Fire Along the Sky
Page 49
This is everything you wished for, she told herself sternly as she put away her tools. She sucked at a cut on her thumb and tasted her own blood, as salty as tears.
At night she often dreamed of home, of her mother and her father and the lake under the falls. The dreams were bright and quick, gone when she woke no matter how determined she was to hold on to them. She dreamed of her brother, her twin, sleeping in snow with his rifle cradled in his arms as he had once cradled a pet raccoon. She dreamed of Nicholas, the look on his face when she turned away from him that last day when she was in such a hurry to be gone to this new life.
She dreamed of her sister Hannah. Hannah sitting by the banks of the lake under the falls. Hannah frozen in place with eyes like marble.
“You will ruin your eyes working in the half-light,” Iona told Lily when she came down to the dinner table. Iona's own eyes were filmy with age, and still she seemed to see everything and understand more. When Lily passed the old woman reached up and stroked her cheek with such kindness that she drew a sharp breath.
Just that simply she realized that no one had touched her since she came here. Her hands, yes. Men held her elbow on an icy street, or took her gloved hand while she climbed into a sleigh. French women kissed her cheek fleetingly, a touch of breath and perfumed skin. Luke never touched her at all.
She missed her mother's cool hand on the back of her neck; Gabriel's weight in her lap; Annie's fingers in her hair. Many-Doves' habit of pressing her shoulder whenever she was nearby. The brush of Daniel's arm, of Blue-Jay's, her father's hug. Nicholas Wilde's breath on her skin, the taste of him.
When I happen to see Nicholas in the village he is very drawn and pale, though he greets me politely and asks after you and your brother both. Yesterday when your father took your newest drawings into the trading post to show, Nicholas spent a long time looking at them.
Lily kept this most recent letter from her mother folded and tucked inside her bodice. Because Nicholas could not write to her and she could not write to him, her mother's letter was the only evidence that he was still in the world. With a wife whose health seemed to be improving.
From her spot at the head of the table Iona was watching her, and for one moment Lily had the uneasy feeling that the old woman was reading her mind.
“She's lost in her thoughts,” Luke said to his grandmother. “I don't think she heard you.”
Lily said, “Of course I heard her. You're right, I must take better care of my eyes.”
“I'll have more candles sent up for you.” Luke sent a pointed look to the woman who was circling the table with a platter of meat and repeated himself in French.
Jeanne, Lily reminded herself. Her name was Jeanne or maybe Jeannette; none of the servants spoke English, and she hadn't tried very hard to talk to any of them except Ghislaine, who was her own age and friendly.
It was hard to know how to talk to the servants, as she had never had any before. Now she was in her brother's household, and he never hesitated to say the words that sent them running for whatever he thought she might need. He was never cruel or even thoughtless, and they adored him, every one.
This was the way Lily's mother grew up, in a household where young ladies were waited upon, their needs anticipated, their wants indulged—within reason. Lily had imagined that life with wonder and longing.
What a contrary creature you are. She could hear her mother's voice, ripe with frustration. Lily was coming to see the truth of it.
The table was crowded, and her brother's attention had already moved on to another discussion. Mostly the guests were men he did business with, French and Scots and Irish. A few of them were English born, and now called themselves Canadian.
They talked of the war as men of business must: prices going up and profit with them, the difficulty of moving merchandise, how hard it had become to get the products people wanted most and needed least. The streets were full of soldiers and sailors and officers in uniforms as gaudy as peacocks, but none of them were at this table to join in the discussion, and never would be; Iona would not allow it. Lily was thinking of excusing herself when Simon Ballentyne caught her eye.
“Would you care to take a walk?” he said to her in a clear voice, meant to be heard by all. “There's a full moon rising this evening.” This deep in winter the night came quick and left reluctantly: they could get up from the dinner table and go out into the dark.
The men around the table went silent. Luke was waiting for her response with an unreadable expression, but Iona would have none of his brotherly bluster.
“Och, aye. Go on. The fresh air will do you good, child. Your complexion will suffer with you sitting inside all day.” After so many years in Canada Iona's English was still full of the Gaelic, softly rounded and sibilant.
They were looking at Lily expectantly, each and every one of them. Some of them calculating out the benefits of the match, others thinking of their own sons. Her father might be a backwoodsman but her brother was one of the richest men in Montreal, and he would see to it—how could he not?—that his sister had a fat dowry. The only thing that held some of them back, Iona had explained to Lily, was the confusion about her religion. Was she Catholic, or Protestant, or did she worship trees like the Indians she had grown up with?
Ghislaine had told her about this topic of conversation, not to give offense, but to make Lily laugh. She said, “Tell them I was raised as a rationalist.” It pleased Ghislaine, the odd English word, and she carried it off in her pocket like a sweetmeat.
At night she often dreamed of home, of her mother and her father and the lake under the falls. The dreams were bright and quick, gone when she woke no matter how determined she was to hold on to them. She dreamed of her brother, her twin, sleeping in snow with his rifle cradled in his arms as he had once cradled a pet raccoon. She dreamed of Nicholas, the look on his face when she turned away from him that last day when she was in such a hurry to be gone to this new life.
She dreamed of her sister Hannah. Hannah sitting by the banks of the lake under the falls. Hannah frozen in place with eyes like marble.
“You will ruin your eyes working in the half-light,” Iona told Lily when she came down to the dinner table. Iona's own eyes were filmy with age, and still she seemed to see everything and understand more. When Lily passed the old woman reached up and stroked her cheek with such kindness that she drew a sharp breath.
Just that simply she realized that no one had touched her since she came here. Her hands, yes. Men held her elbow on an icy street, or took her gloved hand while she climbed into a sleigh. French women kissed her cheek fleetingly, a touch of breath and perfumed skin. Luke never touched her at all.
She missed her mother's cool hand on the back of her neck; Gabriel's weight in her lap; Annie's fingers in her hair. Many-Doves' habit of pressing her shoulder whenever she was nearby. The brush of Daniel's arm, of Blue-Jay's, her father's hug. Nicholas Wilde's breath on her skin, the taste of him.
When I happen to see Nicholas in the village he is very drawn and pale, though he greets me politely and asks after you and your brother both. Yesterday when your father took your newest drawings into the trading post to show, Nicholas spent a long time looking at them.
Lily kept this most recent letter from her mother folded and tucked inside her bodice. Because Nicholas could not write to her and she could not write to him, her mother's letter was the only evidence that he was still in the world. With a wife whose health seemed to be improving.
From her spot at the head of the table Iona was watching her, and for one moment Lily had the uneasy feeling that the old woman was reading her mind.
“She's lost in her thoughts,” Luke said to his grandmother. “I don't think she heard you.”
Lily said, “Of course I heard her. You're right, I must take better care of my eyes.”
“I'll have more candles sent up for you.” Luke sent a pointed look to the woman who was circling the table with a platter of meat and repeated himself in French.
Jeanne, Lily reminded herself. Her name was Jeanne or maybe Jeannette; none of the servants spoke English, and she hadn't tried very hard to talk to any of them except Ghislaine, who was her own age and friendly.
It was hard to know how to talk to the servants, as she had never had any before. Now she was in her brother's household, and he never hesitated to say the words that sent them running for whatever he thought she might need. He was never cruel or even thoughtless, and they adored him, every one.
This was the way Lily's mother grew up, in a household where young ladies were waited upon, their needs anticipated, their wants indulged—within reason. Lily had imagined that life with wonder and longing.
What a contrary creature you are. She could hear her mother's voice, ripe with frustration. Lily was coming to see the truth of it.
The table was crowded, and her brother's attention had already moved on to another discussion. Mostly the guests were men he did business with, French and Scots and Irish. A few of them were English born, and now called themselves Canadian.
They talked of the war as men of business must: prices going up and profit with them, the difficulty of moving merchandise, how hard it had become to get the products people wanted most and needed least. The streets were full of soldiers and sailors and officers in uniforms as gaudy as peacocks, but none of them were at this table to join in the discussion, and never would be; Iona would not allow it. Lily was thinking of excusing herself when Simon Ballentyne caught her eye.
“Would you care to take a walk?” he said to her in a clear voice, meant to be heard by all. “There's a full moon rising this evening.” This deep in winter the night came quick and left reluctantly: they could get up from the dinner table and go out into the dark.
The men around the table went silent. Luke was waiting for her response with an unreadable expression, but Iona would have none of his brotherly bluster.
“Och, aye. Go on. The fresh air will do you good, child. Your complexion will suffer with you sitting inside all day.” After so many years in Canada Iona's English was still full of the Gaelic, softly rounded and sibilant.
They were looking at Lily expectantly, each and every one of them. Some of them calculating out the benefits of the match, others thinking of their own sons. Her father might be a backwoodsman but her brother was one of the richest men in Montreal, and he would see to it—how could he not?—that his sister had a fat dowry. The only thing that held some of them back, Iona had explained to Lily, was the confusion about her religion. Was she Catholic, or Protestant, or did she worship trees like the Indians she had grown up with?
Ghislaine had told her about this topic of conversation, not to give offense, but to make Lily laugh. She said, “Tell them I was raised as a rationalist.” It pleased Ghislaine, the odd English word, and she carried it off in her pocket like a sweetmeat.
