“That’s true,” he said quietly, and leaning forward he reached out to cup his hand lightly around Chastity’s soft cheek. “I reckon you were doing yours.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out, and I saw that her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She managed a jerky little nod, and Patience and Prudence emitted little hums of approval, though they sat bolt upright, hands neatly folded in their laps.

“I’m a soldier no more,” Bobby said. “I’ll willingly swear—if swearing doesn’t displease you, I mean—not to take up arms again, save to hunt for food. And I, um, reckon you don’t mean to … er … return to your former circumstances?”

Silvia glanced at Jamie, her long upper lip drawn down over the lower one.

“No, she doesn’t,” Jamie said firmly. “Never.”

Bobby nodded.

“So,” Bobby said, sitting back and looking at her very straight. “Will thee marry me, Friend?”

She swallowed, eyes very bright, and leaned forward, but Aidan forestalled her reply.

“Please do marry him, Mrs. Hardman,” he said urgently. “He can’t cook anything but porridge and beans with burnt bacon.”

“And thee thinks I can?” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“She’s not a good cook, either,” said Prudence, as one required to be truthful. “But she can bake bread.”

“And we know how to make stew out of turnips and potatoes and beans and onions and a pork bone,” Patience put in. “We wouldn’t let thee starve.”

Silvia, quite pink in the face by this time, cleared her throat in a monitory sort of way.

“If thee can shoot an animal for the pot, Friend Higgins, I believe I can butcher and roast it,” she said. “You can always cut off the burnt bits.”

“Grand!” said Aidan, delighted. “So it’s a bargain, is it?”

“Well, it might be, if you’ll stop talking,” Bobby said, giving Aidan a look of mild exasperation.

“Daddy?” said Chastity brightly, holding out her arms to Bobby. Silvia went bright red, and everyone laughed. She put a hand over Chastity’s mouth.

“I will,” she said.

155

Quaker Wedding, Redux

JAMIE REMEMBERED THE FIRST Quaker wedding he’d attended, vividly. It had been in Philadelphia, in a Methodist church, and the congregation had consisted largely of Friends—the sort who were for liberty—plus a couple of English soldiers in full-dress uniform, though Lord John and the Duke of Pardloe had tactfully left their swords at home. The service had been unique, and he thought the same was likely to be the case today.