Dawn on a Distant Shore
Page 3

When he was within earshot of the falls, Nathaniel broke away and left the others to struggle on without him. Past the first cabin where he had been raised, dark now with his father gone to Montréal and the rest of the family at Good Pasture. On through the small grove of beech, pine, and blue spruce to the far cabin, built less than a year ago for his new bride, Elizabeth Middleton. She had come from England to join her father. Well educated, able to speak her mind and willing to listen, with money and land of her own, and plans to teach. She had called herself a spinster without flinching, showing him sharp edges and soft ones, bone-deep curiosity and a well of raw strength and courage. From Chingachgook, his Mahican grandfather, Elizabeth had earned the name Bone-in-Her-Back.
On the porch Nathaniel kicked off his snowshoes and threw open the door to fading firelight and warmth. The cabin smelled as it always did: of woodsmoke, pine sap, lye soap and tallow, curing meat, corn bread baking, dried apples and herbs, of the dogs and of pelts newly stretched and scraped, and of her smells, for which he had no names but a hundred images. And there was the smell of blood recently shed: copper and hot salt.
Nathaniel put down his weapons and dropped his overcoat and mitts as he strode across the room, scattering ice and clots of snow. He paused before the open door of the small bedroom to breathe in. To force himself to breathe. His own blood hammered in his ears so that he could hear nothing else.
They were there, asleep. The banked fire showed him his Hannah, curled at the foot of the bed, one arm across the long line of Elizabeth's legs. Her face was hidden in the shadows.
He crossed the room without a sound and went down on his knees. Elizabeth was breathing, her mouth slightly open, her lips cracked and beaded with blood. There was no fever flush--she was pale, her skin cool to the touch. The fist in his gut began to loosen, finger by finger, to be replaced by a warm wash of relief.
Nathaniel pulled his gaze away from Elizabeth's face to the bundle at her side. And blinked.
Two infants, swaddled in the Kahnyen'kehâka way. Dark hair, rounded cheeks, white and pink faces smaller than the palm of his hand. One pair of eyes flickered open, unfocused. A tiny red mouth contorted, the cheeks working, and then relaxed.
Twins. Nathaniel put his forehead on the bed, drew in a long breath, and felt his heart take up an extra beat.
2
The winter morning came with a pure, cold light, setting the ice and snow aflame with color and casting a rainbow across Hannah's face to wake her. She lay for a moment, listening to the morning sounds: Liam was feeding the fire, humming to himself. The dogs whined at the door, and then a woman's voice: familiar and welcome, but unusual here, so early in the day.
The events of the previous night came to her in a rush and she stumbled out of her loft bed and down the ladder, pulling her quilt with her.
Liam held out a bowl. "Porridge," he said, without the least bit of enthusiasm. Since he had come to live with them Hannah had learned that Liam's first allegiance was always to his stomach, but she could not keep her gaze from moving toward the bedroom door. It stood slightly ajar.
Curiosity appeared as if Hannah had called for her.
"Miz Hannah," she said formally. "Let me shake your hand, child. Are we proud of you? I should say so."
Hannah found her voice. "She's all right?"
"She is. And those babies, too." Curiosity laughed out loud. "If the Lord had made anything prettier he would have kept it for hisself."
There was a feeble cry from the next room. Hannah stepped in that direction, only to be caught up by Curiosity, who took her by the elbow and steered her back toward the table.
"Just set and eat, first. Pass some of that porridge over here, Liam, and stop pulling faces. It's honest food, after all."
"They are awful small," Hannah said, accepting the bowl and spoon automatically. "I was worried."
"Twins tend to be small," said Curiosity. "You were, when you come along. Nathaniel could just about hold you in one hand, and he did, too. Carried you around tucked into his shirt for the longest time."
"He carried you up to bed last night, too. Guess you didn't even notice," said Liam.
"Well, he's feeling perky, is Nathaniel." Curiosity put a cup of cider on the table in front of Hannah.
"A boy," said Liam. "Chingachgook was right. Nathaniel's got a son."
"So he does. And two fine daughters," added Curiosity. "Never can have enough daughters, is how I look at it."
Hannah's smile faded. "My grandfather should be here. He should know. I wish we had some word of him."
Curiosity sat down with a bowl of her own, and leaned toward the girl to pat her hand. "It looks like the good Lord is smiling on you today, missy. Jan Kaes brought a letter in from Johnstown just before the storm broke. Came all the way from Montréal."
"From my grandfather?" Hannah sat up straighter.
Curiosity pursed her mouth thoughtfully. "Don't think so. It was writ with a fancy hand, so I'd guess it was from that Scot--Moncrieff was his name, wasn't it? The one that come through here at Christmas. I'll wager he had some word of Hawkeye, though."
Outside, the dogs began barking and Liam got up to see to them.
"That'll be the judge," said Curiosity. "And half the village with him, by the sound of it. Ain't good news louder than Joshua's horn?"
"It is," said Nathaniel from the doorway. He looked tired, but there was an easiness to the line of his back that Hannah hadn't seen in a long time. She launched herself at her father; he caught her neatly, and bent over to whisper in her ear.