of gold coin that Will had returned to them this morning. She would have preferred a musket or a knife, but money was the only weapon available to her.

  Québec had disappeared into a fog. Elizabeth could tell nothing of the city except that it was at the top of some cliffs; the coach wound its way up in a corkscrewlike fashion, jolting and shuddering in the winds and the mudholes. Alone in the coach, she kept the heavy leather curtains closed, for she did not like the mounted escort so close by. By the time they had reached the Château St. Louis she had reduced her handkerchief to a shredded mass, but her face was composed.

  The governor had arrived first, on horseback. A great number of soldiers waited in the courtyard, clearly discomfited by the cold rain. Elizabeth was chilled to the bone, too, but she could feel no sympathy for them. If things were to go badly here, these men would be dispatched to arrest Nathaniel, Hawkeye, and Robbie. The thought could not be borne, and so she thrust it away from herself.

  Elizabeth waited for the governor in his drafty front hall, low of ceiling and with a stone floor that radiated a chill even through the thick carpet. There was only a banked fire in the hearth, and no sign of a servant. Major Johnson of the King’s Own stood off to one side with his hands crossed at the small of his back, rocking to and fro on his heels. He smelled of onions and frying liver, his teeth were ivory or perhaps the bone of some animal, and his distaste for this guard duty was as clear as the dark stubble on his cheeks.

  Elizabeth pulled her muddied cloak closer around herself and returned his stare. “You are impertinent, sir.”

  “And you are a turncoat, Mrs. Bonner.”

  “Pardon me, Major Johnson. I mistook you for a gentleman.”

  He had the good grace to flush, but before he could put words to his contempt, the double doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a small silver-haired lady floated through with Sir Guy just behind her. She was perfectly dressed and groomed at four in the morning—for so proclaimed the mantel clock. Elizabeth supposed she must be used to drama at all hours of the night.

  “Mrs. Bonner, my dear.” Her tone was contained and carefully modulated, with the breathy quality of those women who never quite got over a presentation at court. She had never been a beauty, her face too round and her complexion too rough for it, but her eyes snapped with curiosity and intelligence that might be very good or very bad news for Elizabeth. If Lady Dorchester were to take over the questioning, she would have a much harder time of it than she would have with the governor.

  Her first words put Elizabeth’s concerns to rest.

  “Mrs. Bonner. Welcome to the Château St. Louis, and please may I beg your pardon for the abominable treatment you’ve received at my husband’s hands. I am Lady Dorchester. What an outrageous affair, there are no words. No words. Most disconcerting. I hardly know what to say.”

  “My dear—” Sir Guy began, and she turned on him in a cold fury.

  “This is Mrs. Elizabeth Middleton Bonner, Lord Dorchester. Do you hear? Of Oakmere. Lady Crofton’s niece, the one she spoke to me about last spring when we met in Montréal. And you have dragged her out of her bed, and away from her children—did he not, my dear? And for what purpose?”

  “We are looking for her husband and his father,” said Sir Guy, struggling for his dignity and not quite succeeding. “You know very well that it is standard procedure to question suspects alone.”

  Lady Dorchester gave a very unladylike snort. “She is a suspect?”

  “Her husband is.”

  Elizabeth was so relieved at this unexpected ally that she might have laughed out loud to see the governor’s plans so neatly turned on ear.

  “Exactly!” Lady Dorchester advanced a step toward the governor. “Her husband. She has not committed any crime.” Her gaze dared him to contradict her.

  She took Elizabeth by the arm. “My dear, we must have patience with them, for they are merely men, after all. Most excellent men, it is true, but men nonetheless. We will send you back to the Isis, my dear, but first you must have dry boots, and this cloak—you must be chilled through.”

  “Lady Dorchester,” Elizabeth began. “Please, a little damp does not bother me. I am worried about my children.”

  The tiny woman drew up in amazement. “Of course you are, my dear. But this damp is not to be trifled with. It would do no good to send you back as you are to the Isis; you will surely take a chill and then how shall I explain myself to Lady Crofton? No, you must have dry things. You are of a size with my elder daughter; I am sure it can be managed quickly.” The bright eyes moved to her face. “You have twins, I understand? When do you expect they will need your attention? Surely another hour can be spared.”

  Elizabeth considered Lady Dorchester’s resolute expression, and sighed. She did not wonder that she had made so fast a friendship with her aunt Merriweather; they were fashioned of the same strong stuff.

  “An hour, Lady Dorchester. But no more.”

  The governor was making distressed noises, little chirps that came up from his chest.

  “Sir Guy, do speak up if you have something to say.” Lady Dorchester’s tone was more solicitous now that she had secured Elizabeth’s promise.

  He scowled. “I have not had a chance to question this lady! There is a serious matter at stake here. You have no consideration for my sense of duty, madam!”

  Pale fingers fluttered dismissively around her face. “On the contrary, I am well acquainted with your sense of duty, Sir Guy. I have been at truce with it now for these many years. Very well, ask your questions, if you must. I shall return shortly.” She
disappeared into the back hallway, calling for servants in a staccato French that must have carried through the house.

  Elizabeth was left alone with the governor and Major Johnson. She had feared that Sir Guy would be angry at this complete failure of his scheme to frighten her into a confession, but there was a thoughtful look about him, as if he were weighing his options.

  “Mrs. Bonner, I should not have brought you here if I had had your cooperation.”

  It was as close as he would come to an apology. Elizabeth said, “I am happy to tell you what you most need to know, sir. And that is this: these men you are looking for are not spies. They have no interest in politics of any kind.”

  Major Johnson narrowed his eyes at her. “And what of their activities during the war?”

  Elizabeth managed a cool smile. “We are not at war now, sir, and they serve no army of any nation.”

  “It is true that we are not at war. At the moment,” conceded Sir Guy. “But in my experience, madam, ladies do not always know their husbands’ business.”

  “Perhaps that is true in some cases,” Elizabeth said. “But not in my own. May I ask you a question, my lord?”

  “If I may ask you one first and get a truthful answer.”

  She had put herself in the trap; she could do nothing more than agree.

  Sir Guy said, “You have never heard your husband, father-in-law, or this Robert MacLachlan plotting to take part in a new attempt to invade Canada?”

  Elizabeth suppressed her smile and thanked the heavens that his imagination had taken him in the one direction that she could counter with complete honesty. “My lord, I give you my oath that I have never heard them mention such an invasion at all, much less their part in it.”

  “I have reason to believe that they are encouraging the Mohawk to move back to New-York and support the American government against the Crown.”

  Elizabeth might have pointed out that this was a second question, but she simply said, “From this it is clear to me that you know very little about the Mohawk and nothing about my husband and his father.”

  Major Johnson grunted, but the governor maintained his thoughtful expression.

  “Are you an expert on the Mohawk, madam?”

  She shook her head. “That would be a fine conceit, indeed. No, I am not.”

  “But you understand them. You speak their language.”

  She shrugged. “Imperfectly.”

  The governor said, “You are an English lady of good family. Will you not make your home here in British Canada? If your husband is truly as disinterested in politics as you claim, then he might as well be on this side of the border, and take up the cause of his wife’s homeland. I would be glad of his assistance with the Indians.”

  Elizabeth had been lulled into a sense of relief by Lady Dorchester’s intervention in her dilemma, but now she saw that she had let down her guard too far.

  “Sir Guy, I cannot enter into any such agreement, just as Lady Dorchester would not make arrangements for your removal from Canada without consulting you.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “But you are mistaken, Mrs. Bonner. I would be immensely grateful to anyone who would arrange my removal home. The day I am recalled cannot come soon enough.”

  There was a tone she could not quite put a name to: certainly disgust and some good measure of disappointment, but also a deep weariness.

  Lady Dorchester’s quicksilver step sounded close by.

  “You promised me a question, my lord.”

  He put out a hand, palm up.

  “How did you know that I came here on the Nancy?”

  A vague look of discomfort passed over the smooth features. Then he drew a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and, after a moment’s hesitation, handed it to Elizabeth.

  The paper was very fine and scented with musk. An elegant feminine hand but firm, the black ink in strong lines:

  Sir—

  It may interest you to know that Mrs. Elizabeth Bonner is come to Québec aboard the Nancy. She does not travel alone.

  Giselle Somerville

  Elizabeth had never fainted in her life, but she thought now she might. Confusion and fear made her knees buckle until she found herself sitting on the hall bench, her whole body covered in a fine sweat. Why would Giselle Somerville do such a thing?

  “Are you unwell, madam?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes to concentrate, the note clasped hard in her hand. Saw in her mind the closed door of the captain’s quarters, and heard Pickering tell them again that Miss Somerville had already retired for the night. Giselle Somerville sent the note to the governor and then she had gone to bed. She wanted Elizabeth arrested, but why? Out of simple maliciousness? Had she heard of the plan to bring Elizabeth on board the Isis and decided that such a thing was not to be borne? Giselle—or someone close to Giselle—wanted Elizabeth away from the Isis. But why? What was to be gained by Elizabeth’s absence?

  What had she left behind on the Isis that Giselle wanted?

  A great flush of fear began in a trickle at the back of her neck. Elizabeth shot up from the bench, a hand at her throat to keep herself from crying out, just as Lady Dorchester appeared with her arms full of clothing.

  “I am sorry, Lady Dorchester, but I must go back to the ship. Immediately. Please, please will you lend me a horse?”

  The little woman looked with surprise from Elizabeth to Sir Guy. “But your clothing—”

  Elizabeth grabbed Lady Dorchester by the shoulders; she was as small and frail as a bird. As a child. “You must see, I cannot delay. My children. She—someone wanted me away from the ship, that’s why they sent the note.”

  Sir Guy was making small sounds of disbelief. “Surely you cannot think—”

  “Sir!” Elizabeth cut him off. “My children are in danger, I can feel that in my bones. If you have any mercy you will not keep me here one moment longer.”

  Lady Dorchester tapped her foot. “Major Johnson, a horse for Mrs. Bonner, and without delay. Do you hear me, man? Without delay. And ride with her.”

  Elizabeth took a precious moment to send a look of gratitude to the lady, and then she flew out the door.

  The Isis was gone.

  Elizabeth stood on the dock, her hands pressed to her mouth, and stared. Major Johnson was asking questions, but she could make no sense of them. Her children were gone. She let out one keening sob and then bit down hard enough to taste blood.

  A nightwatchman slid up behind her. “Pardon, are you Mrs. Bonner?”

  She rounded on him, grabbed him by the grubby blanket coat. The horses danced away in alarm, their hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones. The man looked at her as if she might eat him whole.

  And well I might, she thought. “The Isis.” He tried to jerk away, and she dug in her fingers. “Where is she?”

  He jumped, his eyes round with fear. “Sailed, ma’am. Sailed not an hour ago for home.”

  “For where? Where is home? Tell me, man, where is that ship bound!”

  He let out a cry of pain and yanked free of her grip. “Scotland! She’s bound for the Solway Firth.”

  The Solway Firth! On the southern shore of Dumfrieshire. Where Carryck had his seat.

  “Tell me,” she said hollowly. “Who owns the Isis? Would it be the Earl of Carryck, by any chance?”

  Major Johnson made a humming noise, his head nodding. “Yes, that’s right. These are Carryck’s boatyards, too—I thought you would have known that.”

  The Isis belonged to the Earl of Carryck. This was Moncrieff’s doing, all of it, perhaps from the very beginning. Elizabeth’s hands went suddenly numb, and she thought she might swoon. But the watchman was talking, and she forced herself to concentrate and listen to him.

  “There’s a man asking for you,” he was saying, still rubbing his arm.

  “A man? Where, what man?”

  He jerked with his chin toward the warehouse. “We carried him over there. A big Indian, with
a bump on his head the size of a cabbage.”

  But Elizabeth was already off at a dead run, falling once on the wet wood of the dock and then up again before anyone could reach her.

  They had propped Runs-from-Bears up against the wall. Blood trailed in spider’s legs down his temple, but he blinked up at her. Alive. Alive.

  She went down on her knees. “Tell me.”

  He held up his fist. In it, a letter smeared with dirt and his own blood. Elizabeth’s hands shook so that she could barely manage to break the seal. In the light of a single lantern the penstrokes leaped crazily.

  My dear Mrs. Bonner:

  Permit me to reassure you that Mrs. Freeman and your children are in perfect health and will enjoy every comfort and protection that the Isis can offer. I had not planned to sail without you, but the governor saw fit to take you away at a most inopportune moment. Fortunately, the first officer’s guidwife is on board and will serve as an excellent wet nurse.

  All three children will want for nothing but your company, a lack which will be soon remedied: I have arranged passage for yourself, your husband, and father-in-law with Captain Morris of the Osiris, who will present himself to you tomorrow. It is his first and most important obligation to deliver you with all haste to the Solway Firth. With good luck the westerlies will have you there in less than thirty days.

  I regret the necessity of such a drastic step, but your father-in-law denied me every other more reasonable alternative. In anticipation of the day on which you will be reunited not with one family, but two, I remain

  Your willing servant

  Angus Moncrieff

  Major Johnson walked up close, his curiosity crawling on his face like lice. “What does it say?”

  Elizabeth crumpled the letter against her bodice. “He has stolen my children,” she said dully. “My children are gone.”

  Runs-from-Bears put a bloody hand on her wrist. In Kahnyen’kehàka he said, “You must find Wolf-Running-Fast.”

  “Your husband,” said Johnson, not realizing that he echoed Bears. “Where is your husband? You need him now.” He was trying not to grin, but his expression was sharp and eager in the lantern light.