Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

Oggy would have to accompany them, as Rachel would burst if obliged to do without him for too long, but Silvia assured Rachel that Prudence and Patience could easily tend Chastity—and should anything untoward occur, such as the inn suddenly taking fire or an intrusion by bears, they were fleet of foot and could be trusted to take their sister along while making their escape.

Both Silvia and Jenny had offered to stay behind—and so had Rachel—but Ian was firm: they must all go with him.

“It wouldna be seemly for me to show myself alone, as though I have nay family. Thayendanegea would think me a pauper.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, raising a brow in interest. “So that’s it, is it? If ye can support a gaggle o’ women and children, that proves ye must have a wee bit o’ coin put away in your mattress?”

“That’s it,” he agreed. “A bit of ground, at least. Wear your silver watch, Mam, aye? And if ye wouldna mind wearing Rachel’s other cloak, Friend Silvia?”

None of the women had bright clothes, Jenny being still in her widow’s black, Silvia possessing only one dress without holes, and Rachel’s modest traveling wardrobe sporting nothing more ornate than a fur lining in her best cloak, Ian having insisted on it as a matter of survival rather than vanity. But they were all clean and decent, the fabrics good wool—and Jenny’s bodice was a heavy black silk, at least.

“And we havena got soil or animal leavings under our fingernails,” Jenny pointed out. “And we’ve good caps, though a bit of lace wouldna come amiss.”

Ian shook his head good-naturedly and put on three bracelets over the sleeves of his jacket, two of silver and one of polished copper. He bent to peer into the tiny shaving mirror the landlady had provided, in order to fix in his hair the spectacular blue and red feathers John Quincy Myers had brought him—from a “macaw,” Myers had said, though he was unable to describe what such a bird might look like, having never seen aught of it himself save a handful of feathers.

“Tell me again how to pronounce the gentleman’s name, will thee, Ian?” Rachel said, nerves getting the better of her.

“T’ay’ENDan’egg-e-a,” Ian replied, squinting into the mirror, hands busy behind his head. “But it doesna matter; his English name is Joseph Brant.”

“Brant,” Rachel repeated, and swallowed.

“And my—the woman we’ve come to see about—is Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa,” he added, with apparent casualness. He grinned at Rachel in the mirror. “Just so ye’ll ken when we’re talkin’ about her.”

Jenny sniffed and drew Rachel away to the outer room, to leave Ian space for his toilette, the bedroom being small and cramped.

“I shouldna imagine we’ll be talkin’ to her,” she said to Rachel under her breath as they emerged into the tiny parlor. “Or I’d be askin’ him how to say, ‘Clear off, ye brazen-faced trollop,’ in Mohawk. Though that’s maybe no just polite …”

“Possibly not,” Rachel said, feeling her spirit lighten a little. “If you find out, though, do tell me. Just in case.”

Jenny shot her a sideways look.

“And you a Friend,” she said in mock disapproval. “Though I suppose having the light o’ Christ inside her doesna necessarily keep a woman from bein’ a brazen-faced trollop …” She squeezed Rachel’s wrist with her free hand. “Dinna fash, lassie. The lad loves ye. Surely ye ken that?”

“I haven’t any doubt,” she assured Jenny. And she didn’t—truly, she didn’t. It was the children who troubled her. Emily’s children.

But this was Ian’s choice to make; it had to be. He came out of the bedroom then, resplendent. He was outwardly grave, but she could almost hear excitement humming in his blood. She had picked up her cloak but stood holding it, looking at him.

“Perhaps I should stay with the children. Surely thee should go alone, first?” she asked. “To—to—”

“No,” he said, in a tone indicating that he didn’t mean to argue about it, and swung Oggy up into his arms. “We’re invited to tea.”