“Oh,” said Rachel, faintly.
Before she could think of a courteous rejection of either proposal, there was a cold draft from the hall as the front door opened, and soft footsteps in the hallway.
Everyone turned to look, and Rachel saw an older Mohawk man, still slender and upright, but with gray hair—this finely dressed with silver buttons and a pair of passenger pigeon wings dangling from a strand of braided blue thread—and a deeply weathered countenance, whose lines and dark eyes showed a man of self-assurance and deep humor. He bowed to the ladies, eyes creased with interest.
“Ah, there you are,” Joseph Brant said, sounding amused. “I should have known you couldn’t keep away from such visitors.” He rose and bowed likewise to the ladies. “Madame Murray, Madame Another Murray, and Madame … Hardman? Really, how strange … May I present to you the Sachem, my uncle.”
“Charmed, mesdames,” said the Sachem, whose accent hovered somewhere between educated English and French. “And you will be Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah, of course,” he added, with a cordial nod to Ian. “Yes, thank you,” he added to the servant who was bringing in another chair and another who bore serving plates, silver, and linen napkins. He sat down between Rachel and Jenny, smiling from one to the other.
Rachel wondered whether the Sachem’s appearance had been calculated, to entertain the women while Ian talked politics with Brant, but his conversation would have graced any drawing room, and within moments, his end of the table was enlivened by observations, compliments, and stories of all kinds.
Rachel was accustomed to watch people and listen to them, and was impressed by the Sachem: he asked intelligent questions and paid attention to the answers, but when pressed for his own particulars was sufficiently witty and entertaining as to—almost—keep her from dwelling on the implications of Brant’s remarks regarding multiple wives.
“D’ye have a name, sir?” Jenny asked. “Or were ye just born a sachem, and that’s it?” Rachel gave her mother-in-law a quizzical look. She knew very well that Jenny knew what a sachem was; Ian had spent the miles between Philadelphia and Canajoharie in explanations and descriptions of the Mohawk and their ways. She’d watched his face, alight with memory and expectation, and had spent those same miles torn between pleasure in his excitement and an unworthy wish that he wouldn’t look quite so delighted at the notion of returning to these people—who were, she reminded herself sternly, his people, after all …
“Oh, surely a person is entitled to more than one name,” the Sachem replied, his eyes creasing in amusement. “You have more names than Murray, I am certain—for after all, that one must have belonged to your husband.”
Jenny looked taken aback, but then realized, as Rachel had, that the Sachem was well enough acquainted with European custom as to have recognized her by her dress as a widow. Either that, Rachel thought, amused, or he’s a good guesser.
Her amusement vanished in the next instant when the Sachem took Jenny’s hand in his and said, quite casually, “He is still with you—your husband. He says to tell you that he walks upon two legs.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open and so did Rachel’s.
“Yes, I was born with it,” the Sachem said, smiling as he released Jenny’s hand. “But the name of my manhood—should you prefer to use it—is Okàrakarakh’kwa. It means ‘sun shining on snow,’” he added, his eyes creasing again.
“Blessed Michael, defend us,” Jenny said under her breath in Gaelic. “Aye,” she said in a louder voice, and drawing herself up straight, managed the ghost of a gracious smile. “Sachem will do fine for now. My name’s Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Ye can call me Mrs. Janet, if ye like.”
84
Fried Sardines and Strong Mustard
IF THE SACHEM KNEW anything else of an unsettling nature, he kept it to himself, instead telling them—in answer to their questions—that he had gone with his nephew to London, as companion and adviser, hence his familiarity with English and his fondness for tea and fried sardines with strong mustard.
It was a long and elaborate meal, and by the time they had reached the corn pudding with dried strawberries, Rachel’s breasts were beginning to tingle, pushing at her stays with increasing urgency. Now that Oggy could eat a little solid food, he nursed less often, and this sense of being about to burst hadn’t happened in some time.
She pushed the thought aside; think of Oggy for one minute more, and her milk would let down. She’d folded pads of cloth inside her stays as a precaution, but they wouldn’t withstand the gush for long. She caught Catherine’s eye and made a brief, questioning look with a nod of the head toward the door.