Nathaniel nodded.

"Do you think she told Richard?"

"She must have," he said.

"Otherwise why would he take off the way he did?" Nathaniel asked, the sweep of his paddle as steady as his breathing.

Then is the question, she thought. Of the answer, Elizabeth was not quite so sure as Nathaniel seemed to be.

PART 3:

Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?

Chapter 43

Late June, 1793

By their fifth day on the vast lake called Champlain by the French who had claimed it, and Regioghne by the Hode'noshaunee, who knew it was the province not of men, but the warrior spirit who commanded the wind and waves, Elizabeth had learned that Robbie could not paddle without singing.

He sang songs of the fur traders, the marching songs that he had learned in twenty years as a soldier, and a great number of Kahnyen’keháka songs, one of which the canoe maker had composed and delivered with the craft:

The canoe is very fast.

It is mine.

All day long I splash away.

I paddle along, I paddle along.

When he found that his music had a willing audience, Robbie opened up his treasure chest: the ballads and songs of his boyhood in the Scottish border counties. He had a deep, clear voice and an ear for a tune, and his music hung over the water like the shimmering dragonflies that followed them everywhere. Just now he was humming a melody that had been haunting him for days, a simple song that Elizabeth had begun to hear even in her dreams.

While a canoe was not always the most comfortable form of travel, Elizabeth found that with Robbie behind her and Nathaniel in front, she was content. Shifting her weight to ease the ache in her knees, she fumbled her paddle and accidentally sprayed Treenie, so that she produced a startled but sleepy woof in response. Nathaniel glanced back over his shoulder at the dog and then grinned at Elizabeth.

It took a moment to get her paddle back in the water in the right rhythm. The men did not need her help, but she wanted the challenge of the task. She needed something to distract her from the constant preoccupation with her own inner workings, for sometime in the past few days a small kernel of nausea had taken up permanent residence. When she woke in the morning it was lodged high in her belly and almost possible to ignore. By midday it had grown like a spider's web, working its way up to her chest, and by the late afternoon she could no longer take note of anything but the creeping fingers, pressing in the softest flesh at the back of her throat.

I have learned to cope with many indignities in the past weeks she thought to herself But never will I become accustomed to being indisposed in public view.

This day was hot and sunny, but the sweat on her brow was more a signal that she was approaching a crisis. Then she noticed that the sound of the water was shifting—she could hear white water now before she saw any sign of it, even before Nathaniel signaled to head to the shore of the little cove ahead of them. Elizabeth's spirits lifted in the hope that she would be able to keep her distress to herself for once.

"No rest for the wicked," noted Robbie cheerfully, heaving his great frame out of the cramped space as they pulled to the shore. Elizabeth was up and away before the men could secure their paddles, returning very shortly to rinse her mouth with lake water.

"But perhaps a wee snooze," he continued as if there hadn't been any interruption in his thoughts. "It's no' tae early tae make camp, dinna ye think, Nathaniel?"

Elizabeth cast him a sour glance. "Robbie. There are hours of light left, and this is not a long carry.

"Och, wed, lass," he said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Auld bones, ye ken."

"Oh, I ken, I certainly do." She hefted her pack with an annoyed tug. "Do you think I haven't noticed that we stop earlier every day? Nathaniel, you need not coddle me. I am perfectly fine."

"Maybe it's not you we're stopping for," Nathaniel answered easily. "I'm still healing, in case you forgot. And there's no hurry now, is there?"

Elizabeth looked at her husband. He had stripped to the waist, and he stood before her in nothing more than his breech clout sun—browned and glistening with sweat, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed as he lifted his half of the canoe. His wounds were still bright red patches on his chest and back, but she hadn't heard him catch his breath or cough in days. In fact, he was looking very much like a healthy male of the species, with grin on his face that told her he was feeling anything but tired.

She gave in after they had walked the mile of the carry. Above the sandy beach where they would push off again there was a low bluff covered with scrub grass, bracketed on one side by a great wall of wild roses in full bloom. Just beyond, a stand of young birch and maple cast a blanket of cool shadow. Seeing all this, Elizabeth acknowledged that a longer rest would be welcome, and the men set about making camp.

She went down to the lake, stripping off her moccasins to wiggle her toes in the warm sand. When she had walked out to the point where the water almost reached the hem of her overdress, she washed as best she could, glad to be rid of the pennyroyal ointment even if the black fly had not yet settled for the evening. She thought briefly of Made—of—Bones and Splitting—Moon, and for a moment she wished herself back in the long house In the company of any knowledgeable woman who would be able to tell her that what she was experiencing was normal, because Elizabeth's greatest fear was that she would fail somehow in this, the most basic of womanly functions.

Treenie came capering into the water, plowing right past until she was nothing but a slick of floating red fur and a button like black nose. Elizabeth considered joining her, calculated the length of time it would take to dry out the doeskin dress and leggings, and turned back to the shore where she waded, gathering as many of the fresh—water mussels as she could carry in her tented skirt. They were huge, bigger than her hand and pockmarked with shimmering limpets.