“Whatever it is, a bràthair-mhàthair, ye ken I’ll do it, aye?” He smiled at Uncle Jamie, who relaxed and smiled back.

“I do, Ian, and I’m grateful. The thing is—Friend Silvia is a virtuous woman, but her husband was killed, maybe by the British army, maybe by Loyalists, maybe by Indians. He left her badly off, she’s no kin, and … there aren’t so many ways for a woman alone to provide for three wee girls.”

“She’s a hoor, then?” Ian had lowered his own voice, keeping an eye on the steam rising from the laundry kettle. Wee Orrie Higgins was minding Oggy and apparently trying to teach him to play patty-cake, though the bairn couldn’t manage more than waving his chubby arms and crowing.

“No!” Uncle Jamie’s face darkened. “I mean—she sometimes …”

“I understand,” Ian said hastily, suddenly wondering at the nature of the service Mrs. Hardman might have rendered his uncle.

“Not me, for God’s sake!”

“I didna think it was, Uncle!”

“Aye, ye did,” Uncle Jamie said dryly. “But beyond rubbing horseradish liniment into my backside and poulticing my back, the woman never laid a hand on me—or I on her, all right?”

Ian grinned at his uncle and raised both hands, indicating a complete acceptance of this story.

“Mmphm. So, as I said, I want ye to see what her condition is. It may be that she’s found a man to marry her—and if she has, you be damned careful about giving her the money so he doesna see; even if he’s a good man, he might assume things that aren’t true—” And here he gave Ian a hard look. “But if she’s entertaining men that come to her house, you find that out and make sure that none of them are threatening her or seem a danger to her or her wee lassies.”

“And if they are …?”

“Take care of it.”

I FOUND IAN in the springhouse, sniffing cheeses.

“Take that one,” I suggested, pointing at a cheesecloth-wrapped shape at the end of the top shelf. “It’s at least six months old, so it’ll be hard enough to travel with. Oh, but you might want some of the softer cheese for Oggy, mightn’t you?”

There were at least a dozen tin tubs of soft goat’s cheese, some flavored with garlic and chives—one adventurous experiment with minced dried tomatoes that I had severe doubts about—but four unflavored, for use in feeding people with digestive upset and for mixing in medicines that I couldn’t get anyone to swallow otherwise.

“Rachel thinks he might be teething,” Ian assured me. “By the time we reach New York, he’ll be gnawing raw meat off the bone.”