“Oui, maman,”the dressmaker’s daughters whispered.
“Oh, you are a pretty little thing—flawless skin, lovely hair, and your eyes—what an unusual color! And your figure, madame,c’est parfait. I can see why your husband is so smitten. With my talent and his coin, you shall look like a princess!”
Bethie wasn’t certain she wanted to look like a princess, but in short order, she found herself in her shift being measured in every conceivable way while Madame Moreau and her daughters whispered away in French, held swatches of cloth, samples of lace, bits of ribbon up to her skin or beside her eyes. Bethie had never seen so many beautiful colors—lavenders, delicate shades of blue, soft ivories, sweet pinks, buttery yellows—nor had she ever touched anything so soft as the silks, so rich as the velvets, or so ornate as the embroidered damasks.
’Twas like being in a fairy tale. And that’s what frightened Bethie. For she knew that, sooner or later, all fairy tales end.
***
Jamie watched as Alec spoke with the innkeeper, felt his brother-in-law’s frustration mount. It was a frustration Jamie shared.
For six long years, he had wondered every day what had become of Nicholas, his nephew, childhood companion, closest friend. And Jamie was more than a little curious to see what sort of forest sprite had captured Nicholas’s heart, for he had no doubt it was due to his love for her that Nicholas had finally emerged from his self-imposed exile.
“What do you mean Nicholas left?”
“He rose early, sir, and went into the city.”
“Did you ask him where he was going?”
The innkeeper gaped at Alec in indignation. “Certainly not, sir! How my guests spend their time is none of my affair.”
“Of course, Matilda. Forgive me.”
“But, sir, his wife is still here, as are his horses. I’m certain he will return shortly, and when he does I shall notify you at once.”
“I would be most grateful, madam. But while he is away, I think I should like to meet my daughter-in-law.”
“Regrettably, she is indisposed at the moment, sir.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sir. Her husband, your son, sent Madame Moreau to fit her for a new wardrobe.”
Jamie chuckled. “Poor thing. We ought to rescue her, Alec. It would be the chivalrous thing to do.”
Alec met his gaze, smiled. “Indeed.”
***
Nicholas looked into the mirror, saw himself as he’d never expected to see himself again—dressed as a gentleman. He’d purchased one complete set of garments, ordered the rest of his wardrobe, complete with drawers and handkerchiefs, to be made and delivered by week’s end. But six years of living in the wild had done more than broaden his shoulders and slim his waist. It had changed his tastes, as well. “On second thought, no lace.”
“As you wish, sir. Might I suggest a good wig maker, sir?” The old man cast a disapproving glance at Nicholas’s hair, which still hung unbound to his waist.
“No, thank you. I never could abide wearing one.”
The man’s gaze remained fixed on Nicholas’s hair. “Very well, sir.”
As the tailor finished mending the hems of his breeches, Nicholas mulled over the news he’d heard on the street. A group of Scots-Irish frontiersmen from Paxton had attacked a village of peaceful Conestoga Indians and slaughtered everyone they could get their hands on—men, women, children. A handful of Conestogas had escaped to Lancaster, where Quakers, outraged by the carnage, had given them refuge in the local gaol. But the frontiersmen, eager to avenge the deaths of their loved ones after a spring and summer of bloodshed, had followed them, had broken into the gaol and hacked them down, even the babies, leaving their bodies scattered on the cold ground.
The thought of it made Nicholas’s gorge rise. Hadn’t there been enough killing? What good could the frontiersmen possibly gain by butchering innocent Indians? Or perhaps they, like Écuyer, didn’t believe there was such a thing as an innocent Indian. But the Conestoga were not only peaceful, making their living by selling baskets and brooms, they were Christian, as well.
All of Philadelphia was in a state of outrage about the murders. Every public house and square was abuzz with the news—and the rumor that more than a thousand frontiersmen were now on their way toward Philadelphia, armed and ready to fight unless the British garrison turned over the Moravian Indians it was sheltering.
Nicholas had no doubt the garrison’s commander would refuse such a demand. But would the frontiersman actually attack Philadelphia? That they had no love for Englishmen or Quakers went without saying. Too many of them had brought old hatreds with them from Scotland and Ireland and looked down upon the peace-loving Quakers as cowardly and effeminate. But to attack Philadelphia would be foolhardy, an act of suicide.
Suddenly Nicholas felt weary. He’d seen so much killing over the past six years, so much mindless barbarism. When would it end?
“Very well, sir. That should do nicely.” The tailor stepped away.
