She snorted, steam rising sudden from her nostrils.

“And thee would wonder whether those men were preferable to thee. Worry did I think of any of them when I touched thy body, did I think thee weak and disgusting. I know thee, Gabriel Hardman, and by this time, I know a good deal about other men, too. And thee dares … thee dares! …” She was shouting now and could be heard from the barn, surely. “Thee dares to tell me it’s godly and acceptable that thee should take more than one woman to thy bed, only because thee lives with folk who do such things!”

Gabriel was pale with anger, but had himself under control. He wanted his daughters.

“I apologize for what I said,” he said, between clenched teeth. “I spoke out of shock. How can thee blame me for speaking wildly?”

“Thee was not speaking wildly when thee said thee would take Prudence and Patience from me,” she replied.

“I am their father, and I will keep them!”

“No, thee will not,” she said evenly, and turned toward Ian’s tree. “Will he?”

Ian stepped out from behind the tree.

“No,” he said mildly. “He won’t.”

Gabriel licked his lips and huffed out a great white sigh.

“What are we to do, then, Silvia?” he said, plainly struggling for calm. “Thee knows the girls want to be with me as much as I wish to be with them. Whatever thee thinks of me at present—how can thee be so heartless as to take them from me?”

“As for thee, I expect thy other children will comfort thee,” Silvia said, in as nasty a tone as Ian had ever heard from her. She rubbed a hand over her face, hard, also striving for calm. “No. Thee is right in that, at least. I do know how much they love thee and I will never say anything to them that would blacken thee in their eyes. I think thee should tell them, though, about thy children here. They will understand that, but they will not understand why thee would keep the truth from them—and they are bound to find out sooner or later, though not from me.”

Gabriel had moved into the light as well, shuffling his lame foot. He had assumed an odd, mottled appearance, like an old birch tree whose bark is peeling off.

“I will not go and leave them here,” Silvia said, having regained some control of her emotions. “But I will write to thee when we have found a home, and thee may come to visit them. I will help them to write to thee, and perhaps they may come here to see thee again, if it seems safe.” She straightened her back and smoothed her pinafore.

“I forgive thee, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “But I will never be wife to thee again.”

89

The Filature

Savannah

September 30, 1779