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THOMAS ARRIVED BACK in camp Friday evening at dusky dark.
His efforts to find Elizabeth a position among the farms to the far eastern side of town had proven no better than the previous two days.
Elizabeth, upon catching his gaze before he ever dismounted Dominic, had not had to ask if he had arranged something for her. Her lips had rolled inward. She had spun around and locked eyes with Mac. Something strange passed between the two, but Thomas had little desire to learn what.
Neither did Thomas speak to her of his last choice which had now become his best.
The next morning, they awoke to find the new dogs William had purchased a week ago missing. The fencing around Bessie’s corral had been torn apart. The cow was gone. It had taken them all day to find her, and even then ‘twas Elizabeth that coaxed the cow back to camp. She sang a sweet, lilting French tune in the cow’s ear, and the beast had followed her like a calf after its mom.
The dogs they never found.
By Sunday the seasoning cycles nae longer ruled their lives. Nonetheless, Thomas was harried and worn down, and then, of all things, he let Elizabeth talk him into going with her to Sunday prayers in the chapel tent. The last time Thomas had prayed he was at his cabin with Catharine and Dougald. He had left that morning.
He had not seen his family alive again.
He lifted his gaze to the small altar table at the far end of the tent. A crucifix stood between two lit candles. The ground bit into his knees, and the prayers of his childhood fell from his lips as the beads slipped through his fingers.
Maybe Mac was right. Maybe the lass had bewitched him.
Finally, the last amen was said. Elizabeth signed herself with a cross and rose to her feet. Thomas did the same.
Voice rose and fell just outside the tent. Fingal’s barking added to the fray.
Thomas turned. The tent flap tore backward.
Constable Radley.
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ELIZABETH’S STOMACH rolled as much from fear of the constable as from her still weak condition.
Thomas called Fingal to his side.
“Well, Miss Johns,” Radley said. “‘Tis good to see you well enough to attend prayers, so you are well enough to be taken back to your people.”
Her legs puddled.
Thomas grabbed her arm. “The lass going to prayers is different than sending her back to the Fottrell House where she will get little care.”
“They take care of their own.”
“But she is still weak. She has had a harder seasoning than most.”
“The health of the Neutrals is of little concern to me.”
A weakness washed her from head to toe. If she were forced back to the Fottrell House, she wished to go on her own terms and with Monsieur Mackintosh’s money. She did not wish to go back at Radley’s forced hand.
“I told you before, McQueen, the only way she can stay here is if you are not Catholic, and with that Papist set of beads hanging from your fingers, I doubt that to be the case.”
“I was carrying it for the lass.”
Elizabeth grabbed the beads. She could feel them not, but she still managed to shove them into her pocket alongside her own.
Radley eased forward. “So, McQueen, does this mean you are no longer Catholic and you are willing to hire her?”
Thomas’ chin lifted. His eyes whirled with possibilities.
The fear shot through her. “No, Thomas,” she whispered. “I will not let you do this.”
A throat cleared behind Radley. “Miss Johns is with me.”
Monsieur Mackintosh?
He stepped from the crowd to Radley’s side. He smiled. “And everyone knows that I no longer go to church. Just ask these good people.” He held his hands to the side. “I was not here this morning. Nor am I ever.”
Radley turned to him. “What do you intend to do with her?”
“I intend to send her back to the Fottrell House as soon as she is able to work.”
Her stomach shrank to her spine.
“Probably by the end of this week. For sure the beginning of the next.”
Radley pointed at Thomas. “But I thought ‘twas him that brought her here.”
“Aye. But like I said, I have taken responsibility.” Mac's eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Is there really any need to question me further? We were just getting ready to sit down to a meal.” He leaned conspiratorially toward the man. “And as you know, Catholics fast before prayers or Mass, so these people are quite hungry.”
“Aye, Martin.” Colina eased forward. “Would ye like to join us?”
“I do not have the time.”
Colina slipped her hand through the crook of the man’s elbow. “Surely ye have at least one minute for a piece of my apple cake.”
The man’s eyes swelled with desire.
Colina steered him through the parting crowd and outside, all the while prattling about apples and last year’s harvest.
Monsieur Mackintosh stepped forward. “’Tis best if I take her to her tent. After all, she is my charge.” The man swept her upward and against his chest.
She squirmed. She pressed her hands against his waistcoat. “I can take myself.”
“Sure ye can, but ye are supposed to be ill. Best play the part, Princess.”
“He is right, Elizabeth,” Thomas whispered. “Please?”
She stilled.
“And ye have nae worries, Mac.” The words fired from Thomas’ throat. “I go now to find her a position.”
“But ‘tis Sunday?” Elizabeth asked.
“This man will see me.”
Mac’s arms stiffened into planks of wood. “So ye are going to go to him after all?”
“‘Tis my last choice, especially since ye will nae offer to house the lass.”
Thomas had asked this man to help her?
“Have it your way,” Mac muttered. He stepped past the flap and set a brisk pace across camp and through the soupy fog. Fingal jogged beside them, his barks rasping into Elizabeth’s ears. Mac stalked into the tent. He set her on the bed.
“Merci, Monsieur.”
“Thank me not,” he growled. “When we were children, Thomas would race home for evening prayers. He carried a rosary in his pocket. He memorized his prayers.”
She speared him a hot gaze. Why was he telling her this?
The man ground his fingers across his jaw. He shifted a knee forward. “He lost his way after Catharine and Dougald were killed, but he has not yet openly denied his faith.” The words squeezed past his chest. “I have nae doubt, however, that he would have done so just now to save ye.”
He would have, and all for the promise he made her.
“I think we can agree neither of us wishes that.”
They could.
“And while I am not a religious man, I know he will never truly find himself again until he finds his faith. So dinna thank me, for what I did today I did for him.” His eyes blackened to hardened onyx. “I could care less what happens to ye.”
Elizabeth’s limbs shook. The blood drained from her veins.
Sarah rushed into the tent. “Did I hear right, Husband? You are going to help Elizabeth?”
“Nae. I merely bought them some time.”
Sarah’s face fell. “Would it be so hard to do so? Can you not see the danger she is in?”
“I know of nae danger from her ain people. Besides, as I have said afore, I nae help the likes of her kind.”
There it was again. Some hidden reason the man hated her.
Sarah opened her mouth again.
“Nae more, Wife. My mind will nae change. And I suppose telling ye I wish ye to leave her be is out of the question.”
She lifted her chin. She stalked around the foot of the bed and came to Elizabeth’s other side. She pushed at Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Elizabeth scooted left.
Sarah crawled onto the bed beside her.
“Fine.” The words tossed from him. “Have it your way.”
He tramped outside.
“I am so sorry, Elizabeth.” Sarah grabbed her hand. “He indulges my every whim, not that I ask for a lot. He would do anything for Colina because he considers her his second mother.” She sighed. “But in this matter, he will nae budge for either of us because of his pain.”
His pain? “Sarah, he simply despises me because I am a French Neutral.”
The woman turned to her. Her eyes filled with sadness. “So you do not know?”
“Know what?”
“Mac’s first wife was killed the same day as Thomas’s wife and child.”
The air swept from Elizabeth’s lungs. Thomas had said his wife and child lay in a grave to the west. He had blamed the Indians and the French.
And they had taken Mac’s wife, too?
No wonder the man hated her.
“Thomas and Mac were at Fort Necessity with the militia. The Indians laid siege to it, and Colonel Washington was forced to surrender. Thomas and Mac set out for home, but they were delayed a day by a thunderstorm. By the time they arrived, the Indians had come and gone. Mac’s first wife, Janie, was five months with child at the time.”
Elizabeth’s heart soared to her throat. “The baby?”
“I never knew what happened. Mac never speaks of it. Neither does Thomas. ‘Tis something they share only with each other.” Her hand lifted to the heart brooch at her breast. “Mac found this outside the cabin. ‘Tis the Mackintosh pin which passes to the oldest male who in turn gifts it to his wife. The Indians must have dropped it, and he speaks no more of that day.”
Elizabeth lifted her finger. She brushed the tip over the gold thatching. “’Tis beautiful, Sarah.” She lowered her hand back to her lap. “And Thomas’ wife and child?”
“Her body and little Dougald’s were found in a nearby glade.”
Elizabeth’s mind fragmented. Had Thomas lost his faith because of a war both sides of her had waged? Had his wife and child been scalped?
Cher Dieu. Had Catharine been . . .?
“Sarah? Were Frenchman with the Indians the day of the raid?”
“Yes. They always are. They lead the Indians. They supply arms. They plunder. They sometimes kill, and they are always close by.”
Meggie’s screams slashed into her ears. The Bay of Fundy fog wet her skin.
I have to move or I will go mad.
She threw her legs to the side of the bed. She stood. She paced to the other side of the tent.
The brown package of clothes lay atop a trunk. Did she dare ask? Did she really want to know? She closed her eyes. “These Frenchman. Do they take the women against their will?”
“Sometimes,” Sarah whispered.
Thomas was right. The French were no better than the English.
And where did that leave her?
She tore the brown wrapping from the package. She fingered the English clothes.
Sarah came to her side. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she gasped. “Those are quite pretty.”
“Tomas bought them for me. He said ‘twould be easier for me here if I presented the English side of myself.”
“But you have not done so?”
“I could not.” She blinked against the tears. “I wanted no part of my English blood. But the French . . .” The dress blurred. Her fingers clenched at the paper. “Both sides of me are black and soiled with death in this war. And what does that make me?”
Sarah grabbed her arms and spun her around. “You are Elizabeth Marie Johns, an exile in a foreign land, and you will fashion a new you from the old. If you cannot do so for yourself, then do so for Thomas. He is moving heaven and earth to make good on his promise to keep you from the Fottrell House, but he is up against matters he cannot control.”
Elizabeth swallowed. The tears ached her throat.
“If Thomas has to leave you at the Fottrell House, I am not certain what it will do to him. He already feels as if he broke his promise to Catharine.”
Elizabeth sniffed. “He seemed quite certain he would come back this afternoon with a position for me.”
Sarah seemed to deflate. “He will. The man he goes to will not turn him down. But come.” She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. “’Twill do you no good to sit here with your thoughts, and I am certain Radley is gone and will not be back this day.” She pulled Elizabeth toward the tent flap. “While we wait for Thomas, we can dye the Easter eggs for the Acadian children.”
Sarah pulled the flap back. The sun blinded Elizabeth. She turned back to the inside of the tent. Her eyes fell upon the English clothes.
She wanted to believe Sarah’s words about fashioning a new her.
But can I ever be free of who I am?
The tears burned.
And who did Thomas go to now on her behalf? What cost would he pay to fulfill his promise to her? She might be imprisoned within herself, but there was no reason to cause Thomas to be so.
If he asked again, she would wear the English clothes. She would even be English, for she wished to cause him no more pain, nor did she wish him to slip further from his faith.
Besides, what did it matter how she portrayed herself on the outside when inside she was so very damaged and had little hope of ever finding herself again?