Fire Along the Sky Fire Along the Sky

by Sara Donati

  “Clearly you knew I must be offended, or you would have told me then what it meant.”

  His mouth worked, the muscles in his jaws knotting and popping. “Aye.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Simon, and I want an honest answer.”

  He glanced down at her along the slope of his nose, and nodded.

  “What kind of silly, childish, nonsensical person do you take me for?”

  His brow creased. She poked him hard with one finger and he took a step backward.

  “Did you think that I was wrapped in silk as a girl, here on the frontier?” She poked him again, harder, and followed him as he stepped backward.

  “I—”

  “You thought I'd faint away.”

  This time he stepped before she could poke.

  “I thought you'd take offense.”

  She snorted at him. “Because you called me a pig?”

  Now he flushed, and his voice rose. “I didnae call ye a pig!”

  “A grumfie then.”

  He grabbed her by the arms and lowered his face so that they were nose to nose. “I didna call ye a grumfie. I said ye squealed like a grumfie. Which ye did.”

  All Lily's self-control left her then, and she laughed. Right in his flushed face, she laughed, and then when his lips began to jerk, she laughed louder, and finally he laughed too, and then he kissed her.

  With a great sigh of satisfaction Lily wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back for a good long time.

  Finally he said, “I give in.”

  Lily smiled against his mouth. “What ever do you mean?”

  He pulled her tight against him so that she could not miss his intention. “I give in.”

  “You mean to make me squeal like a grumfie?”

  He pressed his mouth to her forehead and his shoulders shook a little, with wanting and laughter and surrender too, and Lily felt dizzy with the power of it.

  “If there's a blanket, aye,” he said.

  “In front of the stove,” Lily said. “Hurry.”

  Chapter 32

  Dear Luke,

  For your letter with news of your brother and cousin our thanks. Your stepmother tries to hide her disappointment, and almost succeeds. Of course she would have them home now, but not at the risk of Daniel's health, and so she daily lectures herself and everyone else on the virtues of patience. While I write she is busy with a letter to Hannah and Jennet, which we trust you will see delivered safely into their hands.

  I don't know anything of this priest you describe, nor of any man who fits that description of the right age. I have been long out of the north woods and my connections are poor. Now while it is true that many priests are rascals, most are harmless enough. If he is the kind who preys on the weak of mind, then he has met his match in Jennet. If he has some other plan you are right to remember that Runs-from-Bears is close by, and there is yet to be born a priest who could get the better of Bears. I'll remind you that your grandmother's distrust of the church goes deep, and that you were raised on it.

  And having said all that, I believe that if in your gut you know he is a danger to your sister and bride, then you must do what must be done to see that no harm comes to them. Consult with Bears, and take action as you see fit.

  As far as Jennet is concerned, my advice to you is this: this is not the last time you will be at odds. You are both stubborn and single-minded, and you must learn to pick your battles or resign yourself to losing the war.

  Your father,

  Nathaniel Bonner

  Daughter,

  With this post the courier brings you a number of things from your aunt Many-Doves and Curiosity, foremost a crock that they worked all day to fill with unguent. They say you will recognize it for what it is, and to rub it daily into Daniel's shoulder and arm and then to wrap it in the flannel. Many-Doves begs you tell Daniel that without sleep he will not heal, and that he should take the tea she is sending without complaint. Curiosity adds that he must take the laudanum you prescribe for him along with the tea. And if he will not, you are (in her words) to pour it down his gullet and hold his nose until he swallows.

  Gabriel sends two carvings, one of a horse and one of a bear, for his brother and cousin to share between them, he says. The carving of the squirrel is for you, and the one of the beaver is, of course, for Jennet. Gabriel and Annie send her word that they are watching her favorite dam closely and will give her a full reporting when she comes home again.

  I am sending a large cake of the new maple sugar and a jug of syrup, as well as a cask of cornmeal and a sack of beans. With these things I send my loving concern and faith in you, that you will do everything in your power to see that your brother and cousin regain their health.

  We would send more, but the courier balks at boxes of candles and bundles of blankets, and he is eager to be away. Yesterday when he arrived there was an ice storm of such strange intensity that I can hardly describe it. He seems to fear that it might happen again, though the weather has turned warm and the sky is clear.

  May this letter reach you quickly, and find you all well.

  Your loving stepmother

  Elizabeth Middleton Bonner

  Postscript: I have written nothing of your sister Lily, not because there is no news, but because there is too much to say in too short a time. She is in love, I think, but struggles with it, as of course she must.

  Chapter 33

  When the courier had ridden off, Elizabeth stood in the muddy path outside the trading post with her arms wrapped about herself and gave in to tears. They came in a great warm wave and without sound: his Elizabeth, stoical and impatient with sorrow, no matter how honestly she came by it.

  Nathaniel put an arm around her shoulders and said nothing; his own throat was swollen almost shut with the things he wanted his daughter to know, but must keep to himself.

  “It would be too much, just now,” Elizabeth said. “It would be unfair to burden her any more.” And then, on an indrawn breath: “Oh, Nathaniel, perhaps we should have.”

  There was a warm breeze today, one that smelled of sap rising and the ice water that rushed downmountain to swell the Sacandaga to its banks. He could smell Elizabeth's tears too, salty, with a bitter edge.

  He said, “And what if Manny doesn't come, after all?”

  Under his arm he felt Elizabeth's shoulders tense and then roll forward in surrender. To give Hannah hope that she might finally know what had happened to her husband and then take it away—neither of them wanted to risk that.

  Elizabeth wiped her face hastily with her handkerchief and pulled in a shuddering breath just as Simon Ballentyne appeared on the path that came from the doctor's place, bareheaded in the weak spring sun. At this distance the difference in color between his forehead and the new-shaved cheeks was still clear, and it always made Nathaniel uncomfortable to see, for reasons he didn't ask himself about very closely.

  He was coming straight for them, head high, straight of shoulder: a man ready to take the harsh words he knew he had earned. Something else Nathaniel didn't much want to think about, but Elizabeth was of a different mind altogether.

  She said, “I think I must own that my arrangements have failed. They must work out this business between them without any interference from us.”

  He made a sound that meant neither that he agreed nor that he disagreed, but only that he was listening. He was hoping that would satisfy her, but from the sharp look Elizabeth threw his way Nathaniel knew she would not let him off so easy.

  Sunday night they had known the ice storm would keep Lily in the village. Simon, who was supposed to bring her home to Lake in the Clouds, would see her safely to Curiosity, where she would spend the night.

  Lying in the dark in their bed and listening to the trees groan under the sudden burden of ice, they had lain awake thinking of Lily in one room and Simon in the next.

  “Curiosity is there,” Nathaniel had said. “And the little girls.” And still Elizabeth had been awake f
or a long time, and Nathaniel with her.

  Finally he turned to her and said, “And if they are together, Boots, well then. We've got to let her go.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know that. Curiosity made me see that.”

  “What then?” he asked, smoothing a stray hair away from her face.

  “She's so young,” Elizabeth said.

  “Something she'll outgrow,” Nathaniel had said, hoping to catch at least a glimmer of her smile in the dark.

  “Too soon,” Elizabeth said. “And far away from us.”

  There it was, the worst of it. They might keep Simon Ballentyne here for the summer, but in the fall he would take their daughter away.

  “You'll have to give in on Canada,” Nathaniel said.

  Elizabeth pushed out a laugh. “I suppose I will. It's that or never see our Lily's children.” And then, in a more serious tone she said, “I must make the most of these months. At least I have the summer.” She said: “I think she has a better chance of being happy with him than she would with most men. He is not put off by her talent.”

  “And you ain't worried about the connection to Moncrieff,” Nathaniel said. It was a question, and it wasn't. She turned to him in the dark, suddenly.

  “Are you?”

  Nathaniel let his mind travel back over the years to the idea of Angus Moncrieff. No matter how he concentrated, he couldn't call up the man's face.

  “I don't see anything of his uncles in him,” Nathaniel said.

  Elizabeth bedded her cheek on his shoulder, glad of his warmth and his calm and the fact that when her own hard-won rationalism threatened to desert her, she could count on Nathaniel's.

  “Nor do I,” she said. And hoped it was the truth.

  Monday morning, the worst of the ice already gone, they had picked their way down the mountain over fallen branches and trees snapped in half by the ice to find that Lily had not gone to Curiosity, but had slept in the meetinghouse.

  She did not look at either of them directly when she said this, and Nathaniel had an idea of why not. So did Elizabeth, from the color that came into her cheeks and the way her forehead drew down to build a crease between her brows.

  “There was no walking anywhere,” Lily had explained, her face turned away from them. “And there was enough firewood.”

  Nathaniel could almost see Elizabeth's mind working, the way she weighed words and phrases and rearranged them until they suited her perfectly. If he had his way, Nathaniel would have left the question unasked, but Elizabeth could not. Last night she had resolved to let Lily and Simon work things out between themselves, but her curiosity was ungovernable at this moment.

  Lily saw it coming too; in any other circumstances it might have made Nathaniel laugh, the silent battle between mother and daughter. I am going to ask, Elizabeth's expression said, and Lily's: Not if I can think of a way to distract you.

  And she had just the ammunition she needed. Lily told them about the courier waiting in the trading post and handed over the letters, and that was the end of uncomfortable questions about exactly who had spent the night in the meetinghouse.

  But now the courier was off, and Lily was home at Lake in the Clouds, and here was Simon Ballentyne, coming straight at them.

  Nathaniel said, “Ice storm kept you off the mountain Sunday, I suppose.”

  Beside him Elizabeth let out a little sigh. She might confront Lily, but she would leave Simon to Nathaniel.

  “Aye,” Simon began.

  Elizabeth, flustered, did the unthinkable: she interrupted him.

  “What good fortune to see you just now,” she said, too brightly. “Nathaniel, Simon wants to talk to you about the foundation of the new school. Why don't you two go on, I have some errands to do and then I'll be along.”

  Simon hid his surprise long enough to agree that, yes, he had a few questions if Nathaniel had the time.

  Nathaniel, who knew that Elizabeth had no errands, made a face at his wife when Simon turned his back.

  “Coward,” he mouthed at her. She blushed prettily and wrinkled her nose at him, but she went off anyway, leaving him alone with the man who had got into the habit of ravishing their daughter.

  Simon looked both confused and guilty, but he nodded. “Weel, then,” he said. “It won't take long.”

  Elizabeth went into the trading post, where the usual group of men were lounging around the stove, caught up in an argument about ice storms. Even for the trading post it was a particularly loud argument, but Elizabeth was glad to be overlooked. She went to Anna, who stood behind the counter, and asked to see buttons. It was the first thing that came to mind.

  Anna leaned across, her comfortable bosom pressed into the worn wood of the countertop, and whispered.

  “Don't worry, I ain't about to say a word to nobody about who slept where after the ice storm.”

  Startled, Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. She shut it with an audible click; opened it again to say something, anything. A dozen things occurred to her all at once, denials and protestations. Then she heard herself say, “Thank you.”

  Anna nodded. She had a habit of closing her eyes for a few seconds at a time and then opening them suddenly, like an owl.

  She said, “Too much gossip in this place as it is.” And then: “Here's the post rider. This place is going to fill up right quick, Elizabeth. You might want to be on your way if you ain't in a talkative mood. I swear there ain't nothing like a war to set people to writing letters. Even Jemima is in here twice a week sending something off or looking for a letter.” She dropped her voice another notch and leaned forward again.

  “Don't suppose you knew she's got kin in Boston?”

  Elizabeth was torn between reminding Anna that there was already too much gossiping going on, and interest in this rather odd offering. She settled for composing her face in an expression that she hoped conveyed interest without commitment.

  Anna said, “A cousin, she says. Writing back and forth regular, the two of them. You wait and see, she'll be in that door in the next five minutes.”

  Charlie LeBlanc had come up behind Elizabeth so quietly that she hadn't noticed, and she jumped in place when he spoke.

  “My thought,” he said in his most ponderous tones, “is that our Jemima is looking for somebody to take her in. She's had enough of Paradise, and Paradise of her.”

  Elizabeth wanted very much to walk away, but Martha came to mind. For Martha Kuick she must speak up, as no one else seemed to remember that Jemima had a daughter.

  “Whatever trouble there might be at the Wildes' place, I trust no one is taking joy in it.”

  Charlie began to worry his thumbnail with his teeth, but Anna had the good manners to at least look abashed.

  “Well said. Well reminded.” She pushed out a sigh between her teeth.

  Elizabeth said, “And if Jemima does have a cousin or friend in Boston, why, I hope it is some comfort to her. Whatever her wrongdoings, even Jemima is made of flesh and blood.”

  “No need to bash me over the head with my wickedness,” Anna said. At that moment the door opened, and a man stepped inside. Not the post rider, as Anna had predicted, but a stranger.

  Anna straightened and put on the smile she reserved for well-dressed travelers who might have real coin to spend.

  “Good day, sir,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  A well-formed skull covered with a pelt of white hair swung ponderously in the direction of the counter. All through the trading post voices quieted and eyes turned to the stranger.

  Elizabeth had read about albinos, but she had never seen one before. The stranger had skin the blue-white of skimmed milk, and eyes that were almost pink even in the deep shadow provided by the brim of his hat. For all their strange color the expression in his eyes was quick and clear. He had a strong nose, slightly upturned, with prominent flared nostrils. His mouth, small and the color of bruised strawberries, was his oddest feature. When he spoke a row of strong teeth flashed, too perfect to be anythi
ng but man's invention.

  “I take it you are Mrs. McGarrity.” He spoke in an accent Elizabeth could not place right away: clipped, with a singsong quality. “Mrs. Wilde suggested that you might be able to direct me. I am the Reverend Stiles. That boy out there in the wagon—” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That's my nephew Justus Rising.”

  He said his name as if he expected it to be familiar to her, and then he looked around the crowded trading post in the same way.

  “Well, now,” Anna said, casting a surprised look at Elizabeth, who was no less at a loss. “If I can help, certainly. Were you wanting directions to find Jemima?”

  Charlie LeBlanc found his tongue, as he usually did, to ask just that question that everyone was thinking but would not voice. He said, “Are you some kin of Jemima's then? Come from Boston?”

  Elizabeth had a sudden sense of falling, a dizziness that would have got the better of her had she not been close enough to the counter to grab it with one hand. Some part of her understood already what this stranger would say before he opened his mouth, his expression shifting from polite to puzzled. Jemima's face came to mind, the deep-set eyes hooded and knowing. My day will come, you wait and see.

  “Why, no,” said the Reverend Stiles. “I'm no kin of Mrs. Wilde's. Yesterday was the first time I ever met the good lady.” He rocked back on his heels and lowered his chin to his chest, the posture of a man about to launch into a sermon. Luckily Charlie caught that too, and asked another question quick.

  “You saw Jemima yesterday? But where?”

  “Why, in Johnstown,” said the Reverend Stiles. “At her attorney's office, where we signed the purchase agreement.” He caught the look on Elizabeth's face.

  “Madam, are you unwell?”

  “I am well enough, sir,” Elizabeth said. “Tell me, do I understand you correctly? You have bought the Wildes' property?”

  All the men around the stove came closer to stand behind her in a loose half-circle.