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THE BURNING TORE AND chewed into Elizabeth. She would brace herself against it, but it invariably strengthened.
She relaxed to let it have its way, but Thomas would press cold rags against her heated skin. He stripped her to her chemise. He wrapped her in a wet, cold quilt and held her tight in his lap, his own chest shivering from the cold.
He insisted she fight against the heat.
Her body would lower to a more bearable temperature. And then, inevitably, she would fall back into the heat, and not even the shadow people came near for fear of the scorchings that ate at her flesh.
And then, the heat fell away for good and a drenching of a meaner sort took over. Thomas sopped the moisture from her face, neck, and arms. He lifted her chemise just past her knees and pulled the moisture from her lower legs. At what point had his hands gentled so? Had they always been thus? Was the war forever driven from them? Or was it taking every ounce of willpower he had to drive the hurt away?
More than once she opened her mouth to ask, but before she could do so, her mind fell back into its dark struggle. And then, the shadows began stalking her. They chased. She ran even as her limbs weighed heavy and cramped.
She next awoke to slivers of light breaking through the displaced shutter at the window. Her body was sticky from the sweats, but no moisture seeped from her. She turned her head to see Thomas lying beside her. Exhausted lines pulled at reddened eyes.
The next cycle may well kill me.
Even she, with her limited experience in tending the Acadians who seasoned, knew she was doing so harder than most. She also had only a day before starting the next round of struggling.
Thomas rose to his feet and made his way to the fireplace. He shifted a pot in the coals, spooned oatmeal into a bowl, and brought it to her. She ate a little and refused the rest.
Thomas insisted, however, she drink the tea. He then set to packing.
A half hour later, he lifted her to the saddle. Her head dizzied. Her fingers grazed the pommel.
“Easy, Lass,” he whispered. He pulled himself into the saddle behind her.
She collapsed against his chest.
“’Tis frightening to be so weak,” she whispered.
“’Tis part of it, Lass. But when we get to camp, ye can rest.”
“And you will bring Father Bergier to me?”
“Aye, Lass.”
The bite to his words stung. He was obviously not Catholic and understood not her need for a priest as she faced an illness that might take her as it did Josué.
He clacked Dominic forward. Fingal led them along the trail.
Farms nestled amid thick stands of trees. Refugee camps dotted the landscape, some deep into the woods, others nearer and across the road. Thomas sped past all of them. When someone neared he lowered his hat. When he was hailed, he tipped the hat and picked up Dominic’s pace.
“Are you avoiding them?” she asked.
“They are a rabbly group, and I have nae wish to slow down on their account.”
“Maybe, but they are without a home as are my own people.”
“These people have homes, but they canna stay in them because they chose land that is too close to the border or past it. They will go back home soon enough when the war ends, if not before. And I thought ye said the Neutrals were nae longer your people.”
“They no longer want anything to do with me. ‘Tis not the same thing.”
He grabbed her right leg and swung it over Dominic’s head. “Ye should sleep.” He eased her cheek against his shoulder. “’Tis still a while before we get to my family.”
The sun warmed her. Thomas’ arms held her snug against a fall. Dominic’s steady gait hushed her fears.
The next thing she knew the horse had stopped. A rich, bone-jarring baritone laced with a lilting Scottish brogue and the words I am glad to see ye back eased into her chest. She heard her name and the words seasoning and Fearnought Farms.
Then, the words Fottrell House ripped into her ears.
Her fingers clutched at Thomas’ arm. Her eyelids flew open.
Eyes as dark and deep as a bottomless well studied her. Raven-colored hair, smoothed from a high forehead, willingly corralled itself at the nape of the man’s neck. A generous mouth pressed together between an ample mustache and middling jaw hair. Did he wish a beard or not?
He nodded at her, then lifted his gaze to Thomas. “Your maither and the others have gone to Mass there.”
The fear jiggered up her spine.
Had Thomas known? Had he tricked her? She twisted to face him.
“Why did you not tell me your family was Catholic?”
––––––––
THE FEAR CHURNED IN her eyes. But why?
“Whatever worries ye, let us get settled and then we shall speak of it.”
“But I cannot stay. I do not know where you can take me . . .”
“Elizabeth,” he cried. “What is this nonsense?”
He grabbed her arm. The plaid slipped to her waist.
“By God’s teeth, Tom!” Mac swore. “She is French!”
“She is nae French, but one of the Neutrals.”
“Same thing.”
Elizabeth’s eyes gored the man. Then, she started to shake.
Ach! They needed off the horse. She needed to be in bed. They needed a decent meal.
He needed to be free of her.
He held her arm and dismounted. He pulled her off and cradled her against his chest.
Mac’s eyes blazed into black spheres. “Where are ye taking her?”
“To maither’s tent.”
“Ye will no.” Mac crossed his arms. “She can go to the Fottrell House with the others.”
Thomas had nae time for such. He stepped around the man. Fingal threw Mac a growl and a snap of the jaws, then followed. Thomas wove between trees and saplings, between fluttering laundry on a makeshift clothesline, and around a long outdoor table. He passed a tent nearly four times the size of the others. Front and back flaps had been tied back to allow a breeze to lift through. Dogs, laying beyond, lifted their heads, then lowered them back to their paws.
“Tomas, your family is Catholic. You will not be allowed to help me.”
“Being Catholic or not has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with it.”
Thomas dodged a stump, then stepped into the tent beside the largest one.
“Tom, ye should listen to her.”
Two short posted beds lay to Thomas’ right. He lay Elizabeth to the farthest one.
“And how could ye bring her kind here after what they have done?”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with dark horror. “What has my kind done?”
“Nothing.” Thomas spread the plaid atop her. “Mac speaks of a hatred he should have rid himself of long ago.” Thomas needed Jesuit’s Bark. He needed to unpack and tend Dominic, perhaps take a nap of his own before she started the next round of shivering.
He lurched upward and spun around. His mother’s head high traveling storage cabinet for herbs was against the far wall, and Mac stood between Thomas and it.
The man crossed his arms. “And have ye rid yourself of this hatred that ye speak of?”
Thomas sifted the words through his teeth. “The Neutrals are just as blameless in this war as the rest of us.” He stomped past the man.
“Ye are hardly blameless, my friend.”
Aye, but he would no speak of it now with Elizabeth so near. He scanned drawers. He read labels.
Mac was beside him. He lowered his voice. “By all that is holy, Tom, ye are gone near two years. We hear rumors of the worst kind, and when ye do come home, ye bring an enemy along of ye.” He pointed at Elizabeth. “She has to go back to her people.”
“Tomas, non,” she whimpered.
He turned to her. “I will nae send ye back.”
“And why does she nae wish to go back to her ain?”
Thomas jabbed his finger at the middle section of drawers. He read labels. Where was the Jesuit’s Bark?
“The authorities are watching the Neutrals. They have names. They keep count. They will come for her, and ‘twill be a hefty fine
for harboring her.”
“What do ye care? Ye are nae longer Catholic.”
“Your family is, and talk is the legislature is going to impose an additional tax on Catholics to be certain they have nae extra money to help the Neutrals.”
Perhaps ‘twas in one of the trunks. “That makes no sense.” Thomas shoved the man aside. “That is the one group that would wish to help.”
“The Acadians are French. We are in a war with the French. And ye know how much Catholics are feared.”
“How can she be feared?” Thomas lifted a hand in Elizabeth’s direction. “She is hardly able to turn traitor and aid the enemy.”
“I do no make the laws, Tom.”
“He speaks true about all of it,” she whispered.
Thomas turned to her.
“Had I known you were Catholic, I would never have agreed to our arrangement.”
“’Twas nae an arrangement, Lass. ‘Twas a promise. And just what would ye have done had ye known?”
Her lips tightened. She lowered her gaze.
Ach! She would have taken a chance yet again on the wood, and she would now be seasoning and dying alone.
The idea strangled his gut. He spun back to the trunks.
“Tom? What did ye promise her?”
Thomas tossed a crate to the side. Mac sidestepped to avoid it. Too bad it had nae pinned the man’s toes to the ground.
“I promised I would nae take her back to the Fottrell House.”
“Ye what?”
Voices rose outside. Fingal whined and scrambled from the tent.
Thomas slung open a trunk lid. A jar of Jesuit’s Bark lay nestled in straw near the top. Thomas grabbed it and turned.
Mac blocked his path. “William will nae allow her to stay. He is already at odds with your maither as she goes to the Neutrals several times a week to help.”
“The lass will nae be here long.”
“Keeping her for any amount of time is madness.”
“I have warred through worse.” His head was near to exploding. The long night and now this were taking their toll. “And ye may as well know, I also promised to find her a job and a place to stay.”
“What?” Mac sputtered. “Ye have a better chance of finding a blithering Highland faerie in the backwoods than a job for her. The Neutrals are hated.” He shook his head. “Nae. They are feared. And that is far more dangerous than hate.”
“Running Feather takes a letter to her father now at Fort Oswego. She waits for him to come for her and then she is gone.”
The voices outside came closer. His sister’s girlish soprano beneath William’s crisp rasping. Fingal’s barks lifted in between.
Was his maither with them?
“And Tom, people will do ye no favors. Ye are feared as well, for Iron Gun has made it clear he is coming for Thomas McQueen.”
So they did know.
And what did it matter?
“Baltimore Town should be preparing for war regardless of whether I am here or not. Ye can thank Colonel Washington and General Braddock for that state of affairs. I have been at fault for a number of things, but this war can nae be laid at my feet.”
“But the death of Iron Gun’s wife and child are your fault.”
Not totally, but he had nae wish to argue the point.
He glanced at Elizabeth. She appeared to have fallen asleep. How Thomas knew not.
He stalked outside. Issy screamed and jumped at him. He pulled her against his chest. He whirled her around.
“I knew ye were home the minute I spied Fingal,” she squealed.
Thomas set her back to her feet. Her body was nae longer slight and spindly, but taller and gently curving. He flipped red curls from her eyes. She grinned. A pin-pointy dimple on the left side of her mouth, which their maither had shared with her, danced.
“I tried to tell them ye were no dead,” she laughed. “But they would no listen.”
Thomas lifted his gaze to William behind her.
Darker in the eyes and hair, the man was also wider in girth with large features their maither always said favored her father.
Thomas, on the other hand, was a near identical image to Dougald McQueen, and William had never forgiven him for it. Losing his right eye as a young lad, and being forced to wear the patch, had not helped.
“Issy,” his older brother said. “Mama told ye to get dinner warmed.”
“But Thomas just got here.” She lifted her face to Thomas. “And I want to hear about your adventures. I want to know where all ye have been.” Her face lit up. “Were ye home before here?”
Behind her, William’s eye narrowed.
Thomas grabbed her shoulders. “Go see to dinner, Issy. I am hungry, and there is plenty of time to visit later.”
“Oh, alright.” She tossed William an ugly glare, then threw her arms around Thomas for a last squeeze before drifting toward the large tent behind him.
“Well, little brother, I canna believe ‘tis ye and after all this time,” he whispered. “Rumors of the meanest sort have swirled in your absence.”
Thomas shifted a knee forward. “I did no expect trumpets and tea cakes to be served at your hand, William, but I at least thought ye would be glad I had no met the end of a scalping knife.”
“Ye know I would nae wish that.”
Thomas was not certain at all. He shifted a knee forward.
“Who is in maither’s tent?” William asked.
Thomas explained about finding Elizabeth at Fearnought Farms and bringing her back here.
His brother’s one eye darkened. “Ye have brought sickness?”
“She is seasoning. She is no danger to the rest of ye.” At least not from illness.
“And William?” Mac said. “She is one of the Acadian Neutrals.”
William’s brow furrowed. “Then she can season among her ain people.”
Time was running out for Thomas to do the things he needed to do before Elizabeth started into the next cycle. “Where is Mama?”
William winced. “She and Sarah are talking to Father Bergier about hosting an Easter egg hunt for the Acadian children.”
Mac swore under his breath.
Thomas wanted to crawl out of his skin. The fact the woman helped the Neutrals could be good or bad. On the one hand, she was sympathetic to their plight. On the other, she could well insist Elizabeth had nothing to fear and she needed to return.
“And who is Sarah?” Thomas asked.
“Sarah Perry.” Mac crossed his arms. “Although she is now Sarah Mackintosh.”
The man had married? “That was awfully fast.”
“At least I dealt with my grief without going to war and killing.” Mac nodded his head toward the tent. “And following through with this promise to an Acadian lass canna erase your guilt over nae following through on a promise to Catharine.”
The fire blasted into Thomas’ hands. He tossed the jar of Jesuit’s Bark to a nearby table. He grabbed Mac’s waistcoat.
The man’s fingers curled around Thomas’ wrists. They squeezed. His eyes blazed black.
Thomas shook him. “Dinna speak to me again of Catharine and any promises I made her.” He shoved him backward. “And my promise to Elizabeth is nae concern of yours.” He turned to William. “Or yours.”
He had guaranteed Elizabeth’s safety here, and yet, she was nae safer than amidst her own kind.
“The lass and I will rest here this afternoon and tonight, and I will find out from Mama how best to help her. In the morning, we will leave.” And before the shivering started again.
He spun away from both of them.
Back in the tent, he plied Elizabeth with several rounds of Jesuit’s Bark tea. He forced broth from his mother’s warmed over beef stew down her throat. In between, she rested.
That afternoon, a refugee rode into camp informing them that Colina was now with his wife who was at her time with child, and she would be delayed in coming home. At dusky dark, Sarah was escorted home by the same man. Her gold hair, wrapped in a failing bun atop her head, shone in the last rays of the sun. She greeted Mac with a smile that lifted from ear to ear, and his arms wrapped around her in a fierce hug. He kissed her desperately.
Thomas could nae watch.
Finally, she shuffled toward Thomas. She patted his right cheek and gifted his left with a kiss. The smell of lilac water brushed him. Her belly, rounded with a child of her own near to coming, slipped across his. His gaze slipped upward to a garnet pin wrought over with gold thatching and bordered by a delicate gold braid. Thomas could still not believe Mac had found it that day in the glade when the rood had been kept from him.
“What of Robert?” he asked.
“He passed two years ago of influenza.”
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you, but I have found happiness with Mac. He is a good man.”
He was, as was William. ‘Twas what made fighting with them so hard.
“Your mother will be pleased to see you, but ‘twill not be this day,” Sarah sighed. “The birthing was hard and she stays the night to keep watch.”
His heart crashed to his feet. Their time was to be so short before he left her again and for good this time.
That night, despite a round of protests, he stayed in the same tent with Elizabeth. They neither one had a need to keep up any sort of pretense, and he had nae wish for her to battle the night shadows alone, even if she knew they were not real.
He, however, chased sleep.
He should have known the Acadians, being Catholic and French, would nae be welcome. He should have known from the stories his father told of his arrival here after the Rising of ’15 that those who were not wanted could be treated cruelly.
Thomas twirled his mind this way and that with options. A cabin in the wood. Or perhaps his grandparent’s tottering, sad house the other side of the rise from camp. ‘Twould need to be shored, but they only needed one room for a week or two at that.
Or, perhaps, they could lose themselves in the refugee camps.
Ach! How could any of those ideas be better than being with her own people? What was she afraid of?
Early the next morning, Elizabeth cried out. Thomas jumped to his feet, grabbed a stool, and sat to her side.
Her body shook. Her teeth rattled.
“I am so cold, Tomas.” Tears filled her eyes. “And it has started again.”
It had.
And far, far too soon.