Audubon turned red under his suntan and faced away from her. “I do not know how you know this, but you also must be seeing that I did not act improper to you.”

“What she’s telling us,” said Verily Cooper, “is that she’s got her a knack.”

“Please keep such crudity for times when you are alone with the ill-mannered,” said Purity. “I observe people keenly, that is all. And from his accent I am confident that my reasoning was correct.”

The rough fellow, Mike Fink, spoke up. “When you hear a bunch of squealing and snorting, you can bet you’re somewhere near a pig.”

Purity turned toward him. “I have no idea what you meant by that.”

“I’m just saying a knack’s a knack.”

“Enough,” said Cooper. “Less than a week in New England and we’ve already forgotten all caution? Knacks are illegal here. Therefore decent people don’t have them.”

“Oh yeah,” said Mike Fink. “Except she does.”

“But then, perhaps she is not decent,” said Audubon.

It was Purity’s turn to blush. “You forget yourself, sir,” she said.

“Never mind him,” said Cooper. “He’s just miffed because you made that remark about unspeakable presumptions.”

“You’re travelers,” she said.

“John-James paints North American birds with an eye toward publishing a book of his pictures for the use of scientists in Europe.”

“And for this he needs a troop along? What do you do, hold his brushes?”

“We’re not all on the same errand,” said Cooper.

At that moment the two she had seen in the river came out of the bushes, still damp-haired but fully clothed.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry you had to see so much horseflesh without no horses,” said the White one.

The Black one said not a thing, but never took his eyes from her.

“This is Alvin Smith,” said Cooper. “He’s a man of inestimable abilities, but only because nobody has cared enough to estimate them. The short one is Arthur Stuart, no kin to the King, who travels with Alvin as his adopted nephew-in-law, or some such relationship.”

“And you,” said Purity, “have been long enough out of England to pick up some American brag.”

“But surrounded by Americans as I am,” said Cooper, “my brag is like a farthing in a sack of guineas.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the way he spoke. “So you travel in New England with a Frenchman, who is only able to avoid being expelled or, worse, arrested as a spy, by pretending to be a mute. You are a barrister, this fellow is a boatman, as I assume, and the two bathers are ...” Her voice trailed off.

“Are what?” asked Alvin Smith.

“Clean,” she said. Then she smiled.

“What were you going to say?” asked Smith.

“Don’t press her,” said Cooper. “If someone decides to leave something unsaid, my experience is that everyone is happier if they don’t insist on his saying it.”

“That’s OK,” said Arthur Stuart. “I don’t think she knows herself what was on her lips to say.”