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ELIZABETH WAS NOT CERTAIN she would ever get used to this clean-shaven Thomas McQueen. A black ribbon bound his hair neatly at the back of his neck. His shirt was of the regular sort, not the large wraparound she had first seen him in.
And ‘twas crispy white. Most of the time.
He wore everyday breeches with stockings, and on his feet, he wore buckled black shoes, although at the moment his lower legs and feet were naked. She had caught sight of his hairy legs more than once while he held her in the creek. Every time a different sort of heat infused her body, one she was fairly certain no cold water in the world would douse.
He grabbed a stool and sat beside the bed. He lay a brown package to her lap. He smelled of creek water and wood, and all she could think of was curling into his lap and tucking her nose into his neck. She would smell longer, harder, and deeper than she had ever smelled anything in her life.
Good heavens! The illness had turned her mind. Not even Eaton had caused such longings.
“Is Radley gone?” She could barely say the words.
“Long since.”
“You are in trouble because of me.”
“I stay in trouble. ‘Tis my middle name.” He winked. “Even ye said back at the farm that I probably stayed in trouble more than most.”
She had, but this was not what she meant.
“But it is time that I find ye a place to work and stay, so I will go out tomorrow.”
“So soon? I am not yet well.”
“In another week or two ye will be right as rain, and with Radley sniffing around like a tricky fox, ‘tis important ye have somewhere to go.” He pumped his finger into the brown paper. “’Tis for ye. I believe it will help us find ye a safe and good place.”
“I have no need of gifts when you have already done so much.”
“’Tis something ye need, and I dinna mind.”
The twine felt as heavy as iron. Her hand fell back to her lap.
“Dinna fash yerself. Ye will be strong soon enough.” He unwound the string and pulled the brown paper back.
On top was a new white chemise. Beneath were white stockings, a petticoat, a white mobcap, a white ruffled scarf, and a green dress.
“They are beautiful, but I have no need of these.” She pointed to the corner of the tent where her clothes hung over the back of the chair. “Sarah and Issy washed mine, and I will patch them.”
“’Tis just the thing, Elizabeth. Those clothes are clearly Acadian.”
“Oui. ‘Tis what I am.”
“Here ye need to be more English.”
“But I am not.”
He frowned. “But your father is British, and if we can convince Radley to let ye bide here as an English woman, then ‘twill be much easier for me to find ye somewhere to work and stay. We might even convince Radley to leave ye be.”
“But Tomas, I cannot wear the clothes of the very people who sent me here.” The dizziness flooded her.
“Elizabeth, denying yer ain blood ‘twill do ye nae good.”
Moisture beaded her brow. “And you are no longer obligated to find me a position.” Her palms watered. She pressed them to the quilt at her sides. “As soon as I can walk, I will leave here.”
“And go where?”
“To the woods or the refugee camps.” She tossed the package into his lap. She swiped her wrist across her wet forehead. It did nothing to dry her. “Or even the gaol with Monsieur Radley.”
“Ye would choose the gaol over being English?”
“If I have to.”
Wet drops pearled along her arms and legs. Beside her lay the doll Issy had made. She lifted it upward. “This is me, Tomas. The lacy cap. The wooden shoes.” She shook the doll. The walnuts at the feet clanked together.
“I am Acadian. I am not even French.” She choked on the words. “I am certainly not English.”
“Ye are half English on the inside, even if ye have chosen on the outside not to be so.”
“I have chosen so for a reason. And how can you ask me to become the very thing I despise?”
He jerked to his feet. “How can ye despise half of yourself?” He shook the package at her. “Ye canna survive that way.”
“I understand about survival, Thomas. I have been doing it for months now.” Ever since that last night in Grand Prè. “And do not speak to me of doing so again, for survival is overmuch glorified when one’s heart is so desperate for home.”
––––––––
SHE SCOOTED DOWNWARD and turned to her left side and from him.
Ach! The frustration railed along his backbone. She was making nae sense, and his opportunities for keeping his promise were narrowing into a needle’s eye.
He tossed the package to a nearby crate. He grabbed dry drags, sat back to the stool, and started sopping the moisture from her skin. At least this time, instead of jolting from a fever to the sweats, she had eased into them.
She also never left him. Not that it mattered, for they spoke not.
Late that evening, in half the time as before, her discomfort eased. Thomas fed her some porridge laced with maple syrup. She drank another round of the Jesuit’s Bark tea. This time, the lass held the cup herself.
Afterwards, she fell asleep.
That night Thomas, William, and Mac discussed measures to better secure camp. Two more dogs were to be purchased. The men would take turns patrolling a wide berth around camp. The women were to be told on the morrow that they were not to leave camp without an escort, even if ‘twere only to the creek.
Thomas took the first shift that evening. He and Fingal ranged farther out than usual. They waded the lagoon on the northern range of the creek. They tramped past his grandparents’ tottering, fatigued house between a lesser creek and an emerging lupine field. For a time, when he had been younger, they had evacuated here, but a storm several years back flooded the bottom floor and the winds tore at the roof. No one had stayed in the house since.
The next morning, Thomas stood beside a cot in the larger tent after a few hours of sleep. He had on the recently purchased clothes and the beige waistcoat his mother had mended. He certainly looked dapper enough, even if he did feel out of place. He much preferred buckskin breeches, but they were frowned on as being too savage by most of the colonials. It would not do that day to remind people of where he had been and what he had done the past two years.
He systematically swept through Baltimore Town, avoiding only the Fottrell House and Alex West’s tavern, The East and West. The first, for obvious reasons, the latter because he refused to absorb Alex into his troubles. He had caused the man enough grief.
At each place, whether home or business, the answer was the same. People were not interested in helping the French Papists. They blamed them for the war. They were tired of the beggars. They were not happy the Legislature was speaking of finding the funds to help them and that by further taxing the tobacco. The few Catholic families that were sympathetic were unwilling to risk censure by local officials, who harassed them repeatedly to stay away from the refugees.
The rest, regrettably, were appalled that Thomas McQueen was alive and back. More than one person shut the door in his face before he ever spoke of Elizabeth.
He returned to camp and said nothing to her of his efforts. He did tell her he had other families to visit tomorrow. That evening, for the first time since they had arrived nearly two weeks ago, Thomas escorted her to the central fire. Mac played his fiddle. The others danced and sang. But when Thomas tried to engage the lass in conversation, her words were as curt and brittle as a spent quick on a short candle. Soon enough, she asked to return to the tent. He was more than happy to oblige.
The next day, he tried all the farms to the east of town. The answers were the same as the previous day, and he reached the eastern foot gate of town feeling harried and worn. William, with two new stout Foxhounds, both a mottled tan and white color, waited inside the fencing.
Fingal raced through the gate. The dogs sniffed each other. Thomas dismounted Dominic.
“I take it today was no better?” William asked.
Thomas shook his head. “It appears that I myself am getting in the way of helping her.”
The men turned toward town.
“Ye can hardly blame people. The stories were flattering and larger than life until this past fall. And then, because of fear of Iron Gun taking revenge, they changed. I just heard talk in town that Red Bear is on his way.” He scattered a quick glance Thomas’ direction. “Any chance ye will now tell me what happened in that raid last fall?”
Nae chance at all. “Ye know, I got not far enough with even one person to discuss the fact she wished no indenture, nor that she would only be here until her father arrived.”
“I knew better than to ask.” William sighed. “I canna help ye because Hannah and I are Catholic. But have ye asked Mac to give Miss Johns a job? Once we get back home, he does not live with us.”
Thomas shrugged. “I had not thought of it.” Probably because Mac seemed so adamant about the lass going back to her people. Thomas had to admit, however, ‘twas a sensible arrangement. And despite Mac’s dislike of her, she would be safe with him. “But I dinna think I could get him to agree.”
“Just appeal to logic and facts. That always works with him.”
Thomas nodded.
“For that matter, why does she not pretend to be English and ask for work herself?”
“She has refused to be so.” He told William of the clothes and her refusal to wear them. “I know.” He frowned. “It makes no sense.”
“Did ye try everywhere in town?”
“Aye. All the houses and businesses. All the farms to either side of town. Everywhere but the Fottrell House, St. Paul’s, and The East and West.” He had even asked Madam Barnes at A Stitch and a Thread Millinery, but she had quickly refused. “All that is left are a few farms further to the east which I will go to tomorrow and the border settlers in the camps. But their hatred for the Neutrals is as keen as Mac’s. I dare not leave her with them.” Despite English clothes and her looks, her accent would give her away. The brutality that may well follow would scar the lass for life, if not kill her.
William rubbed his jaw. “Mayhap, ye should ask Alex. He is pretty desperate for help. Hannah and I have moved the wedding up by several weeks, and he is shorthanded. One girl ran off and got married last week. Another’s indenture was up just yesterday, and she nae wishes to stay around. Since ye canna find Elizabeth work otherwise, dinna completely turn from the idea.”
Hopefully, it would nae come to that.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“’Tis been nearly two years.”
A low whistle purled from William’s lips.
“And that did not go well.”
“I can imagine.”
“And how was it ye finally got him to agree to your marrying Hannah?”
William tugged the dogs to a stop before the Fottrell House. Scrabbly children played in the yard. The man and woman who were there before stood watch.
William turned to Thomas. The words crawled from his chest with agonizing slowness. “I had to promise to move no farther west than the boundary of Fearnought Farms.”
––––––––
ELIZABETH’S FINGERS coiled into the chemise and around the rood. That morning, Thomas had pulled it from her bag and handed it to her. “I knew ye would wish it safe while ye were ill.”
She had whispered a merci, and he had lowered it around her neck.
“Just remember what I said, Lass. Dinna let others see it.”
She had always, since a little girl, grabbed for her wooden one when distressed or troubled.
She pulled her hand free. She would have to break that habit here.
Where was Issy?
She sighed. She hated being sick. She hated relying on others for even the most basic of needs.
She wobbled upward and steadied herself. Would that she could gather her balance so easily in regards to who she was.
Was she Acadian?
Was she British?
“Ye seem to be doing much better every day.”
Monsieur Mackintosh?
She spun around. Her head dizzied. She listed sideways.
“Whoa, Lass.” He grabbed her arm. “What are ye doing away from your tent?”
“Waiting on Issy. She was going to walk with me to the creek and back.”
“Why?”
Why?
She jerked her arm free.
“I must get my strength back, and the only way to do so is by pushing myself a bit further every day.”
“So, the damsel has decided to toughen up.” His lips flattened into a smug line. “I would not have thought it of ye. Ye seem to have been perfectly fine with Thomas waiting on you hand and foot.”
“You may have known me only since I have been sick, but I assure you I am neither a damsel nor a whiner, Monsieur.”
Being in the tent was better than being here with him. She side-stepped to go around.
He blocked her path. “Issy will nae be back for some time. How about I walk ye?”
Her stomach clenched tight. “I would not wish to trouble you.” She took another step to go around.
Her nose was in his black vest.
‘Tis probably the color of his heart.
And while she smelled wood shavings and damp earth now, she was certain she would smell burning sulfur sooner rather than later.
“’Twould be no trouble.” His eyes drilled her. “I have a few minutes to spare.”
What was it about the man’s voice that caused her insides to jerk around and not in a good way? Was it the deep, smooth cadence that spoke of rich, earth sunken wells yet to be discovered? Or perhaps it was the barely controlled hostility that threatened to break free at any moment, like waters rushing through a broken Acadian dike.
And how could it be both?
“Come, Miss Johns.” He held out his elbow. “I will do anything I can to aid in your recovery.”
No doubt.
She eyed his bent elbow hinging through the crisp white fabric. How did the man stay so clean when he clearly worked as hard as the others? Did Sarah wash his clothes every day?
“I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” He winked. He smiled. Long dimples either side of his scant beard awakened. “Besides, what are ye afraid I might do?”
Sarah had done nothing but extol the man’s virtues the past few days, as if she could finally get Elizabeth to see the real Miller Mackintosh and not the one that stirred long, angry looks at Elizabeth and whispered to Thomas behind her back.
He grabbed her fingers and curled them to his elbow. “We got
off to a bad start. I would like to rectify that.”
A tight knot bounced into her head.
She was terribly tired of walking around the tent and even here in camp, and she did wish to see how well she could make it to the creek and back.
He steered her between trees and onto the path between the larger tent and the one she shared with Colina and Issy. Sun-dappled leaves danced above her. Below her feet, the smell of wood scat and forest rot nipped her nostrils.
And then, a third of the way down her lungs tightened. She stopped and concentrated on pulling air into her chest.
“Do ye need to go back?” he asked.
She twisted her head. “I am fine.”
Twice more she stopped. Each time the man urged her to go back. Each time she refused.
“Ye are a stubborn lass.”
She cocked her head sideways. “I told you I was not that fragile.” Nor was she about to give him any reason to accuse her again of being weak.
They reached the creek. He lowered her to a log. Water ripples burst outward. A fishy, mud smell raked her nose.
“Miss Johns, I have enough money to make it worth your while to stay at the Fottrell House nae matter how miserable ye be there.”
“You are trying to bribe me?”
“If it works. Yes.”
“I should have known this was to be no simple walk.” She wrinkled her mouth in disgust.
The man had the audacity to grin. And his eyes twinkled?
She turned from him.
It mattered not what he offered. She had no intention of going back to the same house with Pierre d’Entremont.
And Meggie?
She would not suffer another betrayal at the girl’s hands, nor would she once again look upon the likes of Matthew Hardwin.
“Think of it, Miss Johns. Ye would have a sizeable dowry.”
“I have no need of a dowry.”
“Then ye could take the stage to your father.”
“Unmarried women do not take the stage alone, Monsieur Mackintosh.”
He opened his mouth again, but she cut him off with a slice of her hand.
“No amount of money in the world will convince me to go back. I would rather walk off into the woods and live on berries, or even perhaps try and get to Fort Oswego on my own.” Her finger came up. “Through the woods with a guide, not on a stage.”
His dark eyes narrowed into lashes of ink. “I believe ye mean that. So ‘tis true. yer ain people have turned against ye.”
“Why do ye wish me gone?” she asked.
“Thomas is coming to care for ye.”
She swiveled to face the creek. Her head dizzied. She grabbed onto the log with both hands. “Tomas and I are just friends.”
He lifted a recently shined shoe to the log and leaned his elbow onto his knee. “I have known Thomas McQueen my whole life.” The words were slow and methodical. “I know when he is smitten.”
She eased her head around. Her heart sank. She had not realized how far she had walked, nor that she had come down such a steep rise.
“And I would be willing to bet my entire life savings that ye are coming to care for him as well.”
She reared to her feet. She swayed.
The man grabbed her arm. She dug her feet into the sod for balance. “I am going to Fort Oswego with my father when he comes, and Tomas is going to the backcountry.”
“The backcountry?” He let her go. “He would nae go there.” His foot crashed to the ground. His eyes wound tight. “’Tis a price he has on his head.”
“A what?”
“Iron Gun wants him dead.”
“Who is Iron Gun?” Then, she froze.
Dead? “What does Thomas go to do?”
“He will never make it.” The man’s eyes unraveled with lightning speed. “I should have realized what he was going to do. How could I have been so daft?” He turned in a circle. Dead leaves crunched beneath his feet. “And ye will definitely be leaving here now. He canna afford ye as a distraction, especially if I am to convince him he needs to stay.”
“Monsieur Mackintosh, if he is besotted of me as you say, then I have a right to know what keeps us apart.”
He stepped so close she could have plucked the hairs from his jaw. “Ye agree to go back to your people, and I will tell ye what he goes to do. I will even throw in the money despite the fact ye previously wished for it not.”
He may be quieter than Thomas, but he was no less determined to have his way all the same.
“I will find out myself what he goes to do.” She turned from him and started up the path. If she paced herself, she should be able to make her way up without his help.
“Let me know when ye are ready to take my offer,” he called.
“Do not hold your breath,” she spit over her shoulder.
Her lungs seized tight. Her limbs fattened like heavy, fresh cut logs. The walk down must have taxed her more than she realized.
The conversation had not helped.
Up the small rise and back in camp she heard Thomas and William speaking. Had he found her work and a place to stay today? If so, she had no use for the man behind her at all. Indeed, she would never have to lay eyes on him again. However, her time to find out what Thomas went to do in the Indian towns after he left here would be shortened considerably.
Or, perhaps he was returning after another day of disappointments?
Black spots danced before her eyes. Her legs weakened.
“Elizabeth!” Thomas called. “What ye do down there?”
She lifted her head to see him at the top of the rise. Fingal barked, then plunged down the path and toward her.
A slippery fog teased her sight. She looked left. She looked right. Tree trunks blurred and came for her. Others tightened and ran free. Fingal’s dark body, whirling ever closer, dizzied her head.
Miller Mackintosh was surely too near.
Thomas was not close enough.
To her right, a sapling lifted from the ground. Her fingers strained for the scratchy bark.
Her legs gave way.
Her fingers fell into air.