Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

107 Away in a Manger

WE HAD ACQUIRED TWO yearling heifers in the summer, one mostly white with black splotches and the other mostly red with white splotches. Their names, according to Mandy, were Moo-Moo and Pinky, but Jemmy had been browsing my Merck Manual and had nicknamed them Leprosy and Rosacea. Jamie said practically that it scarcely mattered what they were called, as he’d never met a cow that would answer to its name, in any case; he called them Ruaidh and Ban—“Red” and “White,” in Gaelic.

At the moment, he was calling the red one something in Gaelic that I translated roughly as “Misbegotten daughter of a venomous caterpillar,” but I supposed that I might be missing the finer shades.

“It’s not her fault,” I said reprovingly.

He made a Scottish noise like a cement mixer, and gritted his teeth. He had one arm inserted into Rosacea’s backside up to the elbow, and his face in the flickering lanternlight was as red as her hide.

It truly wasn’t the poor cow’s fault—she’d been bred too young, and was having a lot of trouble delivering her first calf—but I didn’t blame him, either. He’d been trying for a quarter of an hour to get hold of both feet so he could pull the calf out, but Rosy was skittish and kept swinging her rear end away. The calf’s nose poked out now and then, nostrils flaring in what I thought must be panic. I felt much the same way, but was fighting it down.

I wanted to help, get my own much smaller hands into the cow and at least locate the hooves. I’d cut my right hand badly during the day, though, and couldn’t countenance exposing a raw wound to what Jamie was handling at the moment.

“Nic na galladh!” he said, jerking back and shaking his hand. In the scrum and poor light, he’d accidentally shoved his hand into the wrong orifice, and was now flapping his arm to dislodge a coating of very wet, fresh manure. He caught sight of my face and pointed a slimy, menacing finger at me.

“Laugh, and I’ll rub your face in it, Sassenach.”

I put my bandaged hand solemnly over my mouth, though I was quivering internally. He snorted, wiped his filthy hand on his shirt, and bent again to his labors, muttering execrations. Within moments, though, the execrations had turned to urgent prayers. He’d got the feet.

I was praying myself. The poor cow had been in labor since the night before, and was beginning to sway, her head hanging in exhaustion. That might help. If she was tired enough to relax … Jamie snatched up the rope bracelets he had made—essentially two small nooses joined by a common rope—and shoved them over the tiny hooves before they could slip out of his hand. Then was squatting behind Rosy, pulling for all he was worth. He stopped when the contraction eased, panting, resting his forehead against the cow’s haunch.

It was dark in the byre; it was a small cave with a gate across the front, and there was no light save a small oil lantern hung from a nail pounded into the rock. Even so, I saw the ripple of a new contraction start and leaned toward Jamie, trying to will my own strength into him, to help.

He set his feet hard in the straw and pulled, making an inhuman noise of effort, and with a squashy sort of glorp! the calf slid out in a cascade of blood and slime.

Jamie got up, slowly. He was panting from the effort, face and clothes smeared dark with blood and manure, but his eyes never left the calf and his face was alight with the same joy I felt as we watched the new mother—remarkably placid, considering recent events—sniff her new offspring and then begin to lick it with long, rhythmic swipes of her tongue.

“She’ll be a good mother.”

For an instant, I thought Jamie had said it, but he was facing me, looking surprised, and there was a faint movement behind me. I swung round with a small yelp and saw the man who had stepped soundlessly into the byre with us.

“Who the hell—” I began, groping for a weapon, but Jamie had raised his hand in greeting to the man.

“Mr. Cloudtree,” he said, and paused to wipe his forearm across his blood-slimed face. “I trust we see ye well, and your family?”

“They’re well enough,” the young man answered, keeping a wary eye on me and the wooden shovel I’d seized. “And since I got the chance, ma’am, I meant to thank you for it. For my babies, I mean.”

“Oh,” I said, rather blankly. Cloudtree. The pieces of memory fell into place around that name. The fecund smell of the byre, the swamp of blood and birthwater, brought back that night out of time in a small cabin, the endless effort, and the timeless forever when I held a small blue light in my hands, praying with heart and soul for it not to go out. I swallowed.

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Cloudtree,” I said. Aaron. That was the name of Agnes’s nasty stepfather: Aaron Cloudtree. I eyed him with much less favor, but he didn’t notice, his attention fixed on Jamie and the scene before us.

“A nice bit of work there, man,” he said to Jamie, nodding approvingly at Rosy and her calf, the latter looking round-eyed and bewildered, its hair swirled in all directions. “Near as good as your wife’s.”

“Taing,” Jamie said, and bent to pick up the grimy linen towel, wiping his face as he stood. “What brings ye to us at this time o’ the night, Mr. Cloudtree?”

“I come earlier, but you was at table,” Cloudtree said, shrugging. “You had the old witch there; I couldn’t’ve spoke before her.”

Jamie glanced at me and settled himself, slowly wiping his hands.

“Speak now,” he said.

“The old witch’s son, Cunningham. You know he’s been trading, down to the Cherokee villages, just the other side o’ the Line?”

Jamie nodded, eyes fixed on Cloudtree’s face. He was mixed blood, a handsome man with silky long brown hair, though with a petulant curve to his mouth.

“Not everybody listens to him,” Cloudtree assured him. “But he’s got some few men down there, maybe twenty, will follow him. He calls ’em his militia, but he ain’t fought Indians before or he’d know better. They take his guns, his powder, and his medals, though, and they’d likely do what he asked—for a while.”

“What is it that he’s asking?” Jamie had stopped wiping his hands and now held the towel twisted between them.

“I ain’t heard this from him,” Cloudtree said, leaning in and lowering his voice, “but I heard it from two o’ the men in Keowee, ones he paid. There’s a redcoat officer named Ferguson, set to go to and fro in the mountains, raising Loyalist militias and arresting rebels, hangin’ men and burning houses. Cunningham’s wrote Ferguson a letter, naming your name and saying he ought to come here with his troops, ’cuz you a king beaver ’mongst the rebels and your pelt would be worth the trouble to take it.”

All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the byre. After a moment, though, Jamie took a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Do you know when?” he asked calmly.

Cloudtree shrugged.

“I don’t know ’bout Ferguson. Seems he’s got plenty to keep him busy where he is. But Cunningham’s got tired o’ waitin’ for an answer. The men I talked to say he means to arrest you himself and take you to Ferguson—so’s Ferguson can hang you for show, I mean. They say”—he looked at his hands and folded down the fingers, counting—“eight days from yesterday. Cunningham’s waitin’ on a fellow name of Partland, who’s comin’ from Ninety-Six with some more men.”

Jamie’s eyes met mine, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: Seven nights from now was Lodge night. If they were coming for Jamie, that would be the logical time to do it. It was a good two hundred miles from the settlement of Ninety-Six to the Ridge, but Partland and friends might well make it.

“That bloody snake!” I said. I was alarmed and angry, but anger was definitely on top. “How dare he?”

“Well, I did take their guns away, Sassenach,” Jamie said mildly. “I told ye they’d resent it.”

He looked thoughtfully at Aaron and absently wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He grimaced, rubbed the hand on his breeches, and spat into the straw.

“Aye,” he said. “Ye’ve done me a service, Mr. Cloudtree, and I will remember it. Tell me—d’ye ken a man named Scotchee Cameron?”

Aaron had been looking around the byre, interested, but came to attention at that name.

“Everybody does,” he said, switching the interest to Jamie. “Indian superintendent, ain’t he? Friend of yours?”

“We’ve shared a pipe now and then. I was an Indian agent, for a time.”

I glanced at Jamie. I knew he’d smoked with the Cherokee when he visited with them, but I’d never asked him what sort of conversation this involved. I’d likewise never met Alexander Cameron, but like everybody else, knew of him. A Scotsman, he’d married and chosen to live among the Indians, hunting and trading. He’d become an Indian superintendent after Jamie’s resignation, though, and as it was now widely known that Jamie was a rebel, he had therefore courteously not sought Scotchee out when he traded in the Cherokee lands. Cameron was still respected, though, Jamie said, trusted and known everywhere.

“Do you ken where he is just now?” Jamie asked.

Aaron pursed his lips, thinking. Is he thinking where Cameron is? I wondered. Or wondering what he can make out of the situation?

“Yes,” he said, though with a tinge of doubt in his voice. He scratched his head to assist thought.

“He lives with the Overhill people, but he was in Nensanyi last week, so he’s likely come to Keowee by now. That’s where we live,” he said, turning to me. “Susannah and the young’uns and me.” He seemed to want to justify himself to me, possibly remembering—as I certainly did—his slapping Agnes on the night her mother gave birth. And he might be afraid of what Agnes had told me about him.

“I’m glad to hear that you have a place,” I said, smiling a little stiffly at him. “Do please give my regards to Susannah and tell her that if she should ever need a doctor again, please send to me and I’ll come.”

His expression lightened and he nodded to me.

“That’s real good of you, Missus. Ah … d’you want me to find Scotchee and tell him ’bout this trouble o’ yours … sir?” he added to Jamie, looking uncertain. “Might be as he could talk sense to any of the Cherokee that have dealings with Loyalists.”

“I do,” Jamie said. He gave the cows a quick look-over, but the new calf had staggered to its feet, shaking its head. He nodded to himself, then bent and picked up the filthy towel he’d been using.

“Come down to the house, will ye, Mr. Cloudtree? My wife will find ye something to eat while I write a wee word for Scotchee. We can find a bed for ye, too, if ye like?”

Cloudtree shook his head.

“I like to walk in the night,” he said simply. “It talks to me. But I wouldn’t say no to a sup and a bite, Missus.”

I HAD COME up to our bedroom—after providing Jamie and Mr. Cloudtree with a plate of rolls stuffed with cheese and my backwoods version of Branston pickle—but I was in no mood for sleep. My backbone had gone cold at Aaron’s story and hadn’t thawed a bit, though my innards were pulsing with an angry heat.

I’d been trying to distract my mind by reading The Two Towers, which Jamie had left by the bed, but kept imagining Captain Cunningham as Shelob in a gold-laced hat and wondering whether I might nickname my syringe Sting.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, putting the book aside and flouncing out of bed. The floor was cold underfoot, but I didn’t care. I paced round the room like a dog in a kennel, fuming. I did realize that I was stoking my anger in order not to be overwhelmed by fright, but it was a losing battle. How the bloody hell was I going to look Elspeth Cunningham in the face? I was bound to see her on Sunday, if not before. Bunking off church wouldn’t help; if she thought I was ill, she’d be round promptly to dose me.

Did she know what the captain was up to? I wondered, stepping over Adso, who was stretched out on his side on the rag rug in front of the hearth, flattened in sleep. If she did—what might she do?

Likely nothing. She’d warned me, after all. And I’d warned her.

A burning stick broke in the hearth with a sharp crack and sparks sprayed up in a tiny fountain. A few caught in the fire screen Bree had made, glowing red for an instant before dying. The cat twitched an ear, but remained unperturbed.

I felt, rather than heard, the front door closing: a muffled vibration through the bones of the house. Aaron Cloudtree was gone. I pulled my wrapper close and went downstairs, leaving Adso to mind the fire.

“DO YOU THINK this Scotchee can help?” I asked dubiously. Mr. Cloudtree had departed, full of whisky and pickle, with a sealed note—written in Gaelic and carefully unsigned, in case of interception or indiscretion—in his pocket, and we were sitting by the kitchen fire, sharing the rest of the whisky with the peace of the resting house around us. It was very late—perhaps two or three o’clock in the morning, judging from the deep, chilly stillness of the air outside—but neither of us wanted to go to bed.

“I dinna ken,” Jamie admitted. He rubbed both hands over his face, then shook his head, leaving his hair rumpled and flyaway, short hairs rising from his crown, red in the firelight. He yawned, blinked, and shook his head, more to dispel mental fog than to acknowledge onrushing sleep, I thought.

“It depends,” he said, after a meditative sip. “Where he is, who he can talk to. And whether he can still read the Gàidhlig,” he added, with a rueful smile. “If not, we’re nay worse off than before. If we’re lucky, he may be moved to find out who Cunningham’s been dealing with among the Cherokee, and maybe drop a word to the headman of that village.”

I nodded, dubious. The Cherokee territory was a vast country, with hundreds of villages. On the other hand, Jamie was well known there as the Indian agent before Scotchee, and I rather thought that while Charles Cunningham’s accomplices might be familiar with some of the Cherokee headmen, Cunningham himself almost certainly wasn’t. Alexander Duff and his son lived within a quarter mile of the Cunningham cabin; Donald MacGillies within a stone’s throw of the Duffs. Sandy Duff and Donald MacGillies were Ardsmuir men, wholly to be trusted, and I knew they had been keeping an eye on the comings and goings over the Treaty Line.

“What did you do with the rifles you took from Cunningham?” I asked, pouring another cup of hot milk and adding a drizzle of honey.

“Gave most of them to men I can trust. Speaking o’ that …” he said, and yawned again. “Oh, God … I’ll have to send word to the Overmountain men, though I canna reach them all in time. Sevier might come, though; he’s the closest, and a solid man. And he doesna much like Indians.”

108 Lodge Night

JAMIE COULDN’T EAT SUPPER, though he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. His wame was closed as a knotted glove, and he didn’t feel hungry; the lack of food sharpened his bones and cleared his head. He felt calm but as though he was standing behind a sheet of glass, watching himself.

“Eh?” Claire had said something to him, and he hadn’t heard. He made a brief gesture of apology, and she narrowed her eyes at him—not in annoyance, in concern.

“It’s fine, Sassenach,” he assured her. “Cunningham doesna want me dead. The worst that can happen is that he takes me prisoner tonight.”

“What about what happens after that?” she demanded. She was wound tight as a new watch; he could see her wee gears spinning, and smiled. One of her eyebrows went up, and he leaned over and kissed it.

“Dinna fash, a nighean. After that, the captain has a choice, doesn’t he? Get me off the Ridge—and good luck to him if that’s his choice—or try to take me over the Line and through the Cherokee lands to get to Ferguson—wherever that poor bastard is now. And while Cunningham’s friends have friends among the Cherokee—so do I, and if Aaron Cloudtree either found Scotchee Cameron or spoke of the matter to anyone else—and I’d wager my best stockings that he did; ye can tell he’s a blabbermouth—the captain might have a good deal more trouble in taking me anywhere than he might think.”

“Oh, good,” she said, and the line between her brows eased a bit. “So after you start a small war over the Treaty Line, the captain will just have to kill you all by himself.”

Jamie shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far, but it didn’t matter.

“He can try.”

She didn’t look much less worried, but she smiled at him, despite herself. Seeing that made him want suddenly and urgently to have her, and it plainly showed on his face, for her smile deepened—though her sidewise glance at the door convinced him that she wasn’t going to let him bend her over the table and try to finish before wee Aggie came in.

“After Lodge, then,” he said, grinning at her.

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“After Lodge,” she said, trying to sound as certain as he did.

I WAS THUMBING through my Merck, roaming from pleural disorders and the use of thoracentesis to a gripping account of inflammation of the rectal mucosa, but while my cerebellum could be coaxed into a momentary distraction, my brain stem, spinal cord, and sacral nerves were having none of it. If I’d had a tail, it would have been pressed tight between my legs, and small jolts of something between electricity and nausea spurted unexpectedly through my abdomen.

The girls knew that something was afoot. They’d been silent as mice at supper, gazing as though hypnotized at Jamie. I’d been likewise hypnotized, watching him dress afterward.

I’d stayed to help clear the table, put away the remnants and orts from the meal, and smoor the fire in the kitchen hearth, and when I came up to our bedroom, I found him facing away from me, on the far side of the room. He didn’t turn round; I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard me come in. His face was reflected in the window he stood in front of, but I could see that he wasn’t looking at his reflection.

He wasn’t looking anywhere. His eyes were fixed and full of darkness, and his fingers moved swiftly, twitching buttons free, unwinding his neckcloth, loosening his breeches—all as though he were somewhere else, completely unaware of what his hands were doing. He was preparing to fight.

His plaid lay on the bed, along with a clean shirt and his leather jerkin. He turned, presumably to fetch it, and saw me. He looked blank, and then the life flowed back into him.

“Ye look as though ye’ve seen a ghost, Sassenach,” he said, in a voice that was almost normal. “I ken I’ve aged a bit, but surely it’s none sae bad as all that?”

“You’d scare the Devil himself,” I said. I wasn’t joking, and he knew it.

“I know,” he said simply. “I was remembering how it was, just before the charge. At Drumossie. Folk were shouting and I could see the gunna mòr across the field, but it didna mean anything. I was shedding my clothes, because there was nothing left but draw my sword and run across the moor. I kent I’d never make it to the other side, and I didna care.”

I couldn’t speak. Neither did he, but went quietly about the business of washing, of putting on his clean sark and his belted plaid, and when he got to his feet, he smiled at me, though his eyes still held memories.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. Cunningham wants to hand me over to Patrick Ferguson and take the credit. It’s his best chance to make his name among the Loyalist forces.”

I nodded obediently, knowing as well as he did that the motive for starting a fight often had nothing to do with how things turned out.

He started for the door, then stopped, waiting for me. I came slowly to him, touched him. He hadn’t put on his coat yet, and his arm was solid and warm through the cloth of his shirt.

“Will it be today?” I blurted. Twice before, he’d left me on the edge of a battlefield, telling me that while the day might come that he and I would part—it wouldn’t be today. And both times, he’d been right.

He cupped my cheek in one hand and looked at me for a long moment, and I knew he was fixing me in his memory, as I had just done to him.

“I dinna think so,” he said at last, soberly. His hand fell away, my cheek suddenly cool where he’d touched it. “But I willna lie to ye, Claire; I think it will be an evil night.”

LODGE NIGHT, BY custom, began roughly two hours after supper, to let everyone digest their food, finish their evening chores, and make their way from wherever they lived. Some homesteads were a good five or six miles from the Meeting House.

Jamie urgently wanted to arrive early, both to anticipate any ambush and to have a quiet keek around, in case Cunningham had thought to post men in the nearby woods. He didn’t, though. He stopped at the stable to check the welfare of his kine, then paused by the pigpen and counted the shadowy, stertorous forms clustered in the straw, noting that the straw had best be changed this week.

Then he walked slowly up the hill toward the Meeting House. The weather had warmed abruptly and bats were flickering through the air between the trees, snatching insects too fast to see. Brianna had told him how they did it, and if he listened close, he thought he could sometimes catch their high-pitched cries, thin and sharp as broken glass.

Tom MacLeod stepped out of the trees and fell into step beside him with a quiet “Mac Dubh.” It gave him an odd feeling, sometimes, when one of his Ardsmuir men called him that. Memories of prison, the hard things—and they were hard—but also the fleeting, regular pulse of the kinship that had kept them alive and would bind them for life. And at the bottom of his heart, always, a faint sense of his father, the Black One whose son he was.

“Dean Urnaigh dhomh,” he whispered. Pray for me, Da.

He could hear men among the trees now, coming along the mountain trails in ones and twos and threes, recognized the voices: MacMillan, Airdrie, Wilson, Crombie, MacLean, MacCoinneach, two of the Lindsay brothers, Bobby Higgins, coming up behind him … He smiled at thought of Bobby. Bobby was one of the ten men he had told about tonight. Bobby hadn’t fought anyone save the occasional raccoon in some years, but he’d been a soldier and remembered how. And of the ten, for all he’d been an English soldier, Bobby Higgins was one of the men he would trust with his life.

He wasn’t given to vain regrets, but for a piercing instant, he thought how different this night might be if he had Young Ian by his side, and Roger Mac. If he had Germain and Jeremiah, too, waiting outside and ready to run for more help if it was needed.

At least ye won’t get any of them killed. He wasn’t sure if that was his own thought or his father’s voice, but it was a small comfort.

The Crombies and Gillebride MacMillan were waiting outside the Meeting House. So were several men he knew to be quiet Loyalists—maybe Cunningham’s, maybe not—but they’d likely not lift a hand to save him, if that’s what it came down to. He thought one or two of them looked at him oddly, but the light was dim through the oiled hides over the windows; he couldn’t say for sure, and put the thought away.

He made no move to go in yet; it was customary to have a wee blether outside before they settled down to business. He replied to conversation, and laughed now and then, but caught no more than the barest sense of what was said to him. He could feel Cunningham. Out in the dark trees behind his back, waiting.

He wants to see how many men I have.

Jamie wanted to see how many men Cunningham had—and who they were. And to that end, Aidan Higgins was hiding in the brush beside the main trail that led to the Meeting House from the western part of the Ridge, and Murdo Lindsay up near the trail that led from the eastern part. If any Cherokee came to take part in tonight’s doing, they’d come that way, and God and Murdo willing, he’d hear about it in time to take action.

109 De Profundis

MY RIGHT HAND WAS throbbing, in time with my heartbeat. The cut across my palm had healed, superficially, but it had been deep enough that the nerves in the dermis had been injured, and they woke every now and then to protest the insult. I turned the hand over, checking idly for swelling or the red streaks of belated blood poisoning, though I knew quite well there was nothing of that kind.

It’s just that broken things always hurt longer than you think they will.

Plainly I wasn’t going to sleep until—and unless—Jamie came home, more or less in one piece. I lit the small brazier in my surgery and fed the infant fire with hickory chips. “Like a bloody Vestal,” I muttered to myself, but I did feel a slight comfort from the burgeoning light.

I’d already checked and refurbished my field kit, in case of emergency. It hung on its accustomed nail, by the door. I’d put aside the Merck Manual; I couldn’t settle myself to read.

Bluebell and Adso had both wandered into the surgery to keep me company; the dog was asleep under my chair and Adso was draped over the counter, his big celadon eyes half closed, purring in brief spurts like a distant motorcycle being revved.

“Thanks for small mercies,” I said to him, just to break the silence. “At least Jamie will never break his neck riding a motorcycle.”

He might never do a lot of other things, too …

I cut that thought off short and, reaching over the cat, started taking bottles and jars out of the cupboard in a determined sort of way. I might as well take inventory: throw out things that were too old to be pharmaceutically active, make a list of things we needed next time Jamie went (yes, he will too go!) into a town, and maybe grind a few things, if only for the sake of pretending I was grinding Charles Cunningham’s face … or maybe the King’s …

Bluebell’s head came up suddenly and she gave a small hurf! of warning. Adso instantly uncoiled and leapt on top of the tall cabinet where I kept bandages and my surgical implements. Clearly, we had company.

“It’s too early,” I said aloud. He’d left the house no more than an hour ago. Surely nothing could have happened yet … But my body was far ahead of my thoughts and I had reached the front door before I completed that one. I hadn’t barred it after Jamie left, but I had shot the mortised-bolt lock and opened it now with a sharp, decisive thunk! It didn’t matter who had come to tell me what. I had to know.

I was startled, but not truly surprised.

“Elspeth,” I said. I stepped back, feeling as though I did it in a dream.

“I had to come,” she said. She was white as a ghost and looked exactly as I felt—shattered.

“I know,” I said, automatically adding, “Come in.”

“You know?” she said, and her voice held both doubt and the horror of realizing that there was no doubt left.

I shut the door and turned away to go to my surgery, leaving her to follow as she liked.

Once we were both inside the surgery, I dropped the heavy quilt that still served me as a door, sheltering us from the night. Bluey was on her feet, just behind my knee, and was growling in a low, menacing sort of way. She knew Elspeth and normally would have gone to her for a friendly sniff and pat. Not tonight, Josephine, I thought, but said, “Leave off, dog. It’s all right.”

The hell it is was written all over Bluebell’s face, but she stopped growling and backed up slowly to the hearth rug, where she lay down, but kept her hackles raised and a deeply suspicious gaze fixed on Elspeth, who didn’t seem to notice.

I waved Elspeth to one of the two chairs. Without asking, I took down the bottle of JF Special and filled two cups to their rims. Elspeth accepted hers but didn’t drink immediately, though it was clear that she needed it. I didn’t hesitate to take my own dose.

“I’d thought I might—pray with you,” she said.

“Fine,” I said, flatly. “There’s nothing else we can do now, is there?”

I drank, hoping against hope that I was right and that she hadn’t come to tell me that her son had killed or captured my husband. But she hadn’t; I could see as much through the firelight that painted her face with the illusion of health. She’d come to me in fear, not pity. Her lean, weathered hands were both wrapped round her cup, and I thought that if she squeezed it much harder, the pewter would bend.

“It hasn’t happened yet?” I asked, and was surprised that I sounded almost casual.

“I don’t know.” At last she raised the cup to her lips, still holding it in both hands. When she lowered it, she looked a little less rattled. She sat silent for a long moment, studying my face. For once, I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I had a glass face; it might save explanations.

It did. She’d been shaken and pale when she came in. Now she was stirred, and a flush had risen in her sunken cheeks.

“How long has he known?” she asked. “Your husband.”

“About a week,” I said. “We found out by accident. I mean—none of your son’s associates betrayed him.” I wasn’t sure why I offered her this scrap of charity; I supposed there wasn’t anything left between us now but the memory of kindness.

She nodded slowly, and looked down into the smoky amber of the whisky. I was surprised to realize that she, too, had the sort of face that didn’t hide its owner’s thoughts, and the realization restored a small part of my feelings for her.

“We know everything,” I said, quite gently. “And Jamie knows that the captain doesn’t mean him immediate harm. He won’t kill your son.”

Unless he has to.

She looked up at me, a nerve twitching the corner of her mouth.

“Unless he has to? Let me offer you the same assurance, Mrs. Fraser.”

“Claire,” I said. “Please.” The surgery smelled of hickory smoke and healing herbs. “Do you know any good prayers suitable to the occasion?”

WEAPONS WERE FORBIDDEN in Lodge, both in symbol of the members’ Masonic ideals and more pragmatically to increase the chances of those ideals being upheld, at least for the hourly meeting. Nonetheless, Jamie had come in midafternoon to place a loaded pistol under a stone near the door, and he had cartridges and balls in his sporran and Claire’s best knife sheathed and tucked into the small of his back, the hilt hidden by his coat and the tip of it tickling the crack of his arse.

He didn’t often wear his belted plaid to Lodge but was glad he’d taken the trouble tonight; it would keep him warm if he was taken prisoner and obliged to spend the night tied to a tree or locked up in someone’s root cellar. And he had a sgian dubh in his belt in front, concealed by his Masonic apron. Just in case.

“Ciamar a tha thu, a Mhaighister.” Hiram Crombie looked just as usual—dour as a plate of pickled cabbage—and Jamie found that a comfort. Dissimulation was not one of Hiram’s gifts, and if he’d known anything was afoot, he’d likely not have come tonight.

“Gu math agus a leithid dhut fhein,” Jamie said, nodding to him. Well, and the same to you.

“Will I have a word with you, after?” Hiram asked, still in the Gaelic.

“Aye, of course.” Jamie answered him in the same tongue, and saw a couple of the non-Gaelic-speaking tenants glance at them—with a touch of suspicion? he wondered.

“Will it be to do with your wee brother, then?” he asked, changing to English, and was pleased to see that hearing the Tall Tree referred to as his wee brother made the corner of Hiram’s mouth quiver.

“Aye.”

“Fine, then,” Jamie said pleasantly, trying to ignore the beating of his heart. “But ken, a charaid, I’ve said I willna let Frances be married before she’s sixteen—and not then, if she doesna choose to.”

Crombie shook his head briefly.

“It’s naught to do wi’ the lassie,” he said, and went into the Meeting House, followed by his kin and nearby friends.

And here the man himself came with his two young lieutenants, them in half-dress uniform and himself in pale linen breeches and a light-gray cloak, with a slouch hat against the rain. Plain, by his lights. Jamie caught the movement as Kenny Lindsay ducked his head to hide a smirk, but Jamie wasn’t so sure. Aye, it was possible that a sailor wouldn’t think what sort of target he’d make in the dark—but it was also possible either that Cunningham hadn’t thought that he might be a target, or that Cloudtree’s news was wrong, and the ambush—if there was meant to be one—wasn’t meant to be tonight.

Then Cunningham emerged into the fall of light from the open door, saw Jamie, and bowed to him.

“Worshipful Master,” he said.

“Captain,” Jamie replied, and his heart thumped hard in his ears as he bowed, because Cunningham was no card player and the truth was written in the narrowing of his eyes and the hardness of his mouth.

A formal occasion, then, is it? He had a sudden mental picture of them squaring up to fight a duel, in kilt, cocked hat, and their Masonic aprons. What would be the weapons? he wondered. Cutlasses?

“Dèan ullachadh, mo charaidean,” he said casually to the men who stood with him. Stand ready.

The meeting went well enough—outwardly. The ritual, the words of brotherhood, fellowship, idealism. But he thought the words rang hollow, with a sense of ice among the men, covering their hearts, separating one from another, leaving all in the cold.

Things felt easier when it came to Business: the small things they did as a matter of community. A widow unable to deal with her late husband’s stock; a man who’d fallen through his own roof whilst repairing his chimney and broken both an arm and a leg; an auld quarrel betwixt the MacDonalds and the MacQuarries that had broken out in a fistfight at market day in Salisbury and had come home with them, still trailing clouds of ill will.

Things that were not really the business of the Lodge but that should be brought up: talk that Howard Nettles was having to do with a woman who kept shop at Beardsley’s Trading Post, whose husband was a bargeman and spent weeks away from home.

“Is there anyone here who kens Nettles well enough to drop a word in his ear?” Jamie asked. “If it’s Mrs. Appleton that’s bein’ talked about, I’ve seen her husband and he’d make two of Howard.”

A small murmur of humor ran through the room, and Geordie MacNeil said he didna ken Howard well enough to say what he needed to hear, but he did ken Howard’s cousin, who lived in a wee settlement near the Blowing Rock, and he could have a word next time he passed that way.

“Aye, well enough,” Jamie said, thinking that Claire’s bees would enjoy hearing about this. “And we’ll hope it’s soon enough to save Howard’s neck. Thank ye, Geordie. Anything else before we start the beer?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Cunningham move suddenly but then catch himself and subside.

It’ll be outside, then. He took a deep breath and felt a distant bodhran start to beat in his blood.

Hiram Crombie had brought the beer tonight, it being his turn. Skinflint he might be—all the fisher-folk were, having lived in stark poverty all their lives—but he kent what was right, and the beer was good. Jamie wondered what was ado with wee Cyrus, but it didn’t look urgent ….

On the far side of the room, Cunningham was talking. About loyalty. About his service in the Royal Navy. About loyalty to the King.

Jamie slowly got his feet under him. All right, there was nothing that prevented men talking of politics or religion outside of Lodge, but this was not quite far enough outside, and everyone knew it. Silence spread from the men who surrounded Cunningham—Jamie took note of their faces—and a coldness ran through the room like spreading frost as the others began to listen and hear what was being said.

Then it stopped. Cunningham still stood, unmoving save for his eyes, which took note in turn of each face in the room. Jamie had been listening intently, not so much for Cunningham’s words but composing answers to them. Then Jamie rose to his feet. His own words fell away, and others rose in their place.

“I will say but one thing to ye all, a charaidean. And that is not my own, but a thing said by our forefathers, four hundred years ago.” A faint stir broke the sense of ice, and men shifted on their stools, drawing themselves up to hear. Glancing sideways, to see how matters lay.

It had been a long—a very long—time since he’d read the Declaration of Arbroath, but they weren’t words you’d forget.

“As long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, that we are fighting …” He paused and looked Cunningham straight in the eyes. “… but for freedom—for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”

He didn’t wait for the deep rumble of response but turned on his heel and went out the door, as quick as he could, and broke into a run as soon as he was outside, knife in hand.

There were three or four of them, waiting for him. But they’d thought he’d talk on, and he caught them staring, moon-faced in the light from the suddenly open door. He hit one in the jaw, shouldered another out of the way, and was into the wood before they could move. He heard the shouting and confusion as the men in the Meeting House all tried either to get out or to punch each other.

The moon wasn’t yet up and the woods were pitch-dark, but he’d chosen a large boulder near a huge spruce for his hiding place and had the pistol in his hand within moments. It was loaded and primed, but he didn’t cock it yet.

His heart was pounding in his ears as he slid through the brush—he daren’t run, in earshot of the Meeting House—but he thought he heard Cunningham’s quarterdeck roar. He was bellowing, “All hands!” and Jamie would have laughed, if he’d had breath.

His freedom—and probably his life—depended on two things now, and he had no control over either one. If Scotchee Cameron had got his note, and if he thought it was worth keeping the Cherokee from being involved in a fracas over the Line—that was one thing. The other was whether John Sevier had been able to find Partland and his men at Ninety-Six and stop them.

Hiram Crombie and the rest were keeping Cunningham and his men busy, from the sounds of it. But if either Cameron or Sevier had failed him, it was going to be a bloody night.

IT WAS WELL past midnight; I’d sent the girls and Bluebell up to bed two hours ago, and now exhaustion hung over the kitchen like a low veil of chimney smoke. We had exhausted everything: prayer, conversation, industry, food, milk, and chicory coffee. Elspeth didn’t drink alcohol recreationally, pious Christian that she was, and had refused more than the one medicinal cup of whisky tonight. While I longed to obliviate myself, I felt that I had to stay sober, had to be ready. For what, I didn’t want to think—thinking was another thing I had exhausted.

For a time, I had been conscious every moment of what might be happening at the Meeting House. Visualizing the Lodge meeting—or what I knew of it, for Jamie observed the Masonic vows of secrecy, and while he laughed with me over the apron and dagger, he said nothing about their rituals. Wondering where the crisis would come.

“Nothing will happen during the meeting, Sassenach,” he’d said, in an effort to be reassuring. “Cunningham’s an officer and a gentleman, and a Mason of the Thirty-third Degree. He takes an oath seriously.”

“Such men are dangerous,” I’d said, quoting Julius Caesar. I was striving for levity, but Jamie had just nodded soberly and taken the best of his pistols from its place above the mantelpiece.

But now my mind was blank, having room only for a formless dread. I’d stirred up the fire; I stared into the flames, my face hot and my hands cold as ice, lying useless in my lap.

“It’s raining.” Elspeth broke the silence, lifting her head at the sound of the spatter of raindrops against the closed shutters. We were sitting by the kitchen fire again, having left the surgery spick-and-span. Fresh bandages. Linen towels. Surgical instruments recleaned and sterilized, laid out on their own fresh towel on the counter. The brazier cleaned and filled with new hickory chips, a selection of cautery irons ready beside it. Without speaking a word to each other about what we were doing, we had prepared for sudden and dire emergency.

“So it is.” The silence fell again. The sound of the rain had rekindled my thoughts, though. Would it keep them inside the Meeting House?

Nonsense, Beauchamp, my mind replied. When has rain stopped a Highlander from doing anything whatever? Nor yet a naval office, I suppose …

“I’m sorry.” Elspeth spoke abruptly and I glanced at her, startled. Her hands were folded tight in her lap. Her face was pale and her lips pressed together, as though sorry she’d spoken.

“It’s not your fault,” I said automatically, and then more consciously, “Nor mine.”

Her lips relaxed a little at that.

“No,” she said, softly. She was silent for a bit, but I could see her throat working faintly, as though she was arguing with herself about something.

“What is it?” I said at last, very quietly. She looked at me, and I saw her stringy throat bob as she swallowed.

“Five years,” she blurted.

“What?”

She looked away, but then back, dark eyes fixed on mine with an odd look, apology mingled with something else—relief? Triumph?

“When Simon died—my grandson … two years ago …”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, and a lance of real fear stabbed me in the heart. Like everyone else present at the time, I’d been deeply moved by Charles Cunningham’s maiden sermon, and the story of his son’s death—and his last words. “I’ll see you again. In seven years.”

“What did you say?” Elspeth asked, incredulous. I flapped a hand at her in dismissal. If the captain believed his son’s word—and very plainly he did—then he must conclude that he was essentially immortal for the intervening years. Five years now.

“Holy Lord,” I said, finding a more acceptable interjection. There was an inch of buttermilk left in my cup, and I tossed it back as though it were bad whisky.

“That—I mean … it doesn’t mean that he will kill your husband,” Elspeth said, leaning forward anxiously. “Only that your husband will not kill him.”

“That must be a comfort to you.”

She flushed, embarrassed. Of course it was. She cleared her throat and tried to offer comfort, saying that Charles didn’t mean to kill Jamie, only to take him prisoner, and …

“And take him off to Patrick Ferguson to be hanged,” I finished, nastily. “For the sake of his own bloody advancement!”

“For the sake of his King and his honor as an officer of that King!” she snapped, glaring at me. “Your husband is a pardoned traitor and now he has forfeited the grace of that pardon! He has earned his own—” She realized what she was saying—what she plainly had been thinking for quite some time—and her mouth snapped shut like a trap.

The rain turned suddenly to hail, and hailstones beat upon the shutters with a sound like gunfire. We glanced at each other, but didn’t speak; we couldn’t have heard each other if we had.

We sat for some time by the fire, our chairs side by side, not speaking. Two old witches, I thought. Divided by loyalties and love; united in our fear.

But even fear becomes exhausting after a time, and I found myself nodding, the fire making white shadows flicker through my closing eyelids. Elspeth’s breathing roused me from my doze, a hoarse, rough sound, and she shifted suddenly, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands. I reached across and touched her and she took my hand, holding tight. Neither of us spoke.

The hail had passed, the wind had dropped, the thunder and lightning had stopped and the storm settled down to a heavy, soaking, endless rain.

We waited, holding hands.

110 … Confused Noise and Garments Rolled in Blood …

SOMETIME LATER—TIME HAD CEASED to have meaning by then—we heard them. The sounds of a body of men and horses. Trampling and the sounds of urgency.

The noise had roused Fanny and Agnes; I heard their bare feet pattering down the stairs.

I was at the door with no memory of getting there, fumbling with the mortise bolt—I hadn’t barred the door when Elspeth came. I yanked the heavy door in as though it weighed nothing, and in the dark and flickering candlelight I saw Jamie, among a many-headed mass of black confusion, a head taller than his companions and his eyes searching for me.

“Help me, Sassenach,” he said, and stumbled into the hall, lurching to one side and striking the wall. He didn’t fall, but I saw the blood on his wet shirt, soaked and spreading.

“Where?” I said urgently, seizing his arm and looking for the source of the blood. It was running down his arm beneath the sleeve of his jacket; his hand was wet with it. “Where are you hurt?”

“Not me,” he said, chest heaving in the effort to breathe. He jerked his head backward. “Him.”

“CHARLIE!” ELSPETH’S CRY made me jerk round to see Tom MacLeod and Murdo Lindsay negotiating a makeshift stretcher composed of jackets strung on hastily lopped branches around the doorjamb, trying not to drop or injure the contents. Said contents being Charles Cunningham in a noticeable state of disrepair.

They knew where the surgery was and proceeded there at a trot. Jamie pushed himself off the wall and called to them hoarsely in Gaelic, at which they immediately slowed down, walking almost on tiptoe.

“He’s shot in the back, Sassenach,” Jamie said to me. “Maybe … a few other places.” His hand was trembling where it pressed against the wall, and his fingers left bloody smears.

“Go and sit down in the kitchen,” I said briefly. “Tell Fanny I said to get your clothes off and find out how bad it is, then come and tell me.”

The stretcher party had reached the surgery and I rushed in behind them, in time to superintend the moving of the captain onto my table.

“Don’t pick him up!” I shouted, seeing them about to lay the stretcher on the floor. “Put the whole thing on the table!”

Cunningham was alive, and more or less lucid. Elspeth was already on the other side of the table, and between us we cut his clothes off, as gently as possible, she speaking reassuringly to him, though her hands were shaking badly.

He’d been shot twice from the front; a ball in the right forearm that had broken the radius just above the wrist, and a shot that had scored his ribs on the left but fortunately not entered the body. One side of his face was scratched and bruised, but from the presence of bark in some of the scratches, I thought he had likely collided with a tree in the dark, rather than been in a fistfight with one.

“Jamie says you’ve been shot in the back,” I said, bending low to speak to him. “Can you tell me where the wound is? High? Low?”

“Low,” he gasped. “Don’t worry, Mother, it will be fine.”

“Be quiet, Charles!” she snapped. “Can you move your feet?”

His face was dead white, beard stubble like a scatter of pepper across his skin. I had my hands under him, feeling my way between the jackets of the stretcher and the layers of his own clothes, trapped under him. His clothes were sodden, but so were those of all the men—I could hear the dripping out in the hall, as several men were crammed in the doorway, listening. I pulled one hand out from under him, gingerly, and looked at it. It was scarlet to the wrist. I glanced at his feet. One of them twitched and Elspeth gasped. She was stanching the blood from his arm, but at this stopped and bent over him.

“Move the other, Charles,” she said urgently.

“I am,” he whispered. His eyes were closed and water ran from his hair. I looked down the table. Neither foot was moving.

Fanny pushed her way through the men at the door and came in, her hair loose over her wrapper and her eyes huge.

“Mr. Fraser has a bad cut from his right shoulder down across his chest,” she told me. “It just missed his left nipple, though.”

“Well, that’s a bit of good news,” I said, repressing a mildly hysterical urge to laugh. “Did you—”

“We put a compress on it,” she assured me. “Agnes is pushing on it. With both hands!”

“How fast is the blood soaking through?” I had my hands back under Captain Cunningham, feeling my way through layers of sopping cloth, in search of the wound’s exact location.

“He soaked the first compress, but the second one is doing better,” she assured me. “He wants whisky; is that all right?”

“Make him stand up,” I said, reaching the waistband of the captain’s breeches. “If he can stand upright for thirty seconds, he can have whisky. If not, give him honey-water and make him lie down flat on the floor. No matter what he says.”

“We’ve already been giving him honey-water,” she said, and looked closely at our patient. “Should the captain maybe have some, too?” I had one hand on the captain’s femoral artery—we’d cut his breeches, jacket, and shirt down the fronts and peeled the cloth away from his body—and the other underneath him. His pulse was surprisingly strong, which encouraged me. So did the fact that while blood was dripping off the table, it wasn’t pulsing out into my hand. I thought the shot hadn’t struck a major vessel. On the other hand … his feet still weren’t moving.

“Yes,” I said. “Bring some; Mrs. Cunningham can give it to him while I … see about this.”

Elspeth laid her son’s bandaged arm gently across his middle and smoothed the wet hair off his forehead, wiping his face with a towel.

“You’ll be all right, Charles,” she said. She spoke gently now, but her voice was rock-steady. “You’ll be warm and dry in no time.”

I closed my eyes, the better to listen to what my hands were telling me. I’d found the wound in his back, and it wasn’t good. A ball had entered between the last thoracic and first lumbar vertebrae. It still was between the vertebrae; I could feel it with my middle finger, a small hard lump, and stuck fast; it didn’t move when I pushed it a little. The flesh of his back was hard and cold, the muscles all in spasm.

He was shivering, though the room was quite warm. I told Elspeth to put a blanket over him, nodding at the vomit-yellow woolen coverlet, folded neatly on top of the cabinet.

The men who had brought him in were still in the hallways, talking in low voices. I recognized the voices; they were Jamie’s trusted men.

“Gilly!” I called over my shoulder, and Gillebride MacMillan peered cautiously round the doorjamb.

“Seadh, a bhana-mhaighister?”

“Is anyone hurt? Beyond the captain and Jamie, I mean?”

“Ach, it’s nay more than a few bruises and cracked ribs, mistress, and I think it may be that Tòmas has the broken nose.”

I had moved to the counter and was choosing my instruments, but was still thinking and talking at the same time.

“What about the others? The men who—were with the captain?”

He lifted a shoulder, but smiled, and I heard a brief laugh from someone in the hall. They’d won, I realized, and the adrenaline of victory was still holding them up.

“I could not say, a bhana mhaighister, save that I broke a shovel over the head of Alasdair MacLean, and there were knives, and two or three who came to grief in the landslide, so …”

“The landslide?” I looked over my shoulder at him, startled, then shook my head. “Never mind; I’ll hear about it later.”

“They will have gone to—to my house.” Elspeth spoke softly. “The wounded Loyalists who didn’t come here. I’ll—I’ll need to go and tend them.” She was holding her son’s hand, though, fingers tightly laced with his, and her face was full of anguish when she looked at him.

I nodded, my throat tight in sympathy. I didn’t need to see the thoughts racing across her face to know what they were: love and fear warring with duty. And I knew the deeper fear that was beginning to bloom within her. Her eyes were fixed on his bare feet, willing them to move.

“Gilly, go to the kitchen, will you, and fetch Agnes?”

He left, and I turned to Elspeth.

“He’s not going to die,” I said, low-voiced but firm. “I don’t know if he’ll walk again—he might, he might not. The ball didn’t go all the way through the spinal cord, but it’s clearly done some damage. That might heal. I’m going to take the ball out and dress the wound, and when the swelling goes down and the bruising heals …” I made a small gesture, equivocating hope and doubt.

She drew a long, quavering breath and nodded.

“Stay while I take the ball out,” I said, and reached to take her hand. “It won’t take long, and you’ll be sure he’s alive.”

111 Morning Has Broken

IT WAS STILL RAINING, but the day was near. I made my way slowly toward the dim glow of the kitchen, not quite leaning on the walls as I passed, but letting my fingertips touch them now and then, to make sure that I was where I thought I was. The house was still and smelled of blood and burnt things, but the air was cool and gray with coming dawn, the desk and chairs in Jamie’s study a monochrome still life painted on the wall—and yet my fingertips passed through empty air as I walked past the doorway, my footsteps inaudible to my own ears, as though I were the ghost who haunted this house.

Most of the men had left for their own homes, but there were a few bodies on the floor of the parlor. I had left Charles Cunningham sleeping on the table, under the influence of a lot of laudanum, and Elspeth dozing in my surgery chair, head nodding on her neck like a dandelion. I wasn’t going to wake her; the Loyalist wounded would have to see to themselves—or their wives would.

In the kitchen, Fanny was sound asleep, sprawled facedown on one of the wide benches, one leg dangling comically to the side. Bluebell was curled up below her, also sound asleep, and Jamie was on his back on the hearth rug, looking like a desecrated tomb effigy in the dying light of the fire. It was smoking and nearly out; no one had smoored it properly. He opened his eyes at the sound of my footsteps and looked up at me, heavy-lidded but alert.

“Come and sit down, Sassenach,” he murmured, and lifted a finger vaguely at a nearby stool. “Ye look worse than I do.”

“Not possible,” I said. But I did sit down. Tiredness flooded up from the aching soles of my feet, closing my eyes as it rose through my body like a spring tide—filled with churning sand and fragments of sharp shell and seaweed. A warm hand curled around my ankle and rested there.

“How do you feel?” I murmured. I did want to know, but was having trouble opening my eyes to look.

“I’ll do. Hand me the wee jar, Sassenach.” The hand left my ankle and rose up to my lap, where I was holding the small jar of alcohol and sutures. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what?” I opened my eyes and stared at him. “Stitch your own chest back together?”

“I thought that might wake ye up.” He dropped his arm. “Help me get up, a nighean. I’m stiff as parritch on the third day and I dinna want ye crouchin’ on the floor to stitch me. Besides, I might wake the wee lassie if ye make me howl.”

“Howl, forsooth,” I said, rather cross. “Serve you right if I did. Let me see it, at least, before I try to get you on your feet.” The floor around him was littered with wadded cloths, rusty with drying blood, and there were smears of it across a wide swath of floorboards. I slid gingerly down onto my knees beside him.

“It smells like an abattoir in here.” He smelled of blood and mud and smoke, but most strongly of the curdled sweat of violence.

He put his head back, sighed, and closed his eyes, letting me look at his chest. The girls had put his wet plaid over him for warmth, and underneath was a folded linen towel soaked in water. A faint scent of lavender and meadowsweet drifted up, along with the sharp copper tang of fresh blood. I was surprised and wondered which one of them had thought to use a wet compress to keep the edges of the wound moist. Whoever it was had also thought to take his shoes off and put the bundle of his rolled-up jacket and shirt under his feet to raise them. Or maybe Jamie had told them, I thought vaguely.

Fanny’s description of the wound had been completely accurate; it was a deep slash that ran downward from the middle of his right clavicle, across the center of his chest—I could see a faint shadow of white bone under the raw red scrape where the cutlass had almost touched his sternum—and ended two inches below his left nipple—which demonstrated its resiliency by hardening into a tiny dark-pink nub when I brushed it. By reflex, I touched the other one.

“They both work,” he assured me, squinting down his chest. “So does my cock, if ye’re reckoning such things.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I picked up his wrist to check his pulse, though I could see it plainly in his neck, banging steadily along at a tranquil rate. The feel of him, warm and solid, was restoring my sense of my own body. I yawned suddenly, without warning, and the rush of oxygen spiked my blood. I began to feel somewhat more alert.

“That’s going to hurt like the devil if you try to get up by yourself,” I observed. Putting any pressure on his arms would tighten the severed muscles and skin.

“I know,” he said, and immediately started trying to do it anyway.

“And you’ll make it bleed more,” I added, putting a hand on his throat to stop him. “And you haven’t an ounce of blood to spare, my lad. Stay,” I said sternly, as though to a dog, and he laughed—or started to. He went white—well, whiter—and stopped breathing for a moment.

“See?” I said, and got awkwardly to my feet. “Don’t laugh. I’ll be back.”

I was moving much better on my way back to the surgery, my head clearing and my brain beginning to work again. Aside from the impressive knife wound across his chest, he seemed uninjured. No signs of shock or disorientation, and the wound was clean, that was good …

Elspeth was still sitting in my surgery chair, but she was awake. My Merck Manual lay open on her lap. I stopped dead in the doorway, but she’d heard me coming. She looked up at me, the skin of her face white and stretched so tight across her bones that I could see plainly what she’d look like dead.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, one hand spread across the page as though to hide it. I could see the words “Spinal Cord Injuries” at the top of the page.

“My daughter brought it to me from—er … Scotland,” I said, improvising out of a momentary panic. But then I remembered: I’d destroyed the copyright page. No one outside the family knew, or could know, and I breathed again.

“I can ask Fanny to copy out some of the passages for you, if you’d like. Though I don’t know how much use they might be,” I added reluctantly. “Some of the procedures they mention just aren’t available in the colonies—nor yet in most of Europe.” I crossed my fingers under my apron, thinking, Nor anywhere else in the world. “And even as advanced as some of the things mentioned there are … they might not be useful to—to your particular concerns.”

I looked at Charles Cunningham as I said this, and wanted to cross my fingers again—for luck, this time. Instead, I drifted to the foot of the table and gently lifted the bottom of the vomit-yellow coverlet to expose his bare feet. They looked perfectly normal.

But of course they would. Even if his spinal cord hadn’t been severed—and I didn’t think it had—it had clearly been compressed and damaged to some extent. And spinal cord injuries were often permanent. But it would take a little time for the visible effects—wasting of muscles, twisting of limbs—to become apparent. A sharp stink made my nostrils twitch and compress.

Loss of bowel and bladder control. Expected, but not good.

“Have you seen anyone like this before?” Elspeth’s voice was sharp and she rose to her feet, as though drawn to defend her son.

“Yes,” I said, and she heard everything in my voice and sat down again as though she, too, had been shot in the back.

Jesus, who shot him? Please, God, don’t let it have been Jamie …

I pushed back the coverlet and cleaned him gently with a wet cloth. He was unconscious and didn’t stir. Nothing stirred under my hands, and my lips tightened. Men have very little conscious control over their erectile responses, as Jamie had just demonstrated to me, and I’d had a lot of men with quite severe wounds stiffen at my touch. Not this one. Still, it might be the laudanum … that really did affect libidinal response.

I held on to that minuscule shred of hope for the moment and covered the captain again. Elspeth was sitting upright now, but her attention was inward, and I knew she was envisioning the same things I was: caring for a beloved child for whom there was no real hope. Her last child. Months, years—Five years, came the searing thought—of wiping his arse and changing his sheets, moving his dead legs four times a day to prevent atrophy. Of dealing with the bitterness of a man who had lost his life, but had not died.

There was light behind the shutters now, though it was pale and watery; the sound of the rain had settled to the steady drumming of an all-day downpour. I walked behind Elspeth and opened the shutters, then cracked the window enough to bring a waft of cold, clean, damp air into the room.

I had to go and see to Jamie; there was nothing more I could do here. I turned and put my hands on Elspeth’s shoulders and felt her bones, hard and brittle under the black of her shawl.

“He’ll be able to talk and to feed himself,” I said. “Beyond that … time will tell.”

“It always does,” she said, her voice colorless as the rain.

112 We Met on the Level …

AS I LEFT THE surgery, the front door opened behind me, admitting Lieutenant Esterhazy. He looked as shocked and disordered as everyone else this morning, but was at least on his feet and not visibly damaged.

“Come with me,” I said, seizing him by the arm. “Your captain is sleeping and won’t need you for a bit, but I do.”

“Of course, ma’am,” he muttered, and shook his head as though to throw off some heavy thought before following me to the kitchen.

“Where is Lieutenant Bembridge?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. I half-expected him to come through the door; the two lieutenants were so seldom apart that I sometimes forgot which was which.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said, his voice quivering a little. “He—didn’t come back to the rendezvous last night, nor this morning—I went down by the Meeting House and walked round, calling out. So I came to report to the captain, before I go back to look for him some more.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, sincerely. “I heard there was a landslide last night—were you there when that happened?”

“No, ma’am. But I heard. So when Gilbert didn’t come back, I thought perhaps …”

“I see. What about this landslide I hear so much about?” I said to Jamie, who had managed to get himself up on one elbow and was eyeing the lieutenant with some wariness. “What happened?”

“A good bit of hillside came down wi’ the rain,” he said. “Trees and rocks and mud. But I canna say more than that. I dinna even ken where we were when it happened. Maybe somewhere near the wagon road.” He touched his chest gingerly, grimacing.

“That happened in a landslide?” I knew a cutlass wound when I saw one—and had an eight-inch scar down the inside of my left arm to prove it.

“Just before,” he said tersely. He hadn’t taken his eyes off young Esterhazy, and it finally occurred to me that the lieutenant might just be young enough, foolish enough, and under sufficient mental strain as to think he could take Jamie captive in his own house. He was wearing a pistol and an officer’s dirk. And Jamie isn’t armed. A small, cold finger touched the back of my neck, but then I looked carefully at the young man, then back at Jamie. I shook my head.

“No,” I said simply. “He’s worried about his friend. And probably his captain, too,” I added. Esterhazy turned sharply to stare at me, eyes wide.

“What’s happened to the captain? You said he was sleeping!”

“Shot,” I said briefly. “He’ll live, but he’s not going anywhere for the moment.”

“Did you shoot him, sir?” The young man addressed Jamie seriously.

“I tried,” Jamie replied dryly. “I fired just as he came at me wi’ his cutlass. I dinna ken if I hit him or no—but it wasna me that shot him in the back, I can tell ye that much. I saw his face plain, in the lightning. And then the mountain fell on us,” he added, as a distinct afterthought.

“Shot in the back?” Esterhazy turned to me, shocked.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said, only halfway under my breath. “Yes. I took the ball out and he’s resting comfortably. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Lieutenant, I need you to help me get Colonel Fraser off the bloody floor and up to his bed. Now,” I repeated, seeing that he was disposed to ask further questions.

The conversation roused Fanny, and Agnes appeared from above, frowsty with sleep. Both of them were mortified at being seen by the lieutenant in their nightdresses and wrappers, but I made them go and start slicing onions for a poultice, grinding up goldenseal root, and seeing to Mrs. Cunningham’s bodily needs while Lieutenant Esterhazy and I levered Jamie up in stages, first to a seat on the bench, where Bluebell nosed him anxiously and licked his bare knees, and then to his feet, with the two of us gripping his elbows for dear life as he swayed to and fro, on the edge of fainting.

I grabbed him round the waist and the lieutenant got an arm round his rib cage from the back, and we lurched out of the kitchen and up the stairs like a mob of drunks being chivvied by the police.

We dropped him on the bed like a bag of cement and I was obliged to lean over and put my hands on my knees, gasping for air until the small black flecks left my field of vision. When I could stand up again, I thanked the lieutenant, himself red in the face and breathing like a steam engine, and sent him downstairs to be given something hot to drink. Then I went to stir up the fire and open the shutters; I was going to need both heat and light.

Jamie lay flat on the bed, pale as wax, the stained compress pressed grimly to his chest. I put a hand on his and pried his stiff fingers loose. Seen in the watery daylight from our window, the wound looked nasty but not terribly serious. It hadn’t severed any tendons, nor had it gone entirely through the pectoralis, and I thought it had barely nicked his collarbone.

“It bounced off your sternum,” I told him, as I prodded gently here and there. “Otherwise, it would have cut down deep into your chest on this side.”

“Oh, good,” he murmured. His eyelids were closed tight, but I could see the eyes under them moving restlessly to and fro.

“All right.” I swabbed the area carefully with saline and fished a threaded silk suture out of the jar. “Do you want something to bite on while I stitch this, or would you rather tell me what the hell happened last night?”

He opened bloodshot eyes and considered me for a moment, then closed them again, and—muttering something in which I thought I distinguished the words “Spanish Inquisition …”—he clenched both fists in the bedclothes, took a deep breath, and relaxed as much as possible under the circumstances.

“Have ye got a piece of paper nearby, Sassenach?” he asked. I glanced at the bedside table, where I’d left my current journal—nothing in the way of Deep Thoughts or spiritual meditations; more a noting of the trivia of which days are composed: the small copper pot had been left on the fire too long and had a small hole melted in it; I must remember to send it to Salem to be mended when Bobby Higgins went there next week; Bluebell had eaten Something Awful and the hearth rug in the girls’ room should be boiled …

“Yes,” I said, piercing the skin with a quick jab. He grunted but didn’t move.

“Will ye set a paper handy, then, Sassenach, wi’ something to write with? I’ll be tellin’ ye names as I go.”

I put in three more stitches, then swiveled round to get the journal. As I normally wrote in bed, I used a small stick of graphite wrapped round with a strip of rag, rather than ink and a quill, and I fetched that, too.

“Shoot,” I said, returning to my repairs. “If you don’t mind the reference.”

His stomach twitched in brief amusement.

“I don’t. It’s a list of the Loyalists who were wi’ Cunningham last night. Put down Geordie Hallam, and Conor MacNeil, Angus MacLean, and—”

“Wait, not so fast.” I picked up the pencil. “Why do you want a list of these men? You obviously remember who they are.”

“Oh, I kent who they were, well before last night,” he assured me, with some grimness. “The list is for you and Bobby and the Lindsays, in case they kill me in the next few days.”

The graphite snapped in my hand. I put it down, wiped my hand carefully on a wet rag, and said, “Oh?” in as calm a voice as I could manage.

“Aye,” he said. “Ye didna think last night settled matters, did ye, Sassenach?”

Given the current state of Captain Cunningham, actually I had rather thought that. I swallowed hard and picked up the needle again.

“You mean there’s a possibility that we may have a visitation by the Cherokees?”

“Aye, them,” he said thoughtfully, “or maybe Nicodemus Partland, wi’ a band of men from over the mountain. Mind, it may not happen,” he added, seeing my face. “And my own men will be ready if it does. But just in case, ye’ll need to get rid of the Loyalists here, if I’m gone. So ye need to ken who they are, aye?”

I paused to pick up a fresh suture thread and breathed carefully, my eyes on my work.

“Get rid of them?”

“Well, I dinna mean to let them stay on as my tenants,” he said reasonably. “They tried to kill me last night. Or take me off to be hanged, which isna much better,” he added, and I saw the rage simmering under the thin skin of reason.

“That’s a point, yes.” I dabbed blood away from the wound and made two more stitches. I’d poked up the fire and added fresh wood, but I felt cold to the marrow. “Can you—I mean, will they just … leave, if you tell them to go?”

He’d been looking at the ceiling, but now turned his head to look at me. It was the patient look of a lion who’d been asked if he could really eat that wildebeest over there.

“Um,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Tell me about the landslide.”

His face lightened, and he told me about his flight from the Lodge, four or five of his own men close behind him, and the Loyalists running into them, to be delayed while he escaped into the darkness.

“Only the trail I meant to take was washed away by the rain—ouch—and I got lost for a bit, looking for another. Then it began to thunder and the lightning was strikin’ close enough I could smell it, but at least I could see my way now and then.”

He’d struck back in the direction he thought home to be, hoping to encounter some of his men, whom he’d told to guard the New House from the rear and capture such men of Cunningham’s as came that way.

“Capture them?” I said, tying a suture, clipping it, and picking out a fresh thread. “Where did you mean to put them? Not the root cellar, I hope.” Our food levels were perilously low after a long winter, and such dried fruits and early vegetables as we had were all in the root cellar, along with bags of chestnuts, walnuts, and peanuts, and I could just imagine the havoc a lot of resentful captives might wreak in there.

He shook his head. His eyes were open now, fixed on the ceiling joists in order to avoid looking at what I was doing to his chest.

“Nay, I’d told Bobby they should put anyone they caught into the pigs’ cave, tied up.”

“Dear God. And what if the White Sow took it into her mind to show up?” While the legendary Beast of the Ridge had declined to establish a new lair under the present house—thank God—she did still roam the mountainside, eating her fill of chestnut mast and anything else that took her fancy, and she did, now and then, visit the pigpen and liberate a few of its inhabitants, most of these her own descendants.

“The fortunes of war,” he said callously. “They should ha’ kent better than to follow a man who canna choose between the King and God. Ng!”

“We’re more than halfway,” I said soothingly. “As for the captain … most Loyalists would assure you that as God appointed the King, His interests lie in the same direction. Go on telling me about last night.”

He grunted and shifted his weight uneasily, but then settled again and took a cautious breath.

“Aye. Well, by the time I could tell for sure where I was, I was close to Tom MacLeod’s place—did Gillebride say Tom’s nose is broken?—and I thought I’d best take refuge there. So I was sloggin’ through the mud and bushes, trying to keep track of where I was by what I could see when the lightning went, and all of a sudden there was a thunderclap that split the sky and a monstrous flash that left me blind, and the rain turned to poundin’ hail, just like that—” He snapped his fingers. “So I pulled my plaid over my head to shield it, and next thing I ken, the captain’s run into me in the dark. Only I didna ken who it was, and neither did he, and then the lightning went again and I went for my pistol and he went for his cutlass and …” He waved a hand at the half-sewn gash in his chest.

“I see. You said you fired at him?”

“Well, I tried. My powder was damp, and little wonder. The gun fired, but I doubt the ball even reached him.”

“It might have,” I observed, reaching for another length of suture. “I took one ball out of his forearm.”

“Good. Can I have a wee drop, Sassenach?”

“Since you’re already lying down, yes.”

I’d been paying no attention to anything beyond Jamie’s chest for the last little while, but when I rose to get the whisky, I heard voices downstairs. Raised voices. One seemed to be Lieutenant Esterhazy’s, and I thought there was a female voice—Elspeth? Someone else that sounded familiar, but—

Jamie sat up abruptly and made a noise like a stuck pig.

“Bloody lie down!”

“That’s Cloudtree,” he said urgently. “Go fetch him, Sassenach.”

I grabbed the discarded compress, slapped it into his hand, and shoved the hand against the unstitched side of his chest, which was now bleeding freely.

“Bloody lie down and I will!”

As it was, though, I didn’t have to. Feet came pounding up the stairs amidst an agitation of voices, and with a cursory knock the door opened.

“I told him he couldn’t—” Agnes began, scowling over her shoulder, but her stepfather pushed past her, only to be grasped by the arm by an irate Lieutenant Esterhazy.

“You stop right there, sir!”

“Leave go o’ me, you shit-sucker! I have somethin’ to tell the colonel.”

“Lieutenant!” I said, raising my own voice to command level. I didn’t have occasion to use it often, but I remembered how, and the lieutenant stopped, mouth open as he looked at me. So did Agnes and Aaron Cloudtree.

“The colonel wants to speak to him,” I said mildly. “Agnes, take the lieutenant downstairs. Go and see how the captain is doing.”

He glared at me for a long moment, turned the glare on Cloudtree—who was elaborately brushing his rain-damp sleeve as though to remove finger marks—and left, followed by Agnes, who tossed her stepfather a glare of her own, though he didn’t seem to notice.

“I seen Scotchee, Colonel,” Cloudtree began, advancing on the bed. Then he noticed the state of Jamie’s chest and his eyes sprang wide. “Jesus Christ, man! What happened to you?”

“Quite a few things,” I said shortly. “Perhaps you—”

“And what did Scotchee say, then, Mr. Cloudtree?” Jamie was still sitting up, apparently oblivious of the slow drops of blood oozing down his ribs.

“Oh.” Aaron took a moment to recollect, but then nodded reassuringly at Jamie.

“He said to tell you, you owe him big for this, but he doesn’t think you’re gonna live long enough to pay him back, so dinna fash unless there’s whisky.”

113 And We Parted on the Square

“CAN YE THINK OF anything I’ve left out?” Jamie asked, watching as I read this.

“No. That’s … quite thorough.” I felt a cold heaviness in my stomach. These were all men I knew well. I’d greeted them and their wives as they’d come to the Ridge, many of them with nothing save the clothes on their backs, full of hope and gratitude for a place in this wild new world. I’d visited their cabins, delivered their children, tended their ills. And now …

I could see that Jamie felt the same heaviness of heart. These were men he’d trusted, accepted, given land and tools, encouragement and friendship. I set the letter down, my fingers cold.

“Would you really shoot them if they come back?” I asked quietly.

He looked at me sharply, and I saw that while he might be heavy of heart, that heart was also burning with a deep anger.

“Sassenach,” he said, “they betrayed me, and they hunted me like a wild animal, across my own land, for the sake of what they call the King’s justice. I have had enough of that justice. Should they come within my sight, on my land, again—aye. I will kill them.”

I bit my lip. He saw and put a hand on mine.

“It must be done so,” he said quietly, looking into my eyes to make sure I understood. “Not only because they’ll make trouble themselves—but these are not the only men on the Ridge and nearby whose minds turn in that direction, and I ken that well. Many have kept quiet so far, watching to see am I weak, will I fall or be taken? Will someone come here, like Major Ferguson? They’re afraid to declare themselves one way or the other, but was I to show these”—he flicked his other hand at the notice—“mercy, allow them to keep not only their lives but their land and weapons, it would give the timid ones confidence to join them.”

Not only their lives …

I felt the world shift, just slightly, under my feet. To this point, I’d been able to think that whatever might be happening in the world outside the Ridge, the Ridge itself was a solid refuge. And it wasn’t.

Not only their lives. Ours.

He didn’t need to say that he might not command sufficient men—or guns—to stand off a larger-scale insurrection on the Ridge by himself.

“Yes, I see that,” I said, and swallowing, picked up the paper gingerly, seeing not only the names of men but the faces of women. “It’s only—I can’t help feeling for the wives.” And the children, but mostly for the wives, caught between their homes, the needs of their families, and the danger of their husbands’ politics. Now to be evicted from their homes, with nothing but what they could carry away and nowhere to go.

I had no idea how many women might share their husbands’ opinions, but share them or not, they’d be forced to live or die by the outcome.

“Bell, book, and candle,” he said, his eyes still on my face, and not without sympathy.

“What?”

“Ring the bell, close the book, quench the candle,” he said quietly, and touched the paper on my knee. “It’s the rite of excommunication and anathema, Sassenach—and that’s what I have done.”

Before I could think of anything whatever to say, I heard solid male footsteps coming up the stairs, and a moment later there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Jamie said, his voice neutral.

The door opened, revealing Lieutenant Esterhazy, his face twenty years older than his age.

“Sir,” he said formally, and stood ramrod-straight in front of the bed. “My—that is—Lieutenant Bembridge has not returned. May I have permission to go and look for him?”

I was startled at that, and looked at Jamie, who was not startled. It hadn’t occurred to me that the lieutenant was no longer a friend of the house but rather Jamie’s prisoner—but evidently they both thought so.

Jamie was completely able to hide what he was thinking, but he wasn’t bothering to do so at the moment. If he let Esterhazy go, who might he see, and what might he tell them? It was obvious that Jamie was in no condition to defend himself or his house, let alone police the Ridge. What if the lieutenant went out and came back with a small mob? Left altogether and went to join Ferguson, with intent to lead him back here?

I was sure nothing of the sort was in the boy’s mind; he hadn’t any thought but his friend at the moment. But that didn’t mean he mightn’t think of other things, once away from the house.

“You may,” Jamie said, as formal as the lieutenant. “Mrs. Fraser will go with you.”

114 In Which the Earth Moves

“YE HAVE TO, SASSENACH.”

Those words wouldn’t leave my ear; they remained stubbornly trapped inside, a tiny, high-pitched echo that buzzed against my eardrum.

That’s what Jamie had said, when Oliver Esterhazy had left the room to go and take leave of his chief—or rather, of Elspeth—in the surgery.

“There’s nobody else,” Jamie said reasonably, making a slight gesture toward the empty corners of the bedroom. “I canna send Bobby or the Lindsays, because I need them here. Besides,” he added, leaning back on his pillow with a grimace as the movement pulled on his stitches, “if nothing’s happened to Mr. Bembridge, he’d be here now. Since he isn’t, it’s odds-on he’s hurt or dead. You’d be the best one to deal with him once he’s found, aye?”

I couldn’t argue with that, as a logical statement, but I argued anyway.

“I’m not going to leave you here alone. You’re in no shape to fight back, if anyone—”

“That’s why I need the Lindsays here,” he said patiently. “They’re guardin’ the door. Doors,” he corrected. “Kenny and Murdo are on the stoop and Evan’s round the back.”

“And where’s Bobby?”

“Gone to fetch a few more men and to spread the word that the captain is …” He hesitated.

“Hors de combat?” I suggested.

“In no condition to be moved,” he said firmly. “I dinna want anyone thinkin’ they ought to come storm the house and try to get him back.”

I stared at him. He was slightly whiter than the sheet covering him, his eyes were shadowed and sunken with exhaustion, and his hand trembled where it lay on the coverlet.

“And just when did you make all these arrangements?” I demanded.

“When ye went to the privy. Go, Sassenach,” he said. “Ye have to.”

I went, perturbed in mind. It went against my grain to leave wounded men, even if they were all stable at the moment and unlikely to take a sudden turn for the worse. And Elspeth, Fanny, and Agnes were completely capable of handling any minor medical emergency that might arise, I told myself.

“… so I’m going out with Lieutenant Esterhazy to look for his friend,” I said to Elspeth, taking down my field kit from the hook where I kept it. She didn’t look much better than Jamie, but nodded, her eyes fixed on her son. He was beginning to twitch and moan.

“I’ll manage things here,” she said quietly, and glanced up at me, suddenly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bagged with fatigue, but alert. “Be careful.”

I stopped, looking at her, and a faint pink rose in her cheeks.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “But things seem … very unsettled. To me.”

“Do you mean Nicodemus Partland?” I said bluntly. “And the men he’s meant to be bringing from Ninety-Six?”

The pink in her cheeks vanished like a frost-bitten flower.

“Hmph,” I said, and left.

Oliver was waiting for me on the porch, and at once offered to take the pack with the field kit.

“No, I’ll keep that. You take this one.” I handed him another pack, this one with water, honey-water, some food, a folded blanket, a jar of leeches, and a few other things that might come in handy. “All right, then—where shall we start?”

He looked off the porch, bewildered.

“I don’t know.” Nobody had slept last night, and neither had he. While a nice, cheerful young man, he was in fact not the brightest person I’d ever met. Now, between worry and exhaustion, he didn’t seem to have more than a few brain cells still working. I took a deep breath of morning air, summoning patience.

“Well, where did you see him last?” I asked.

This question invariably annoyed the members of my household searching for lost items, but Oliver Esterhazy blinked and then squinted in concentration, finally saying, “Near the Meeting House.”

“Then we’ll start there.”

“I already looked there.”

“We’ll start looking there.”

The rain had stopped, but the forest was dripping and my skirts were wet to the knee before we were halfway there. I didn’t mind. Birds were chirping, the air was alive with the sharp, fresh scents of red cedar and spruce, sprouting dogwood and rhododendron, and the mountainside was running with dozens of tiny rills and streams. Spring was in the air, and the peace of the morning wood was seeping into me, the anxiety of the night and the urgencies of the morning settling into something approaching perspective.

Jamie wasn’t dying or in any immediate danger of doing so. Everything else could be handled, and true to form, he was doing just that, even flat on his back and too weak to sit up by himself.

I still wanted to be with him, but he was right—there was no one else he could have sent, under the circumstances. Though his concern lest Lieutenant Esterhazy raise a mob of Loyalists seemed unnecessary at the moment. We saw and heard no one on the trail, and everyone seemed to be keeping deliberately out of sight. We knocked at two cabins on the way, to inquire after Lieutenant Bembridge, but were met with closed faces and negative shakes of the head.

The Meeting House itself was abandoned. The door had been left open, half the benches were overturned, beer was puddled on the floor, and two raccoons were inside, busily chewing on a Masonic apron that someone had dropped.

“Get out of here!” Oliver grabbed a broom that had also been knocked to the floor and drove the raccoons out with the fervor of an Old Testament prophet, then tenderly retrieved the remnants of the apron. It was a luxurious one, of white leather, with a white silk pleated edging and canvas ties, somewhat gnawed. The Masonic compass had been painted on it, with considerable skill.

“The captain’s?” I asked, watching him fold the garment, and he nodded.

Small accoutrements, like the wooden bucket and dipper for the refreshment of long-winded speakers and a stack of paper fans that the children had made for the coming summer, were scattered over the room. We stood for a moment in silence, looking at the wreckage, but neither of us chose to mention the irony—if that was the word—of a meeting of Freemasons, theoretically dedicated to the ideals of liberty, equality, and brotherhood, disintegrating into riot and mayhem. So much for not talking politics in Lodge …

We stepped outside and Oliver carefully closed the door. Then we walked to and fro in widening circles, shouting Gilbert Bembridge’s name.

“Would he perhaps have taken refuge with … one of the captain’s followers?” I asked delicately when we met again outside the Meeting House. “If he was wounded, perhaps?”

“I don’t know.” Oliver was growing agitated, glancing around as though expecting his friend to spring out from behind a tree. “I—I think maybe he was with the men who were, um …”

“Chasing my husband?” I said, rather acidly. “Which way did they go?”

He said he wasn’t sure, but set off downhill with a sudden burst of determination, me following more cautiously in order not to turn an ankle on the rocks and gravel the sudden freshets had left exposed on the trails.

I was beginning to think that there was something odd about Lieutenant Esterhazy’s behavior. He was sweating heavily, though the woods were still very cold, and though he cast aside from time to time, he did so in brief, erratic bursts before returning to a path of his own choosing. I rather thought he knew where he was going, and wasn’t really surprised when we suddenly came to a spot where the woods … weren’t.

We were standing at the edge of a copse of scraggy oak saplings, and below our feet, the ground fell away in a tumble of raw black earth, full of broken trees and shattered bushes, with great gray rocks that had been dislodged by the fall and now lay half buried in the dirt, their undersides exposed, stained and wet with mud and dislodged worms.

“Well,” I said, after a moment’s silence. “So this is the famous landslide. Were you here when it happened?”

He shook his head. His hair was coming out of its neat naval plait and straggled over his sweating face. He wiped it back, absently.

“No,” he said, then repeated, “No,” more definitely.

It wasn’t a huge landslide, though if one was standing at the bottom of it in the dark, it had probably been startling enough. About fifty feet of the mountainside had slipped, rumbling down a steep slope of granite and half blocking a small brook.

“Do you think—” the young man began, then stopped and swallowed, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Gilbert could be … in there?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, eyeing the rubble dubiously. “If he is, though …” We were plainly not equipped to dig through a landslide with our bare hands, and I was on the point of saying so when the lieutenant grabbed my arm with a startled cry, pointing down.

“There! There!”

A smudge of navy blue, mud-smeared and nearly the color of the wet earth, was sticking out of the soil, about twenty feet from where we stood, and before I could say anything, Oliver was sliding and staggering through the wet clods, falling to one knee, then rising again and pushing onward.

I stumbled after him, gripping my emergency pack, though after the first convulsive leap, my heart had sunk like a stone. He couldn’t be alive.

Oliver had unearthed an arm and, leaping to his feet, heaved on it with all his might. I heard something crack and Gilbert’s head, with its dead-white face, burst from the ground in a shower of clods and gravel.

Oliver had let go Gilbert’s arm as though it were red-hot and was more or less gibbering in shock, but I didn’t have time to spare for him. I dropped to my knees and rubbed a hand hard over Gilbert’s face. I thought—but—no. I was right; I had seen a twitch of his eyelids—I saw it again now and my heart sprang into my throat.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Oliver! I think he’s alive—help me get him out!”

“He—wh-wh-what … he can’t be!”

I’d dropped my pack and was digging like a badger with my bare hands. Something warm touched my skin—a wisp of breath.

“Gilbert—Gilbert! Hang on, just hang on, we’re getting you out of there …”

“No,” said Oliver’s voice behind me. It was hoarse and high-pitched and I glanced over my shoulder, to see him pulling a torn-off branch out of the muck.

“No,” he said again, more strongly. “I don’t think so.”

JAMIE WOKE FROM a feverish doze to see Frances standing beside his bed, looking grave.

“What’s happened?” he asked. His throat was dry as sand, and the words came out in a faint rasp. “Where’s my wife?”

“She hasn’t come back yet,” Frances said. “She and Lieutenant Esterhazy only left an hour ago, you know.” “You know” came out with a faint tone of question and he made an attempt at a smile. Not a good one; his face was as tired as the rest of him. Frances looked at him assessingly, then lifted the cup she was holding.

“You’re to drink this,” she said firmly. “One full cup each hour. She said so.” The “She” was spoken with the respect due to the local deity, and his smile got better.

He managed to raise his head enough to drink, though she had to hold the cup while he did so. It was only moderately horrible and Frances, the dear child, had evidently taken Claire’s direction “with a little whisky” not only literally but liberally. He laid his head back on the pillow, feeling slightly dizzy, though that might just be the lack of blood.

“I’m to check and see if you’re oozing pus,” Frances told him, in the same firm tone.

“I’m in no condition to stop ye, lass.”

He lay still, breathing deep and slow, as she untied the bandage and lifted the wet compress from his chest. He was interested to see that she handled his body without the slightest hesitation or compunction, pressing here and there beside the line of stitching, a small frown between her soft dark brows. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t; even such breathing as he was doing hurt quite a bit.

“What d’ye think, a nighean?” he asked. “Will I live?”

She made a small grimace meant to acknowledge that she understood he was jesting, but the frown remained.

“Yes,” she said, but stood for a moment, frowning at his patchworked chest. Then she seemed to make up her mind about something and replaced the compress and retied the bandage in a business-like way.

“I want to tell you something,” she said. “I would have waited for Mrs. Fraser to come back, but Lieutenant Esterhazy will be with her.”

“Speak, then,” he said, matching her formality. “Sit, if ye like.” He waved a hand toward the nearby stool and drew in his breath sharply at the resultant sensation. Frances looked at him in concern, but after a moment decided that he wouldn’t die, and sat down.

“It’s Agnes,” she said, without preamble. “She thinks she’s with child.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!”

“Just so,” she said, nodding. “She thinks it’s Gilbert’s—Lieutenant Bembridge, I mean.”

“She thinks it’s him? Who else might it be?”

“Well, Oliver,” she said. “But she only did it once with him.”

“Sasannaich clann na galladh!”

“What does that mean?”

“English sons of the devil,” he told her briefly. He was struggling to get his elbows bent enough to sit up; this wasn’t news he could deal with lying flat. “Did either of the gobshites … er … try to … with you?”

Surprise wiped the frown off her face.

“I’m never going to lie with a man,” she said with complete certainty, then looked at him, with a little less. “You said I didn’t have to.”

“Ye don’t and ye never will,” he assured her. “If anyone tries, I’ll kill him. How long have ye kent this—about Agnes?”

“She told me just before I came up here,” Frances said, with a slightly guilty look over her shoulder. “I wath—wasn’t sure I should tell you but … she’th—she is afraid that Oliver killed Gilbert last night because he found out she was …”

“Does she ken for sure he found out?”

Frances nodded soberly.

“She told him. Yesterday. He asked her to marry him and she said she couldn’t, because …”

He wanted very badly to go downstairs and shake Agnes until her silly head rattled, but something much worse was dawning on him, and he pushed himself upright, disregarding pain and dizziness.

“Go down and get Kenny Lindsay for me,” he said urgently. “Now, Frances.”

“YOU DON’T THINK so?” I said, staring at Oliver Esterhazy.

“I mean—he’s dead, Mrs. Fraser! Come away, don’t touch him!” Oliver grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.

“He’s not dead,” I said, “but he may well be in the next few minutes, if we don’t get him out. Get down here and help me!”

He looked at me, mouth half open, then looked wildly at Gilbert—who did indeed look dead, but …

“Help me!” I said, and began scrabbling at the wet, heavy earth. I dug madly, trying to free enough of Gilbert’s chest for him to draw breath. He was lying mostly on his side, and luckily there wasn’t a lot of earth over his upper body, though his legs seemed to be buried more deeply. If only I could get him free enough to do chest compression and his bones weren’t shattered …

Oliver squatted beside me. He was cursing steadily under his breath, and now nudged me, trying to push me aside.

“Let me do it,” he said curtly. “I’m stronger.”

“I’m—”

“Move!” he said violently, and pushed me to the side. I lost my balance, fell sprawling, and the loose earth moved under me. I rolled in a shower of wet dirt, arms and legs flung out, and skidded to a stop against the exposed root tangle of an uprooted tree, partway down the slope. I was dazed and frightened, my heart pounding. I’d been so concerned with rescuing Gilbert Bembridge that it hadn’t occurred to me that the slipped earth was by no means settled in its new bed and might easily slide further. I rolled onto my hands and knees and began crawling back up the slope, as fast as I could manage without losing my precarious balance.

Oliver Esterhazy was digging, but not around his friend. He pawed a broken pine branch half free of the clinging mud, then stood up and yanked it free. He turned toward Gilbert’s protruding head, and with a determined expression staggered through the mud and swung the branch down on it.

“You … swine …” came a sepulchral voice from under the muddy pine needles. It was labored and hoarse, but plainly propelled by breath. Before I could rise to my feet, Gilbert’s free arm swung into the air and grappled the end of the branch.

Completely panicked, Oliver let go and leapt back. I saw one booted foot sink calf-deep in the loose dirt and then he, too, lost his balance and with a muffled shriek toppled over backward and hurtled down the slope like an ungainly toboggan.

I sat back on my heels and breathed for a minute. I’d lost my hat and my hair had escaped. I shoved it out of my face and started my laborious climb once more. I had to reach Gilbert and free him—or arm myself (I had a scalpel and two probes in my emergency pack—to say nothing of a few poisonous toadstools I’d collected last time I was out) before Oliver got hold of himself and caught up with me.

I glanced over my shoulder; Oliver was about forty feet downslope, wrapped around a stout poplar that had withstood the landslide. Someone was standing beside him, looking down at him.

I jerked round to look again. Loyalist or rebel, I didn’t care; either one would help me.

I waved my arms and shouted, “Hallooo!” and the man looked up. It was an Indian, and one I didn’t know. I suffered a brief spurt of panic when I thought that Scotchee Cameron might have failed us after all, but a second glance told me that this man wasn’t Cherokee. He was medium height and quite slender, and his hair was gray, roached and tied in a knot at the back of his neck. He wore a breechclout and leggings, with an embroidered silk vest—and nothing else above the waist but a collection of silver bracelets. He waved a hand to me, clinking audibly.

“I say, madam!” he called, in something like an English accent. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“Yes!” I shouted back, and pointed at Oliver’s body. “Is that man dead?”

The Indian glanced down and toed Oliver in the buttock. Oliver twitched, groaned, and reached back to swat away the nuisance.

“No,” he said, and put a hand to his belt, where I now saw that he carried a substantial knife of some sort. “Do you want him to be?”

I got to my feet and edged crabwise down the slope until I was in conversational range of the stranger—and Oliver, whose eyes were squinched shut, but who was plainly conscious and wishing he weren’t.

“Having you dead would solve a good many problems,” I told him. “But I’m told that two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Really?” said the Indian, smiling. “Who told you that?”

“Never mind,” I said. “At the moment, I need to look at this man and be sure that he isn’t badly hurt, and if not, then I need to go back up there”—I jerked a thumb over my shoulder—“and finish digging up the man who’s buried, so I can take care of him.”

“He’s not dead?” the Indian asked, shading his eyes with his hand as he surveyed the slope. “He looks dead.”

He did, but I was hoping that appearances might be deceiving. I was about to say this when a slight rustle in the wet brush betokened another arrival, and Young Ian stepped out, holding a little boy who was sucking his thumb and regarding me warily.

“Oh, there ye are, Auntie,” said Young Ian, his face lighting at sight of me. “I thought I heard your voice!”

I felt as though I might just dissolve with relief, and flow downhill myself, to puddle at the bottom.

“Ian!” I waded out of the mud and seized him in a one-armed hug. “How are you? Is this Oggy? He’s so big! Where’s Rachel?”

“Ach, all the women are havin’ a pish in the woods,” he said with a shrug. He nodded at the elderly Indian. “I see ye’ve met the Sachem. This is my auntie, Okàrakarakh’kwa; the one I told ye about.”

“Ah,” said the Sachem, and bowed, hand on his embroidered waistcoat. “It is my pleasure, honored witch.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” I replied politely, twitching my mud-clogged hem in the ghost of a curtsy. Then I turned back to Ian.

“What do you mean, ‘all the women’? And who,” I added, suddenly catching sight of a larger boy of perhaps seven or eight, hovering shyly in the shadow of the wood, “is this?”

“This is Tsi’niios’noreh’ neh To’tis tahonahsahkehtoteh,” he said, smiling as he put his free hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My elder son. We call him Tòtis.”

115 Little Wolf

THE RAIN RESUMED WITH uncommon force, and it was some time before Gilbert Bembridge was completely excavated, cursorily treated for shock, diagnosed with a minor concussion, and his wound—a long but shallow slash over one shoulder blade, where his friend had tried to stab him—field-dressed. Oliver Esterhazy was treated for shock of various kinds and several cracked ribs. Luckily Kenny Lindsay and Tom MacLeod appeared at this point with two canvas-wrapped rifles and a mule, rain pouring from their hats, and took charge of the two lieutenants with the intent of removing them to Kenny’s cabin, which was no more than a mile away.

“Dinna fash, Missus,” Kenny said, wiping the back of his hand under his big red nose. “My wife can see to them until the rain stops. You’d best go home before Himself has an apoplexy, if he hasna already done it.”

“He hasn’t got enough blood left for a good apoplexy,” I said, and Kenny laughed, apparently thinking I was being witty.

Ian’s party, reassembled from the woods, had trooped down to the road where they’d left their wagon, and were huddling—with the unhitched horses—under the meager protection of a broad limestone shelf and a few pieces of waxed canvas.

I had reached the point of total saturation long since, my hands were a mottled blue with cold, and I couldn’t feel my feet. Even so, I felt a surge of joy at seeing Rachel’s face peering out of the tiny shelter. Her look of anxiety flowered into happiness and she ran out into the rain to grasp my frozen hands and tow me into a warm jumble of bodies, which all burst into questions, exclamations, and intermittent shrieks from what seemed like a large number of children.

“Here,” said a familiar voice beside me, and Jenny handed me a canteen. “Drink it all, a leannan, there’s no much left.” Despite being so wet externally, I was parched with thirst and gulped the contents, which seemed to be a dilute spiced wine mixed with honey and water. It was divine and I handed back the empty canteen, now in sufficient possession of myself as to look round.

“Who …?” I croaked, waving a hand. “All the women,” Ian had said—and that’s what he’d meant, allowing for age. In addition to Rachel and Jenny, there was a pale, stick-thin woman huddled beside one of the horses, two round-eyed young girls soaking wet and plastered against her legs, and another, perhaps two years old, in her arms.

“This will be Silvia Hardman, Auntie,” Ian said, ducking into the shelter and handing Oggy off to Rachel. “Uncle Jamie asked me to see to her needs in Philadelphia, and what wi’ one thing and another, I thought she and the bairns had best come along wi’ us. So … they did.”

I caught an echo behind that casual “one thing and another,” and so did Mrs. Hardman, who flinched slightly but then drew herself up bravely and did her best to smile at me, her hands on her skinny little daughters’ shoulders.

“I met thy husband two years ago, by chance, Friend Fraser. It was most kind of him to have sent his nephew to inquire as to our circumstances, which were … difficult. I—I hope our momentary presence here will not discomfit thee.”

This last was not quite a question, but I managed a smile, though my face was stiff with cold and fatigue. I could feel a lukewarm trickle of water running slowly down my spine, finding its way through the layers of sodden cloth sticking to my skin.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Um. The more the merrier, don’t they say?” I blinked hard to clear water from my lashes, but it didn’t seem to help. Everything was gray and blurring round the edges, and the wine was a small red warmth in my stomach.

“Claire,” said Jenny, grabbing my elbow. “Sit down before ye fall on your face, aye?”

I DIDN’T FALL on my face, but did end up being transported by wagon with my head in Rachel’s lap, surrounded by soggy but cheerful children. Lizard, who so far had not uttered a word, chose to walk with Ian, Silvia, and the Sachem, while Jenny drove the wagon and kept up a running stream of commentary over her shoulder, pointing out things of interest to the little girls and reassuring them.

“Ye’ll have a wee cabin to live in with your mam,” she assured them. “And no man will trouble her, ever again. My brother will see to it.”

“What happened?” I said to Rachel. I spoke in a low voice, but one of the ragged little girls heard me and turned to look at me seriously. She wasn’t pretty, but both she and the sister close in age had an odd dignity about them that was at odds with their years.

“Our father was taken by Indians,” she said to me, speaking precisely. “My mother was left with no way to keep us, save her garden and small gifts from men who came to call.”

“Some of them were not kind,” her sister added, and they both pursed their lips and looked out into the dripping woods.

“I see,” I said, and thought I probably did. Jamie had told me, very briefly, about the Quaker widow who had taken care of him for a day or two when his back had seized up while he was in her house, having met there with George Washington—and I did wonder what the hell George Washington had been doing there, but hadn’t asked, owing to the press of events at the time.

“Mrs. Murray is right,” I assured them. “Mr. Fraser will find a place for you.” After all, we would shortly have a number of cabins vacated by Jamie’s evicted tenants …

Patience and Prudence—those were the oldest girls’ names, and the little one was Chastity—glanced at each other and nodded.

“We told Mummy that Friend Jamie would not see us starve,” one of them said, with a simple confidence that moved me.

“It would have been fun to stay with the Indians,” her sister said, a little wistfully. “But we couldn’t do that, because of Father.”

I made a sympathetic noise, wondering exactly what had happened to their father. Rachel wiped my face with the edge of her flannel petticoat, which was damp but not sopping.

“Speaking of Friend Jamie,” she said, smiling down at me, “where is he? I can’t wait to hear how you came to be in a landslide with two English— Are they soldiers? I think one said he was a lieutenant. But is Jamie at home, then?”

“I sincerely hope so,” I said. “There was what he’d call a stramash of sorts last night, and he was wounded. But it isn’t bad,” I added hastily. “Everything’s all right. For the moment.”

Hearing this, Jenny turned round and gave me a piercing look. I looked as reassuring as possible, and she snorted slightly and turned back, snapping the reins to hurry the horses along.

I sat up, cautiously, bracing myself against the side of the wagon. My head swam briefly, but then things steadied. The sky was still dark gray and turbulent, but at ground level, the air had stilled, and I heard the cautious chirps and calls of birds pulling their heads out from under their wings and looking about to see what of the world was still left.

“I seem to recall someone telling me that Oggy’s finally got a name,” I said to Rachel, nodding toward Oggy himself, who was curled up with his head in the lap of either Patience or Prudence. The other girl had a large, thick-haired puppy in her lap, also soaking wet with its coat in spikes, but sound asleep. Rachel laughed, and I thought how pretty she was, her face fresh from the cold air, and her lightness of spirit rising with the road toward home.

“He has,” she said, and touched the round of his bottom affectionately. “His name is Hunter James Ohston’ha Okhkwaho Murray. ‘James’ for his great-uncle, of course,” she added.

“Jamie will love that,” I said, smiling myself. “What does the Mohawk part of his name mean?”

“Son of the Wolf,” she said, with a glance behind the wagon. “Or Little Wolf, if you like.”

“The Wolf?” I asked. “Not just any old wolf, I mean?” She shook her head, glancing at Ian, who was explaining the concept of a blood pudding to Tòtis, who seemed intrigued.

“You can’t really tell, in Mohawk, but I’m reasonably sure there’s only one Wolf of importance here,” Rachel said. I thought a slight shadow crossed her face at that, but if so, it cleared when I asked if she had chosen the name Hunter for her brother.

“No,” she said, and her smile blossomed again. “Ian’s first wife chose that name. Being guided of the spirit, no doubt,” she added circumspectly. She stretched out a hand and scratched the puppy’s head, causing it to wiggle with ecstasy and scramble into her lap, licking her fingers.

“But I chose his name,” she said, ignoring the muddy paw prints on her skirt. “He’s called Skénnen.”

“Which means?”

“Peace.”

116 In Which New Friends Are Met

BY THE TIME WE reached the dooryard, I had so far recovered myself as to have devised a plan of action. And a good thing, too, as the door opened and Bluebell shot out, barking as though an invading army had just arrived. Not far from the truth, either, I thought, climbing down from the wagon. I paused to shake as much half-dried mud as I could from my skirts, then shooed everyone up the steps.

“Jenny, will you take everyone through to the kitchen? Fanny will be here in a mo— Oh, there you are, sweetheart! We have company, and all of it is hungry. Will you and Agnes rummage the pantry and the pie safe and see if you can find at least bread and butter for everyone? And have you put on anything for supper yet?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fanny said, casting an interested eye over the serried ranks bunching up at the front door—and lingering speculatively on Prudence and Patience—and then the new puppy, which squatted at her feet and made a puddle.

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” she cried, and forgetting everything else she squatted down herself to pet Skénnen, with Bluebell lurking behind her, nosing her elbow with discontented grunts.

“Kitchen,” I repeated to Jenny, who was already marshaling everyone. “Except you,” I said, catching Young Ian by the arm.

“I’m only goin’ up to see Uncle Jamie,” he protested, gesturing toward the stairs.

“Oh, good,” I said, and broke into a smile. “That’s what I wanted you to do. I just want to be there when he sees you. Wait just one second, though—” The quilt was covering the surgery door, and I didn’t hear voices on the other side. I lifted the quilt far enough to put my head in and saw the captain, apparently dozing on the table, and Elspeth asleep in my big chair, her head fallen backward and her long gray hair undone from its pins and reaching nearly to the floor.

Poor things, I thought, but at least they could wait a few moments.

The bedroom door was shut, and I rapped lightly. Before I could open it, though, a firm male voice from the other side called out, “I’m havin’ a pish, Frances, and I dinna want help with it! Go up to the springhouse and fetch down some milk, aye?”

Young Ian turned the knob and opened the door, revealing Jamie, who was sitting on the side of the bed in his shirt, the bed linens rumpled and shoved aside. He was in fact not using the chamber pot, but was pale and sweating, fists pushed hard into the mattress on either side, apparently having tried to rise but been unable to gain his feet.

“Lyin’ to wee lassies, is it, Uncle?” Ian said with a grin. “Ye can go to hell for that sort o’ thing, I hear.”

“And where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” I demanded of Jamie. He didn’t answer. I didn’t think he’d even heard me. His face suffused with delight at sight of Ian and he stood up. Then his eyes rolled up and he turned dead white and fell with a crash that shook the floor.

JAMIE CAME ROUND again in his bed, surrounded by a number of women, all frowning at him. There was a sharp pain in his chest, where Claire was repairing some stitches that had apparently torn loose when he fell over, but he was too happy to be bothered about either the needle or the scolding he was plainly about to get.

“Ye’re back, then,” he said, smiling at his sister, and then at Rachel, standing beside her. “How’s the wee mannie?”

“Bonnie,” she assured him. “Or ought it to be ‘braw,’ if it’s a boy we’re speaking of?”

“I suppose it could be both,” he said, waggling one hand in equivocation. “Braw’s more a question of fine character—brave, ken? Which I’m sure the laddie must be, wi’ such parents—and bonnie means he’s well favored to look at. And if he still looks like you, lass— Ach, Jesus!” Claire had reached the end of her stitching and without a word of warning had sloshed a cupful of her disinfectant solution over the raw wound.

Wordless only because he couldn’t say the words that came to his tongue in front of Rachel, Frances, and Agnes, he panted through the blinding sting. The women were looking at him with expressions ranging from sympathy to strong condemnation, but all with faces—even Rachel’s—tinged with the sort of smugness women were apt to display when they thought they had the upper hand of a man.

“Where’s Ian?” he said, forestalling the rebuke he saw rising to his wife’s lips. An odd shimmer of some feeling he couldn’t name ran through the women. Amusement? He frowned, looking from face to face, and raised his brows at his sister. She smiled at him, and he saw relief and happiness in her face, though it was lined with tiredness and her hair was straggling out of her wilted cap.

“He went outside to talk to a man who came lookin’ for you,” she told him. “I dinna ken what he—”

He heard Ian’s footsteps running up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and struggled to sit up, causing cries of alarm from the women.

“Let it bide, Sassenach,” he said, taking the cloth out of Claire’s hand. “I’ll do.”

Ian came in, a letter in his hand, and a bemused look on his face.

“Were ye expecting a visit from Mr. Partland, Uncle?” he asked.

“I was,” Jamie replied guardedly. “Why?”

“I dinna think he’s coming.” Ian handed over the letter, which was written on decent paper and sealed with someone’s thumb and a glob of candle wax. Jamie broke the seal, what was left of his blood prickling along his jaw as his heart sped up.

Jamie took a long, slow breath, folding the letter neatly, and closed his eyes, silently thanking God. So it was over. For the moment, the Ridge was safe, Ian and Rachel and Jenny had come back, and while it would seem that there were a few loose ends to tidy up … He opened his eyes; Ian had just said something to him.

“What?”

“I said,” Ian repeated patiently, “that there’s someone who wants to pay her respects, Uncle.” His eye passed critically over Jamie, assessing. “If ye’re fit to meet her.”

TO JAMIE, SILVIA Hardman looked like a splinter of rock maple: a lovely subtle grain, but thin, sharp, and hard enough to serve as a needle, could one poke a hole in her for thread. He didn’t think anyone could, and smiled at the thought.

The smile seemed to ease her slightly, though she went on looking as though she expected to be eaten by a bear at any moment. Without her daughters around her, she seemed terribly alone, and he stretched out a hand to her in impulse.

“I’m glad to see ye, Friend Silvia,” he said gently. “Will ye not come and sit by me, and take a little wine?”

She glanced to and fro in indecision, but then nodded abruptly and came and sat by his bed, though she didn’t meet his eyes until he took her hand in his.

They sat, he propped up on his pillows and she on her stool, and looked at each other for some moments.

“Thee does not seem in much better case than thee did when last I saw thee, Friend,” she said at last. Her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat.

“Ach,” he said comfortably, “I’ll do. It’s no but a few drops of blood spilled. Are your wee lassies well?”

At last she smiled, though tremulously.

“They are awash in pancakes with butter and honey,” she said. “I expect they will have burst themselves by now.” She hesitated for a moment, but then burst out herself, “I cannot thank thee enough, Friend, for sending thy nephew to me. Has he told thee of—of the straits in which he found us?”

“No,” Jamie said mildly. “Does it matter? Ye took me in without question and tended me—will ye not let me do the same for you?”

A dull red washed her face and she looked down at her battered shoes. The side of one had come unstitched and he could see her grimy little toe. She would have taken back her hand, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Thee means …”

“I mean that I offer ye the succor and refuge of my home, just as ye did for me. Of course, ye rubbed hellfire into my backside, too, and I dinna think ye require any such service, thank God. But I hope that ye might find the Ridge pleasant, and if so, I should be honored if ye would consent to live among us.”

The red burned more fiercely.

“I could not. I—I should be a scandal to thy tenants.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Were ye planning to get up in Meeting and tell everyone what ye were obliged to do to save your bairns from starvin’?”

She gaped at him.

“Meeting? There are Friends here?” She looked as though she wanted to stand up and run, and he tightened his grasp a little.

“Just Rachel,” he assured her. “But we do have a Meeting House, and she’s there for Meeting on First Day with anyone who chooses to join her. She isna going to be shocked, is she?”

The flush faded slightly from her thin cheeks.

“No,” she admitted, and a tiny, rueful smile touched her lips. “She already knows the worst. So does thy nephew, thy sister, all of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, Joseph Brant, and any number of Mohawk Indians.”

“Well, then,” he said, and letting go of her hand, patted it. “Thee has come home, Friend.”

117 Fungus, Beavers, and the Beautiful Stars

BEYOND OUR CORDIAL INTRODUCTION on the landslide, I’d seen little of the Sachem. Fanny and Agnes were in what we called the children’s room, Silvia and her girls were occupying Brianna and Roger’s room, and the third bedchamber on the second floor was a guest room, though more often used for patients who needed to be kept longer than overnight. I’d offered him a bed in the third-floor attic, which was now weatherproofed and walled; we could tack hides or oiled parchment over the unglassed windows. He’d declined with grace, though, saying that he would remain with the wolves for now—that, apparently, being his term for the miscellaneous Murrays. I wasn’t sure whether he was drawn by having Ian to speak Mohawk with—or by Jenny.

“SHALL I SPEAK to yon man?” Jamie had asked Ian, a week or two into the Sachem’s visit. Jamie had come with me on a visit to the Crombies, and we’d stopped to pass the time of day with Ian and Rachel on our way home, finding the Sachem sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, watching Jenny churning buttermilk.

“If ye mean ye think I should ask him his intentions,” Ian said, “I did. He laughed, and told my mother. She laughed.”

“Och, aye, then,” Jamie muttered, but cut his eyes sideways at the Sachem, who smiled cheerfully at him. He turned and said something to Jenny, who nodded and went on churning. He got up and came down the steps toward us.

“Honored witch,” he said, bowing. “Are you at leisure?”

“Yes,” I said, warily. “Why?”

“I have found a strange thing—an ohnekèren’ta, but one I do not know. Would you come with me to look at it? I think it has some power, but I can’t tell whether it is for good or for evil.”

“A toadstool,” Ian said, in answer to my questioning glance. “Or maybe a mushroom; I havena seen it.”

Jamie was radiating caution, but Ian nodded to him.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, saying in Gaelic, “If he was up to something, I’d know by now.”

“Exactly so,” said the Sachem, beaming.

Jamie’s brows went up. “Ye have the Gàidhlig?”

“Why, no,” said the Sachem. He glanced over his shoulder at Jenny. “But perhaps I will learn.”

HE TOOK ME to the Saint’s Pool, the spring with a large white stone at its head.

“Who is the saint of this place?” he asked, kneeling in the grass to drink from a cupped hand. “I heard stories of many saints, in London. You know the one called Lawrence? I saw him in a window. He was roasted alive on a gridiron, but made jokes as his flesh steamed and split and his blood fried. He would have been a good Mohawk,” he said with approval.

“I expect he would,” I said, trying to swallow the thought that his very specific description left little doubt that he’d actually seen someone being burned alive. For that matter, so had I …. I swallowed harder.

“As for the saint of this pool … in the Scottish Highlands, a pool like this would … er … belong to the local saint. Here, I think it’s only that people sometimes come to pray, because it reminds them of places like this in Scotland. But I suppose they might pray here to whoever they thought might help them.”

“And do you think the dead concern themselves with the living?”

I hesitated for a moment, but while I was in total ignorance of the mechanics, I didn’t doubt the fact.

“Yes, I do. So do most Highlanders. They have a very intimate relationship with their dead.” Out of curiosity, I asked, “Do you? Think that the dead concern themselves with the living?”

“Some of them do.” Rising, he beckoned me to follow him. The fungus in question was growing a short distance away, in a crevice in a dead beech log. There was a large cluster, the individual mushrooms balanced on long, delicate stems, both crimped caps and stems a noticeable shade of purplish crimson.

“I’ve seen these before,” I said, gathering up my skirt in order to squat beside him in front of the log. “People call them bleeding fairy helmets, or sometimes just blood-spots.” They were, in fact, just about the shade of venous blood, and if you cut the stems, a very convincing bloodlike liquid oozed out of them.

“I don’t know if they’re poisonous, but I wouldn’t feed them to anyone.” Assuming any of the Highlanders on the Ridge would try one. Having grown up in a food-deprived habitat where oatmeal was not just for breakfast, most of the older people were deeply suspicious of anything strange-looking or unfamiliar—particularly things of a vegetable nature.

“No,” the Sachem said thoughtfully. “Their blood is sticky—like real blood, you know—and I’ve seen that used to help seal small wounds, but I’ve never seen animals eat them. Not even pigs.”

“So you are familiar with them?”

“Oh, yes. It’s that, that I have never seen before.” Crouching beside me, he extended a long, knobbly finger toward an isolated patch of the mushroom. The caps had opened fully, like tiny umbrellas, but each one sported a tangled headdress of thin, slightly iridescent pale spikes, as though the cap had suddenly grown a crop of tiny needles.

I didn’t touch them, but took out my spectacles for a closer look.

The Sachem smiled at me. “You know the big owls?” he said, sticking his forefingers up beside his ears. “The ones who call Hoo-hoo, and then another answers Hoo? You hear them most in the early days of winter, when they breed.”

“Hoo,” I said gravely, and bent closer. Seeing in better focus, I could just make out tiny ball-shaped sporangia at the ends of the tiny spikes.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but it looks like a parasite—you know what a parasite is?”

He nodded gravely.

“I can see little … fruiting things … on the ends here. It might be a different kind of fungus that feeds off the larger ones.”

“Fungus,” he said, and repeated it happily. “Fungus. What a pleasant word.”

I smiled.

“Well, it is rather better than ‘saprophyte.’ That means a … they’re not quite plants … but growing things that live on dead things.”

He blinked and looked speculatively from the blood-spots to me.

“Do not all living things live on the dead?”

That made me blink.

“Well … I suppose they do,” I said slowly, and he nodded, pleased.

“Even if you were to swallow oysters—which are often alive when you eat them—they die in your stomach very quickly.”

“What a very disagreeable notion,” I said, and he laughed.

“What does it mean to be dead?” he asked.

I’d risen to my feet and crossed my arms, feeling just slightly unsettled.

“Why are you asking me?”

He’d stood up, too, but was quite relaxed. At the same time, something new had entered his eyes. They were still lively, and undoubtedly friendly—but there was something else behind them now, and my hands felt suddenly cold.

“Wolf’s Brother said to Thayendanegea that his uncle’s wife was a Wata’ènnaras. But he also said that you have walked through time and that you have walked with a Mohawk ghost. Wolf’s Brother does not lie, no more than his Quaker wife nor his virtuous mother, so I believe that he thinks this is a true thing that you have done.”

Under the circumstances, I wasn’t sure whether his belief was a good thing or not, but I managed a small nod.

“It’s true.”

He nodded back, unsurprised but still interested. “Thayendanegea told Wolf’s Brother to tell this to me, and he did. That’s why I said I would come with him when he returned here. To hear this from your own lips, and to know whatever else you can tell me.”

“Rather a tall order,” I said. I felt cold and breathless, and my inner ears rang with the aftermath of thunder. “Let’s … walk while I tell you. If you don’t mind.”

He nodded at once and offered me his arm, calico-shirted and ringed with silver bracelets, with as much style as Lord John or Hal might have done it, and I laughed, despite my unease.

“A story for a story. I’ll tell you what happened, and you tell me why you went to London.”

“Oh, that’s simple enough.” He handed me carefully over one of the small gravelly rivulets that ran down this part of the mountain. “I went because Thayendanegea went. He would need a friend to talk with in a strange place, someone who could counsel him, judge men for him, guard him in case of danger, and … perhaps offer another view of the things we saw and heard.”

“And why did he go?”

“The King invited him,” the Sachem said. “When a King invites you to go somewhere, it’s not usually a good idea to refuse, unless you already know you will make war against him. And that is not something we knew.”

“Sound judgment,” I said. It had been, on the King’s part, as well as Brant’s. The King—or at least the government—wanted to keep the Indians on their side, as help in suppressing an incipient rebellion. And Brant, naturally, would like to be on the winning side of that rebellion, and at the moment of going to press, the British undeniably looked like the best bet.

We had reached level footing, and I led the way onto a trail that wound gently down toward the small lake where we fished for trout.

“So,” I said, and took a deep breath. “It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how ghost stories usually begin?”

“Do your people often tell such stories?” He sounded quite startled, and I looked over my shoulder. The trail had narrowed at this point, and he was walking behind me.

“Ghost stories? Yes, don’t yours?”

“Yes, but they don’t usually start that way. Tell me what happened next.”

I did. I told him all of it, from my being trapped in a storm at night on the mountain, to coming face-to-face with Otter-Tooth; what I had said to him, and he to me. And with some hesitation, I told him about finding Otter-Tooth’s skull, and with it, the large opal that he had kept as his ticket back—his token of safe return through the stones.

And then, of course, I had to tell him about the stones. It isn’t, in the nature of things, possible for a person possessing epicanthic folds to actually grow round-eyed, but he made a good attempt.

“And the reason why I knew that the ghost—I didn’t know his name until much later—why he was from … er … my time, was that his teeth had silver fillings: metal that’s put in the tooth to strengthen it after you remove a pocket of decay. That’s not done now; it won’t be done commonly until … I forget, but more than … say, two or three generations from now. But look …”

I opened my mouth and leaned toward him, hooking my cheek away with a finger so he could see my molars. He leaned down and peered into my mouth.

“Your breath is sweet,” he said politely, and straightened up. “How did you learn his name? Did he come back and tell you?”

“No. He left behind a journal that he had written, while living with the Mohawks near Snaketown. He wrote down who he was—his English name was Robert Springer, but he had taken the name ‘Ta’wineonawira.’ Do you read Latin?”

He laughed, which relieved the tension a little. “Do I look like a priest?”

That surprised me somewhat. “Aren’t you one? Or something like that? A—a healer?” I had vague memories of Ian telling me about the False Face Society, healers who would gather to offer prayers and songs over a sick person.

“Well, no.” He rubbed a knuckle lightly over his upper lip, and I thought he was—for once—trying not to laugh at me. But no; he’d only been making up his mind what to say.

“Do you not know what the word ‘sachem’ means?”

“Rather obviously not,” I said, a little miffed. “What’s it mean, then?”

He straightened up, half consciously. “A sachem is an elder of the people. A sachem might advise and lead a great number of his people. I did.”

Well, that accounted for his self-confidence.

“Why aren’t you a sachem anymore?”

“I died,” he said simply.

“Oh.” I looked around us. We had come to the trout lake, which was glimmering with a cold bronze light; the sun was coming down, and the forest surrounding us was mostly pine and birch trees, dark against the sky. There was no sign of any human habitation. I took a deep breath of the wind and the coming dark. I’d taken his arm coming down the hill; his flesh had been warm and solid; I’d felt the hardness of his bones.

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” I said, and thought, oddly, that I would have believed either answer.

He looked at me for several moments before answering.

“I don’t know,” he said.

We found a fallen log and sat down. At the far end of the lake, a family of beavers had built a lodge that dammed the small creek leading out of it. I could see a beaver on top of the lodge, its stocky form silhouetted against the light, head raised to the breeze.

“Jamie says they mostly come out at night,” I said, nodding toward it. “But we see them often in the daytime, too.”

“They feel safe, I suppose. I have not heard many wolves. Other than small Hunter; he howls very well but is not big enough to hunt beaver yet. And his parents don’t let him out at night.”

“Haha,” I said politely. “How did you come to die? An accident?”

He grinned at me, showing teeth that were visibly worn but mostly present.

“Few people do it on purpose. A snake bit me.” He pushed back his left sleeve and showed me the scar on the underside of his arm: a deep, irregular hollow in his flesh, about two inches long. I took his hand and turned it for a better look. He was very lean, and well hydrated; the larger blood vessels were clearly visible, firm under the skin.

“Good Lord, it looks as though it bit you right in the radial artery. What sort of snake was it?”

“You would call it a rattlesnake.” He didn’t remove my hand, but put his other hand over it. “I knew at once that it had killed me; there was great pain in my arm, and an instant later, I felt the poison strike my heart like an arrow. I grew hot and then so cold that my teeth chattered, though the day was warm. My eyes went dark, and I curled up like a worm, hoping that it wouldn’t last too long.”

It had lasted three days and three nights.

“This was not pleasant,” he assured me. “The False Face Society came, they put poultices upon the wound and danced … I still see their feet, sometimes, when I dream—moccasins shuffling past my face, one after another, on and on … and the masks bending over me, a small drum beating; I can hear that, too, sometimes, and my own heartbeat unsteady, stopping and starting and the drum still beating …”

He stopped for a moment, and I put my free hand over his. After a moment, he took a deep breath and looked at me.

“And I died,” he said. “It was in the deep part of the third night. I must have been asleep when it happened, for I found myself standing by the door of the hut, looking out into the forest and seeing the stars—stars as I have never seen them before or since,” he added softly. “It was so peaceful, so beautiful.”

“I know,” I said, just as softly. We sat for a few moments together, remembering.

The beaver slid down the side of the lodge and swam off, making an arrow of dark water in the shining lake, and the Sachem sighed and let go of my hands.

“I walked—I suppose you would call it walking, though I didn’t seem to have feet—but I went into the woods and walked away from … everything. I was going somewhere, but I didn’t know where. And then I met my second wife.” He paused, an expression of warmth and longing lighting his face.

“She told me she was glad to see me, and would see me again, but not now. I wasn’t meant to come yet; there were things that I needed to do; I had to go back. I didn’t want to,” he said, glancing at me. “I wanted to go with her, toward …” He broke off, shrugging.

“But I did go back. I woke up and I was in the medicine hut and my arm hurt a lot, but I was alive. They told me I had been dead for hours, and they were shocked. I was … resigned.”

“But you weren’t exactly the same person you were before,” I said.

“No. I told them I was not the Sachem anymore; I could see that my nephew was able to lead men in battle and I would be his adviser, but that it was to him that they must look now.”

“And … now you see ghosts?” Jenny had told me what he’d said about Ian the Elder and his leg. Raised every hair on my body, she’d said, and my own nape was prickling.

“Now I see ghosts,” he said, quite matter-of-factly.

“All the time?”

“No, and I am thankful that I don’t. But now and then, there they are. Mostly they have no business with me, nor I with them, and they pass by like a flash of light. But then again …”

He was looking at me in a thoughtful way that raised a few more hairs.

“Do I … have ghosts?” I said, hoping that it wasn’t like having fleas.

He tilted his head to one side, as though inspecting me.

“You lay your hands on many people, to try to heal them. Some of them die, of course, and some of those, I think, follow you for a short time. But they find their way and leave you. You have a small child sometimes near you, but she is very faint. The only other one I have seen with you more than once is a man. He wears spectacles.” He made circles of his thumbs and middle fingers and held them up to his eyes, miming glasses. “And a peculiar hat, with a short brim. I think he must be from your place across the stones, for I have never seen anything like that.”

I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. There was an immense pressure in my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. The Sachem touched my arm, though, and the pressure eased.

“You shouldn’t worry,” he assured me. “He is a man who loved you; he means you no harm.”

“Oh. Good.” I’d broken out in a cold sweat and groped for a handkerchief. I was wiping my face and neck with it when the Sachem got to his feet and offered me a hand.

“What is strange,” he said as I rose, “is that this man often follows your husband, too.”

WHEN I GOT back to the house, I went straight to Jamie’s study. Jamie wasn’t in it; he’d gone to check operations at the still, as he did twice weekly. I didn’t hear anyone in the house, but found myself walking as softly as a cat burglar, and wondered exactly whom I was sneaking up on. The answer to that was obvious, and I resumed my normal firm step, letting the echoes fall where they might.

The book was still behind the ledgers. I turned it over with the distinct feeling that it might explode, or the photograph leap from the cover and accost me. Nothing happened, though, and the photograph remained … just a photograph. It was certainly an image of Frank, much as I remembered him, but I didn’t feel Frank’s presence. As soon as the thought occurred to me, I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing there.

Would you know, if there was? That thought raised goose bumps on my forearms, but I shook it off.

“I would,” I said firmly, aloud, and took the book to the window, so the sun shone on it. Frank was wearing his normal black-rimmed glasses in the photo—but he wasn’t wearing a hat.

“Well, assuming he’s right,” I said accusingly to the photo, “what the hell are you doing, following either me or Jamie around?”

Getting no answer to this, I sat down in Jamie’s chair.

The Sachem had said Frank—always assuming it was Frank he saw, though I was becoming sure of this—was “a man who loved you.” Loved, past tense. That gave me a small double pang: one of loss, the other of reassurance. Presumably there was no question of postmortem jealousy, then? But if not …

But you don’t even know that Jamie’s right about this damned book!

I opened the book, read a page without taking in a word of its meaning, and closed it again. It didn’t bloody matter. Whether by Frank’s intent—malign or not—or only a figment of Jamie’s imagination, stimulated by the pressure of current events or the stirrings of a mistaken sense of guilt … Jamie thought what he thought, and nothing short of Divine Revelation was likely to change that.

I closed my eyes and sat still. We didn’t yet own a clock, and yet I could hear the seconds tick past. My body kept its own time, between my heartbeat and the pulsing of my blood, the ebb and flow of sleep and wakefulness. If time was eternal, why wasn’t I? Or perhaps we only become eternal when we stop keeping time.

I’d nearly died three times: when I lost Faith, when I caught a great fever, and—only a year ago!—when I was shot at Monmouth. It wasn’t that I didn’t remember, but I remembered only small, vivid flashes of each experience. I felt very calm, thinking of death. It wasn’t something I was afraid of; I just didn’t want to go while there were people who needed me.

Jamie had come to the verge of death more frequently—and a lot more violently—than I had, and I didn’t think he was afraid of it, either.

But you still have people who need you, dammit!

The thought made me angry—at both Frank and Jamie—and I got up and shoved the book back behind the ledgers. Even without a clock, I knew it was nearly suppertime. I had a sort of chowder going, made with potatoes and onions and a little dried corn, but it wasn’t very good … Bacon! Yes, definitely bacon.

I was coming out of the smoke shed with several rashers on a plate when a bit more of what I was determinedly not thinking about bubbled up. Bree had told me—and Jamie—about the letter Frank had left for her. An extremely disturbing letter, on multiple levels. But what was echoing in the back of my mind just now was the last paragraph of that letter:

And … there’s him. Your mother said that Fraser sent her back to me, knowing that I would protect her—and you. She thought that he died immediately afterward. He did not. I looked for him, and I found him. And, like him, perhaps I send you back, knowing—as he knew of me—that he will protect you with his life.

For the first time, it occurred to me that even if Jamie was right, and Frank was making an attempt to tell him something—it might be a warning, rather than a threat.

118 The Viscountess

WILLIAM DIDN’T GO DIRECTLY to Lord John’s house when he arrived in Savannah. Instead, he stopped at a barber on Bay Street and had a much-needed shave and his hair trimmed and properly bound. That was as much as he could do for the moment, bar digging a halfway-clean shirt out of his saddlebag and changing into it in the shop. Face raw and stinging with razor burn and bay rum, and deeply aware of his own residual stink beneath it, he left his horse at the livery, walked to Oglethorpe Street, and after a moment’s thought circled his father’s house and walked into the cookhouse out back.

Lord John was out with his brother. Gone to the camp, the startled cook informed him. And the viscountess? In the parlor, doing needlework.

“Thank you,” he said, and went into the house, pausing briefly to kick his boots against the step, in order to knock off some of the dry mud.

He made no attempt to quiet his footsteps; they hit the painted floorcloth in the hallway with the regular thump of a muffled drum. When he reached the parlor door, she was sitting bolt-upright and wide-eyed, a large piece of half-embroidered white silk spilling over her lap and a needle threaded with scarlet floss motionless in her hand.

“William,” she said, and cocked her head to one side. She didn’t smile; neither did he. He leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms, looking steadily at her.

“I found him.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head violently, as though attacked by gnats.

“Where?” she asked, her voice a little husky, and he saw that her free hand had closed on the silk, crushing it.

“A place called Morristown. It’s in New Jersey.”

“His grave? That was in New Jersey, but you said he wasn’t in it …”

“He’s definitely not in his grave,” he assured her, not trying to keep the cynical tone out of his voice.

“You mean … he’s … alive, then?” She kept her face under control, but her cheeks were pink, not white, and he could see the thoughts darting like minnows at the back of her changeable eyes.

“Oh, yes. But you knew that.” He considered her for a moment, then added, “He’s a general now. General Raphael Bleeker. Did you know that?”

She took a long, slow breath, holding his eyes with hers.

“No,” she said at last. “But I’m not surprised.” Her lips compressed briefly. “He’s with Washington, then,” she said. “Father Pardloe said the rebels had gone to winter quarters in New Jersey.”

She’d dropped the silk; it slithered to the ground, unregarded. She stood up abruptly, fists closed at her sides, and turned her back on him.

“He said it was your idea,” William said mildly. “That he should pretend to be dead.”

“I couldn’t stop him.” She spoke to the yellow toile de Jouy wallpaper, through her teeth by the sound of it. “I begged him not to do it. Begged him.” She turned around then and glared at him. “But you know what they’re like, these Greys of yours. Nothing matters to them when they’ve made up their minds—nothing. And nobody.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” William said. His heart had slowed down a bit after his first sight of her, but it was speeding up again. “It’s true that you can’t change their minds—but they do care, sometimes. Ben cared.” He cleared his throat. “For you.” He had the bruises to prove it.

And still does. He didn’t say it out loud, but he saw from her face that he didn’t need to.

“Not enough,” she said shortly, though there was a quiver in her voice. “Not nearly enough. It was only my telling him what it would do to Trevor—having a traitor for a father—that finally made him agree to disappear quietly, instead of having a blazing row with his father and stamping off to glory with his precious rebels. That’s what he would have liked,” she added, with a twitch of the mouth that might have been either bitterness or reluctant amusement.

There was a moment’s silence in the room. William could hear footsteps somewhere upstairs, and muffled yelling that was undoubtedly Trevor. Amaranthus’s eyes flicked upward, but she didn’t move. A moment later, the footsteps evidently reached the little boy, because the yelling stopped abruptly. Amaranthus’s shoulders relaxed a little and he noticed for the first time that she wore dark blue and wore no fichu, so the curve of her full breasts showed white above the cloth.

She saw him notice and gave him a direct look.

“I wanted a coward, you know,” she said. “A man who’d stay away from danger and blood and all those things.”

“And you thought I might be one?” He was curious, rather than offended.

She made a small puffing noise and shook her head.

“At first. Uncle John said you’d resigned your commission, and I could see that he and Father Pardloe were bothered that you did.”

“I expect they were,” he said, careful to let nothing show in his voice.

“But it didn’t take long to see what you were. What you still are.” Her fists had gradually relaxed, and one hand absently gathered her skirt into folds.

He wanted to ask just what she thought he was, but that could wait.

“Ben,” he said firmly. “I have to tell Uncle Hal. But I—I mean, he has to know that Ben’s alive and where—and what—he is. But perhaps he needn’t know that … you knew about it.”

He hadn’t thought for a moment of concealing her knowledge from Uncle Hal until he heard the words coming out of his mouth.

Her face changed like a drop of quicksilver, and she turned round again and stood stiff as a tailor’s dummy. He thought he could see her heart beating, the tight blue bodice quivering ever so slightly across her back.

He realized suddenly that now he was standing there with his hands fisted, and made himself relax. A drop of sweat ran down the back of his neck—there was a fire and the room was warm. The ghost of bay rum lingered among the scents of burning wood and candle wax.

She made a tiny sound, perhaps a muffled sob, and crossed her arms, hugging herself convulsively.

He took a step toward her, uncertain, and stopped. What might Uncle Hal do, if he learned of her duplicity? He supposed that his uncle might be able to take Trevor away from her and send her away …

“They’ll hang him,” she whispered, so softly that for a moment he heard only the anguish in it, and that anguish made him go to her and put his hands on her shoulders. A deep shiver went over her as though she were dissolving inside, and his arms went round her.

“They won’t,” he whispered into her hair, but she shook her head and the shiver didn’t stop.

“Yes, they will. I’ve heard them talk—the officers, the politicals, the—the nitwits at parties—gloating at the th-thought of Washington and his generals hanging on a g-gibbet.” She took a deep, tearing breath. “Like rotten fruit. That’s what they always say—like rotten fruit.”

His stomach tightened and so did his arms.

“So you still love him,” he said quietly, after what seemed a long while.

Her head fitted neatly under his chin, and he could feel the heat of it and smell her hair; she was wearing his father’s Italian cologne. He closed his eyes and took one breath at a time, imagining cedar groves and olive orchards and sun on ancient stone.

And dripping water in a garden and a toad’s gleaming black eyes …

And a moment later, the door opened.

“Oh, William,” Lord John said mildly. “You’re back, then.”

WILLIAM STOOD STILL a moment longer, his arms round Amaranthus. He wasn’t guilty in this—well, not quite—and he declined to act as though he was. He stepped back and gave her arms a comforting squeeze before turning round to face his father.

Lord John was standing there in full day uniform, his hat in one hand. He looked calm and pleasant, but his eyes were clearly drawing conclusions, and probably the wrong ones.

“I found Ben,” William said, and his father’s eyes sharpened at once. “He’s alive, and he’s joined the Americans. Under an assumed name,” he added.

“Thank God for small mercies,” Lord John said, half under his breath, then tossed his hat onto one of the gilt chairs and went to Amaranthus, who was still facing the wall, her head bowed. Her shoulders were shaking.

“You should sit down, my dear.” Lord John took her firmly by one forearm and turned her round. “Go and tell cook we want some tea, please, William—and something to eat. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach,” he told Amaranthus, guiding her toward the settee. She’d gone the color of egg custard and had her lashes lowered—to hide her telltale eyes, William thought cynically. She wasn’t crying; there were no tears on her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry, and wondered briefly if she could.

“Where’s Uncle Hal?” he asked, pausing on the threshold. “Shall I go and fetch him?”

Amaranthus gasped as though he’d punched her in the stomach, and looked up, wide-eyed. His father reacted in much the same way, though in a more stoic and soldierly fashion.

“God,” William said softly. He stood quite still for a moment, thinking, then shook himself back into order.

“He’s on his way to Charles Town,” Lord John said, and blew out a long breath. “Going to have a look at the fortifications. He’ll be back in a week or two.”

William and Lord John exchanged a brief look, glanced together at Amaranthus, then back at each other.

“I—don’t suppose it’s news that will spoil with keeping,” William said awkwardly. “I’ll … just go and tell Cook about the tea.”

“Wait.” Amaranthus’s voice stopped him at the door, and he turned. She was still pale and curdled, and her hands were knotted just under her breasts, as though to keep her heart from escaping. She had regained her self-possession, though, and her voice trembled only a little as she focused her gaze on Lord John.

“I have to tell you something, Uncle John.”

“No,” William said quickly. “You don’t need to say anything right now, cousin. Just—just rest a bit. You’ve had a shock. So have we all.”

“No,” she said, and shook her head slightly, dislodging a few blond strands. “I do.” She made an effort to smile at William, though the effect was rather ghastly. His own heart felt like a stone in his chest, but he did his best to smile back.

Lord John rubbed a hand down over his face, then went to the sideboard, where he took down a bottle and shook it experimentally. It sloshed reassuringly.

“Sit down, Willie,” he said. “Tea can wait. Brandy can’t.”

WILLIAM WONDERED VAGUELY just how much brandy his father and uncle got through in a year. Beyond its social functions, brandy was the usual first resort of either man, faced with any crisis of either a physical, political, or emotional nature. And given their mutual profession, such crises were bound to occur regularly. William’s own first memory of having been given brandy dated from the age of five or so, when he had climbed up the stable ladder in order to get on the back of Lord John’s horse in its stall—something he was firmly forbidden to do—and had been promptly tossed off by the startled horse, smacking into the wall at the back of the stall and sinking, dazed, into the hay between the horse’s back hooves.

The horse had trampled about, trying—he later realized—to avoid stepping on him, but he still remembered the huge black hooves coming down so near his head that he could see the nails in the shoes, and one of them had scraped his cheek. Once he’d got enough breath to scream with, there’d been a great fuss, his father and Mac the groom rushing down the stable aisle in a clatter of boots and calling out.

Mac had crawled into the stall, speaking calmly to the horse in his own strange tongue, and pulled William out by the feet. Whereupon Lord John had quickly checked him for blood and broken bones, and finding none, smacked him a good one on the seat of his breeches, then pulled out a small flask and made him take a gulp of brandy for the shock. The brandy itself was nearly as big a shock, but after he’d got done wheeking and coughing, he had felt better.

He was actually feeling slightly better now, finishing his second glass. Papa saw that his glass was nearly empty and, without asking, picked up the bottle and refilled it, then did the same for himself.

Amaranthus had barely sipped hers and was sitting with both hands wrapped about the small goblet. She was still pale, but she’d stopped shaking, William saw, and seemed to have regained some of her usual self-possession.

Papa was also watching her, William saw, and while a small tingle of apprehension went down his spine, he realized that his sense of restored calm had as much to do with Lord John’s presence as with his brandy. Whatever was about to happen, Papa would help deal with it, and that was a great relief.

Amaranthus seemed to think so, too, for she put down her goblet with a small clink and, straightening her back, looked Lord John in the eye.

“It’s true,” she said. “I told William that I knew about Ben—I mean, I told him just now; he didn’t know before. That really is what happened to Ben.” She took a visible gulp of air, but finding no further words to expel with it, breathed audibly through her nose and took another minuscule sip of brandy.

“I see,” Lord John said slowly. He rolled his own cup to and fro between his palms, thinking. “And I suppose that you were afraid to tell us—to tell Hal, rather—because you thought he mightn’t believe you?”

Amaranthus shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I was afraid to tell him for fear he would believe me.” The dark indigo of her gown had turned her eyes to a pure, pale blue. The picture of sincerity, William thought. Still, that didn’t mean she was lying. Not necessarily.

“Ben had told me a lot about the family,” she said. “After we met. About his mother, and his … his brothers, and you. And about the duke.” She swallowed. “When Ben made up his mind—to—to do what he did, he sent for me. I came to meet him in Philadelphia; Adam was with Sir Henry there, and Ben meant to tell him—Adam, I mean, not Sir Henry—as well.”

“Did he, indeed.” It wasn’t a question. Lord John’s gaze was fixed on Amaranthus’s face. It was a perfectly pleasant expression, but William recognized it as his father’s chess-playing face, rapidly envisioning possibilities and just as rapidly discarding them.

“Ben and Adam … fought.” She looked down and William saw her hands clench briefly, as though she would as soon have joined in that fight. Likely she would, he thought, aware of a mild amusement, in spite of everything. “With their fists, I mean. I wasn’t there,” she added, raising her head and looking apologetic, “or I would have stopped them. But when Ben came to me afterward, he looked as though he’d gone a few rounds with a professional boxer.” The corner of her mouth twitched.

“You’ve seen a professional boxing match?” Lord John asked, diverted. She looked surprised, but nodded.

“Yes. Once. A boxing barn in Connecticut.”

“Well, I hadn’t thought you to be squeamish,” Papa said, breaking into a smile.

“No,” she said, with a small, rueful smile of her own. “Benjamin said I was tough as shoe leather—though he didn’t mean it as a compliment.” She noticed the half-full glass at this point, picked it up, and drank deeply.

“Anyway,” she said hoarsely, putting the glass down, “he’d told me about his father, and after the fight with Adam, he said a lot of things about his father, and how it would serve the old man right when Washington wiped his eye in battle, and how wild he’d be—the duke, I mean—especially when he realized that his own bloody heir had … I’m sorry,” she added apologetically. “I’m quoting Ben, you see.”

“So I assumed,” Lord John said. “But when you said you were afraid that Hal would believe you if you told him about Ben …?”

“What do you think he’d do?” she asked simply. “Or rather, what do you think he will do, if I—if I go ahead and tell him?” She’d started looking pale again, and William leaned forward to snag the bottle and top up her glass. Without asking, he refilled his father’s glass, as well, and then poured the dregs of the bottle into his.

Lord John sighed deeply, picked up his fresh glass, and drained it.

“To be honest, I don’t quite know what he’d do. But I do know how he’d feel.”

There was a brief silence. William broke it, feeling that someone had to say something.

“You mean you thought that if you’d told him the truth about Ben, he might become so distressed—well, insanely angry—that he might just toss you and Trevor out on your … um … ears. Tell you to go to the devil with Ben, I mean. I suppose he might disown Ben, for that matter; he has other sons.”

Amaranthus nodded, her lips pressed tight.

“Whereas,” William went on, not without sympathy, “if you were Ben’s widow, he’d be more likely to receive you with open arms.”

“And an open purse,” Lord John murmured, looking into the depths of his brandy.

Amaranthus turned her head sharply toward him, eyes gone suddenly dark.

“Have you gone hungry a day in your life, my lord?” she snapped. “Because I have, and I would happily become a whore to keep that from happening to my son.”

She rose, turned on her heel, and hurled her glass very accurately into the hearth. Then she stamped out, leaving blue flames behind her.

119 Encaustic

DONE. BRIANNA STOOD IN the quiet light of a late afternoon, slowly cleaning her brushes and taking leave of her work. It was an odd process, letting go of something that had lived in her for months, gradually pulling free of the growing tentacles that had gripped her brain, her heart, her fingers.

People—people who didn’t usually do such things—likened it to childbirth. Writing a book, painting a picture, building a house—or a cathedral, she supposed, smiling a little. There were for sure metaphorical parallels, especially the mingled sense of relief and exultation at the conclusion. But to her, having painted pictures, built things, and given birth, the difference was pretty noticeable. When you’d finished a work of art or substance … it was finished, while children never were.

“Right there,” she said, with a deep sense of satisfaction, pointing the handle of a damp brush at the four portraits lined up against the wall before her. “You’re all right there. You’re done. You’re not going anywhere.” She heard the echo of her father’s voice, and laughed.

Meanwhile, her more mobile creations were yelling in the back garden and would shortly be clattering in with demands to be fed, cleaned, re-dressed, soothed, listened to, fed again, read books, undressed, and finally crammed into beds, where she could only hope they would stay for a good long time.

Thought of Roger, though, lifted her heart. He’d come back from the battle grimy and exhausted—and changed. It wasn’t a drastic change. More the solidifying of a change he’d begun a long time ago. He was quiet, but he’d told her why he’d felt he had to stay, and what had happened, and she could tell that while he’d been shocked (who wouldn’t be? she thought), it was a shock that had left him more visibly determined. And with an odd, quiet sort of light about him, that sometimes she imagined she could almost see.

“Encaustic,” she said aloud, and stood still, squinting at the portraits but not seeing them. Her fingers had twitched the brush she was cleaning into position, wanting to paint.

“Not now,” she said to them, and put the brush into her box. She could feel the painting she wanted to do of Roger. An encaustic painting; one done with pigments mixed into hot beeswax. It gave you a vivid image, but one with a peculiar sense of softness and depth. She’d never done it herself, but she was seized by the conviction that this would be the right medium in which to catch Roger’s light.

Any further thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of the front door, a murmur of male voices, and then the clumping of Henrike’s wooden-heeled shoes on the pineapple floorcloth and the louder clump of heavy boots, following.

“Ist deine Bruder,” Henrike announced, throwing open the door. “Und his Indian.”

“THE INDIAN” BOWED to her and came up grinning, though she was sufficiently familiar with his face by now to recognize bravado covering anxiety. She smiled back and impulsively took his hand, squeezing slightly in reassurance—about the situation, if not the painting.

He blinked in shock, then fumblingly raised her hand, evidently thinking she meant him to kiss it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do that, though, and merely breathed on her knuckles in confusion. Brianna glanced up and met her brother’s eye. He was keeping a British officer’s straight face, but let a trace of humor show in his eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Cinnamon,” she said, gently detaching her hand. She spread her skirts and curtsied to him, which made him blush like a very large plum and made William look hastily away.

William could wait, though; she had a sitter who had come to see his finished portrait.

“Come see,” she said simply, and beckoned Cinnamon—he wouldn’t let her call him by his first name, nor would he call her Brianna, evidently thinking that was improper. William must have been giving him etiquette lessons—or maybe that was Lord John.

She’d hung a thin muslin cloth over the portrait to keep off gnats and mosquitoes, which had a fatal attraction for linseed oil and drying paint, and now stepped to one side and pulled it deftly away.

“Oh,” he said. His face was completely blank. Her heart had sped up when the young men had come in, and more when the moment of revelation approached; she wasn’t as keyed up as John Cinnamon was but undeniably felt an echo of his nervous excitement.

He stood staring at the portrait, mouth slightly open and eyes wide. A little worried, she glanced at William, whose gaze was also fixed on the portrait but wearing an expression of surprised pleasure. She took a breath and relaxed, smiling.

“You did it,” William said, turning to her. “You really did.” He laughed, a soft rumble of delight as he turned back to the painting. “That is amazing!”

“It—” Cinnamon started, then stopped, still staring at the portrait of himself. He shook his head slightly and turned to William. “Do I—really look like that?”

“You do,” William assured him. “Though not as clean. Don’t you ever look at yourself when you’re shaving?”

“Oui, but …” The blankness was fading into fascination, and he drew cautiously nearer to the portrait. “Mon Dieu,” he whispered.

She’d painted him in his gray suit—he owned only one—with a snowy-white shirt and a neckcloth with a lacy fall over the manly chest. William had contributed a small gold stickpin in the shape of a flower whose heart was a faceted pink topaz, surrounded by green-foil petals.

She’d persuaded him not to wear a wig and to abandon the bear-grease pomade with which he sometimes attempted to plaster down his curls, and had painted him with his distinctive red-brown hair left loose to riot over the lovely broad curve of his skull and the faint reflection of it in the skin of jaw and cheekbones. He’d done his best to keep a stoic, reserved expression on his face, but she’d spent enough time talking to him while she sketched that she’d been able to catch the light that danced in his eyes when he was amused. And it danced in his portrait, in a tiny fleck of white touched with lemon.

“That …” Cinnamon shook his head and blinked hard; she could see the tears he was keeping back and felt a wrench of sympathetic feeling for him, though her joy at his response overwhelmed almost everything else.

His own feeling overwhelmed him to such an extent that he turned suddenly to her and seized her in a crushing embrace.

“Thank you!” he whispered into her hair. “Oh, thank you!”

HENRIKE, SUMMONED ANEW, fetched a bottle of wine and three glasses, and they drank the health of John Cinnamon and his portrait.

“Can you drink the health of a portrait?” Brianna asked, doing it regardless.

“Healthiest portrait I’ve ever seen,” William said, closing one eye and squinting at the painting through his glass of red wine. He turned and raised the glass to Brianna. “We can drink to the artist, though, if you’d rather?”

“Huzzah!” Cinnamon said, raised his glass to Brianna, and drank it off at a gulp. His eyes were bright, his hair standing on end, and he couldn’t stop beaming, stealing looks at his portrait every few seconds as though to ensure that it hadn’t gone away or suddenly started looking like someone else.

“It should dry for a few more days,” she said, smiling and lifting her own glass in salute. “Do you still mean to send it to—to London?” To his father, she meant. “I’ll pack it for you, if you like. So it won’t be damaged on the ship.”

John Cinnamon stared at her for a moment, looked at the portrait for a long minute, then turned back to her and nodded.

“I do,” he said softly.

“Papa would arrange for it to go home with a diplomatic friend, I’m sure,” William said. “Would you like me to ask him?”

Cinnamon paused for a moment, considering, but then shook his head. The glow hadn’t left his face, but it had retreated a little way.

“I’ll ask him,” he said, and stood up abruptly. “I’ll go now. I can’t sit still,” he explained apologetically to Brianna. “I’m so happy!” The glow returned, lighting his face like a flare, and he bowed hastily to her and took his leave, clapping William on the back as he went with a friendly blow that nearly knocked him over.

She’d expected William to take his own leave, and he did take up his hat, but then he stood for a moment, kneading it absently.

“What are the other portraits?” he said abruptly, and nodded at the three portraits still veiled in muslin. “If you don’t mind me seeing them, I mean,” he said, apologetic.

“Of course not. I’d love to have your opinion, since you know what all the subjects really look like.” She lifted the cloth from the largest piece—the portrait of Angelina Brumby—but kept her eyes on her brother’s face, to see his initial reaction.

He looked briefly at first, as though not really caring, but then blinked, focused, walked closer—and broke into a wide grin.

“Got her, didn’t I?” Brianna said, laughing. That was the expression on the face of every man who met Angelina in the flesh.

“You did,” William said, still smiling. “She’s … how did you make her look like she’s … shiny? Sparkly, I think,” he corrected. “Yes, that’s it—she sparkles.”

“Thank you!” she said, and would have hugged him if they had known each other just a little longer than they had. “You don’t really want to know the techniques, but it’s basically color. Tiny dabs of white, with an even tinier bit of reflected color from the surface behind the sparkle.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” William said, still smiling. He turned back to the row of portraits. “You said I know all the subjects—is one of those the American general? The cavalryman?”

She nodded, and without words, turned back the veil covering Casimir Pulaski.

William’s face was instantly sober, but he moved toward this painting, too, and stood before it for a long time, not speaking. Brianna was still watching his face and could see on it the memory of the long hours he and Cinnamon had shared with her, standing behind her, protecting her through the dark and the sorrow of that night.

She had struggled with this portrait. Her memories of the dark tent and the endless procession of somber men, many of them wearing the blood and powder stains of the lost battle, had hung about her while she worked, pervasive as the smell of gangrene and unwashed bodies, the occasional gust of wind off the marshes the only relief.

“I couldn’t find my way in at first,” she said quietly, coming to stand beside him. “There was too much—” She waved a hand vaguely, but he’d been there, too; he knew just what too much was. He nodded, and without looking at her, took her hand.

“But you found it, finally.” He didn’t say it as a question, but his hand tightened on hers, warm and big. “What was ‘it,’ though?”

She laughed, even as her eyes were full of tears.

“Lieutenant Hanson.” She swallowed, but knew her voice would shake. She spoke anyway. “When he—when he stopped. Afterward, when the rain started and we were all coming away from the tent? He said—I can’t say it, it was Polish …”

“Pozegnanie,” William said quietly. “Farewell.”

She nodded, and took a big breath.

“That. It was the only thing—just a glimpse—of who he was.” She blinked, then knuckled away the tears that had oozed out. She cleared her throat and looked at the painting.

“When I had that,” she said, able to breathe again, “it—he—wasn’t just a dead body. Or a hero—I could have done that—painted him on his horse, charging or whatever—and maybe the army would rather have had one like that, probably they would, but …”

“The army has much more feeling than you’d think,” he said, with a half smile. “It’s not usually a delicate sort of feeling, but it is feeling. And we understand death. This is perfect.”

She squeezed his hand and let it go, feeling the tightness in her chest let go as well. She nodded at the final painting, still veiled.

“You’ve already seen that one, though it wasn’t finished then. Do you want to see it?”

“Jane,” he said, and she turned to look at him, hearing things in his voice. But his jaw tightened and he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not just now.” He took a deep breath and blew it out with a whoosh.

“I daresay you’ve spent some time at Papa’s house whilst you’ve been in the city?”

“Yes,” she said, diverted. “Why?”

“Then you’ve met Amaranthus.”

“I have.”

“I want to talk to you about her.”

120 In Which William Spills His Guts, Mostly

IN THE END, HE told her almost everything. No mention of cold gardens, warm thighs, and black-eyed toads. But everything else: Dottie and the baby, Denzell, General Raphael Fucking Bastard Bleeker, and Amaranthus’s account of her husband.

His sister said very little but sat hunched forward on her tall painter’s stool, feet tucked back behind the rungs, watching him. She had a face that matched her height: boldly handsome, and with eyes that would brook no insult but that still seemed warm.

“I told Papa—Lord John—everything I’d found out.” His father had listened, pale and intent, sifting the account as William told it. Very clearly envisioning the necessity for relaying it to his brother, his knuckles growing whiter as the brutal tale went on.

“That can’t have been easy,” his sister said softly. He shook his head.

“No. But easier than it should have been—for me. I was a coward. I couldn’t … I couldn’t make myself tell Uncle Hal. So I told Papa instead and … left the dirty work to him.”

She considered that for a moment, head on one side. She wore no cap and her hair was unpinned; it fell over her shoulder in a shimmering wave, disregarded. Then she shook her head and thrust the wave back behind her ear, leaving a streak of overlooked white paint from her fingers.

“You’re not a coward,” she said. “Lord John knows his brother better than anybody else in the world—probably including His Grace’s wife,” she added, frowning a little. “There isn’t a good way to tell a man something like this, I don’t suppose …”

“There isn’t.”

“But I’ve heard your, um, father talk about his brother. He’ll know what your uncle feels, and he’s tough—Lord John, I mean, though probably Hal is, too. He can stand up to it, if Hal goes nuts—er, gets really upset,” she amended, seeing the look on William’s face. “You could tell him, all right—and you’ll probably have to, eventually,” she added with sympathy. “He’ll want to hear the gory details from you. But you wouldn’t be able to give him what he maybe needs after hearing it—whether that’s a stiff drink—”

“I’m sure that will be the second thing he needs,” William muttered. “The first being someone to hit.”

Brianna’s mouth twitched at that, and for a shocked moment, he thought she was about to laugh, but she shook her head instead and the paint-streaked lock of hair fell down along her cheek.

“So,” she said, straightening up with a sigh, “Amaranthus is still in love with her husband, and he’s still in love with her. And you …?”

“Did I say I had any feelings for her?” he demanded irritably.

“No, you didn’t.” You didn’t need to, you poor fool, her face said.

“I don’t suppose it matters,” she said mildly. “Now that you know she’s not a widow. I mean … you wouldn’t consider …” She left that thought where it was, thank God, and he ignored it. She cleared her throat.

“What about Amaranthus, though?” she asked. “What will she do now, do you think?”

William could think of a lot of things she might do, but he’d already learned that his own imagination was not equal to that particular lady’s.

You might … just possibly enjoy it.

“I don’t know,” he said gruffly. “Probably nothing. Uncle Hal won’t throw her into the street, I don’t suppose. She didn’t betray him, the King, the country, the army, and everything else—and she is Trevor’s mother, and Trevor is Uncle Hal’s heir.” He shrugged. “What else could she do, after all?”

He heard the echo of his uncle’s voice above the sounds of marram grass and water: “If you consider treason and the betrayal of your King, your country, and your family a suitable means of solving your personal difficulties, William, then perhaps John hasn’t taught you as well as I supposed.”

“Divorce?” his sister suggested. “That seems … cleaner. And she could marry again.”

“Mmphm.” William was envisioning just what might have happened if he had acceded to Amaranthus’s suggestion—and then discovered Benjamin’s continued existence, possibly after having fathered …

“No,” he said abruptly, and was startled when she laughed.

“You think this situation is funny?” he said, suddenly furious.

She shook her head and waved a hand in apology.

“No. No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t the situation—it was the noise you made.”

He stared at her, affronted.

“What do you mean, noise?”

“Mmphm.”

“What?”

“That noise you made in your throat—mmphm. You probably don’t want to hear this,” she added, with grossly belated tact, “but Da makes that sort of noise all the time, and you sounded … just like him.”

He breathed through his teeth, biting back a number of remarks, none of them gentlemanly. Evidently his face spoke for him, though, for her face changed, losing its look of amusement, and she slid off her stool, came to him, and embraced him.

He wanted to push her away, but didn’t. She was tall enough that her chin rested on his shoulder, and he felt the cool touch of her paint-streaked hair against his heated cheek. She was muscular, solid as a tree trunk, and his arms went round her of their own volition. There were people in the house; he could hear voices at a distance, footsteps, thumps, and clanking—tea being served? he thought vaguely. It didn’t matter.

“I am sorry,” she said softly. “For everything.”

“I know,” he said, just as softly. “Thank you.”

He let go of her and they parted gently.

“Divorce isn’t a simple matter,” he said, clearing his throat. “Especially when one of the parties is a viscount and the heir to a dukedom. The House of Lords would have to vote and give consent on the matter—after hearing a full account of everything—and I do mean everything. All of which would be meat for the newspapers and broadsheets, to say nothing of gossip in coffeehouses, taverns, and all the salons in London.

“Though I suppose,” he went on, reaching for his hat, “that a divorce might well be granted. Having your husband convicted of treason seems like sufficient grounds. The results might not be worth it, though.” He punched the crown of his hat back into shape and put it on.

“Thank you,” he said again, and bowed.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Anytime.” She smiled at him, but it was a tremulous smile, and he felt regret at having worried her with his troubles. As he turned to go he caught sight once again of the row of portraits, one still shrouded.

She saw him glance at it and made a small, interrupted gesture.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. I don’t want to keep you—”

“I have very few demands upon my time at the moment,” he said, smiling. “What is it?”

She looked dubious, but then smiled, too.

“The painting of Fanny’s sister. I wondered whether you knew if the original drawing was made during the day or at night. I painted it as though it was daylight, but it occurred to me that …”

“That given her occupation and the fact that a client of the establishment drew her, it might well have been the evening,” he finished. “You’re right, it almost certainly was.” He nodded at Jane, invisible behind her veil of muslin.

“It would have been at night. There was a fire in the parlor—well, the one time I was in it, at least. And the walls were red, so there was a bit of that in the air. But I only saw her by candlelight. A candle with a brass reflector, a little behind and above her, so the light glowed on the top of her head and ran down the side of her face.”

Her brows—thick for a woman—rose.

“You recall her very well,” she said, with no tone of judgment. “Have you ever drawn, or painted, yourself?”

“No,” he said, startled. “I mean—I had a drawing master when I was a child. Why?”

She smiled a little, as though harboring a secret.

“Our grandmother was a painter. I was thinking you might have … inherited something from her. Like I did.”

The thought made his hands curl, with a slight shock that went through the muscles of his forearms. Our grandmother …

“Jesus,” he said.

“She looked a lot like me,” Brianna said casually, and reached to open the door for him. “And you. That’s where we got the nose.”

121 The Quality of Mercy

I WAS IN THE surgery, sorting seeds and enjoying the satisfaction of successful hoarding, when I heard a tentative knock at the front door. The door itself was open, to let fresh air flow through the house, and normally whoever was at the door would have called out. I heard faint whisperings and the shuffle of feet outside, but no one called, and I poked my head out to see who the visitors might be.

To my surprise, there was quite a crowd on the porch; a number of women and children, who all stirred with alarm at seeing me. One woman seemed to be the leader; she plucked up her courage and stepped forward and I saw that it was Mrs. MacIlhenny. Mother Harriet, she was called by everyone: white-haired, widowed three times, and mother to thirteen children and untold quantities of grandchildren.

“By your leave, a bhana-mhaighister,” she said, her voice hesitant, “might we speak with Himself?”

“Er …” I said, disconcerted. “I— Yes of course. I’ll just … tell him you’re here. Ah … won’t you … come in?”

I sounded nearly as hesitant as she did, and for the same reason. There were five women besides Mother Harriet: Doris Hallam, Molly Adair, Fiona Leslie, Annie MacFarland, and Gracie MacNeil. All of them were wives or mothers of tenants Jamie had excommunicated, and it was reasonably clear why they’d come. They’d brought nearly twenty children with them, from ten-year-old girls with their hair neatly braided to skirt-clinging toddlers and babes in arms, all scrubbed within an inch of their lives; the smell of lye soap rose off them in an almost-visible cloud.

Jamie was sitting at his desk with a quill in his hand when I came in, closing the door of the study behind me. He glanced toward the door; the whispering and shushing was clearly audible.

“Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes,” I said. “Five of them. With their children. They want to speak with you.”

He said something under his breath in Gaelic, rubbed his hands hard over his face, and sat up straight in his chair, squaring his shoulders.

“Aye. Let them come in, then.”

Harriet MacIlhenny came in with her head up, jaw clenched, and chin trembling. She stopped abruptly before Jamie’s table and collapsed onto her knees with a thud, followed by the other wives and half the children, spilling out into the hallway, all looking bewildered but obedient.

“We have come to beg thy mercy, Laird,” she said, bowing so low that she spoke to the floor. “Not for ourselves, but for our bairns.”

“Did your husbands put ye up to this?” Jamie demanded. “Get yourselves up, for God’s sake.”

“No, Laird,” Harriet said. She rose, slowly, but her hands were pressed so hard together that the knuckles and nails showed white. “Our husbands forbade us to come to ye; said they would beat us should we stir a foot out of doors. The gomerels would sacrifice us and the bairns for the sake of their pride—but … we came anyway.”

Jamie made a Scottish noise of disgust.

“Your husbands are fools and cowards, and they’ll pay the price of their foolishness. They kent what they were risking when they chose to cast their lots wi’ Cunningham.”

“Does a gambler ever think he’ll lose, Laird?”

Jamie had opened his mouth to say something further, but shut it at this shrewd stab. Harriet MacIlhenny had lived on the Ridge almost from its founding and knew very well who was the biggest gambler in this neck of the woods.

“Mmphm,” he said, eyeing her. “Aye. Well. Be that as it may, I’ve said what I’ve said and I willna go back. I put these men out for good cause, and that cause hasna vanished, nor is it likely to.”

“No,” Harriet agreed, real regret in her voice. She bowed her capped head. “But my six grown sons are loyal to ye, Laird, and to the cause of liberty—and my four brothers as well. Many of these good women can say the same”—she gestured to the serried ranks still kneeling on the floor behind her—“and do.” A murmur of agreement came from the crowd behind her, and one wee girl poked her head out from behind Harriet’s apron and said brightly, “My brother helped bring ye back from the landslide, sir!”

Harriet moved her skirts to obscure the child and coughed, the interruption giving Jamie enough time to look over the women and calculate exactly how many sons, brothers, uncles, grandsons, and brothers-in-law they possessed among them—and how many of those were men he either included in his gang or would like to. I saw the color rising up his neck, but I also saw the slight slump of his shoulders.

So did Harriet, but was wise enough to pretend not to notice. She folded her hands in front of her and humbly laid the rest of her cards on the table.

“We ken weel why ye banished the men, sir. And we ken even better the kindness that ye’ve always shown to us and our families. So we’ll swear ye an oath, Laird—a most terrible oath, in the names of Saint Bride and Saint Michael—that our husbands shall never again raise hand or voice against ye, in any matter.”

“Mmphm.” Jamie knew he was beaten, but he wasn’t surrendering just yet. “And how d’ye mean to guarantee their good behavior, a bhana-mhaighister?”

An inaudible but clear vibration that might have been amusement ran through the older ladies, though it vanished in an instant when Harriet turned her head to look over her shoulder at them. When she turned back, her eyes were fixed on me, not Jamie, which gave me a start.

“I’d suppose your wife could answer that for ye, Laird,” she said circumspectly, and let the corner of her mouth tuck in for a moment. Her gaze dropped to Jamie again. “None of the men can cook. But if ye dinna trust what a wife might do to a husband who’s taken the house from over her head and the food out of her bairns’ mouths … perhaps ye can imagine what the brothers and sons of those wives might do to him. If ye’d like me to have my lads come and swear that same oath to ye …”

“No,” he said, very dryly. “I’m no a man to discount an honest woman’s word.” He looked over the crowd, slowly, and sighed, putting his hands flat on the desk.

“Aye. Well, then. This is what I’ll do. I will revoke the letter of banishment—for your husbands—but the contracts I made with them as tenants remain void. And you’ll send your husbands to me, to swear their fealty. I willna have men on my land that may plot against me.

“But I shall write new contracts, between myself and each of you ladies, for the tenancy of the land and buildings ye live in, in witness of the faithfulness of … ehm … of your faithful husbandry of the same.” A definite titter ran through the room, and I smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Jamie didn’t laugh, but leaned forward, fixing each woman in turn with his eyes.

“Mind, this means that each of ye—each one, I say—is responsible for the rents and other terms of her contract. If ye want to accept your husbands’ advice and help, that’s well and good—but the land is yours, not his, and if he should prove false, either to you or to me, he’ll answer for it to me, even unto death.”

Harriet nodded gravely.

“We agree, my laird. We’re most grateful for your kind forbearance—and even more grateful to God that He’s let us save ye from the guilt of putting women and children out to starve.” She dropped him a deep curtsy, then turned and went out, leaving her followers to curtsy to him, each in turn, and murmur their thanks to their speechless, red-eared landlord.

THEY LEFT, MURMURING to one another in excitement and leaving the door open, as they’d found it. A cool breeze came down the hallway, carrying the ghost of lye soap.

I put my hands on Jamie’s shoulders. Hard as rocks, and so were the columns of his neck, under my thumbs.

“You did the right thing,” I said quietly, and began to massage the tight muscles, searching out knots. He sighed deeply, and his shoulders dropped a little.

“I hope so,” he said. “I’m likely nourishing a wee brood o’ vipers in my bosom—but it does lighten the weight on my heart.” After a moment he added, still looking down at his desk, “I did think o’ the other men, Sassenach. The brothers and sons, I mean. But what I thought was that they’d take care for the women and children—feed them, take them in if their husbands couldna find a place. I never thought … Christ, it was like havin’ my own guns taken and pointed at me!”

“You did the right thing,” I said again, and kissed the top of his head. “And you know that now all those women and children will be watching out like hawks, in case of any rannygazoo on the western side of the Ridge.” He turned his head and gave me an eye.

“I dinna ken what rannygazoo is, Sassenach, but God forbid I should have it without my knowing. Is it catching?”

“Very. Blessed are the merciful, for mercy shall be shown them.”

“I’m glad to find you so filled with mercy, Colonel,” said a dry voice from the doorway. “I only hope you may not have exhausted your store for the day.” Elspeth Cunningham stood on the other side of the threshold, tall and straight and dressed in black, a stark white fichu throwing her gaunt features into stern relief.

The muscles under my hands went momentarily as hard as concrete. I let go, and then Jamie was on his feet, bowing.

“Your servant, madam,” he said. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold, but stood for a moment, hesitant, a pinch of skirt caught between her fingers.

“Dinna think for a moment of kneeling to me,” Jamie said, matching the tone in which she’d spoken a moment before. “Sit down on your hurdies and tell me what it is ye want.”

I went round the desk and pulled up the visitor’s chair for her, and she sank into it, her deep-set eyes still fixed on Jamie.

“I want Agnes,” she said, without preamble.

Jamie blinked, sat down, blinked again, and leaned back, relaxing a little.

“What d’ye want her for?” he asked warily.

“Perhaps I should have said I’ve come to speir for her,” she said, with a trace of a smile. “If that’s the correct term?”

“Only if ye want to marry her,” Jamie said. “Which I suppose is what ye mean. Which one o’ the lieutenants did ye have in mind, and what does Agnes have to say about it?”

Elspeth sighed and unfolded her hands to accept the cup of whisky I offered her.

“At the moment, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other,” she admitted. “The silly creature can’t make up her mind between them, and as I’ve told her that there’s no way of knowing which of them fathered her child, neither has more of a factual claim upon her affections than the other.”

“I suppose you could wait ’til the child’s born and see who it looks like,” I suggested. I could—within fairly broad limits—discern blood types. That might help, but I thought I wouldn’t suggest it right this moment.

Just as well, since both of them ignored me.

“That’s why I said I want Agnes,” she said. “I’ve decided that I must accept your offer to provide transport for my son and his household. When he heard of your banishing the men who … followed him … he declared that he could no longer remain here, without supporters and at your … mercy.”

“My mercy,” Jamie muttered, drumming his fingers briefly on the table. “Hmmphm. Evidently I’ve an endless store o’ that. So?”

“Gilbert and Oliver will of course accompany us,” she went on, ignoring this. “They naturally do not wish to abandon Agnes …”

“Agnes has a home,” Jamie broke in impatiently. “Here. Abandon her, forbye!”

“Surely you will admit that they have a responsibility to the girl,” Elspeth said, lowering her strong gray brows at him in a way that made her look like a very stern owl.

“I will,” he said. “But I’ll not see her taken from her home unless she wants to go and I’m assured of her future welfare. I can find her a good husband here, ken?”

“I am offering you exactly such an assurance,” she snapped. “Do you dare to imply that I would see her abused in any way?”

“Ye’re an auld woman,” Jamie pointed out, rather brusquely. “What if ye die on the way to wherever ye’re takin’ your son?”

“Er … where are you taking him?” I interjected, more in hopes of stopping the conversation going straight off the rails than because I wanted to know.

“Would you die, if you knew someone was completely dependent upon you?” she shot back, ignoring me.

He paused for a moment and took a breath before replying evenly.

“Ye havena always got a choice about it, Elspeth.”

Elspeth’s nostrils flared as she inhaled, but she replied calmly.

“Yes,” she said, “you do. Barring being shot through the heart or struck by lightning,” she added, as one obliged to honesty. “But one of the few advantages to being an old woman is that no one shoots them. As for the lightning, I shall leave that to God, but my trust in Him is considerable.

“As to our destination,” she said, turning to me as though Jamie had ceased to exist, “Charles Town. There are navy warships there, and a large number of smaller frigates and army transports. Charles has written to Sir Henry Clinton, asking the favor of transport back to England aboard one of these. Sir Henry has known our family for many years and will certainly grant us the courtesy. Now, as to Agnes—” She switched her focus back to Jamie. “I will admit that my desire to take her with us is not solely for her benefit; plainly, I need her.”

There was a long moment of silence, with that simple declaration hanging in the air.

She did. The two young lieutenants would manage the physical difficulties of travel and provide protection for her and Charles. But she would need help, in caring both for her son’s demanding physical needs and for her own. Granted, she could easily engage a maidservant, but given Agnes’s delicate situation …

No one had mentioned the other aspect of that situation aloud, but Elspeth was more than perceptive enough to have grasped the fact that—everything else quite aside—she was an answer to prayer for Jamie.

I estimated the pregnancy at roughly three months, and it was a matter of weeks, if not days, before Agnes’s situation was known all over the Ridge. And it was, naturally, Jamie’s responsibility as her employer to resolve the situation in some publicly satisfactory manner. Finding the young man responsible and obliging him to marry Agnes would be the usual thing, but under the circumstances … To have your unmarried maidservant growing visibly pregnant in your house—or hastily married off to someone who was patently not the father—was to invite speculation that you had had something to do with her condition. And we’d both been there before …. I shivered, the echo of Malva’s denunciation, “It was him!” ringing in my ears.

“Speaking as Agnes’s … er, other loco parentis …” I said. Jamie and Elspeth both smiled, involuntarily, but I ignored them and pushed on. “I have a small condition to suggest. I’ll help you to persuade Agnes, because I think it’s really the best way of handling her predicament. But if she decides to go with you, I want an assurance that you’ll provide her with an education …”

“Agnes?” Both of them had spoken together, and while Jamie’s intonation indicated doubt and Elspeth’s, amusement, their unanimity did give me a moment’s pause.

“Education to do what, Sassenach?” Jamie asked. “Fanny’s taught her to read, and she can write her name and count to a hundred. What else d’ye think she’d find useful?”

“Well …” It was true that while Agnes was pretty, amiable, kind, and willing, and had a certain shrewd perception born of experience, she wasn’t a natural student. Still, there was no telling what might happen to her, and I wanted her to be … safe.

“She should know enough arithmetic to be able to handle money,” I said, finally. “And she should have a little money to handle. Of her own.”

“Done,” Elspeth said quietly. “My son will settle a modest amount on her, independent of her husband—whoever that turns out to be,” she added, a little bleakly. “And I’ll see to her education myself.”

No one spoke for a moment, and I began to hear the normal sounds of the house, the clumps and squeaks and rattling and barking, and the sound of distant conversation that the tension of our discussion had blocked out.

Footsteps crossed the ceiling over our heads, quick and light, and I caught a murmur and the giggle of young girls, amused. I relaxed a little. Fanny would miss Agnes cruelly, but at least she would have the Hardman girls for company.

“I’ll go and talk to Agnes now,” I said.

122 The Militia Rides Out

JAMIE KNELT AND SLICED the stitching of the burlap bag, folded back the top, and breathed deep. Huffed all his air out and breathed deeper, then sniffed thoughtfully. A rich, nourishing smell, nutty and sweet. No scent of mold, at least not at the top. Down at the bottom, though, where the damp settled …

He rose and pushed back one set of the big sliding doors that Bree had built for both sides of the malting shed, so they could open it up in fine weather. And it was a fine day, one fit for birdsong, rambling the woods, and maybe fishing a bit near sunset. A morning fit for small, peaceful jobs like replacing a board in the malting floor that had caught fire and was blackened enough that it might taint the flavor of the roasting grain. Fit for judging the quality of the barley on hand. He’d harvested two hundredweight of grain from his own fields in the autumn, and bought another hundredweight from the trading post, but they’d had time to malt, brew, and distill only half of it, what with an early winter, bad weather, and the disturbance at the Lodge in February. He scratched his chest; the scar was well healed, but he could still feel it pull when he stretched his arms wide.

He dragged the bag near the open doorway for light and dumped it carefully over the floor, kneeling and spreading it with his hands, looking for sprouting, damp, mold, bugs, or any of the other things you might not want in your whisky. And as a last check, chewed a few grains, then spat them out into the grass.

“Tha e math,” he murmured, and got to his feet. He fetched the square malting shovel down from its pegs and shoveled the fresh grain aside, making room for the next bag.

A warm breeze brushed his cheek as he opened the sliding door. It was a beautiful day. He’d maybe stop by Ian’s and take Lizard to the lake with him tonight.

These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flapping and crying out of a flock of doves nearby, disturbed by something coming. Wary, he took hold of the shovel and keeked out—but it was only a man, coming down the path alone. Hiram Crombie. They hadn’t spoken since the stramash at Lodge.

“Hiram,” he said, as the man grew near and lifted his chin in greeting. Crombie’s pinched face lightened a little at Jamie’s use of his Christian name. He nodded slightly and came closer, still with a wary look, in case Jamie had it in mind to bat him over the head with the shovel, Jamie supposed. He stood the shovel in the mound of grain and straightened up, wiping his sleeve across his face.

“I’ve come to say …” Crombie started, but then stopped, unsure.

“Aye?” He kent well enough what Crombie had come to say, but he wasn’t above making him say it out loud. The auld curmudgeon was already stiff as a dried stick, but his arms seemed stuck to his sides. His fists curled, slowly.

“I—we—I regret … what happened. At the Lodge.”

“Aye.”

Silence, broken only by the wittering of birds in the nearby pines, waiting for Jamie to go away so they could flock down and poach the spilled grains. Crombie drew in air through his long, hairy nose; it whistled slightly, but Jamie didn’t laugh.

“I wish ye to ken that it wasna the doing of myself nor my brother or my cousins. We …” He stopped and swallowed, muttering, “… sorry for it,” under his breath.

“Well, I kent that much, Hiram,” Jamie said, stretching his back. The scar across his chest was burning from the shoveling. “Whatever ye think of the King, I dinna suppose ye’d try to kill me on his account.”

Hiram’s shoulders began to lower, but before he could get comfortable, Jamie added, “But I suppose ye kent what Cunningham was about, and ye didna warn me.”

“No.” After a moment, apparently feeling that this wasn’t an adequate explanation, Hiram blew out his breath and shook his head. “No, I didna. But I kent that Duff and McHugh had a whiff of it—I saw them watching Cunningham when he came out of kirk, like twa foxes watchin’ a wolf go past. And they’re your men. I thought they’d warn ye something was up. But Geordie Wilson—my wife’s brother, ken—he’s one of Cunningham’s. I couldna speak to ye without him gettin’ wind of it, and then …”

“Aye,” Jamie said, after a moment’s pause. “No man wants trouble in his family, and it can be helped.”

Hiram’s shoulders slumped in relief. He nodded to himself for a bit, and then spoke again.

“A wee time past, I said I wished to speak wi’ ye about a matter.”

Jamie remembered. In fact, Crombie had approached him on the way to Lodge that night. Which made him feel more kindly toward the man; he couldn’t have had a hand in what was afoot, if he’d wanted a favor from Jamie at that point.

“Ye did. About a’ Chraobh Ard, I think ye said?”

“Aye. I wanted to ask if ye’d maybe take him as a member of your militia.”

Well, that was a surprise. He’d been expecting a request that Jamie let Cyrus court Frances officially, and he would have said no to that. But this …

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“He’s sixteen,” Hiram said, shrugging as though this was a complete answer. And it was. A boy that age needed badly to start being a man. And if he hadn’t got a man’s proper work to do …

The other side of the matter was plain, too. Hiram Crombie was anxious that his family should now be seen to stand solidly with Jamie, and Cyrus was his offered hostage. That’s reassuring, Jamie thought wryly. He thinks we might win.

Jamie spat in his palm and offered it.

“Done,” he said. “Send him to me tomorrow, just afore dawn. I’ll have a horse for him.”

SILVIA HAD VOLUNTEERED to rise early—very early—and make the gallons of brose and porridge to feed the militia. The warm, creamy smell crept up the stairs and eased me into wakefulness like a soft hand on my cheek. I stretched luxuriously in the warm bed and rolled over, enjoying the picture of Jamie, long-legged as a stork and stark naked, bent over the washstand to peer into the looking glass as he shaved by candlelight. Dawn was no more yet than a fading of the stars outside the dark window.

“Getting all spruced up for the gang?” I asked. “Are you doing something formal with them this morning?”

He drew the razor over his pulled-down upper lip, then flicked the foam to the side of the basin.

“Aye, horse drills. It’ll just be the mounted men today. With the Tall Tree, we’ll have twenty-one.” He grinned at me in the mirror, his teeth as white as the shaving soap. “Enough for a decent cattle raid.”

“Can Cyrus ride?” I was surprised at that; the Crombies, Wilsons, MacReadys, and Geohagens were all fisher-folk who had come to us—by God knew what circuitous and difficult means—from Thurso. They were, for the most part, openly afraid of horses, and almost none of them could ride.

Jamie drew the blade up his neck, craned his head to evaluate the results, and shrugged.

“We’ll find out.”

He rinsed the razor, dried it on the worn linen towel, then used the towel to wipe his face.

“If I mean them to take it seriously, Sassenach, they’d best think I do.”

THE SKY WAS lightening, but it was still dark on the ground and only a few of the men had gathered when Cyrus Crombie came down out of the trees above New House. The men glanced at him in surprise, but when Jamie greeted him, they all nodded and muttered, “Madainn mhath,” or grunted in acknowledgment.

“Here, lad,” Jamie said, thrusting a wooden cup of hot brose into the Tall Tree’s hand. “Warm your belly, and come meet Miranda. She belongs to Frances, but the lass says she’s willing to lend ye the mare until we can find ye a horse of your own.”

“Frances? Oh. I-I thank her.” The Tall Tree glowed a bit and glanced shyly at the house, and then at the horse. Miranda was a big mare, stout and broad-backed, and with a gentle, accommodating manner.

Young Ian had come down now, in buckskins and jacket, his hair plaited and hanging down his back, Tòtis following him. He glanced round the group of men, nodding, then kissed Tòtis’s forehead and lifted his chin toward the porch. Then Ian came for his own brose, lifting a brow in the direction of Cyrus.

“A’ Chraobh Ard will be joining us, a bhalaich,” Jamie said casually. “Will ye show him the way of it, to saddle and bridle Miranda, while I tell the men what we’re about?”

“Aye,” Ian said, swallowing hot barley broth and exhaling a cloud of white steam. “And what are we about?”

“Cavalry drills.” That made Ian raise both brows and glance over his shoulder at the group of men, who looked like what they were—farmers. They all owned horses, and could ride from the Ridge to Salem without falling off, but beyond that …

“Simple cavalry drills,” Jamie clarified. “Riding slowly.”

Young Ian looked thoughtfully at Cyrus, standing at eager attention.

“Aye,” he said, and crossed himself.

WHEN I WENT upstairs to tie up my hair before starting the soap making, I found Silvia and all four of the girls in my bedroom with Frances, Patience, and Prudence more or less hanging over the sill to watch the militia ride out. They barely noticed me, but Silvia stepped back a little, abashed, and began to apologize.

“Don’t worry at all,” I said, and stepped up behind Patience to peer out. “There’s something about a group of men on horses …”

“With rifles and muskets,” she said, rather dryly. “Yes, there is.”

I thought the girls hadn’t quite grasped the fact that the militia group was drilling and training for the express purpose of killing people, but their mother assuredly had and watched the men forming up, with the usual calling out and crude jokes, with a certain grimness that deepened the lines bracketing her mouth. I touched her arm gently and she turned her head, startled.

“I know that you and your daughters would prefer to die, rather than have other people killed so that you don’t … but you know … you’re our guests. Jamie’s a Highlander, and his laws of hospitality forbid him to let anyone kill his guests. So I’ll have to ask you to stretch your principles a bit and let him protect you.”

Her lips twitched and her eyes met mine with a gleam of humor.

“As a matter of good manners?”

“Exactly,” I said, smiling back.

A squeal from the girls drew us back to the window. Jamie was mounted, passing slowly up and down the line of his men, inspecting their tack and their weapons, pausing to ask questions and make jokes. Steam rose from horses and men, their breaths white in the cold dawn air. Cyrus was at the end of the line, and Young Ian was instructing him on the finer points of mounting a horse, starting with which foot to begin with.

“Oh, doesn’t he look fine?” Prudence said, admiring. I wasn’t sure whether she meant Jamie, Young Ian, or Cyrus, as they were all more or less in the same place, but I made sounds of approval.

It seemed to take a long time for the men to organize themselves, but suddenly they all shuffled and jostled into place in a double column. Jamie took his place at the head of it and lifted his rifle above his head. A sort of jingling rumble reached us, and the militia moved out, with a visible sense of purpose that was quite stirring to watch.

Cyrus, upright as a stalk of uncooked asparagus, rode beside Young Ian, the last pair in line. I crossed myself, then turned to my own troops.

“Well, ladies … it’s a fine day for making soap. Fall in!”

JAMIE AND THE Lindsay brothers, with some help from Tom McHugh and his middle son, Angus, had cut down the trees and brush along one side of the wagon road where the land was flat, so that there was no bank between road and forest. They had left eight big trees standing, spaced about thirty feet apart.

“So,” Jamie said to his gathered troops, and nodded at the trees. “We’re going to weave through those trees—going to one side of the first, then the other side of the next, and so on. And we’re going to do it slowly, one man following the next after a slow count of ten.”

“Why?” said Joe McDonald, squinting at the trees suspiciously.

“Well, first, because I say so, a charaid,” Jamie said, smiling. “Ye always do what your colonel says, because we’ll fight better if we’re all goin’ in the same direction—and for that to happen, somebody has to decide which direction to go … and that’s me, aye?” A ripple of laughter ran through the men.

“Oh. Aye,” McDonald said, uncertainly. Joe was young, only eighteen, and had never fought in a battle, bar fists behind somebody’s barn to settle a grudge.

“But as for why I’m tellin’ ye to do this—” He gestured toward the trees. “This is for the horses. We’re a mounted militia—though we’ll have foot soldiers, too—and the horses must be nimble and you able to guide them through strange ground. Cavalrymen do this sort of drill; it’s called a serpentine—because ye weave like a snake, aye?” Without pausing for further question, he looked at Ian and jerked his head sideways.

Ian nudged his horse and turned slowly out of the group, reined around to face the trees, then leaned forward and with a bloodcurdling scream that made all the other horses snort and stamp, dug in his heels and shot for the first tree as though he and the horse had been fired from a gun. In the instant before collision, they dodged aside and shot toward the next, whipping in and out of the line of trees so fast you could scarcely count the trees as they passed. At the end of the line, they turned on a sixpence and shot back even faster, arriving with a high-pitched Indian yip to shouted applause.

Jamie glanced at Cyrus, who looked at once terrified and excited, the reins clutched up to his chest.

“So now we’ll do it slow,” Jamie said. “Ye want to go first, Joe?”

AT THE END of an hour, both horses and men were warm, limber, and in high spirits, having—for the most part—avoided collision with each other or trees. The sun was well above the horizon now; they’d best head back, so the men could get breakfast and go on to their daily chores. He was about to dismiss them when Ian stood in his stirrups and called over the men’s heads.

“Uncle! Race ye to the bend and back!” There was a general rumble of enthusiasm at this proposal, and Jamie reined round without hesitation, drawing up beside Ian.

“Go!” shouted Kenny Lindsay, and go they did, thundering down the dirt road in a churn of dust and encouraging Highland shrieks from behind. Ian’s horse was a shrewd wee mare named Lucille, who didn’t like being beaten—but neither did Phineas, and it was hell-for-leather all the way and the forest a green blur beside them.

They hit the big bend in the road and shot round it to make the turn. Lucille swerved suddenly, shouldering Phineas with a thump that nearly unseated Jamie, and he caught a glimpse of a wagon in the middle of the road, but no time to look, occupied as he was in staying in the saddle and getting Phin back under control.

There were shouts behind them, thundering hooves and two or three gunshots—the whole militia had let exuberance boil over and joined the race, God damn them. Phin was curvetting and jerking, and while it took no more than seconds to bring him in mind of his duty, the whole boiling of men and horses was down upon them, shouting and laughing. He stood in his stirrups to call out, furious—and then saw the wagon that had startled Lucille, its mules twitching and stamping in their traces, but not so spooked that they meant to run.

The rampage had come to a swirling, mud-churning halt round the wagon, and there was a moment’s silence in the shouting. Bree was holding the mules and doing a fine job of it, he saw. Beside her, Roger raised both hands high.

“Don’t shoot,” he said gravely. “We surrender.”

JAMIE POURED THE last of the JF Special whisky into Roger’s cup, picked up his own, and raised it to the company round the dinner table—and scattered over the kitchen, to boot—this including Young Ian’s family as well as his own, Silvia and her lassies, plus Cyrus Crombie, Murdo Lindsay, and Bobby Higgins, the unwed and widowed men who’d come back with him after the militia’s drilling.

“Thanks to God for the safe return of our travelers,” he said. “And”—bowing to Roger Mac—“for the guidance and blessing of our new Minister of Word and Sacrament. Slàinte mhath!”

Roger Mac didn’t blush easily, but the warmth he felt showed in his face as well as his eyes. He opened his mouth—probably to say modestly that he wouldn’t be truly ordained ’til the summer, when the elder ministers could come from the coast—but Bree put a hand on his knee and squeezed to stop him, so the lad just smiled and lifted his cup in response.

“To family,” he said, “and good friends!”

Jamie sat down amid the resultant shouts and poundings on the table that made the dishes dance, smiling too, and warm with it, forbye. The whole room flickered with firelight and the changing faces, lively with talk and food and drink.

He wished that Fergus and Marsali and their bairns were here, too, but Roger had said they’d left Charles Town with the MacKenzies, but then turned north, meaning to have a look at Richmond as a possible place to resume their printing. He said a brief, silent prayer for their safety.

Claire was sat beside him on the bench, wee Mandy sound asleep on her lap, half draped over her arm like a sack of grain and just as heavy. He reached over and lifted the bairn, croodling her against his chest, and Claire bent toward him and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, in gratitude. He saw her hair and Mandy’s for a moment, their mad curls swirled together, and felt such love that he kent if he died just then, it would be fine.

Claire straightened and he looked up then to see Roger Mac, with something of the same look on his own face. Their eyes met with a perfect understanding. And both of them looked down at the tabletop, smiling amid the scattered crusts and bones.

123 And the Beat Goes on …

THE SOJOURNERS—THE ADULT sojourners—slept rather late in the morning. The children, naturally, popped out of their beds at dawn and ran down to infest the kitchen. Children being what they are, Jem and Mandy had made instant friends with Agnes and the Hardman girls. Mandy was enchanted with Chastity, and insisted upon feeding her breakfast in tiny bites, cheeping at her in a motherly tone, as though Chastity were a baby bird, which made Chastity giggle and snort milk through her nose.

Going out to get a fresh pail of milk from the springhouse, I met Brianna drifting downstairs, dressed but obviously not completely awake yet.

“How are you, sweetheart?” I looked her over carefully; she was paler and thinner than she had been when they’d left for Savannah, but a wagon trip of three hundred miles, through God knew what conditions of weather, warfare, and unpredictable food supplies, managing two horses, a husband, and two children whilst sitting on a load of contraband guns disguised as bat guano, would naturally take it out of one. She looked happy, though.

“I can’t believe the house! It’s …” She flung out a hand and looked round, then laughed. “But Da still hasn’t put a door on your surgery.”

“He’ll get around to it.” I glanced at the kitchen, but the buzzing and giggling was peaceful, and I took her arm, towing her toward the doorless surgery. “Let me listen to your heart. Hop up on the table and lie down.”

She looked as though she wanted to roll her eyes, but hopped, nonetheless, athletic as a grasshopper, and eased herself down, closing her eyes and sighing with pleasure at the feel of the newly padded surface.

“Oh, God. I haven’t had a bed this soft since we left Savannah. Certainly not this clean.” She stretched luxuriously, and I could hear the soft pop of her vertebrae. “Lord John sends his love, by the way.”

“Is that what he said?” I said, smiling as I reached for my Pinard.

“No, he said something much more elegant, but that’s what he meant.” She opened one eye, regarding me shrewdly. “And His Grace the Duke of Pardloe begs me to convey his deepest regards. He wrote sort of a note for you.”

“Sort of?” I’d seen one or two missives from Hal, in the course of my brief marriage to John—and I’d heard a lot more about them from John. “Did he sign it with his whole name?”

“Yes, but he was pretty upset. But you know, stiff upper lip and all that.”

I stared at her.

“Upset? Hal? About what? Undo your laces.”

“That,” she said, squinting down her long nose at her fingers on the laces, “is kind of a long story.” She flicked a glance at me. “I take it Da knew that William was in Savannah when he suggested I go?”

“Lord John mentioned that, yes—in the letter he wrote inviting you to come and paint that society woman’s portrait. How did that work out, by the way?”

She laughed.

“I’ll tell you all about Angelina Brumby and her husband later,” she said. She closed one eye, fixing me with the other. “Don’t try and change the subject. William.”

“You met him?” I couldn’t keep the hope out of my voice, and she opened both eyes.

“I did,” she said, and looked down while she pulled the last lace from its loop. “It was … really good,” she said softly. “He came to the Brumbys’ house—Lord John just sent him to see ‘the Lady Painter’; he hadn’t told him about me, either. What is it with those two?” she demanded suddenly, looking up. “Da and Lord John. Why would they do that? Not tell us about each other being in Savannah, I mean.”

“Shyness,” I said, and smiled a little ruefully. “And they both have a sort of delicacy—though you might not think it. They didn’t want to put any burden of expectation on either you or William.” And Jamie, at least, had been very much afraid that his children might not like each other, and his wish that they would was too important to speak of, even to me.

“They meant well,” I said comfortably. “How is William?”

The underlying delight in her face at being home didn’t ebb, but she shook her head with a small frown of sympathy.

“Poor William. He’s such a good guy, but my God! How does anyone that young manage to have such a complicated life?”

“Your life wasn’t that simple in your early twenties, as I recall …” I untied the ribbon of her shift and placed the flat bell of the Pinard against her chest. “Poor choice of parents, I expect. Deep breath, darling, and hold it.”

She obliged, and I listened. Listened again, moved the Pinard, listened … Lub-DUB, lub-DUB, lub-DUB … Regular as a metronome and a good, strong sound. I put a hand on her solar plexus, feeling the abdominal pulse, just in case, but that was just as strong, the firm flesh of her belly bouncing a little under my fingers with each beat.

“Everything sounds good,” I said, looking up—and thinking as I saw her face how very beautiful she was in this instant. Home. Safe. Alive.

“Are you all right, Mama?” she said, looking at me suspiciously, because my eyes had gone slightly moist.

“Certainly,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Have you had much trouble with the fibrillation?”

“No,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “It happened two or three times on the way to Charleston, and once or twice while we were there. Only twice in Savannah, at least bad enough that I noticed. But I don’t think it’s happened at all—or if it has, only for a few seconds—on the trip back.

“I kept taking the willow bark,” she assured me. “Only after a while, I started grinding the leaves up and making pills out of them with cheese, because the tea made me pee all the time, and I couldn’t stop painting every fifteen minutes to go find a chamber pot. I don’t think cheese would neutralize the willow bark, do you?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “Congratulations—you’ve invented the world’s first cheese-flavored aspirin. They didn’t upset your stomach?”

She shook her head and pulled up the neck of her shift.

“No, but I figured that the cheese might buffer the acid—don’t they tell people with ulcers to drink milk?”

“Yes, that or an antacid. Honey actually works quite well for—” I stopped abruptly.

She’d just tied the ribbon of her shift and I’d reached for the laces to hand them to her, but my left hand was still resting on her abdomen, a little lower down. And I was still feeling the heartbeat.

A faint, fast heartbeat. Tiny and busy and very strong.

LubdubLubdubLubdub …

“Mama? What’s wrong?” Bree had sat up, alarmed. All I could do was shake my head at her.

“Welcome home,” I managed to say to the newest resident of the Ridge. And then I burst into tears.

AMID THE UPROAR of general rejoicing over the news of Brianna’s pregnancy and the bustle of reassorting the population of the house—the Hardmans took over the half-finished third floor, tacking canvas over the windows to keep out the rain, and Roger and Brianna moved into their usual room; Fanny and Agnes, being now Women, were given their own part of the attic for privacy, but continued to sleep in carefree heaps with the younger children, as did the Hardman girls—it was some time before I remembered the note Brianna had given me.

I’d tucked it in the pocket of the apron I’d been wearing at the time and found the note several days later, when I decided that the apron was really too filthy to be sanitary and had to be washed.

The note emerged—a small, neat block of intricately folded paper, with a swan flying across a full moon stamped into the wax that sealed it. It was addressed on the outside to Mrs. James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina, but true to John’s description of Hal’s correspondence habits, had no salutation and a message consisting of slightly fewer words than were strictly necessary. He had signed it, though.

I don’t know what you and my brother did to each other, but evidently you’re a bit more than friends. If I don’t come back from what I’m about to do, please look after him.

PostScriptum: Can you recommend to me some herbal preparation of a lethal nature? For poisoning rats.

Harold, Duke of Pardloe

There was a large H under this, presumably in case I didn’t recognize him by his title. I set the paper gingerly on top of the pie safe, where I could stare at it while kneading bread.

I wanted to laugh, and did smile—but it was a nervous smile. For poisoning rats, forsooth … From what I knew of Hal’s personality, he might be planning murder, suicide—or the actual extirpation of rodents in his cellar. As for what he was about to do …

“The mind boggles,” I said, under my breath, and slapped the elastic dough onto the floury worktable, folding and punching it into a fresh ball. I put this back into the bowl and covered it with a damp cloth, then stood there like a stupefied chicken, blinking at it and wondering what on earth the brothers Grey were up to. I shook my head, put the bowl on the small shelf near the chimney, and left the bread to rise while I walked down the hall to Jamie’s study.

“Have you got a sheet of paper, and a decent quill?” I asked.

“Aye, here.” He’d been leaning back in his chair, brow furrowed in thought, but leaned forward to pluck a quill out of the jar on his desk and handed me a sheet of Bree’s plain rag paper.

I took these with a nod of thanks and, standing by his desk, wrote:

Jamie had been watching me write, reading the message upside down without difficulty, and looked up with raised brows as I finished and waved the note in the air to dry it. I put it down and laid Hal’s note beside it, in front of him.

The eyebrows didn’t go down as he read. He looked up at me.

“It’s meant to be a joke,” I said. “The bit about the foxgloves, I mean.”

He made a restrained Scottish noise and pushed the notes back toward me.

“Maybe you’re jokin’, Sassenach—but he isn’t. Whatever he said to ye.”

124 The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

IT WAS A STORMY day, and cold on the quay, with a strong wind whipping up whitecaps on the river and bent on whipping off their hats, as well. The tender had almost finished loading—its last load, bound for the cargo holds of the army transport Hermione, waiting at anchor.

“Have you ever been on a ship?” William asked suddenly.

“No. Just canoes.” Cinnamon was twitching like a nervous horse, ready to bolt. “What’s it like?”

“Exciting, sometimes,” William said, in what he hoped was a tone of reassurance. “Mostly boring, though. Here, I brought you a going-away present.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small jar of murky liquid and a smaller vial with a dropper.

“Just in case,” he told Cinnamon, handing these over. “Dilled cucumber pickles and ether. In case of seasickness.”

Cinnamon eyed the gifts dubiously, but nodded.

“You suck a pickle if you feel queasy,” William explained. “If that doesn’t work, take six drops of the ether. You can put it in beer if you like,” he added helpfully.

“Thank you.” The wind had restored Cinnamon’s usual ruddy glow. “Thank you,” he said again, and seized William’s hand in a grasp of crushing earnestness. “And tell your sister—how much … how much …” The tide of rising emotion choked him, and he shook his head and wrung William’s hand harder.

“You told her,” William said, easing the hand free and repressing an urge to count his fingers. “She was happy to do it. She’s happy for you. So am I,” he added, patting Cinnamon affectionately on the forearm, as much to avoid being seized again as from the very real affection he felt. “I’ll miss you, you know,” he added diffidently.

He would, and the realization struck him like a blow behind the ear. He felt suddenly hollow, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Moi, aussi,” Cinnamon said, and looked down at his new boots, clearing his throat.

“All aboard!” The naval lieutenant captaining the tender was glaring down at them. “Now, gentlemen!”

William picked up the new portmanteau—a gift from Lord John—and thrust it into Cinnamon’s hand.

“Go,” he said, smiling as hard as he could. “Write to me from London!”

Cinnamon nodded, speechless, then, at another irate shout from the tender, turned and lumbered blindly aboard. The tender’s sails dropped and filled at once, and within a minute, they were in the middle of the river, flying toward the unknown future. William watched the little ship out of sight, then turned back toward Bay Street with a sigh, his sense of loss tinged by envy.

“Au revoir, Michel,” he said, under his breath. “Now who am I going to talk to?”

125 A Woman of the Second Type

ONCE CINNAMON HAD GONE, William moved from the small house they had shared back into Lord John’s house, at his father’s invitation. Amaranthus, Lord John said firmly, needed company.

“She doesn’t accept invitations,” he’d told William, “and only goes out now and then to the shops—”

“She must be in low spirits,” William said. He’d meant it jokingly, but the way in which his father glared at him made him feel ashamed. “Surely you’ve told her that no one knows?”

“Of course I have,” Lord John said impatiently. “So has Hal, with a surprising amount of delicacy. She just hangs her head and says she can’t bear to be seen. ‘On display’ was the rather odd way she put it.”

“Oh,” said William, somewhat enlightened. “Well, that does make more sense.”

“It does?”

“Well,” William said, a little awkwardly, “as a young widow, and the mother of the heir to Uncle Hal’s title … she’d attract—I mean, she did attract a good deal of … interest? At parties and dinners and that sort of thing, I mean.”

“And enjoyed such interest very much, so far as I could see,” his father observed cynically, giving him a sidelong look.

“Quite.” William turned aside, picking up and pretending to examine a Meissen plate from the sideboard. “But now she’s been … er … exposed, so to speak … even if only among us …” He coughed. “I think perhaps she feels she can’t act the part of a beautiful young widow, and, um …”

“She’d feel somewhat conscious, flirting with fatheaded young men, knowing that even if neither Hal nor I was present, we’d likely hear about it. Hmm.” Lord John appeared to find this dubious, but plausible. Then he made the next—inevitable, William supposed—deduction.

“After all, what would she do if one of the bright young sparks she touched caught fire and asked for her hand?” Lord John frowned, the next thing having occurred to him. He looked hastily over his shoulder, then moved closer to William and lowered his voice.

“What would she have done if that happened and we didn’t know the truth?”

William shrugged and spread his hands in an affectation of complete ignorance.

“God knows,” he said, with complete truth. “But it didn’t.”

Lord John looked as though he wanted to say something else, but instead merely shook his head and moved the plate two inches, back into its exact position.

“Perhaps she could go to luncheons, or tea parties, or—or quilting routs?” William hazarded. “Things with just women, I mean.”

His father laughed shortly. “There are two kinds of women in the world,” he said. “Those who enjoy the company of women and those who prefer the company of men. For one reason or another,” he added fairly, “it’s not always to do with lust or marriage.”

“And you imply that Amaranthus is not one of the first type.”

“William, it’s sufficiently obvious that even you will have noticed it, and I assure you the other women have. Women of the first type dislike women of the second type, particularly if the woman of the second type is young, beautiful, and possessed of either charm or money.” He ran a hand through his hair, still thick and blond, though showing traces of white near his face. “I suppose I could beg Mrs. Holmes or Lady Prévost to ask Amaranthus to a hen party of some sort, but I very much doubt that she’d go.”

“And even knowing what you do,” William said, quite gently, “you like her and worry that she’s lonely. After all, the situation’s not her fault.”

His father sighed heavily. He was looking rather disheveled, and a faint smell of spoilt milk hung about him, likely connected to the imperfectly cleaned whitish stain on his charcoal-colored sleeve. Trevor had been weaned but had not yet mastered the mysteries of drinking from a cup.

“You need a nursemaid,” William said.

“Yes, I do,” his father said promptly. “You.”

HE COULDN’T SAY he was sorry to be back in Oglethorpe Street. Bachelor living with John Cinnamon had been pleasant enough, and it was good to have a friend always at hand, to share whatever came along. But he was happy—if a little anxious—for Cinnamon. The small house they’d shared on the edge of the marsh seemed damp and desolate, and his spirits sank when the sun went down, leaving him alone in the shadows with the smell of mud and dead fish. It was good now, to wake in the morning to sunlight and the noises of people in the house below.

And then there was the food. Whatever Moira’s intransigence with regard to grilled tomatoes, the woman was a phoenix with fish, shellfish, and roasted alligator with apricot sauce. She had even—with a little persuasion and the gift of a bottle of good brandy—allowed Lord John to teach her how to make Potatoes Dauphinoise.

And then there was Amaranthus.

He saw at once what Lord John had meant: she was subdued, picking away at her needlework with eyes downcast, only speaking when someone spoke to her. Polite, always—but always distant, as though her thoughts were elsewhere.

Probably in New Jersey, he thought, and was surprised to feel a sort of sympathy for her. It truly wasn’t her fault.

William set himself to bring her back into cordial society and, in the process, found that some parts of his own character that he had set aside over the last year were not in fact dead. He was beginning to dream at night—about England.

They played games in the evening. Chess, draughts, backgammon, dominoes … if Hal or someone else was there for supper, they played whist or brag, and all three men smiled to see Amaranthus light up in the fire of competition; she was a cutthroat cardplayer and played chess like a cat, her changeable eyes fixed on the board as though the chessmen were mice, an imaginary tail gently waving to and fro behind her shoulder, until she pounced and showed her white teeth.

Still, the sense of merely passing time was slightly oppressive. The whole city was pervaded by a similar atmosphere, though the sense of suspended activity had a deep and urgent reason. With the French ships gone and Lincoln and the Americans retreated to Charles Town, Savannah had gone about picking up the pieces: houses broken by cannon had been repaired as quickly as possible, but with the spring had come fresh paint, and the bright pinks, yellows, and blues of the city bloomed anew.

The abatis and redoubts outside the city remained, though the winter storms and high tides had eroded the farthest defenses. The remnants of the American camp had all but disappeared by now, salvaged by slaves and apprentices.

But if the thought of Benjamin in New Jersey lay under Amaranthus’s outward composure, the thought of Charles Town was openly and constantly in the minds of the Savannah garrison.

Dispatches came frequently, with news from New York and Rhode Island, where Sir Henry Clinton was staging his troops for a voyage. Hal being who he was, and John being not only his brother but also his lieutenant colonel, the household was well aware of General Clinton’s intent to attack Charles Town as soon as the weather allowed of such an adventure.

All through April, dispatches had arrived by ship and by rider, in an increasing flurry of excitement and intensity. As the siege progressed Uncle Hal strode to and fro outside his house, unable to bear confinement but not wanting to leave lest any news arrive in his momentary absence.

“It’s highly unlikely that we’ll need to move more men to Charles Town,” Lord John had told William, who had just likened his uncle to a pregnant cat on the verge of delivering kittens. “Clinton’s got plenty of men and artillery, he’s got Cornwallis, and whatever its other faults, the British army does know how to conduct a siege. Still, if—or rather when—the city falls, we might be summoned, and if so, it will be in an almighty hurry. But chances are, we’ll just be left here cooling our heels,” he added warningly, seeing the eager look on William’s face. He paused thoughtfully, though, looking at his son.

“Would you think of taking up a commission, should that happen?” he asked.

William’s first impulse was to say yes, of course, and it was clear that his father saw that, for while Lord John had done his best to avoid saying anything to William regarding his future, the mention of a commission had brought a faint gleam of hope into his father’s face.

William took a deep breath, though, and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”

SAVANNAH WAS IN bloom, the squares and gracious streets covered with magnolia petals and fallen azalea blooms, gardenias, jasmine, and wisteria perfuming the air and charming the eye. Lord John’s house, cozy and warm through the winter, seemed suddenly confined and unbearably stuffy.

William persuaded Amaranthus to come out with him for a walk, to enjoy the morning air and the cooling breeze from the sea. And she did seem to enjoy it; her head rose proudly and she went so far as to nod pleasantly to ladies that she knew—most of whom bowed or nodded graciously back. William smiled and bowed, too, though he saw the speculative looks on the faces under the broad straw hats and lacy bonnets. A couple of pursed lips and sidelong glances, too.

“They’re disappointed,” Amaranthus remarked, sounding mildly amused. “They think I have ensnared you.”

“Let them,” William replied, briefly patting the hand she’d placed in the crook of his arm. “Though if you disdain to exhibit your capture in public, we could walk down to the beach.”

They paused at the head of the stone steps that led down to the water at the end of Bay Street and took off their shoes and stockings; the stone was wet and slippery, but felt wonderful on the soles of William’s bare feet. The sand felt even better, and releasing Amaranthus’s hand, he shucked his coat and ran away, far down the beach, the unbuckled knees of his breeches flapping and seabirds calling overhead.

He came back blown and happy, to find that she had taken off her hat and cap, unpinned her hair, and was dancing on the sand, curtsying to an unseen lover, whirling away and back again, hand outstretched.

He laughed and, coming to her from behind, took the hand, turned her toward him, bowed, and kissed her knuckles. She laughed, too, and they sauntered slowly down the beach, the damp sand rising up between their toes. They hadn’t spoken since they’d reached the beach, and there seemed no need. There were a few people on the beach, fishermen, women netting shrimp in the shallows or digging for clams, and idlers like themselves. No one gave them more than a casual glance. By unspoken consent, they turned and headed away from the town, out through the grass and up the river, passing a half-buried remnant of canvas, once an army tent, now left flapping in the wind.

At last they stopped, knowing they had come far enough, and stood for some time, watching fishing boats and barges coming down the river and rowboats and dories crossing to the other side, where a few warehouses awaited the goods they bore.

Amaranthus sighed, and William thought there was something wistful in her face, as though she wished she, too, could sail free upon the water.

“You could get a divorce, you know,” he blurted.

She turned her head sharply, body tensed, and looked him up and down, as though to determine whether this was an ill-timed attempt at wit. Concluding that it wasn’t, she let her shoulders relax and merely said, “No, I couldn’t,” in the patient tone one might use to tell a child why he oughtn’t to put his hand into the fire.

“Certainly—well, almost certainly,” he corrected himself, “you could. I—have been thinking that I must go back to England, soon. To deal with things. You could travel with me, under my protection. Ben’s not a duke yet, but he’s still a peer. That means a divorce would have to be granted by the House of Lords—and they’d do it in a flash, once they heard about General Bleeker. Mere infidelity is one thing; treason’s quite another kettle of fish.”

Her nostrils whitened, but she kept her temper.

“That is exactly what I mean, William. Do you think I haven’t thought of divorce? How brainless do you think I am?”

There wasn’t any sort of good answer to that question, and he wisely didn’t try.

“What do you mean by ‘exactly,’ then?” he asked instead.

“I mean treason,” she said, exasperated. “What else could I mean? As you say, if I were to petition the House of Lords for a divorce on the basis that Ben has abandoned me, not for a trollop but for General Washington, they’d grant it in a heartbeat, if I could prove it—and I do think you’d come and testify to it, if need be, William.” She gave him half of a rueful smile before returning to her argument.

“And the newspapers and broadsheets and every salon in London would be buzzing for weeks—no, months!—about it. What would that do to your uncle? To his wife? His brother? To Ben’s brothers and his sister? How could I possibly do that to them?” She made a passionate gesture, flinging out her arms in frustration.

“The regiment? Even if the King didn’t disband it outright, he’d never trust Father Pardloe again. Neither would the army.”

“I see,” he said stiffly, after a moment’s silence. He took a breath, and then took her hand, carefully. She didn’t jerk it away or slap him, though she didn’t respond to his touch, either.

“I only want to say that I didn’t suggest divorce from any motive of self-interest,” he said quietly. “I thought you might suppose …”

She’d been fixedly looking out at the water, but turned at that and met his eyes, her look straight and serious, eyes gray as the overcast sky.

“I might have,” she said softly. She was close enough that her skirts, stirring in the breeze, wrapped round his naked calves, and kissing his knuckles lightly she let go his hand.

“We should—” she began, but then stopped dead, staring. “What’s that?”

He turned to look and saw a naval cutter, ensign flying in the wind, tearing down the river toward them. As it passed, he caught a flash of army uniforms aboard.

“News,” he said. “From Charles Town. Let’s go!”

THEY SAW THE cutter at the quay as they hurried back, then a small group of army and naval officers laboriously climbing the slippery stone stairway to Bay Street.

William inflated his lungs and bellowed, “Has Charles Town fallen?”

Most of the officers ignored him, but a young ensign trailing at the end of the group turned and shouted, “Yes!” with a beaming countenance. The young man was hastily grabbed by the arm and dragged along, but the group was plainly in too much hurry to waste time on official rebuke.

“Oh, dear God.” Amaranthus was panting, pressing the heel of her hand into her corset. William had quite forgotten her, in the excitement, but at once took the shoes and stockings from her other hand and urged her to sit down and let him help re-shoe her.

She did, and laughed, in small breathless spurts.

“Really. William. What do you think me? A … mare?”

“No, no. Certainly not. A filly, maybe.” He grinned at her, and pulled her last stocking up to her knee. He had to leave her shoe buttons undone, having no buttonhook and no clue how to use one if he had, but he tied her garters briskly and she could at least walk.

“They’ll have gone to Prévost’s headquarters,” he told her, as they reached Oglethorpe Street. “I’ll see you to Papa’s house, then I’ll go find out the details.”

“Come back as soon as you can,” she said. She was windblown and panting, with red splotches on her cheeks from trotting over the cobblestones. “Please, William.”

He nodded and, handing her in at the gate, strode off in the direction of General Prévost’s headquarters.

By the time he returned, it was well after teatime, but Moira and Amaranthus and Lord John’s new housekeeper, a tall, irritable woman aptly named Miss Crabb, had kept some cake for him and were all waiting impatiently to hear the news.

“Partly it was the slaves,” William explained, licking a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Sir Henry had already put out a proclamation, offering freedom to any slave of a rebel American who might choose to fight for the British army—and when this was reiterated to the countryside around Charles Town, there was quite an outpouring of men from both countryside and the city. And as these were men with a strong knowledge of the terrain, as you might say …”

Moira refilled his teacup, eyes gleaming over the squat gray teapot.

“Ye mean to say as how ’twas black men that turned upon their masters, and that’s how the city fell? Good on ’em!”

“Mrs. O’Meara!” Miss Crabb exclaimed. “You cannot mean that!”

“The divil I don’t,” Moira replied stoutly, plunking the pot back on the table with such force that tea sputtered across the cloth. “And ye’d mean the same, if ye’d ever been a ’denture, like I was. Death to the masters, says I!”

Amaranthus uttered a shocked laugh and tried to turn it into a coughing fit by burying her face in a handkerchief.

“Well, I do gather that Lord Cornwallis and his regulars had some hand in the surrender,” William said, keeping his countenance with some difficulty. “He led his troops onto the mainland, while Sir Henry was capturing the offshore islands, and besieged the city with cannon and trenches.

“And whilst all this was going on, in mid-April, Sir Henry sent two of his officers to take a place called Monck’s Corner. Banastre Tarleton—I know him, very vigorous officer—and Patrick Ferguson. They—”

“You know Ban Tarleton?” Amaranthus said, surprised. “I know him, too. How funny! I—trust he escaped injury?”

“So far as I know, yes,” William said, surprised, too. He was reasonably sure that nothing short of a cannonball at close range would have made a dent in Tarleton; he’d had a brief passage with the man—over Jane, and the thought conjured up a host of feelings he didn’t want to deal with. He swallowed tea and coughed a little. “I’ve not heard of Ferguson—do you know him?”

He supposed it wasn’t odd that she should. Prior to turning his coat, Ben had been a major in the British army, and his battalion was—so far as William knew—still with Clinton.

She shrugged a little. “I met Major Ferguson once. A small, pale Scottish creature with a crippled arm. Very intense, though, with those sort of pale gooseberry eyes.”

“I suppose he is. Intense, I mean. Sir Henry sent him out to collect Loyalists for a provincial militia, and I understand he’s done quite well. His Loyalists fought with Major Tarleton’s troops to take Monck’s Corner—and that cut off the main line of retreat for the Americans. So then—”

Before he had told them all he’d heard, the table was a wreck of empty plates, spilled saucers, and lines of sugar, pepper, and salt, illustrating the movements of Clinton’s army.

“And so Charles Town fell, day before yesterday,” William ended, slightly hoarse from talking. “Lincoln had offered to give up the city three weeks before, if his men were allowed to walk out unharmed. Clinton knew he had the stronger hand, though, and kept up the bombardment, until Lincoln finally surrendered unconditionally. Five thousand men, they said, all taken prisoner. A whole army. Is there more tea, please, Moira?”

“There is,” she said, getting ponderously to her feet. “But if it was my choice to make, son, I’d be gettin’ out the fine brandy. Seems as though such a victory’s deservin’ of it.”

This notion passed by general acclamation, and by the time Lord John arrived home, well past midnight, there were no more clean glasses and only an inch of brandy left in the last bottle.

Lord John eyed the shambles of his sitting room, shrugged, sat down, and, picking up the bottle, drained it.

“How are you, Papa?” William had stayed up, leaving the women to make their separate ways to bed, and had sat by the fire, thinking. Sharing the general glow of the victory, to be sure—but envious, too, of the men who had won it.

He missed the camaraderie of the army, but more than that, he missed the sense of shared purpose, the knowledge that he had a part to play, people who depended upon him. The army had its strictures, and not inconsiderable ones, either—but by contrast, his present life was shapeless and lacking … something. Everything.

“I’m fine, Willie,” his father said affectionately. Lord John was plainly exhausted, held up mostly by his uniform, but clearly in good spirits. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course.” William got up, and, seeing his father put his feet under him but then hesitate as though uncertain what came next, smiled and bent to hoick Lord John out of his chair. He held on to his father’s arm for a moment, to make sure he was steady, and felt the solid warmth of his body, got the smell of a man, a soldier, sweat and steel, red wool and leather.

“You asked whether I might consider buying a commission,” William said abruptly, surprising himself.

“I did.” Lord John was swaying a little on his feet—clearly the inch of brandy just consumed was only the icing on his evening’s cake—but his eyes were clear, if bloodshot, and met William’s with a quizzical approval. “You should be certain, though.”

“I know,” William said. “I’m only thinking.”

“It’s not a bad time to rejoin,” his father said judiciously. “You want to get in before the fun’s over, I mean. Cornwallis says the Americans won’t last another winter. Bear that in mind.”

“I will,” said William, smiling. His own level of intoxication wasn’t much below his father’s and he felt a warm benevolence for the army, England, and even my lord Cornwallis, though he normally considered that gentleman to be a tiresome nit. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, Willie.”

THE BEGINNING OF a battle is usually much better defined than its ending, and even though Charles Town concluded with a formal and unconditional surrender, the aftermath was, as usual, long, drawn out, complicated, and messy.

The flood of dispatches did not abate, though the ratio of excitement to tedium dropped considerably. More parts of the Savannah garrison were indeed carved off and sent north—but to guard prisoners and escort them to prison hulks or other insalubrious quarters, rather than to join in glorious battle.

“At least at the end of our siege, Lincoln took his army off with him,” William remarked to his father and uncle. “Less to tidy up, I mean.”

“Took them off north so Cornwallis could bag them all, you mean.” Uncle Hal was inclined to be snappish, but William had been around soldiers for the majority of his life and recognized the poisonous slow sapping nature of tension that could not be discharged in a good fight, resulting in prickliness and disgruntlement.

“At least Ben wasn’t there,” Uncle Hal added, in a tone that made Papa look sharply at him. “Save me having to shoot him myself to keep him from being hanged.” One corner of his mouth jerked up, in an apparent attempt to make this sound like a joke. Neither his brother nor his nephew was fooled.

A muffled gasp from the door made all three men glance round, to see Amaranthus in her calico jacket and straw hat, she having evidently been out. She had a hand pressed over her mouth, either to keep from saying whatever she was thinking—or perhaps to keep from vomiting, William thought. She was white as one of Lord John’s porcelain figurines, and William moved to take her arm, in case she was about to faint.

She took her hand away from her mouth and let him lead her to a chair, giving Uncle Hal a horrified look as she went. He went a dull red and cleared his throat with a strong harumph.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, unconvincingly.

Amaranthus breathed for a few moments, her bosom stirring the folds of her pale-blue fichu. She shook her head slightly, as though rejecting the advice of an angel on her shoulder, and clenched her gloved hands upon her knee.

“Do you truly mean you would prefer him to be dead?” she said, in a voice like cut glass. “Is his being a traitor more important than his being your son?”

Hal closed his eyes, his face going blank. Lord John and William exchanged uneasy glances, not knowing what to do.

Hal grimaced slightly and opened his eyes, pale blue and cold as winter.

“He made his choice,” he said, speaking directly to Amaranthus. “I can’t change that. And I would rather have him killed cleanly than captured and executed as a traitor. A good death might be the only thing I still could give him.”

He turned and left the room quietly, leaving no sound but the hissing of the candles burning behind him.

WILLIAM WAS DRESSING to go down for breakfast the next morning when a frenzied pounding on his door interrupted him. He opened it to see Miss Crabb in her wrapper and curling papers, holding Trevor, who was in a red-faced passion.

“She’s gone off!” the housekeeper said, and shoved the howling child into his arms. “He’s been bellowing for nearly an hour, and I couldn’t stand it, I really couldn’t, so I went down and found this!” He hadn’t a hand to spare, but she waved a folded note at him in accusation, then stuffed it between his chest and Trevor, unwilling to suffer its touch any longer.

“Er … you’ve read it?” he asked, as politely as possible, shifting Trev to one arm in order to pluck the note out of his shirtfront.

The housekeeper puffed up like an angry, if scrawny, hen.

“Are you accusing me of impertinence, sir?” she demanded, above the noise of Trevor’s wail of “Mamamamamamamamama!” Then she looked down and noticed that William, who had not assumed his breeches yet, was standing there unshaved and barefoot, in nothing but his shirt. She gasped, turned, and fled.

William was beginning to wonder whether perhaps he hadn’t awakened at all and was in the midst of a nightmare, but Trevor put paid to that notion by biting his arm. He hoicked Trevor onto his shoulder, patted his back in a business-like manner, and carried him downstairs—still shrieking—in search of assistance.

He felt oddly calm, in the way that one sometimes is during nightmares, merely watching as terrible things transpire.

She’s gone. He hadn’t the slightest doubt that Miss Crabb was right. He couldn’t get beyond the simple fact of Amaranthus’s disappearance, though. She’s gone. The part of his mind capable of asking questions and making speculations was either still asleep or shocked into paralysis.

He pushed the door to the dining room open and went in. Lord John was sitting at the table in his purple-striped banyan, dipping toast into the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, but at sight of William and his burden, he dropped the toast and shoved back his chair.

“What the devil’s happened?” he asked sharply, coming to William at once. He reached for Trevor. “Where’s Amaranthus?”

“She’s gone,” William said, and the speaking of the words aloud opened a sudden hollow inside his chest, as though someone had scooped out his heart. He carefully unclenched his hand and dropped the crumpled note on the table. “She left this.”

“Read it,” Lord John said shortly. He had thrust an eggy toast soldier into Trevor’s mouth, magically silencing him, and now sat down, balancing the child on his knee.

Dear Uncle John, William read, conscious of his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

126 When I Go to Sleep at Night, I Die

THE MACKENZIES’ ROOM WAS quiet; the house had gone to bed, and even Adso, who had wandered in and curled up on Brianna’s lap an hour ago, was snoring in a sort of syncopated purr interrupted by small mirp! noises as he spotted dream-mice. The noise had roused Roger from his doze; he lay on his side, watching his wife through a pleasant haze of the sleep that had left him, but not gone far.

As with all redheads, the color of her hair depended on the light in which one saw her: brown in shadow, blazing in sunlight, and by the light of a low-burning fire, a fall of changing color, sparked with threads of gold. She was writing, slowly, lifting her quill now and then to frown at the page in search of a word, a thought. Adso stirred, yawned, and began to knead her thighs and belly, claws prickling through her shift and wrapper. She hissed through her teeth and pushed back from the table.

“You leave something to be desired as a muse,” she whispered to the cat, putting down her quill and carefully detaching his claws. She scooped him up, rose, and took him to the bed where Roger lay, curled up in the bedclothes, eyes almost closed. She set Adso down at the foot of the bed and stood back to watch. The cat stretched luxuriously, then—without opening his own eyes—oozed slowly up the bed and curled into the spot between Roger’s face and shoulder, purring loudly.

Roger slid a hand under Adso, picked him up, and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Are ye coming to bed soon?” he asked sleepily, brushing cat hairs away from his mouth.

“Right now,” she assured him. She shrugged out of her wrapper and tossed it on the floor, where Adso, who had been blinking grouchily, promptly took possession of the nice warm nest thus provided and settled down on it, eyes going back to blissful slits. Brianna blew the candle out; Roger heard the tiny spatter of wax droplets on the tabletop.

“That cat sounds like a motorboat. Why is he in here, anyway? Oughtn’t he to be out in the barn hunting vermin?” Roger lifted the quilts and squirmed back, welcoming her in. It had rained earlier and the night chill of her was delicious. She settled solidly into his arms with a shudder of relaxation, and his hand settled contentedly on her lovely, blooming belly.

“Mama says cats are attracted to people working, so they can get in the way. I guess I’m the only person in the house who was doing anything at this hour.”

“Mmm.” He breathed near her ear. “Ye smell like ink, so ye must have been writing, not drawing. Letters?”

“Nooo … just, you know, thoughts. Maybe something for the kids’ book, maybe not.” She was trying to sound casual, but mention of the Practical Guide for Time Travelers brought him to full wakefulness.

“Oh?” he said, cautious. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” she said frankly, “but I’d like to tell you about it. It could wait until morning, though …”

“As if something like coherent conversation happens in the morning around here,” he said, and rolled onto his back, yawning. “All right, tell me.”

“Well … you remember I was thinking about the problem of mass.”

“Dimly, yes. I don’t recall what you decided, though.”

“I didn’t,” she said frankly. “I just don’t know enough—and there are a lot of problems with the hypothesis that I don’t have a way to resolve. But it made me think about what mass is.”

“Mmh.” His eyes were closed, but his hand slid down her back and cupped her behind, warm and substantial. He jiggled it, gently. “There’s some. I’m pretty sure that’s mass.”

“Yes. So’s that.” She slid a hand down between them and cupped his testicles. Lightly, but it made him open his eyes.

“Point taken,” he said, and moved his hand to the small of her back. “So?”

“What do you think happens to us when we die?”

That woke him completely, though it took a moment to assemble words.

“When we die,” he said slowly. “If you mean in terms of our souls, the basic truth is that we don’t know, but we do have faith that we’ll go on existing, and we have a pretty good reason for having said faith. But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

“No. I mean bodies. Physically.”

He changed metaphysical gears, not without a small sense of clashing and grinding.

“You mean something other than just … er … decay?”

“Well, no, that is what I mean—but kind of … beyond rotting.”

He rolled onto his side and she followed, nestling under his chin, much like Adso, but with better-smelling hair.

“Beyond rotting … this is the kind of thing that keeps you up at night? God, what kind of dreams do you have? You’re the scientist here, but so far as I know, the process just goes on … what, dissolving?”

“Dissolution. Yes, exactly.”

“You know, normal people talk about sex in bed, don’t they?”

“Most of them probably talk about what horrible thing their child did during the day, the price of tobacco, or what to do about the sick cow. If they can stay awake. Anyway—I only had the required physics classes in college, so this is pretty basic and it may be completely wrong, and—”

“And nobody will ever be able to prove it one way or the other, so let’s not trouble about that part,” he suggested.

“Good thought. And speaking of smelling …” She turned her head and snuffled gently at his neck. “You smell like gunpowder. You haven’t been hunting, have you?” Her voice held a certain amount of incredulity. Not without reason, but he was slightly nettled.

“I have not. Your da asked me to show a’ chraobh àrd how to load his new musket and fire it without knocking his teeth out.”

“Cyrus Crombie?” she said. “Why? Da isn’t conscripting him into his gang, is he?”

“I believe ‘partisan band’ is the proper term,” Roger said primly. “And no. Hiram asked Jamie to take the boy on and teach him to fight—with a gun and dirk, that is. He said if it was a matter of fists, any fisherman could lay a landsman out like a flatfish without half trying—and he’s probably right—but none of the Thurso folk had ever even held a gun before coming here, and most of them still haven’t. They fish, and snare, and trade for meat.”

“Mm. Do you think Hiram made him, or was it Cyrus’s own idea?”

“The latter. He’s courting Frances—in his own inimitable way—but he knows he hasn’t a chance unless your da thinks he’ll make her a good husband. So he means to prove his mettle.”

“How old is he?” Brianna asked, a note of concern in her voice.

“Sixteen, I think,” Roger said. “Old enough to fight, so far as that goes.”

“So far as that goes,” she muttered, huffing a little under her breath, and he knew why.

“Jemmy won’t be old enough to ride with them before the war’s over,” he assured her. “No matter how good he is with a gun.”

“Great. So he can stay and guard the ramparts here with me, Rachel, and Aunt Jenny and the Sachem, while the partisan band—and Mama, because she won’t let Da go alone—and probably you—go roaming the countryside, getting their asses shot off.”

“As you were saying about your physics class …?”

“Oh.” She paused to regather her thoughts, a small soft frown between her brows. “Well. You know all about atoms and electrons and that sort of thing?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, there are smaller things than that—subatomic particles—but nobody knows how many or exactly how they work. But while we were hearing about that in class, the instructor said something about how everything—everything in the universe and probably even if there’s more than one universe—everything is made of stardust. People, plants, planets … and stars, I suppose.

“‘Stardust’ not being a scientific term,” she added, just in case he’d thought it was. “Just that everything is composed of the same infinitesimal bits of matter.”

“Yes?”

“So what I’m thinking is … maybe that’s what happens when someone steps through a time place. I’m almost sure that it’s an electromagnetic phenomenon of some kind, because of the ley lines.”

“Ley lines?” He was surprised. “I wouldn’t think you’d be running into those in a physics class.”

She rolled a little, in order to look up at him. Her breath tickled the hairs on his chest and warmed his neck as she talked. She’d grown warm with talking; he could feel the vibration of words through her back as she spoke. It was curiously arousing.

“‘Ley line’ is kind of an informal term, but … you know that the earth’s crust is magnetic, right?”

“I can’t say I did, but I’m willing to take your word for it.”

“You may. And you do know that magnets are directional? Did you play with them as a kid?”

“You mean, positive end, negative end, and if you put the positive ends of two magnets together, they bounce apart? Yes, but what’s that got to do with ley lines?”

“That’s what a ley line is,” she said patiently. “The electromagnetism in the earth runs in parallel bands, and the bands alternate in the direction of their magnetic current. Though it’s not totally neat and tidy, of course. They diverge and overlap and like that. Haven’t I told you this stuff before?”

“Possibly.” He abandoned his half-formed amorous intentions, with a sense of regret. “But the ley lines I know about are … I don’t know what you’d call them, in terms of classification. Folklore, ancient builder stuff? At least in the British Isles, if you go looking at ancient hill forts and churches that are probably built on much older sites of worship and … well, things like standing stones, you often find that you can draw a straight—very straight, in most cases, as though it had been surveyed—line through two or three or four such sites. Archaeologists call those ley lines—though some folk call them spirit walks, because the dead are thought to … Oh, my God.”

A brief, uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

“Goose walking on your grave?” she asked, sympathy slightly marred by a look of satisfaction.

“Not everybody makes it,” he said, ignoring both sympathy and smugness. He pushed back the covers and sat up. “Through the stones. That’s what you mean? That the people who don’t go through, or don’t go through properly, turn up dead on these ley lines, leading to the not-unreasonable supposition that there’s something supernatural going on.”

“I hadn’t heard of spirit walks,” she admitted. “So I can’t say that’s what I mean—but it makes sense, doesn’t it?” She didn’t wait for him to admit it, but went on with her own line of thought.

“So … I’m thinking that the … time places … are maybe spots where different ley lines converge. If so, what happens to the electromagnetism in that spot would be really interesting, and it might be what … makes time be accessible? I mean, Einstein’s Unified Field Theory—”

“Let’s leave Albert out of it,” he said hastily. “At least for now.”

“All right,” she said agreeably. “Einstein never got it to work, anyway. All I’m saying is, maybe when you walk into one of those places—if you have the right genetics for it—you, um, die. Physically. You dissolve into stardust, if you want to call it that—and your particles can pass through stone, because they’re smaller than the atoms that make up the stones.”

Roger felt a distinct lurch in his insides at the memory of what it felt like. Being dead wasn’t putting it too strongly, but …

“But we come out again,” he pointed out. “If we die, we don’t stay dead.”

“Well, some of us don’t.” She’d sat up, too, arms curled around her knees. “If we believe Otter-Tooth’s journal and that skunk Wendigo Donner, some of their companions made it through the stones but came out dead. And there are all those incidents in Geillis Duncan’s journal—strange people, often in odd clothes—turning up dead near stone circles.”

“Aye,” he said, with the faint internal squirm that affected him when his green-eyed five-time-great-grandmother was mentioned. “So … you think you have a notion why that doesn’t happen to everybody.”

“I’m not sure it amounts to that much,” she admitted. “But it kind of goes along with what you were saying about what Christians believe—that we go on living after death. If you think about what it feels like”—she swallowed—“in there. You feel like you’re coming apart but you’re trying as hard as you can not to; to keep your—your sense of your body, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said.

“So maybe what we are in—there—is the immortal part of us; souls, if you like.”

“As a Christian minister, I like it fine,” he said, trying for some semblance of normality in this conversation. Like it or not, he was remembering that spectral cold, and the skin down his arms and legs prickled with gooseflesh. “So …?”

“Well, see, I think that’s maybe where the gemstones come in,” she explained. She moved closer to him, putting a warm hand on his bare and prickling leg. “You know what it feels like when they burn up—when the chemical bonds between their molecules, or maybe their atoms or subatomic particles, are breaking. And when you break a chemical bond, it releases a lot of energy. Since it’s releasing that energy inside our—our clouds of dissolving stuff, maybe …?”

“Maybe that’s what keeps the bits of our bodies together, you’re saying?”

“Mm-hm. And—this just occurred to me …” She turned to him, eyes widening. “Maybe you can lose a few bits in transit, but still make it out—just with a little damage. Like an irregular heartbeat.”

Neither of them spoke for a bit, contemplating.

“You are hiding that book, right?” he asked. This discussion was disquieting enough; thought of having the same discussion with Jemmy made his stomach turn over.

“Yes,” she assured him. “I was hiding it in the bottom of my sketchbox, but even Mandy knows how to open that now.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t be interested. I mean, it’s not got a title or pictures …”

She shot him a sharp glance.

“Don’t you believe it. Kids snoop. I mean, maybe you didn’t, being a goody-good preacher’s lad …” She was laughing at him, but dead serious underneath. “But I went through my parents’ stuff all the time. I mean, I knew what size my mother’s brassieres and panties were.”

“Well, that would have been well worth knowing … No, I did, too,” he admitted. “Not about the Reverend’s underpants—he wore long johns, with buttons, year-round—but I learned a lot of really interesting things I wasn’t supposed to know, mostly about the Reverend’s congregation. He gave me my dad’s letters from the War when I was about thirteen—but I’d read them two or three years before, from his desk.”

“Really?” she said, diverted. “Did you wear long johns with buttons, too?”

“Me and every other young lad in Inverness in the 1940s. You know how cold it gets up there in winter—but actually, when I was about thirteen, I found a trunk of my dad’s old RAF uniform stuff that they’d sent home when he—disappeared.” He swallowed, stabbed by the unexpected memory of the last time—and it was the last, he was sure—he’d seen his father. “There were a few pairs of underpants amongst the other things; the Reverend told me the fliers called them ‘shreddies,’ God knows why—but they looked like what you’d call boxer shorts. I took to wearing those, in the summers.”

“Shreddies,” she said, tasting the word with pleasure. “I’m not sure whether I’d rather see you in those or in the button-front long johns. Anyway, I’ve been hiding it in Da’s study. Everybody’s afraid to mess around in there—except Mama, and I suppose I ought to show this to her, anyway. When I’ve thought it out a little further.”

“To be honest, I think seeing whatever you’re writing would give your da the absolute whim-whams.”

“Like the whole thing doesn’t anyway.”

And he’s not the only one, Roger thought. A cool draft of rain-scented air from the window touched his back.

“Ye told me that when a scientist makes a hypothesis, the next thing to do is test it, right?”

“Yes.”

“If ye think of a way to test this one … don’t tell me, aye?”

127 Imetay Ravelerstay Anualmay, Onservationcay Ofway Assmay N Nrg

THE NEXT DAY, ROGER came down from the malting floor in search of beer for Jamie and Ian, and found Brianna in Jamie’s office, writing.

She looked up at him, frowning, pencil in hand.

“How old is Pig Latin, do you know?”

“No idea. Why?” He looked over her shoulder at the page.

“Time Traveler’s Manual?” he asked, looking at her sideways. She was flushed and had a deep line showing between her brows, neither of which detracted from her appeal.

She nodded, still frowning at the page.

“What we were talking about last night—it gave me a thought and I wanted to put it down before I lost it, but—”

“You don’t want to risk anybody stumbling over it and reading it,” he finished for her.

“Yep. But it still needs to be something the kids—or Jemmy, at least—can read, if necessary.”

“So tell me your valuable thought,” he suggested, and sat down, very slowly. He’d been working at the still with Jamie for the last three days, hauling bags of barley, then carrying the cases of rifles—Jamie had got another twenty, through the good offices of Scotchee Cameron—from their hiding place under the malting floor down to the stable-cave and finally unpacking and cleaning said rifles. He ached from neck to knees.

“So you don’t know anything about Pig Latin,” she said, eyeing him skeptically. “Do you remember what I told you about the principle of the conservation of mass?”

He closed his eyes and mimed writing on a blackboard.

“Matter is neither created nor destroyed,” he said, and opened his eyes. “That it?”

“Well done.” She patted his hand, then noticed its state: grimy and curled into a half fist, his fingers stiff from gripping the rough burlap bags. She pulled his hand into her lap, unfolded the fingers, and began to massage them.

“The whole formal thing says, ‘The law of conservation of mass states that for any system closed to all transfers of matter and energy, the mass of the system must remain constant over time, as the system’s mass cannot change, so quantity can neither be added nor removed.’”

Roger’s eyes were half closed in a mingling of tiredness and ecstasy.

“God, that feels good.”

“Good. So what I’m thinking is this: time travelers definitely have mass, right? So if they’re moving from one time to another, does that mean the system is momentarily unbalanced in terms of mass? I mean, does 1780 have four hundred twenty-five more pounds of mass in it than it ought to have—and conversely, 1982 has four hundred twenty-five pounds too little?”

“Is that how much we weigh, all together?” Roger opened his eyes. “I’ve often thought the kids each weighed that much, all by themselves.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said, smiling, but unwilling to lose her train of thought. “And of course I’m making the assumption that the dimension of time is part of the definition of ‘system.’ Here, give me the other one.”

“It’s filthy, too.” It was, but she merely pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and wiped the mixture of grease and dirt from his fingers. “Why are your fingers so greasy?”

“If you’re sending something like a rifle across an ocean, you pack it in grease to keep the salt air and water from eroding it. Or guano dust getting into the mechanism.”

“Blessed Michael defend us,” she said, and despite the fact that she obviously meant it, he laughed at her Bostonian Gaelic accent.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, swallowing a yawn. “The rifles are safe. Go on with the conservation of mass; I’m fascinated.”

“Sure you are.” Her long, strong fingers probed and rubbed, pulling his joints and avoiding—for the most part—his blisters. “So—you remember Geillis’s grimoire, right? And the record she kept of bodies that were found in or near stone circles?”

That woke him up.

“I do.”

“Well. If you move a chunk of mass into a different time period, do you maybe have to balance that by removing a different chunk?”

He stared at her, and she looked back, still holding his hand, but no longer massaging it. Her eyes were steady, expectant.

“You’re saying that if someone comes through a—a portal—someone else from that time has to die, to keep the balance right?”

“Not exactly.” She resumed her massage, slower now. “Because even if they die, their mass is still there. I’m sort of thinking that maybe that’s what keeps them from passing through, though; they’re headed for a time that … that doesn’t have room for them, in terms of mass?”

“And … they can’t go through and that kills them?” There seemed something illogical in this, but his brain was in no condition to say what.

“Not that, exactly, either.” Brianna lifted her head, listening, but whatever she’d heard, the sound wasn’t repeated, and she went on, bending her head to peer into his palm. “Man, you have huge blisters. I hope they heal up by the ordination—everybody will be shaking your hand afterward. But think about it: most of the bodies in Geillis’s news clippings were unidentified, and mostly wearing odd clothes.”

He stared at her for a moment, then took his hand from hers and flexed it gingerly.

“So you think they came from somewhere—sometime—else, and got through the stones—but then died?”

“Or,” she said delicately, “they came from this time, but they knew where they were going. Or where they thought they were going, because plainly they didn’t make it there. So, you know …”

“How did they find out that they maybe could go?” he finished for her. He glanced down at her notebook. “Maybe more people read Pig Latin than you think.”

128 Surrender

ROGER WAS SEATED IN the family privy, not from bodily necessity but from an urgent need for five minutes of solitude. He could, he supposed, have gone into the woods or taken momentary refuge in the root cellar or the springhouse, but the house and all its surroundings were boiling with humanity, and he needed just these few minutes to be by himself. Not—not by any means—alone, but not with people.

Davy Caldwell had arrived last night, with the Reverends Peterson (from Savannah) and Thomas (from Charles Town). The house was as prepared as half a dozen determined women could make it; the church had been cleaned and aired and filled with so many flowers that half of Claire’s bees were zooming in and out of the windows like tiny crop dusters. The scents of barbecued pork, vinegar and mustard slaw, and fried onions drifted through the cracks in the walls, making his stomach twitch in anticipation. He closed his eyes and listened.

To the sounds of the festivities gearing up, the distant rumble of people talking, the fiddles and drums tuning up by Claire’s garden—even the loud nasal drone of a bagpipe in the distance. That was Auld Charlie Wallace, who would pipe the ministers into church—and pipe them out again, their number augmented by one.

He’d been uncertain about the piping, given the Reverend Thomas’s opinions regarding music in church, but Jamie—of all people—had said that he didn’t think the sound of the pipes should really be called music.

“People dance to it,” Bree had said, amused.

“Aye, well, folk will dance to anything, if ye give them enough liquor,” her father replied. “The British government says the pipes are a weapon of war, though, and I’ll no just say they’re wrong. Put it this way, lass—ye ken I dinna hear music, but I hear what the pipes are sayin’ fine.”

Roger smiled, hearing this in memory. Jamie wasn’t wrong, and neither had been the British government.

Fitting, he thought, and closed his eyes. He was under no illusions that what he was about to do wasn’t one—and an important one—of innumerable steps on the road to a great battle.

Yes, he thought in reply to a silent question he’d answered before, would answer again, however often it came—and he knew it would. Yes, I’m scared. And yes, I will. And in the stillness of his beating heart, all sounds faded into a great, encompassing peace.

JAMIE HAD SEEN an ordination once, in Paris, in the great cathedral. He had gone with Annalise de Marillac, whose brother Jacques was one of the ordinands, and consequently had had a place with her family, from which he could see everything. He remembered it vividly—though in honesty, his memories of the early parts of the ceremony were mostly of Annalise’s bosom and her perfumed, excited warmth throbbing beside him. He was sure that getting a cockstand in a cathedral must be some sort of sin, but as he’d been too embarrassed to explain it in Confession, he had let it pass under the guise of “impure thoughts.” He cleared his throat, glanced at Claire, and straightened up.

This ceremony was quite different, of course—and yet at the heart of it, it was strikingly the same.

The words were in English, not Latin—but they said similar things.

Grace to you and peace

from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Sisters and brothers in Christ, we come together with thanksgiving as congregation and

Presbytery to praise the Lord who has brought us to this day of the ordination

Of Roger Jeremiah MacKenzie as Minister of this congregation and parish.

Notre Dame de Paris had a mighty organ and many choristers; he remembered how the sound had shaken the air and seemed to quiver in his bones. Here, there was no music but the calls of birds that came through the open windows, no incense save the smell of pine boards and the pleasant tang of soap and sweat among the people. Brianna, on his left, smelled of flour and apples, and Claire on his right carried her usual varying scent of green things and flowers. From the corner of his eye, he caught a wee movement; a bee had landed on her head, just above her ear.

She lifted a hand absently to brush at the ticklish feeling, but he caught the hand and held it for a few seconds, ’til the bee flew away. She glanced at him, surprised, but smiled and looked back at what was going on in front of them.

The elder ministers spoke, one at a time, and they laid their hands on Roger Mac, touching his head, his shoulders, his hands. Just so, the bishop had laid his hands on the young priests, and he felt the same sense of awe, recognizing what was happening. This was the keeping of a Word that had been kept for centuries; the passing on of a solemn trust, that the man to whom it was given would keep it, too—forever.

He felt tears come to his eyes, and bit his lip to hold them back.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ!

In His great mercy by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,

He gave us new birth into a living hope.

Lord our God, we praise You for Christ the Lord.

We praise You for the fellowship of the Church;

we praise You for the faith handed down

as one generation to another tells of Your mighty acts;

we praise You for the worship offered throughout the world,

we praise You for the witness and service of the saints through the ages.

Lord our God—Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we praise You.

Amen.

In Paris, the young men—there had been twenty, he’d counted them—prostrated themselves in their clean white garments, lying facedown on the stone floor, hands raised above their heads, submitting themselves. Surrendering.

God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

You call us in Your mercy;

You sustain us by Your power.

Through every generation, Your wisdom supplies our need.

You sent Your only Son, Jesus Christ,

to be the apostle and high priest of our faith

and the shepherd of our souls.

By His death and resurrection He has overcome death

and, having ascended into heaven,

has poured out His Spirit,

making some apostles,

some prophets, some evangelists,

some pastors and teachers,

to equip all for the work of ministry

and to build up His body, the Church.

We pray You now to

POUR OUT YOUR HOLY SPIRIT UPON THIS YOUR SERVANT, Roger Jeremiah, WHOM WE NOW, IN YOUR NAME AND IN OBEDIENCE TO YOUR WILL, BY THE LAYING ON OF HANDS, ORDAIN AND APPOINT TO THE OFFICE OF THE HOLY MINISTRY WITHIN THE ONE, HOLY, CATHOLIC, AND APOSTOLIC CHURCH, COMMITTING TO HIM AUTHORITY TO MINISTER YOUR WORD AND SACRAMENTS.

These were Presbyterians and not given to spectacle. Roger Mac drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Jamie trembled as he felt the witness of surrender cleave his heart.

Warm drops struck his hands, folded in his lap, but he didn’t care. A murmur of awe and joy rose up from the church, and Roger Mac stood up, his own face wet with tears and shining like the sun.

IT WAS NEARLY midnight before we reached our bed. I could still hear the celebrations going on in the distance, though by now the random gunfire had ceased and it was just singing—of a very non-religious nature—with a single fiddle dodging in and out among the voices.

I was nearly dead with fatigue and the aftermath of strong emotion; I couldn’t imagine how Brianna, let alone Roger, was still on her feet, but I’d seen them on my way back to the house, wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing in the shadow of a big black walnut. I wondered vaguely whether the profound emotion of ordination normally turned into sexual desire, if the legitimate object of it was at hand … and what young, new Catholic priests might do to express their own elation?

I shed my clothes and pulled a clean night rail over my head, sighing in quiet ecstasy at having nothing but air on my corset-constricted body. My head popped out and I saw Jamie, lying on the bed in his own shirt. His head was cocked toward the window and he looked rather wistful; I wondered whether he’d rather be down there dancing—but I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t be there, if that was the case.

“What are you thinking?”

He looked up and smiled at me. He’d undone his formal queue and his hair lay over his shoulders, sparking in the candlelight.

“Och … I was just wondering whether I shall ever hear Mass said again.”

“Oh.” I tried to think. “When was the last time? At Jocasta’s wedding?”

“Aye, I think so.”

Catholicism was prohibited in most of the colonies, bar Maryland, which had been founded specifically as a Catholic colony. Even there, the Anglican Church was the official Church, and Catholic priests were few and far between in the southern colonies.

“It won’t always be like this,” I said, and began to massage his shoulders, slowly. “Brianna’s told you about the Constitution, hasn’t she? It will guarantee freedom of religion—among other things.”

“She recited the beginning of it to me.” He sighed and bent his head, inviting me to rub the long, tight muscles of his neck. “‘We, the people …’ Brawly written. I hope to meet Mr. Jefferson someday, though I think he might have stolen the odd phrase here and there, and some of his ideas have a familiar ring to them.”

“Montesquieu might have had some minor influence,” I said, amused. “And I believe I’ve heard John Locke spoken of as well.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me, one brow raised.

“Aye, that’s it. I shouldna have thought ye’d read either one, Sassenach.”

“Well, I haven’t,” I admitted. “But I didn’t go to school in America; only medical school, and they don’t teach you history there, bar the history of medicine, where they point out horrible examples of benighted thinking and horrific practices—virtually all of which I’ve actually used now and then, bar blowing tobacco smoke up someone’s bottom. Can’t think how I’ve missed that one …” I coughed. “But Bree learned all about American history in the fifth and sixth grades, and more in high school. She’s the one who told me about Mr. Jefferson’s light-fingered ways with words.

“But then, there’s Benjamin Franklin—I think at least some of his quotes were original. I remember, ‘You have a republic … if you can keep it.’ That’s what he said—will say—at the end of the war. But they—we—did keep it. At least for the next two hundred years. Maybe longer.”

“Something like that is worth fighting for, aye,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

I put out the candle and slid into bed beside him, every muscle in my body dissolving in the ecstasy of simply lying down.

Jamie turned onto his side and gathered me against him and we lay comfortably entwined, listening to the sounds of celebration outside. Quieter now, as people began to stagger home or to find a peaceful tree or bush to sleep under, but the music of a single fiddle still sang to the stars.

129 The Pursuit of Happiness

IT TOOK WILLIAM ROUGHLY three seconds to conclude that he meant to go after Amaranthus, and the rest of the day was a search for the means of her departure. He didn’t know how long she’d been planning her disappearance—probably since I came back from Morristown, he thought grimly—but she’d done a good job of it.

He came home in the evening, having concocted a plan—if you could call it that—and proceeded to convince a very dubious uncle and father of its virtue over supper.

“Whether she went by horse, carriage, or ship, I think she must be heading for Charles Town.” He hesitated, but there was no reason not to tell them. “When I mentioned Banastre Tarleton—when Charles Town fell—she remarked that she knew him. Which I suppose means that he also knew—or knows—Ben.”

“He did—does,” Hal said, surprised. “Quite well, in fact. For a short time, they were in the same company—Ban and Ben, people called them. You know, for a joke.”

“Well, then,” William said with satisfaction. “Amaranthus knows that Ban is in Charles Town with Clinton. If she thought she needed help or protection on her way … would she not go to him?”

“It’s a thought,” said his father, though he looked dubious. “Clearly, she didn’t take much time to prepare.”

“I don’t know that she didn’t,” William said dryly. “She may have been planning it even before I came back. Or thinking about it, at least. Regardless of how she went, though, she can’t have got that far yet. I may be able to overtake her on the road, and if by chance I don’t, Ban may well have seen her—or contrived the next part of her passage. I don’t imagine he knows yet. About Ben, I mean. If not, and if she told him she meant to go to Ben—without saying exactly where he is—Ban would certainly help her.”

A brief stab of pain showed on Uncle Hal’s face, but was brutally suppressed in the next moment.

“And what do you propose doing, if you find her?” he said, his voice rasping. “Carry her back here by force?”

William lifted one shoulder, impatient.

“I’ll find out what the devil she actually means to do, for one thing,” he said. “She may be going to her father’s house in Philadelphia, and if she is—I’ll see that she gets there safely. If it’s Ben …” He paused, briefly recalling his harrowing escape from Morristown. “I’ll take her to Adam,” he concluded. “He’ll see that she’s safe, and if she does mean to go to Ben …”

“Jesus. Does Adam know?” Hal’s voice cracked and he coughed. William saw his father glance sharply at Hal and move toward the bell to summon a servant.

Hal frowned at him and made a sharp gesture to stop him.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, but the last word had to be forced out, and his breathing was suddenly stertorous.

“The devil you are,” Papa said, and grabbed Uncle Hal by the elbow, hauling him to the sofa and pushing him down upon it. “Willie, go and tell Moira to boil coffee—very strong and lots of it—and now.”

“I’m—” Hal began, but broke off, coughing. He’d pressed his fist into his chest and was turning a nasty color that alarmed William.

“Is he—” he began. His father turned on him like a tiger.

“Now!” he shouted, and as William hurtled from the room, he heard his father call after him, “Get my saddlebags!”

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity, with people running to and fro and fetching things and making anxious, stupid suggestions, while Hal sat on the sofa holding Papa’s hand as though it were a rope thrown to a drowning swimmer, alternating between blowing air, gasping, and drinking black coffee with some sort of herb crumbled into it that Papa had dug out of his saddlebags.

William, not knowing how to help, but unwilling to just go to bed, had lurked in the kitchen, carrying more hot coffee as needed, but mostly listening to Moira and Miss Crabb, from whom he learned that the duke suffered from something called asthma and that (lowered voices, with a cautious glance over the shoulder) Lord John’s wife-but-she-wasn’t-really-and-the-things-folk-said-of-her was a famous healer and had given Lord John the little dry sticks to put in the coffee.

“And what His Grace will do if he has another o’ them fits on the boat,” Moira said, shaking her head, “I don’t know!”

“Boat?” asked William, looking up from his third piece of apple pie. “Is he meaning to go somewhere?”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Crabb said, nodding wisely. “To England.”

“For to speak to the House o’ Lords,” Moira added.

“About the war,” Miss Crabb said quickly, before Moira could steal any more of her thunder. William hid a smile in his napkin, but was curious. He wondered whether Uncle Hal really had opinions on the conduct of the war that he felt obliged to share with the House of Lords or whether he had sought a good excuse to go home to England—and Aunt Minnie.

He did know—from his father—that Hal hadn’t been able to bring himself to write to his wife about Ben.

“When does he mean to go?” he asked.

“In a month,” Miss Crabb said, and pursed her lips.

“Does Lord John mean to go as well?” William half-hoped the answer was no. While he didn’t want Uncle Hal to choke to death alone on a ship, he much preferred to have Papa here, holding things together while he, William, pursued Amaranthus.

The two women shook their heads, both looking grave. They might have said more, but at that moment Papa’s quick footsteps came down the hall, and a moment later his disheveled fair head poked through the door.

“He’s better,” he said at once, catching William’s eye. “Come and help me; he wants to go up to his bed.”

THE DUKE SPENT much of the next day in bed, but when William went up to check on his state of health, he was sitting upright, a writing desk on his knees, scribbling away. He looked up at William’s advent and forestalled any queries by saying, “So, you still mean to go after her.”

It wasn’t posed as a question, and William merely nodded. So did Hal, and took a clean sheet of paper from the quire on his bedside table.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said.

AT DAWN OF the next day, William fastened his stock, buttoned his buff waistcoat, pulled on the red coat he’d thought he’d never wear again, and went downstairs, his step firm in his freshly polished boots.

His father and uncle were already at breakfast, and despite his impatience to be off, the smell of buttered corn bread, fried eggs, fresh ham, peach jam, crab fritters, and grilled sea trout was enough to make him sit down without argument. Both Papa and Uncle Hal viewed him with exactly the same look of mixed approval and veiled anxiety, making him want to laugh, but he didn’t, instead inclining his head briefly—neither one was talkative in the mornings, but apparently today was an exception.

“Here.” Uncle Hal pushed two folded documents with wax seals across the table to him. “The red one’s your commission and the other’s your orders—such as they are. I’ve given you the rank of captain, and your orders say you’re to be given free passage essentially anywhere you want to go, without let or hindrance, and you may call upon the assistance of His Majesty’s officers and troops as needed and available.”

“You think I might need a column of infantry to help drag Amaranthus back?” William asked, biting into a warm slice of fresh buttered corn bread, thick with peach jam.

“You think you won’t?” his father said, arching an eyebrow. Lord John got up and, coming behind William, undid his hasty plait and rebraided it, tight and neat, before doubling it into a queue and binding it with his own black ribbon. The touch of his father’s hands on his neck, warm and light, moved him.

Everything this morning had a freshness about it and a sense of moment that made him feel he would recall every object seen or touched, every word spoken, for as long as he lived.

He’d barely slept, his mind pulsing with energy, the stultification and petrifaction of the last month gone as though it had never existed. His statement that he was going after the girl had met with no opposition; Papa and Uncle Hal had exchanged a long glance and then set to making plans.

“She said she’d made arrangements,” Papa was saying, frowning over a forkful of sea trout. “What sort of arrangements, do you suppose?”

“So far as any of the servants can tell,” Hal replied, “she made a raid on the pantry and absconded with enough food for three or four days, took her plainest clothes—and most of her jewelry. She—”

“Did she take her wedding ring?” William interrupted.

“Yes,” Lord John said, and William shrugged.

“Then she’s heading for Ben. She’d have left it if she was done with him.”

Uncle Hal gave him the sort of look he would have given a performing flea who’d just turned a somersault, but Papa hid a smile behind his napkin.

“We wouldn’t let her go alone, even if we were positive that she is headed for her father’s house,” he said. “A young woman alone on the road—and we do think she’s alone,” he added, more slowly. “Though I suppose it’s possible that …”

“More than possible,” Uncle Hal said grimly. “That young woman—”

“Is your daughter-in-law,” Lord John interrupted. “And the mother of your heir. As such, we have every obligation to ensure her safety.”

“Mmphm.” William heard the grunt of agreement he’d made and stopped dead for an instant, a forkful of egg suspended, dripping yolk over his plate. “You probably don’t want to hear this … but Da makes that sort of noise all the time.” He glanced swiftly from his father to his uncle, but neither of them seemed to have noticed anything odd in his response, and the party relapsed into a silent, steady engulfment of breakfast.

William’s new mare, Birdie, was happy to see him and nosed him in search of apples—which he’d brought—and crunched them with evident pleasure, slobbering juice down his sleeve as he pulled the bridle over her ears. She sensed his own excitement and pricked her ears and snorted a little, bobbing her head as he tightened the girth. He wondered just how Amaranthus had managed her vanishing act; none of the horses belonging to the household were missing, not even the elderly mare Amaranthus was accustomed to ride.

Either she’d taken a public coach—unlikely; he thought Uncle Hal had probably sent directly to the coaching inn to have inquiries made, and she would have known he’d do that—or she’d hired a private carriage or a livery horse. Or she’d had help in absquatulating and her bloody assistant had provided her transportation. He was running moodily through a list of local gallants that she might have seduced to her purposes but was interrupted by the appearance of Lord John, with a purse in one hand and a small portmanteau in the other.

“A plain suit, stockings, and a fresh shirt,” he said briefly, handing over the latter. “And money. There’s a letter of credit in there as well—you might put that away in your pocket, just in case.”

“In case I’m obliged to ransom her from a band of highwaymen?” William asked, taking the purse. It was pleasantly heavy. He tucked it into his greatcoat, and, taking one of the pistols from his saddlebag, tucked that into his belt.

“Haha,” said his father, politely. “William—if she is going to Ben, and she gets to him … don’t—I repeat, don’t make any effort to take her away from him. Next time—if there is a next time—he probably will kill you.” There was enough blunt finality in that opinion that decided William not to argue with it, though his pride thought strongly otherwise.

“I won’t,” he said briefly, and patted his father’s shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

130 Herr Weber

A MONTH PAST THE fall of Charles Town, and the place still looked like an anthill that someone had kicked over. All the citizens of the place appeared to be outside, carrying stones and lumber and baskets of dirt and buckets of paint, and those not occupied with cleaning and repair were shouting and selling: meat and fruit, vegetables and poultry and hams, cockles and mussels, shrimps and oysters, and every other damned thing you could pull out of the sea and eat. The thought of eating, coinciding with the drifting smell of broiled fish, made William’s mouth water.

The seller of the savory fish was unfortunately surrounded by a company of soldiers, all pushing for attention as the woman and her daughter shuffled small, sizzling fish off hot bricks and into scraps of old newspaper as though they were dealing cards, while a small boy squatted beside them over a dented pot, taking coins from the soldiers and firing each one into the pot to make it ring.

Not willing to draw attention to himself by using his captain’s uniform to push his way into the mob, he turned toward the docks, where he’d certainly find food, and doubtless drink as well, at one of the numerous taverns.

What he found, though, was Denys Randall, walking idly up and down a narrow quay, apparently waiting for someone.

“Ellesmere!” Randall exclaimed, spotting him.

“Ransom,” William corrected. Denys waved a hand, indicating that it was all one.

“Where have you sprung from?” he asked, taking in William’s uniform at a glance. “And why?”

“I’m looking for Ban Tarleton. Seen him recently?”

Denys shook his head, frowning. “No. I suppose I could ask around, though. Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, at the moment. Are there any decent places?” He glanced round at a line of shirtless men, gleaming with sweat as they moved baskets and barrows and wooden pallets of rubbish down to the shore. “What do they mean to do with all that? Build a seawall? Or repair it, rather.” There was an untidy ramble of fortifications outside the remains of the extant seawall, which had suffered much from the siege bombardments.

“They should do, but I daresay they’ll just shove that lot into the water and be done with it. As to a sleeping place, try Mrs. Warren’s, on Broad Street.” Denys picked up his hat and gave William a quick wave of the hand. “I’ll ask about Tarleton.”

William nodded in acknowledgment and pushed off in search of Broad Street, Mrs. Warren, and food—not necessarily in that order. He found food quickly, in the form of rice and red beans cooked with sausage, at a stall near the parade ground. No troops were drilling, but as usual with an army nearby, there were plenty of the civilians—sutlers, laundresses, food vendors, prostitutes—who fed off the army like a horde of voracious lice.

Well, turnabout’s fair play, he thought, returning his bowl to the rice-and-beans proprietor for a second helping. Eating this one somewhat more slowly, he scanned the passing crowds for any trace of Amaranthus, or Banastre Tarleton, but no trace did he see—and he thought he would instantly have perceived either one, both having a taste for vivid dress.

Replete, he walked slowly round the city, up and down the major streets, peering into shops and banks and churches as he went. He had no idea whether either Amaranthus or Ban was religious—somehow, he doubted it—but the churches were cool, and it was good to sit down for a few moments and listen to the silence, as a respite from the city’s noise.

He reached Mrs. Warren’s house just before sunset, and after a very decent fish supper went to bed, dog-tired and low in spirit.

These conditions were reversed in the morning, and he sprang from bed with mind and body renewed, determined in spirit. He’d go first to Cornwallis’s headquarters; he’d seen the house, with its regimental flags, on his peregrinations the evening before. Someone there would doubtless know at least where Banastre Tarleton was supposed to be.

Someone did. The news, however, was not encouraging: Colonel Tarleton had taken a company of his British Legion southward two weeks before, in pursuit of a body of fleeing American militia. A messenger had come back to report the outcome of a small but nasty fight near a place called Waxhaws; Tarleton’s troops had overcome the Americans, killing or injuring most of them and taking the rest prisoner. However, Colonel Tarleton had been injured by reason of his horse falling on him, and had not yet returned to Charles Town.

All right, that crossed Ban pretty definitively off William’s list. Tarleton couldn’t possibly have been lending Amaranthus aid in her escape. What next?

The docks, of course. He’d begun searching there last night, before his stomach had had other ideas. But if she was heading for Philadelphia, as she’d said, and had not taken a ship from Savannah—which she hadn’t, he’d checked—then Charles Town was the next large port from which she might reasonably have done so. And surely a young woman traveling alone (God, was she alone? Might she have eloped with someone? Surely not …) would find ship travel safer, as well as more comfortable, than risking travel on roads swarming with soldiers, sappers, ex-slaves, and commercial wagons.

It was a beautiful day, and he began his search with diligence, starting with the harbormaster’s office for a list of ships sailing within the last week for Philadelphia or New York (just in case she is heading for Ben …) and manifests for those who had posted them. Her name was not on any of the lists—but then, he argued with himself, she wouldn’t necessarily be; if she’d sailed as a private passenger on a small boat, she wouldn’t be listed anywhere …

In the end, it came down to what he’d already known it would: a slog through the docks on foot, asking questions of everyone he came across. After an hour of this, the beautiful day was beginning to dim, as a fogbank moved in. He decided to slake his thirst and began walking up the quay— a small one that docked fishing boats and smaller commercial ships—toward shore. What he found, though, was Denys Randall. Again.

“Hoy!” William said loudly, coming up behind Denys and clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you live on the docks?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Denys said shortly, and William now perceived that he wasn’t alone; he was trying to shield a small man, whose lined face made him look like a Christmas nutcracker, from William’s view. “Who are you looking for now?”

“A young woman,” William said mildly. “Who’s your friend?”

Denys was for once deprived of his air of light mockery and self-composure. William thought he presently resembled nothing more strongly than a cat on hot bricks. Denys glanced swiftly at his companion, whose resemblance to a Christmas nutcracker was becoming more pronounced by the moment, then turned back to William, a pulse throbbing visibly at the side of his jaw.

“I must go and speak to someone,” he said. “Quickly. This is Herr Weber; keep an eye on him. I’ll be back, quick as I can.” And with that, he vanished down the quay toward the water, nearly running in his haste.

William hesitated, not sure what to do. He was somewhat afraid that Denys might have taken fright—well, clearly he had, but fright at what?—and abandoned his German companion altogether. In which case, what was he to do with the fellow?

Weber was staring down at the planks of the quay, brow slightly furrowed. William cleared his throat.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked politely, and nodded toward an open-fronted shanty on the shore, where a couple of large barrels and the presence of a sailor lying on the ground insensible probably indicated an establishment that sold liquor.

“Ich spreche kein Englisch,” the man said, spreading his hands in polite apology.

“Keine Sorge,” William said, bowing. “Ich spreche Deutsch.” He might have informed Herr Weber that his breeches were on fire, rather than making a simple statement to the effect that he, William, spoke German. Alarm convulsed the nutcracker’s features and he turned wildly, looking for Denys, who had by now disappeared.

William, afraid that Weber was about to flee, grasped him by the arm. This resulted in a sharp cry and a blow to William’s stomach. Considering Weber’s size, it wasn’t a bad try, but William grunted at the impact, let go Weber’s arm, grabbed the man by both shoulders, and shook him like a rat.

“Still!” he said. “Ich tue Euch nichts!”

The statement that he meant Weber no harm seemed not to soothe the gentleman, but the shaking at least stopped him struggling to get away. He went limp in William’s grasp and stood gasping.

“What’s going on?” William demanded sharply, in German. He nodded down the quay. “Is that man keeping you prisoner?”

Weber shook his head.

“Nein. Er ist mein Freund.”

“Well, then.” William let go and stepped back, hands spread in token of harmlessness. “Meiner auch.”

Weber nodded warily and straightened his waistcoat, but declined further conversation, resuming his wooden impassiveness. A fine tremble passed through his person at intervals, but his face showed nothing, though he glanced now and then toward the deepening fog at the end of the quay. William could see shapes—mostly masts that poked suddenly out of the mist as the air shifted—and the thick air carried random shouts that sounded eerily distant one moment and startlingly close at hand the next. The fog was deepening, creeping over the quay, and he had a sudden sense of disorientation, as though the world were dissolving under his feet.

And then Denys was suddenly there, with no warning. His face was still anxious but bore a set resolution. He seized Weber’s arm, glanced at William, and said briefly, “Kommt.” William wasted no time in argument, but seized the gentleman’s other arm, and between them, he and Denys rushed the little man into the fog and up a gangplank that suddenly appeared in front of them.

A tall man in a blue coat manifested himself on deck, flanked by two sailors. He looked closely at Denys, nodded, then, catching a glimpse of William, started back as though he’d seen a demon.

“One soldier,” he said sharply to Denys, catching him by the sleeve. “One, they said! Who’s this?”

“I’m—” William began, but Denys kicked him in the ankle. “His friend,” William said, nodding casually at Denys.

“There’s no time for this,” Denys said. He reached into his breast and withdrew a small, fat purse, which he handed over. The captain, for so he must be, William thought, hesitated for a moment, glanced suspiciously at him again, but took it.

The next instant he was hurtling back down the gangplank, propelled by an urgent shove in the back from Denys. He hit the quay staggering, but regained his balance at once and turned to see the ship—it looked like a small brig, from what he could see through the mist—draw back the gangplank like a sucked-in tongue, cast off a final line, and with a rattle of shrouds and a snap of filling sails move slowly away from the quay. In moments, it had disappeared into the grayness.

“What the devil just happened?” he asked. Rather mildly, all things considered. Denys was breathing like he’d run a mile under arms, and the edge of his neckcloth was dark with sweat. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that the ship had gone, and then turned back to William, his breath beginning to slow.

“Herr Weber has enemies,” he said.

“So does everyone, these days. Who is Herr Weber?”

Denys made a sound that might have been an attempt at a wry laugh. “Well … he’s not Herr Weber, for starters.”

“Are you planning to tell me who he is?” William said impatiently. “Because I’ve got business elsewhere, if you haven’t.”

“Besides looking for a girl, you mean?”

“I mean supper. You can tell me who our recent friend is on the way.”

“HE HAS A few aliases,” Denys said, halfway through a bowl of chowder, thick with clams. “But his name is Haym Salomon. He’s a Jew,” he added.

“And?” William had eaten his own chowder in nothing flat and was wiping the bowl with a chunk of bread. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think why it should. Salomon. Haym Salomon … It was the word “Jew” that supplied the missing link of memory.

“Is he Polish, by chance?” he asked, and Denys choked on a clam.

“Oh, he is.” William raised a hand toward the barmaid and pointed at his empty bowl with a gesture indicating that he’d like it refilled. “How did he escape being executed in New York?”

Denys coughed, gagged, and coughed explosively, scattering the tabletop with bread crumbs, soup droplets, and a large chunk of clam. William rolled his eyes, but reached for the beer pitcher and refilled their mugs.

Denys waited until the fresh chowder had been brought and his eyes had stopped watering, then leaned over his bowl, speaking in a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the banging of cannikins and blustering talk in the taproom.

“How in God’s name do you come to know that?” he said.

William shrugged. “Something my uncle said. A Polish Jew, and he’d been condemned to death as a spy in New York. He was rather surprised to hear of him alive, and here. So,” he added, taking a dainty spoonful of chowder, “if that’s who your little friend is—and rather plainly he is—then I’m rather wondering just who—or rather, what—you are, these days. Because Herr Weber is plainly not in the employ of His Majesty.”

Denys drank the rest of his beer deliberately, brows knitted as he considered William.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter that you know; he’s already out of reach,” he said at last. He belched slightly, said, “Excuse me,” and poured more beer, while William waited patiently.

“Mr. Salomon is a banker,” Denys said, and having evidently made up his mind to tell William more or less the truth, went on. Born in Poland, Salomon had come to New York as a young man and made a successful career. He had also begun to meddle—very cautiously—in revolutionary politics, arranging various financial transactions for the benefit of the new Congress and the emergent revolution.

“But he wasn’t as cautious as he thought, and the British did catch him and he was indeed condemned to death—but then he got a pardon, though they put him on a hulk in the Hudson and made him teach English to Hessian soldiers for eighteen months.” He took another gulp of beer. “Little did they know that he was urging them all to desert—which a good number of them actually did, apparently.”

“I know,” William said dryly. A group of Hessian deserters had tried to kill him during Monmouth—and came bloody close to doing so, too. If his wretched Scottish cousin hadn’t found him in the bottom of a ravine with his skull cracked … but no need to dwell on that. Not now.

“Persistent fellow, then,” he said. “So now he’s here, and as there don’t seem to be any Hessians around to be traduced, I assume he’s gone back to his financial tricks?”

“So far as I know,” Denys said, now all nonchalance. “Good friend of General Washington’s, I hear.”

“Good for him,” William said shortly. “And what about you? As you’re sitting here telling me all this, am I to assume that you also are now a personal chum of Mr. Washington’s?” William was, in fact, not really surprised to be hearing these things.

Denys drew out a handkerchief and patted his lips delicately.

“Not me, so much as my stepfather,” he said. “Mr. Isaacs is a good friend of Mr. Salomon’s and shares both his political sentiments and his financial acumen.”

“Is?” William said, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t you tell me that your stepfather had died and that’s why you’d dropped the ‘Isaacs’ from your last name.”

“Did I?” Denys looked thoughtful. “Well … a good many people believe he’s dead, let’s put it that way. It’s often easier to get certain things done if people don’t know exactly who they’re dealing with.”

The fact that he, William, plainly didn’t know whom he’d been dealing with was becoming painfully obvious.

“So … you’re a turncoat, but you haven’t bothered actually taking it off and turning it inside out, is that it?”

“I think the actual term might be intrigante, William, but what’s in a word? I began working with my stepfather when I was fifteen or so, learning my way around the worlds of finance and politics. Both those threads weave through war, you know. And war is expensive.”

“And sometimes profitable?”

Something that might be offense rippled under Denys’s placid expression, but vanished in a small gesture of dignified dismissal.

“My real father was a soldier, you know, and he left me a comfortable sum of money, with the stipulation that I should use it to buy a commission—if I should turn out to be a boy, that is. He died before I was born.”

“And if you’d been a girl?” William began suddenly to wonder whether Denys might have a loaded pistol in his lap, under the table.

“The money would have been my marriage portion, and doubtless I’d now be the wife of some rich, boring merchant who beat me once a week, fucked me once a month, and otherwise left me to my own devices.”

Despite his wariness, William laughed.

“My mother wanted me to be a clergyman, poor woman.” Denys shrugged. “As it is, though …”

“Yes?” William’s calves tightened. His left hand was under the table, still holding the spoon from his chowder, the handle jutting out between the clenched fingers of his fist. It wasn’t the weapon he’d have chosen, but if necessary, he was prepared to jam it up Denys’s nose. A conversation like this could have only one end: to invite William to join Denys in his intrigue.

He was halfway amused at the situation. Also somewhat annoyed, but cautious with it. If Denys did issue such an invitation and if William refused point-blank—Denys might consider it dangerous to leave William at large to repeat all this.

“Well …” Denys eyed his uniform. “You did tell me you’d resigned your commission.”

“I did. This”—he waved his free hand down the front of his red coat—“is just to give me countenance—and safe passage—while I look for my cousin’s wife.”

Denys’s eyes widened.

“This is the girl you’re after? Is she lost?”

I notice that you don’t ask which cousin. “No, she’s not lost; she had a falling-out with her husband”—to say the least—“and decided to go to her father’s house. But my uncle became concerned about her safety on the road and sent me to see that she reached her destination safely. I thought that if she passed through Charles Town—which she likely would—she might call upon Ban Tarleton for any assistance; she and her husband are acquainted with him.”

“Unfortunately, Major Tarleton isn’t in Charles Town.” The voice spoke behind him, an English voice that his body recognized before his mind did, and he turned round fast, spoon clenched hard.

“Good day, Captain Lord Ellesmere,” said Ezekiel Richardson. He glanced indifferently at the spoon and bowed slightly. “I trust you’ll pardon the interruption, gentlemen. I happened to overhear Major Tarleton’s name. He and Major Ferguson are, in fact, in hot pursuit of several groups of retreating American militia, running south.”

William hesitated for a moment, torn between curiosity—leavened by indignation—and expedience. But it was an instant too long; Richardson pulled up a stool and sat down at the small, round table, between William and Denys. Well within grabbing—or shooting or stabbing, for that matter—distance.

“Has Herr Weber left us in good order?” Richardson asked, presumably of Denys, but his eyes were fixed on William.

“Rather jumpy,” Denys said, “but quite intact. Our friend William was most helpful in keeping him from jumping off the dock and swimming home whilst I went and made the final arrangements.”

“We’re most obliged to you, Lord Ellesmere.”

“My name is Ransom, sir.”

The sparse eyebrows rose.

“Indeed.” Richardson, who was not in uniform, but wearing a decent gray suit, darted a quick glance at Denys, who shrugged slightly.

“I think so,” he said obliquely.

“If what you think is that I will choose to join you in your treasonous games, gentlemen,” William said, pushing back from the table, “I must disabuse you of the notion. Good day.”

“Not so fast,” Richardson said, clamping a hand on William’s forearm. “If you please—my lord.” There was a slight mocking inflection to that “my lord”—or at least that’s how it sounded to William, who was in no mood for trifling.

“No commission, no rank, and not ‘my lord.’ Be so kind as to remove your hand, sir, or I shall remove it for you.” William made a slight gesture with his spoon, which was flimsy but made of tin and whose handle came to a triangular point. Richardson paused, and William’s muscles tightened. The hand lifted, though, just in time.

“I suggest you consider Denys’s suggestion,” Richardson said, his tone light. “Resigning your commission has doubtless caused some gossip in army circles—and if you are declining to be addressed by your title, it will cause more. I do think, though, that you might hesitate to cause the sort of gossip that will be unleashed if the reason behind your actions were to be made public.”

“You know nothing of my reasons, sir.” William stood up, and so did Richardson.

“We know that you are the bastard son of one James Fraser, a Jacobite traitor and present rebel,” he said pleasantly. “And one look at the two of you—drawn side by side in the newspapers?—would be enough to convince anyone of the truth.”

William uttered a short laugh, though it came out as a hoarse bark.

“You say what you like, sir, to whomever it pleases you to say it. Go to the devil.”

And with that, he stabbed the spoon, handle first, into the table, and turned to walk away. Behind him, Richardson spoke, his voice still pleasant.

“I know your sister,” he said.

William’s shoulders tensed, but he kept on walking until the docks of Charles Town lay far behind.

131 Thunderstorms on the Ridge

THERE HAD BEEN THUNDERSTORMS on the mountain all week and the day had begun with a brief rattle of rain against the shutters an hour or so before dawn and a blast of cold wind that shot down the chimney, hit the smoored embers, and spewed hot ashes all over the bedroom floor. Jamie leapt out of bed and sloshed water from the ewer across the hearth rug, stamping out stray sparks with his bare feet and muttering sleepy execrations in Gaelic.

He poked up the remaining embers, stuffed a couple of chunks of fat pine and a longer-burning hickory log in among them with a bit of fresh kindling, and stood there in his shirt, arms folded tight against the chill of the room, waiting to be sure the fresh wood had caught. Still snug in bed, I blinked drowsily, appreciating the sight of him. The rising light of the new fire glowed behind him and flickered on the stones of the mantel, making the shadow of his long body visible through the linen. The touch of that body was still vividly imprinted on my skin, and I began to feel somewhat less sleepy.

When he was sure the new fire was well underway, he nodded and muttered something—whether to himself or the fire, I couldn’t tell; there were Highland fire charms, and he undoubtedly knew a few. Satisfied, he turned, crawled back into bed, wrapped his long cold limbs around me, sighing as he relaxed into my warmth, farted, and went blissfully back to sleep.

By the time I woke up again, he was gone, and the room was warm and smelled pleasantly of the ghosts of turpentine and fire. I could hear the wind whining round the corners of the house, though, and the creak of the new timbers and lath of the third-floor walls just above us. Another storm was coming; I could smell the sharp scent of ozone in the air.

Fanny and Agnes were up; I could hear the muffled sound of their voices down in the kitchen, amid heartening sounds of breakfast being made. Agnes had agreed, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, to go to Charles Town with the Cunninghams, and then to London, by which time she would theoretically have made up her mind as to which of the two lieutenants would be her husband. The captain had survived, but had had a setback that delayed their departure. He had rallied but was still in fragile health, and Jamie had told him that he was welcome to stay until the roads were safer. There was no chance of his riding; his legs were still paralyzed, though he did have sensation in his feet and I thought I’d seen a faint twitch of his left toe.

Silvia and the girls were up, too, though only a faint murmur of voices reached me from the heights of the third floor. Jamie had considered giving them one of the Loyalists’ forfeited cabins, but he, Jenny, and Ian had all thought it might be bad luck for Quakers to inherit the spoils of war, as it were. He and Ian and Roger would build them a new cabin, before the winter came. As for me, I was more than happy to have three more females able to cook on the premises, though the Hardmans’ expertise didn’t extend to much beyond roasting potatoes and making stews.

I wasn’t picky. I was still reveling in the novelty of having several someone elses who would deal with the constant juggling act of turning food into meals, to say nothing of helping with things like soap and candle making. And laundry …

Roger and Bree had gone to Salem with the wagon, to trade for pottery and woven cloth—Bree hadn’t yet had time or space to begin building a loom—but there were plenty of willing hands available for the domestic chores.

I splashed my face with cold water, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, feeling more alert as I started planning the day. Jamie hadn’t gone hunting this morning; I could hear his voice downstairs, exchanging pleasantries with the girls. If he meant to spend the day at home, perhaps I could induce him to retire with me for a short rest after lunch …

How did he do that? I wondered. How could just the sound of his voice, no words, just a soft rumble, make me recall the warm dark of our predawn bed?

I was still thinking about it, in a vague sort of way, when I reached the kitchen, to find him licking the last drops of milk off his spoon.

“How dissipated of you,” I said, sitting down opposite him with a small pot of honey and half a loaf from the pie safe. “Milk on your parritch?” Most Highland Scots turned up their long noses at such indulgence, preferring the stern virtue of oatmeal unadorned by anything more than a pinch of salt. “Jenny would disown you.”

“Likely,” he said, undaunted at the prospect. “But wi’ Ban and Ruaidh both in calf, we’ve milk to spare and it wouldna be right to let it go to waste, now, aye? Is that honey?” His eyes had focused on the honey pot as soon as I set it down.

I broke off a small chunk of bread, carefully spread a dab of the pale honey onto it, and handed it to him.

“Taste that. Not like that!” I said, seeing him about to engulf the bite. He froze, the bread halfway to his mouth.

“How am I meant to taste it, if I’m not to put it in my mouth?” he asked warily. “Have ye thought of some novel method of ingestion?” Fanny giggled behind me. Agnes, setting a platter of fried bacon at his elbow, squinted at “ingestion,” but didn’t say anything. He lifted the morsel to his nose and sniffed it cautiously.

“Slowly. You’re meant to savor it,” I added reprovingly. “It’s special.”

“Oh.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Well, it’s got a fine, light nose.” He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “And a nice bouquet, to be sure … lily o’ the valley, burnt sugar, something a wee bit bitter, maybe …” He frowned, concentrating, then opened his eyes and looked at me. “Bee dung?”

I made a grab for the bread, but he snatched it away, stuffed it in his mouth, closed his eyes again, and assumed an expression of rapture as he chewed.

“See if I ever give you any more sourwood honey!” I said. “I’ve been saving that!”

He swallowed, blinked, and licked his lips thoughtfully.

“Sourwood. Is that no what ye gave Bobby Higgins last week to make him shit?”

“That’s the leaves.” I waved at a tall jar on top of the simples cabinet. “Sarah Ferguson says that sourwood honey is monstrously good and monstrously rare, and that the folk in Salem and Cross Creek will give you a small ham for a jar of it. I sent some with Bree.”

“Will they, so?” He eyed the honey pot with more respect. “And it’s from your own wee stingards, is it?”

“Yes, but the sourwood trees only bloom for about six weeks, and I’ve only the two hives set near them, so far. I took this as soon as the trees stopped blooming. That’s why it’s so—”

A thunder of feet coming onto the porch and in the front door drowned me out, and the air was filled with excited boys’ voices shouting, “Grandpa!” “A Mhaighister!” “Mr. Fraser!”

Jamie stuck his head out into the corridor.

“What?” he said, and the running feet stumbled to a ragged halt in a storm of exclamations and pantings, in the midst of which I picked out one word: “Redcoats!”

JAMIE DIDN’T WAIT to hear more. He got up, pushed the boys out of the way, and headed for the front door.

I ran into the surgery, snatched a big, curved amputation knife from the cupboard, and rushed after Jamie and the boys. Jem, Aidan, and two friends were still panting and explaining, in a confused gabble. “There’s two of ’em!” “No, there’s three!” “But t’other one, he’s not a soldier—he—” “He’s a black man, a Mhaighister!”

A black man? That would be nothing notable anywhere in the Carolinas—save in the high mountains. There were a few free blacks in Brownsville, and small settlements that included people of mixed blood, but—a black man in a red coat?

Jamie had left his rifle standing beside the door the day before, and now grabbed it, his face set and wary.

“Bidh socair,” he said briefly to the boys. “Go to the kitchen, but stay inside and keep your lugs open. Ye hear any kind of a stramash, take the women out the back and put them up a tree. Then go fetch your fathers, quick.”

The boys nodded, breathless, and I pushed past them with a brief look strongly suggesting that they’d best not even think of trying to haul me out the back door and shove me up a tree, no matter what happened. They all looked shifty, but hung their heads.

Jamie yanked the door open and cold air whooshed down the hall, whipping my petticoats up in a froth round my knees.

The men—three of them, on horseback—were riding slowly up the rise toward the house. And just as the boys had said, all three were red-coated British soldiers, and the third, the man in the lead, was indeed a black man. In fact … they all were.

I saw Jamie glance round at the woods and surrounding landscape—were they alone? I peered anxiously past his elbow, but couldn’t see or sense anything amiss. Neither did he; his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he checked his rifle to be sure it was primed—it was always kept loaded—and set it carefully back behind the door, then stepped out onto the porch. I wasn’t letting go of my knife, but did hide it in the folds of my skirt.

The oncoming men saw us on the porch; the leader checked his horse for a moment, then raised a hand to us. Jamie raised a hand in reply, and they came on.

Dozens of possible reasons for such a visitation were darting through my head, but at least they didn’t look overtly threatening. The leader halted by our hitching post, swung down, and dropped his reins, leaving his horse to the other soldiers, who remained mounted. That was vaguely reassuring; perhaps they’d come only to ask directions—so far as I knew (and devoutly hoped), the British army had no present business with us. Plainly this wasn’t Major Patrick Ferguson.

I had an odd feeling between my shoulder blades, though. Not fright, but something uneasy. Something seemed very familiar about this man. I felt Jamie take a deep breath and let it out again, carefully.

“I bid ye welcome, sir,” he said, his voice pleasant, but neutral. “Ye’ll pardon my not using your surname; I never kent what it was.”

“Stevens,” said our visitor, and taking off his laced hat, bowed to me. “Captain Joseph Stevens. Your servant, Mrs. Fraser. And … yours, sir,” he added, in a distinctly ironic tone that made me blink. He was wearing a military wig, and suddenly I saw him as I’d known him before, in a neat white wig and green livery, at River Run plantation.

“Ulysses!” I said, and dropped the knife with a loud thunk.

JAMIE INVITED “CAPTAIN STEVENS” to come in, with the sort of exquisite courtesy that meant he was doing a mental rundown of the location of all weapons inside the house. I saw him usher Ulysses before him to the laird’s study and glance at the rifle that was standing behind the front door as he followed, nodding to the round-eyed boys—and an equally round-eyed Fanny, who had appeared from the springhouse—as he went.

“Fanny,” I said, “go to the kitchen, please, and get a pitcher of milk and a plate of biscuits—”

“We ate all the biscuits for breakfast, ma’am,” Fanny said helpfully. “There’s half a pie in the pie safe, though.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You and Agnes take the pie and milk out to the two men on the porch, please. Oh—Aidan. Take this back to my surgery, will you?” I handed him the amputation knife, which he received as one being given Excalibur, and bore it off, gingerly balanced across his palms.

I slipped into the study and closed the door behind me. I’d last seen Ulysses at River Run plantation, near Cross Creek, where he had been butler to Jamie’s aunt Jocasta. He had left under what might politely be called strained circumstances, it having been revealed that he’d been not only Jocasta’s butler for twenty years but also her lover—and had killed at least one man and—just possibly—Hector Cameron, Jocasta’s third husband. I didn’t know what he’d been doing for the last seven or eight years, but the fact that he’d come anywhere near Jamie now—and accompanied by an armed escort—was deeply unsettling.

“Mrs. Fraser.” He’d turned when I came in, and now bowed to me, looking me over with a deliberately appraising, un-butler-like gaze. “I’m pleased to see you well.”

“Thank you. You’re looking quite … well, yourself. Captain Stevens.” He was. Tall and imposing in a well-tailored uniform, broad-shouldered and fit. Despite his apparent health, though, his face showed the marks of hard living—and his eyes were different. No longer the courteous blankness of a servant. These eyes were deep-lined, fierce, and, quite frankly, made me want to take a step backward.

He saw that, and his lips drew in a little in amusement, but he looked away.

Jamie was reaching into his cupboard for whisky. He nodded Ulysses to the visitor’s chair across the desk and set the battered pewter tray with bottle and glasses on the desk before taking his own chair.

“May I?” I said, and at Ulysses’s nod I poured him a respectable dram, and the same for Jamie. And for me. I wasn’t going anywhere until I found out what “Captain Stevens” was doing here. I took my glass and sat down on a stool, a little behind Jamie.

“Slàinte.” Jamie lifted his glass briefly, and Ulysses smiled slightly.

“Slàinte mhath,” he said.

“Ye’ll have kept your Gàidhlig, then,” Jamie said, a deliberate reference, I thought, to River Run, where most of the servants had had at least a passing acquaintance with the language of the Highlands.

“Not surprising,” Ulysses replied, not at all discomposed. He took a sip of the whisky, paused to let it spread through his mouth, and shook his head with a small “mm” of approval. “I joined Lord Dunmore’s company in ’74. You’ll know his lordship, of course.”

Jamie stiffened slightly.

“I do,” he said politely. “Though I’ve not had the pleasure of his acquaintance since the days before Culloden.”

“What?” I said. “I don’t recall a Lord Dunmore.”

“Well, he hadna got the title then.” Jamie glanced back at me and smiled a little, a rueful sharing of the memory of those fraught days. “But ye kent him, too, Sassenach—John Murray, he was then; just a lad, a page to Charles Stuart.”

“Oh. Yes.” I did recall him, just barely—a homely boy with receding chin, a large nose, and red hair that stuck out in tufts. “So now he’s Lord Dunmore …?”

“Yes. Of late, governor of the Colony of Virginia,” Ulysses said. “And more recently, commander of a major force against the Shawnee Indians in Ohio. A successful venture in which I was privileged to take part.” He did smile then, and I felt a small qualm in the pit of my stomach at the look of it. Indian wars were a messy business.

“Aye,” Jamie said, dismissively. “But surely the army has nay business of that kind wi’ the Cherokee. Though perhaps ye’ve come wi’ their allowance of powder and bullets from the government?”

“I have no army business with the Cherokee, no,” Ulysses replied politely. “In fact, I think of retiring from the army soon. Perhaps I shall follow your example, Mr. Fraser, and set up for a landlord. But for the moment, sir, my business is with you—though this visit is a personal one, rather than an official call. As yet.”

“A personal visit,” Jamie repeated, and leaned back a little in his chair, tilting his head. “And what might your personal business be with me?”

“Your aunt,” Ulysses said, and leaned forward, eyes fixed on Jamie’s face. “Does she still live?”

I was taken aback but at the same time realized that I wasn’t really surprised at all. Neither was Jamie, who didn’t change his expression but took a long, slow breath before replying.

“She does,” he said. “Though I canna tell ye a great deal more than that.”

Ulysses’s expression had certainly changed. His face was vivid, charged with urgency. “You can tell me where she is.”

I couldn’t always tell what Jamie was thinking, but in this instance, I was reasonably sure we were thinking the same thing.

Jocasta had married one of Jamie’s friends, Duncan Innes—while still carrying on her long-term affair with Ulysses, as we learned much later. In the chaotic aftermath of events at River Run and the subsequent dramatic revelations, Ulysses had fled, Jocasta had sold River Run, and she and Duncan had moved to Nova Scotia, and thence to a small farm on St. John’s Island.

I knew that the British army offered freedom to slaves who would join their ranks, and obviously that was the path Ulysses had chosen with Lord Dunmore. Jocasta had secretly manumitted him years before, but officially recognized freedom was a much safer path, especially in North Carolina, where a slave freed by his or her master must leave the colony within ten days or be subject to recapture and sale.

So now he was a free man, by the goodwill of the British government. Completely and permanently free—so long as he wasn’t captured by Americans with other ideas. While that knowledge made me happy for him, I had a great many reservations.

Behind the bland mask of servitude, this man had lived for twenty years as the unknown master of River Run, and had killed without compunction. He had, very plainly, loved Jocasta Cameron passionately—and she, him. And now he had come looking for her again … Very romantic. And very unsettling. I recalled vividly the skeletal remains of Daniel Rawlings, sprawled on the floor of the mausoleum at River Run, and a ripple of gooseflesh ran up my back.

I glanced quickly at Jamie, who carefully didn’t look at me. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, then dropped it, meeting Ulysses’s eyes.

“I havena heard from my aunt anytime these five years past,” he said. “And I’ve heard little more about her save that she is still alive. And well. Or at least she was when I heard it from my cousin Hamish, when I met him at Saratoga. That will be three years past. And that’s the last I’ve heard.”

All of that was mostly true. On the other hand, we did know a bit more than that, as Jocasta now and then wrote to her old friend, Farquard Campbell, who lived in Cross Creek. But I could see why Jamie didn’t mean to set Captain Ulysses Stevens on a dangerous path toward an unwarned and literally unarmed—the poor man had only one—Duncan Innes.

Ulysses looked hard into Jamie’s eyes for a long minute; I could hear the ticking of Jenny’s tiny silver watch on the shelf behind me; she’d left it when she’d come down to lend a hand with combing and carding several fleeces the week before. At last, Ulysses gave a small grunt, which might have been either amusement or disgust, and sat back.

“I thought it might be like that,” he said mildly.

“Aye. I’m sorry not to have a better answer for ye, Captain.” Jamie pushed back his chair and made to rise, but Ulysses raised a pink-palmed hand to stop him.

“Not so fast, Mr. Fraser—or no, I beg your pardon; it’s General Fraser now, is it not?”

“No, it’s not,” Jamie replied shortly. “I resigned my commission in the Continental army and I’ve no connection with it anymore.”

Ulysses nodded, urbane as always. “Of course, forgive me. But there are some things harder to renounce than a commission, are there not?”

“If ye’ve more to say,” Jamie said, an edge in his voice, “say it, then go wi’ God. There’s nothing for ye here.”

Ulysses’s smile showed a missing pre-molar on one side, and a gray dead tooth beside it. “I do apologize, Mr. Fraser, but I think you’ll find you’re mistaken. I do have business here. With you.”

I let my breath out, then lost it altogether when he reached into his coat and produced a very official-looking document, sealed with red wax. Red wax, in my experience, was usually a bad sign.

“Read that, sir, if you will,” Ulysses said, and unfolding it, placed it carefully on the desk in front of Jamie.

Jamie raised his brows and looked at Ulysses for a moment, but then picked up the letter with a shrug and popped the seal off with the tip of the skinning knife he used as a letter opener. His spectacles were sitting on the desk, and he put them on with deliberate slowness, smoothing out the creases in the letter.

I could hear voices in the house; the girls had come back from the springhouse with the cheese for supper and the crock of butter we’d need for tomorrow’s baking. I caught a whiff of raspberries as Fanny’s footsteps passed the door, and the soft clank of her tin bucket, brushing the wall as she turned to call to Agnes. We’d make a fresh pie, then … if the berries survived a kitchen full of hungry boys …

Jamie said something very terrible in Gaelic, took off his spectacles, and gave Ulysses a look meant to set his wig on fire. I plunged a hand into my pocket for my own spectacles and took the letter from him.

It was sent from one Lord George Germain, secretary of state for the American Department. I’d heard quite a bit about Lord George Germain; John Grey had worked under him briefly as a diplomat and held a low opinion of the man. But that didn’t matter just now.

What did matter was that it had come to the attention of Lord George Germain, secretary of state, et cetera, that one James Fraser (known erstwhile in Scotland as Lord Brok Turch, a convicted and pardoned Jacobite) had, in the Year of Our Lord 1767, fraudulently obtained a grant of land in the Colony of North Carolina, by misrepresenting and disguising to Governor William Tryon his identity as a Catholic, such persons being prohibited by law from holding such grants.

I felt as though I were being suffocated.

It was true. Not that Jamie had misrepresented himself to Governor Tryon; the governor had known all about Jamie’s Catholicism but had turned a deliberately blind eye to it for the sake of getting Jamie’s help in settling—in more ways than one—the tumultuous North Carolina backcountry during the War of the Regulation. But it was undeniably true that Catholics were by law not allowed to receive land grants. And so …

I forced a breath and read on:

The words blurred into spots before my eyes, and I dropped the letter back on the desk.

“You bloody reptile!” I said, looking at Ulysses. He ignored me.

“I would take prompt notice of that, if I were you, Mr. Fraser.” He nodded at the paper. “You see that there is no mention of prosecution, of fines or imprisonment. There might have been. I have the original agreement, signed by you, in the course of which it is stated that you are not a Catholic. And should you choose to ignore—”

The door opened, and Fanny’s neat capped head poked in.

“Sir, Agnes says are these men staying for supper?”

There was a moment of profound silence, and then Jamie rose slowly to his feet.

“They are not, a leannan. Go and say so, aye?”

He waited, still standing, until the door had closed again. I was now breathing so fast that white spots showed at the edge of my vision, but I saw his face very clearly.

“Leave my house,” he said quietly. “And do not come back.”

Ulysses stayed where he was, a faint smile on his face, and then rose too, very slowly.

“As I was saying, sir, I should obey that order promptly. For if you choose to ignore it, the army will have more than sufficient justification to come and burn this house over your head.” He paused, and turned to look deliberately at the door where Fanny had vanished. “Over all your heads.”

Jamie made a quick movement and Ulysses flinched, much to my pleasure. But Jamie had merely snatched the official letter from the desk. He crumpled it into a ball and, turning, hurled it into the hearth. Then turned again on Ulysses, with an expression that made the man stiffen.

He didn’t speak. Ulysses stooped swiftly and plucked the letter out of the smoldering ashes, shook it clean, then turned on his heel and went, back straight as a butler carrying a tray.

JAMIE SAT DOWN slowly, and set his hands very precisely on the desk in front of him, palms on the wood, ready to launch him into action. As soon as he’d decided what action to take.

There actually was an acting governor of North Carolina—Richard Caswell, whom we knew fairly well. He was not, though, a governor appointed by the British government; he’d been temporarily elected by the Committee of Safety appointed by the Provincial Congress; both of these rather fluid entities, but neither of them legitimate, so far as Lord George Germain was concerned.

“They can’t really …” I began, but stopped. They could. All too easily, and I swallowed, my skin prickling with sudden fear. The smell of fresh sawdust and oozing pitch had come in the front door with the gust of wind, from the spot by the red cedar tree where the men cut shims and adzed shingles for the roof. Wood. No one who’s lived through a house fire hears the word “burn” with any sense of equanimity, and I wasn’t feeling even slightly equanimous. Neither was Jamie.

“I don’t suppose it’s a forgery,” I said at last. “That letter.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve seen enough official documents to ken the seals, Sassenach.”

“Do you think—he’s responsible for it? Did he sic the government onto us? Could he?”

Jamie’s brows went up and he glanced at me.

“I imagine a good many folk know about it … but I doubt most of them have anything against me, and even fewer would be able to get the secretary’s attention for such a wee matter.”

“Mmm. Lord Dunmore, perhaps?” I suggested delicately. “He certainly wouldn’t care, but if he felt that he owed Ulysses something …”

The blood was rising in Jamie’s face, and his left hand folded into a fist.

“What was it the balgair said? That he thought of becoming a landlord himself?”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” I looked hard at the battered surface of the desk, as though the gaudy letter was still there. “And he said he has the original document. Not ‘the government’ or ‘Lord Germain.’ Him.”

The British government was in fact in the habit of confiscating rebel property and bestowing it on their own lackeys—they’d done it all over the Highlands, after Culloden, and Jamie had saved Lallybroch only by deeding it to his ten-year-old nephew before Culloden.

A moment’s silence.

“Do I think he has more than those two men with him?” he asked, but he wasn’t asking me, and immediately answered his own question. “Aye, I do. How many, that’s the question …”

Whatever the answer was, it propelled him to his feet, a look of decision on his face. With an underlying layer of intent ferocity that I had no trouble distinguishing. I felt much the same, shock and fear fading into fury.

“That bastard!” I said.

He didn’t reply, but thrust his head out into the hall and bellowed, “Aidan!” in the direction of the kitchen.

BOBBY HIGGINS TURNED up first, his pale face flushed with alarm and excitement. He wasn’t a good horseman but could ride well enough on an open trail—and since the bear, he had resumed carrying a musket.

“Ian will be coming down, quick as he can,” Jamie told him, hastily saddling and bridling Phineas, the fastest of our three saddle horses. “And I’ve sent the lads to carry word to the Lindsays, Gilly MacMillan, and the McHughs. They’ll spread the word further, but they’ll come on here by themselves. You come wi’ me, and when we’re sure of the track, I’ll send ye back here to tell the others and lead them on to join me, aye?”

“Yes, sir!” Bobby said it by reflex, straightening his back. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Jamie clapped him on the shoulder and put his own foot in the stirrup.

“Away, then.”

He blessed whoever was in charge of the weather, be that saint or demon, for the rain had held off, and it was no trick to follow the trail of Ulysses and his two men on the muddy ground.

It shortly became evident that there were more than two men with Ulysses; Jamie and Bobby came upon a spot nay more than a mile from the house, where the marks in the churned-up mud made it clear that Ulysses had joined a band of twenty men, at least; maybe more.

“Go back to the house!” he shouted to Bobby, and waved a hand, encompassing the small clearing. “Tell Ian to bring as many men here as he can and leave word for the rest; a blind man could follow this lot!”

Bobby nodded, pulled down his hat, and set off uphill, leaning perilously back in his saddle, reins clutched to his chest. Jamie grimaced, but waved reassuringly when Bobby looked back over his shoulder. He only needed to stay on the horse as far as the house.

“Even if he falls off and breaks his neck,” he muttered to himself, reining round, “they can follow our track this far. If it doesna pour.” He looked upward, into a dizzying swirl of black clouds, and saw the flash of silent lightning. He counted ten before the roll of distant thunder reached him.

“Trobhat!” he said to Phin, and they set off downhill, following the black hoofprints still showing clear.

THE MOUNTED BAND was moving briskly, but not fleeing. And while there were sprinkles of rain on his face, the storm had not yet broken. Jamie kept well back, always with an ear behind him for his own men coming.

And come they did, to his unspoken but vast relief. He heard them and reined uphill to meet them out of earshot of the troops he was following—he supposed they must be regular British troops, for Ulysses wouldn’t go through the mummery of pretending to be a British soldier if he weren’t one. If they were, though, he’d have to go canny. He wasn’t wanting a physical fight; his infant militia weren’t up to taking on trained soldiers yet.

The back of his mind had been keeping its peace to this point, but now it took the opportunity of his relaxed vigilance to ask him just what the devil he did want.

He wanted to get Ulysses alone, with a dirk in his hand and five minutes to use it, but failing that, he wanted to catch up to the man and go through his saddlebags, both for the damned letter—why had he not been quick enough to stop the man taking it?—and for the original grant, should Ulysses be carrying it. Which meant cutting him out of his own companions and sequestering him somewhere, briefly. He would have given the rest of the fingers on his right hand to have Young Ian with him now, but he didn’t dare wait.

He crossed himself, with a quick prayer to St. Michael, and threaded his horse carefully through a clump of spruce. Emerging on the far side, he saw the flash of a horse’s flank and heard the jingle of harness.

“Trobhad a seo! Over here!” It wasn’t raining yet, but the air still held that strange, muffled quality and he felt as though he’d shouted through a pillow.

They heard him, though, and within a minute or two, they were on their way.

“Who is it we’re after, sir?” asked Anson McHugh, politely. The eldest of Tom McHugh’s sons, he’d come with his father and a younger brother, as well as the Lindsay brothers and a few others who lived close enough to get the summons in time.

“A band of black British soldiers,” Jamie told him.

“Black soldiers?” Anson asked, looking puzzled. “Is there such a thing, then?”

“There is,” Jamie assured him dryly. “Lord Dunmore—ye ken Lord Dunmore? Oh, ye don’t. Nay matter—he started it some years back by getting into a moil wi’ the Virginians he was meant to be governing. They wouldna do as he said, so he put out word that any slave who chose to join the army would be freed. And fed, clothed, and paid,” he added, thinking that this was more than most Continental soldiers could expect.

Anson nodded, his long young face serious. All the McHughs were serious, save their mother, Adeline—and God knew the woman needed a sense of humor, wi’ seven bairns, all boys.

“Is it treason we’re going to commit, then?” Anson asked. A faint gleam of excitement came into his eyes at the thought.

“Very likely,” Jamie said, and suppressed an inappropriate smile at the thought. He’d had a flash of memory: a contentious conversation between himself and John Grey, on a road in Ireland. Grey, annoyed by Jamie’s refusal to tell him what he knew about Tobias Quinn’s aims, had said, “I suppose it is frivolous to point out that assisting the King’s enemies—even by inaction—is treason.”

To which he had himself replied evenly, “It is not frivolous to point out that I am a convicted traitor. Are there judicial degrees of that crime? Is it additive? Because when they tried me, all they said was ‘treason’ before putting a rope around my neck.”

He was surprised to find that the inappropriate smile had crept onto his face despite the current urgent situation—and the fraught circumstances of the memory. A shout from Gillebride MacMillan made him turn sharply from Anson and kick his horse into the highest pace he could sustain on a slippery blanket of wet pine needles.

Panting with the hurry, they reached Gillebride, who silently pointed the way with his chin.

The soldiers had stopped by a small creek to water the horses; that was luck. He could see Ulysses standing on the near bank, leaning against a bare willow’s trunk, the drooping, leafless branches falling in a sort of cage about him.

Taking that as a good omen, Jamie gathered his men and made his aims known. He let Anson McHugh shout, “One … two … three!” and on that signal, the group split like a dropped egg, Gillebride and the McHughs going for the left flank, as it were, with himself and the Lindsays riding straight into the creek to split the group, and himself meaning to seize upon Ulysses—Kenny Lindsay to back him up, if needed.

“Make sure o’ the horses!” he shouted, leaning toward Kenny. “I dinna ken which one belongs to our man. It’s the saddlebags I want!”

“Aye, Mac Dubh,” Lindsay said, grinning, and Jamie let out a Highland whoop that made Phineas—unused to such a thing—swerve madly, ears laid back.

The black soldiers sprang up at once to defend themselves, but most of them were dismounted, and their horses hadn’t liked the screech any more than Phineas did. Ulysses had started from his willow tree like a water rat flushed by a fox, and dived for his tethered horse.

Jamie pulled his own horse up into a slithering stop amid a shower of wet leaves and flung himself off. He ran through the creek edge, ignoring rocks and the cold water that splashed his legs, and threw himself at Ulysses just as the man was getting his left foot into the stirrup. His blood was up and he dragged Ulysses away from the horse, shoved him, then punched him in the belly.

“Saddlebags!” he bellowed over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of Kenny sliding off his own horse, preparing to make a run for the bags. The glimpse took his attention off his own business for a split second and Ulysses hit him hard on the ear and pushed him backward into the creek. The cold water surging up through his clothes was as much a shock as the startling pain in his ear, but he got enough breath back to roll over and scramble clumsily to his feet. There was the boom of a pistol shot at close range; Kenny had fired at Ulysses, but missed, and one of Ulysses’s men dived at Kenny from behind and took his legs out from under him.

The erstwhile butler had got halfway into the saddle. He booted his horse and shot straight into the creek toward Jamie, who leapt to the side, then fell again as a slippery stone rolled under his foot. The horse clipped him in the hip with a hind foot as he tried to rise and knocked him sprawling.

He was too infuriated even to curse coherently. His left eye was watering profusely and he dashed his sleeve over it—to no effect, the sleeve being sodden.

The Lindsays had taken off in pursuit of Ulysses and the small group of his nearby soldiers—the McHughs had chased their own game away from the creek, up into a tangled growth of alders and hemlocks; he could hear shouts and the occasional ring of swords and gun barrels clashing.

He didn’t want any killing, and had said so, but the young McHughs might not remember that in the heat of their first real fight. And Ulysses’s soldiers were likely not under any such proscription. His own horse was still standing where he’d left it, mirabile dictu. Phineas wasn’t at all pleased to see his owner still moving, and when he clambered into the saddle sopping wet, the horse tried to bite him in the leg. He snapped the rein smartly across Phin’s nose, pulled the horse’s head round, and turned back uphill, heading for the sounds of affray.

The storm had broken and it was raining hard; he could barely make out the dark traces of a deer’s trail that led upward. But then they burst out suddenly into a small, dark clearing, filled with layers of dead leaves, trampled into the mud by stamping horses. Some of the British soldiers had muskets, but the attackers were keeping them too busy to aim.

For the most part. One gun went off with a foom! and a cloud of white smoke, and before he could see was anyone hurt by it, the ground in front of him moved. It bloody moved! Phineas had had enough, and when he kept the gelding from turning tail, the horse suddenly changed his mind and, with a furious squeal, charged the moving shape.

An enormous black boar exploded from the leaves under which it had been sleeping, and all of the horses went mad.

THE SOUND OF horses and men came faintly to me through the trees from the direction of the house. I was in the root cellar, turning over yams and checking for rot, but I dropped the yam I was holding and popped out of the cellar like a groundhog from its hole, listening hard.

Not fighting. There were several men, but no screaming or sounds of violence. I slammed the cellar door and ran for the house, but slowed a bit when I heard Bluebell barking. Not her hysterical “Strangers!” bark, nor yet the view-halloo version reserved for skunks, possums, raccoons, woodchucks, or anything else she might consider worth chasing. It was her delighted yap of welcome, and the dart of terror that had struck me in the cellar dissolved in relief. Probably no one was dead, then.

I trotted up the path, rubbing the dirt off my hands with my grubby gardening apron, and wondering how many men Jamie had brought with him and what in God’s name I could feed them for supper. I also wondered whether Jamie had retrieved Lord George Germain’s ruinous letter.

I arrived just in time to say goodbye to the Lindsays, who were away home, they said; Kenny’s wife would have something on for supper.

“The rest went on afore us,” Murdo said, nodding vaguely toward the eastern side of the ridge. “We only came this way in case Mac Dubh should need a hand.”

A hand with what? I wondered, but didn’t detain Murdo, who was already mounted and clearly anxious to be away—it was late afternoon and the sky was still black and roiling overhead. I waved them farewell and went inside to see what—or who—Jamie had brought back. Surely not Ulysses …

It wasn’t. I heard him talking to someone in my surgery, in a courteous way, and another man’s reply, but not a man I knew.

I twitched back the curtain—maybe he’ll be home long enough to build me a proper door one of these days—and stopped dead in surprise. It wasn’t Ulysses, nor either of the soldiers who had accompanied him to the door, but plainly this was one of his soldiers, for the man was black and wore a wet British military uniform, though not one I’d ever seen before: black breeches and a scarlet coat, without decoration beyond the shoulder-knot insignia of a corporal, but sporting a stained white sash that ran from his shoulder across his chest, bearing the embroidered words “Liberty to the Slaves.”

“Ah, there ye are, Sassenach.” Jamie rose from my workbench stool. His clothes clung to him, obviously wet. “I hoped ye’d be back soon. May I have the pleasure to present to ye Corporal Sipio Jackson—of His Majesty’s Company of Black Pioneers?” He gestured to the man lying on the table. “Dinna mind the courtesies, Corporal; I dinna want to have to pick ye up again.”

“Your mos’ obedient servant, madam.” Sergeant Jackson didn’t rise, but rolled heavily up on one elbow and bowed as deeply as possible to me, eyes wary. He had quite an odd accent: English, but with something softer mixed in.

“How nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson,” I said, looking him over. The reason for his immobility was obvious: his right leg was broken and he was pale as suet. It was a nasty-looking compound fracture, with the jagged end of his tibia protruding through his woolen stocking. Someone had taken his boot off.

“How long ago did this happen?” I asked Jamie, taking hold of the sergeant’s ankle and feeling for the fibula just above the joint. There was bleeding from the torn flesh, but it was only oozing now; the stocking was soaked with blood, but it was rusty at the edges; not that fresh.

Jamie glanced out the window; the clouds were beginning to part, and a sullen red glow lit their edges.

“Maybe two hours. I gave him whisky,” he added, with a nod at the empty cup near the corporal’s hand. “For the shock, aye?”

“I thank you, sir,” the sergeant said. “It was mos’ helpful.” He was gray as a ghost and his face was slick with sweat, but he was awake and alert. His eyes fixed on my hands, one moving slowly up his shin, the other feeling his calf gently. His breath jerked as I touched a spot on his calf an inch or two below the level of the protruding tibia.

“Your fibula’s fractured as well,” I informed him. “Hand me those scissors, will you, Jamie? And give him another tot, but mixed half and half with water. How did this happen, Corporal?”

He didn’t relax as I cut the stocking off—he was thin and rangy, and I could see the muscles in his leg clenched tight—but he took in a little more air, and nodded thanks to Jamie for the fresh tot.

“Fell off my horse, madam,” he said. “’Twas frightened by a … pig.”

I looked up at him, surprised at the hesitation. He saw my look, grimaced, and amplified his answer.

“A right big pig. Nevah have I seen one so big.”

“’Twas,” Jamie agreed. “Not the White Sow herself, but one of her spawn for sure; a boar. It’s in the smoke shed,” he added, with a jerk of his head toward the back of the house. “No a wasted journey,” he added. His eyes were resting on Corporal Jackson’s face, his own expression calm, but I could feel the calculation going on behind those eyes.

I rather thought the corporal could, too; I hadn’t started doing anything overtly painful to his leg, but the hand not holding the whisky cup was clenched in a loose fist, and the wary look with which he’d greeted me hadn’t changed by a hair.

“Is Fanny in the house?” I said to Jamie. “I’ll need help to set and bandage this leg.”

“I’ll help ye, Sassenach,” he said, rising and turning toward my cupboards. “Tell me what ye need.”

I gave him a narrow look and he looked straight back, calmly implacable. He wasn’t leaving me alone with a man who was technically an enemy, no matter how incapacitated.

I was torn between minor irritation and an undeniable sense of relief. It was the relief that bothered me.

“Fine,” I said shortly, and he smiled. Then I paused, a question striking me.

“Jamie—will you come with me for a moment? You’ll be all right here, Mr. Jackson. Don’t move too much.” Corporal Jackson lifted sketchy eyebrows at me, but nodded.

I took Jamie back into the kitchen, closing the baize door that separated it from the front of the house.

“What are you planning to do with him?” I asked bluntly. “I mean—is he your prisoner?” I’d been planning to set the leg, bandage it, and then do what was called in this time the Basra method—augmented by my own small innovations. In essence, light—though fragile—plaster-of-Paris-soaked bandages wound over a stocking and padding (dried moss was all I had at the moment that would answer, but it worked well enough) that would immobilize the limb but let the corporal move about, with a cane and some care. But if Jamie needed him to be immobilized, I would just realign the bones, dress the wounds, and splint the limb.

“No,” he said slowly, frowning in thought. “I canna easily keep him prisoner, and there’s nay purpose in it. I ken well enough what Ulysses means to do, because he told me himself. Holding his man wouldna sway him an inch.”

“Will he come back for Mr. Jackson, do you think? I mean—he’s a British army officer now.”

Jamie looked at me for a moment, then smiled in wry realization.

“Ye still think they’re honorable men, don’t ye, Sassenach? The British army?”

“I—well, some of them are, aren’t they?” I said, rather taken aback by this question. “Lord John? His brother?”

“Mmphm.” It was a grudging acquiescence that stopped well short of full agreement. “Did I ever tell ye what His Grace did to me twenty years ago?”

“Actually, no, I don’t think so.” I wasn’t surprised that he should still carry a grudge about it, whatever it was, but that could wait. “As for the army in general … well, I suppose you have some small point. But I fought with the British army, you know—”

“Aye, I do,” he said. “But—”

“Just listen. I lived with them, I fought with them, I mended them and nursed them and held them when they died. Just—just as I did when we fought—” I had to stop and clear my throat. “When we fought for the Stuarts. And …” My voice faltered.

“And what?” He stood very still, leaning on his fists on the kitchen table, eyes fixed on my face.

“And a good officer would never leave his men.”

The big room was silent save for the murmur of the fire and the bumping of the kettle, about to boil. I closed my eyes, thinking, Beauchamp, you idiot … Because he’d done that. Abandoned his men at Monmouth, in order to save my life. It didn’t matter that the battle was over, the enemy in retreat, that there was no danger to the men at that point, that nearly all of them were militia on temporary enlistment, whose service would be legally up by the next day’s dawn. Many had left already. But it didn’t matter. He’d left his men.

“Aye,” he said softly, and I opened my eyes. He straightened up slowly, stretching his back. “Well, then. D’ye think Ulysses is that kind of officer? Will he come back for his corporal?”

“I don’t know.” I bit my lip. “What will you do if he does?”

He looked down at the tabletop, frowning as though the scrubbed oak planks might be a scrying-glass that would show him the future.

“No,” he said at last, and shook himself. “Nay, he won’t come himself, but he likely will send someone else. He won’t come within my grasp, and me warned, but he’ll not leave the man.” He thought for another moment and nodded, to himself as much as me.

“Can ye mend him so that he can travel, Sassenach?”

“Yes, within limits. That’s why I asked you.”

“Do that, then, if ye will. When it’s over, I’ll talk to Corporal Jackson and make out what to do.”

“Jamie.” He’d turned to go, but stopped and turned round to face me.

“Aye?”

“You’re honorable. I know it, and so do you.” He smiled a little at that.

“I try to be. But war’s war, Sassenach. Honor only makes it a bit easier to live wi’ yourself, afterward.”

I WAS MORE than a little perturbed by that “and make out what to do,” but I wasn’t personally equipped to do more than reduce Corporal Jackson’s fracture, stop the bleeding, and relieve his pain, so far as possible.

“Right,” I said to Jamie. “I’m going to need you, though, for a few minutes. Someone’s got to hold on to him while I pull his leg straight, and Fanny’s nowhere near tall or strong enough.”

Jamie looked less than enthused at this prospect, but followed me back to the surgery, where I explained things to the corporal.

“You haven’t got to do a thing but lie still and relax as much as you can.”

“I will do my best, madam.” He was sweating and clammy and his lips were nearly white. I hesitated for a moment, but then reached for my ether bottle. The possible strain on his heart versus the advantages of his leg being completely limp … no contest.

“I’m going to make you fall asleep,” I said, showing him the wickerwork mask and the dropping bottle. “I’ll put this mask on your face, and then put a few drops of this liquid onto it. It smells a little … odd, but if you just breathe normally, you’ll go to sleep and it won’t hurt when I set your leg.”

The corporal looked more than dubious about this, but before he could protest, Jamie squeezed his shoulder.

“If I wanted to kill ye, I’d just have drowned you in the creek or shot ye,” he said, “rather than lug ye all the way uphill so my wife could poison ye. Now lie down.” He pressed Jackson’s shoulders firmly down and the man gave way, reluctantly.

His eyes above the mask were wild, glancing to and fro as though bidding a final farewell to his surroundings.

“It will be all right,” I said, as reassuringly as possible.

He made a sudden, urgent sound and, reaching up, took hold of the dangling small leather bag that had slipped out from its place between my breasts when I bent over him.

“What is this?” he demanded, pushing the wicker mask aside with his other hand. He looked shocked. “What is in it?”

“Ahh … to be honest, I don’t know, exactly,” I said, and took it gingerly from his fingers. “It’s a … um … I suppose you’d call it a medicine bag—a sort of … amulet? An Indian healer gave it to me, some years ago, and once in a long while, I add something to it—a stone, perhaps, or a bit of herb. But … it didn’t seem right to pour out what she’d put in.”

His look of shock had faded into one of intense interest, tinged with what looked like respect. He put out a tentative forefinger and, raising one brow to ask my permission, touched the worn leather. And I felt it. A faint pulse that throbbed once, against the palm of my hand.

He saw me feel it and his face changed. It was still gray with pain and cold and blood loss, but he was no longer scared—of me, Jamie, or anything else.

“It is your moco,” he said softly and nodded, certain.

“Moco?” I said, not certain at all, but having some notion what he meant. Surely he hadn’t said mojo …

“Yes.” He nodded again and took a long, deep breath, his eyes still fixed on the bag. “My great-grandmama, she is Gullah. She is a hoodoo. I think you are one, too, madam.”

He turned his head abruptly to Jamie.

“Will you help me, sir? In my sack—a piece of red flannel cloth, with a pin stuck through.”

Jamie looked at me in question, but I nodded, and shaking his head he went to pick up a ragged rucksack, dumped in the corner of the room. In a moment, he came back, a small red bundle in his hand.

Jackson nodded his thanks and, rolling onto one elbow, carefully pulled the pin, unfolded the cloth, and stirred the contents with a careful forefinger. A moment later, he picked something from the rubble of stones and feathers and seeds, dried leaves and scraps of wood and iron, and beckoned to me to put my hand out, then deposited something dark and hard in my palm.

“This is High John the Conqueror,” he said. “My great-grandmama gives him to me, and says to me it is man’s medicine and will heal me if I am hurt or sick. You put this into your moco before you put your hands on me, please.”

It was a dried nodular root, so dark a brown as to be almost black, but a very peculiar one. I could see why his great-grandmother said it was man’s medicine, though: it looked exactly like a tiny pair of testicles.

“Thank you,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the object. It felt like a well-polished bit of hard root, but I wasn’t feeling any particular sense of anything from it. “Your great-grandmother is a … hoodoo? Would that be a sort of healer?”

He nodded, though his mouth shifted sideways, slightly dubious.

“Mos’ly, madam.”

Jamie cleared his throat in a meaningful sort of way. He was standing near the fire, and small wisps of steam were rising from his hair and clothes.

“Well, then.” I tucked the bit of root into my amulet, cleared my throat, and picked up the mask again. “Lie down, Mr. Jackson. This won’t take a moment.”

IT DID, OF course, take somewhat longer than that—but the look of amazement on Corporal Jackson’s face when he blinked and opened his eyes to see his leg, straightened, bandaged, and wrapped in drying strips of linen soaked in a mixture of gypsum, lime, and water was very gratifying.

“Hau!” he said, and added something in a language I didn’t recognize, almost to himself.

“You might feel a little dizzy,” I said, smiling at him. “Just close your eyes and rest for a bit. The plaster on your leg needs to dry before we can move you.”

I eased a folded towel under his head and covered him with my trusty surgery blanket.

“I’ll send you something warm to drink that will help the pain,” I told him, tucking the blanket round his shoulders. “And I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

Fanny was in the kitchen, chopping bacon into small bits, watched closely by Bluebell, but she amiably stopped doing this in order to make Mr. Jackson a posset.

“Warm milk with an egg beaten up in it—if we have any eggs?”

“Yes’m, there are,” she said proudly. “I found three this morning. But I think they might be duck eggs,” she added dubiously. “’Twas near the creek, and they’re summat bigger than your Scotch dumpys lay.”

“So much the better, as long as they’re moderately fresh,” I said. “If there’s an embryo—you know, the beginnings of a duck?—in the egg, just lift it out and give it to Bluebell; it won’t hurt the posset. Not that Corporal Jackson is likely to notice,” I added reflectively, “once you’ve added two jiggers of whisky and a spoonful of sugar. I think he’ll fall asleep right away; if he doesn’t, though, you can give him one spoonful of the laudanum.”

I left her with instructions to come fetch me if the corporal seemed feverish or disturbed in any way, and went upstairs to take care of my second patient.

JAMIE WAS SITTING on the bed naked, rubbing his loosened wet hair with a towel. I came to him, took the towel, kissed him on the back of the neck, and took over the toweling, massaging his scalp. He sighed and let his shoulders slump in relief.

He wasn’t shivering, but he was cold. Too cold even for goose bumps; his flesh had a smooth nacreous look and was damp and chilly to the touch.

“You look like the inside of an oyster shell,” I said, rubbing my hands together to generate some warmth before applying them to his shoulders. “Let’s try a little friction.”

He made a small sound of amusement and leaned forward, stretching his back in invitation.

“If ye thought I looked like an oyster, I’d worry,” he said. “Oh, God, that feels good. How’s your man, then?”

“I think he’ll be fine, as long as he can be kept off the leg for a few weeks. Complex fracture is always a touchy thing, because of the chance of infection or displacement, but the break itself was relatively clean.”

I caught sight of his discarded clothes. His greatcoat lay on the floor in a sopping pile, oozing water, and his hunting shirt, buckskin breeches, and woolen stockings lay in a smaller wet pile beside it.

“What on earth did you do?” I asked, continuing to rub his back, but more slowly. “Fall into the water?”

“Aye, I did,” he said, in a tone of voice indicating that he didn’t want to talk about it. So he hasn’t got the letter. It made me look more closely at him, though, and now with his hair pulled back, I noticed that his left ear was bright red—and swollen, when I got a closer look at it.

“The boar?” I asked, touching it gingerly.

“Ulysses,” he said tersely, moving his head away from my touch.

“Indeed. What else?”

“A horse kicked me,” he said, reluctantly. “It’s nothing, Sassenach.”

“Ha,” I said, taking my hands off him. “I’ve heard that one before. Show me.”

He made a disgruntled noise but leaned to the side and moved his arm. There was a fresh pale-blue bruise that ran from his hip down the side of his leg for eight inches or so. I prodded it, eliciting a few more disgruntled noises, but so far as I could tell, no bones were broken.

“I told ye,” he said. “Can I lie down now?”

He didn’t wait for permission, but stretched out on the bed with a luxurious groan, flexed his toes, and closed his eyes.

“D’ye maybe want to finish drying me off?” One eye cracked open. “A wee bit o’ friction wouldna come amiss.”

“And what if Fanny comes up while I’m applying this friction, to say Mr. Jackson’s dying?”

“Could ye save him if he was?” One hand was idly combing through the damp reddish-blond bush of his pubic hair, in case I’d missed his point, which I hadn’t.

“Probably not, unless he was choking on the posset.”

“Well, he’ll ha’ finished the posset long before ye reach the point of no return here …”

He’d told me long ago that fighting gave one—a male one, I assumed—a terrible cockstand, assuming you weren’t too badly wounded. I supposed this desire for friction should be reassuring.

I sat down beside him and took a thoughtful grasp of the point in question. It was also cold, blanched, and shrunken, but seemed to be thawing rapidly in my hand.

“It would help me think,” he suggested.

“I don’t believe men think at all in such circumstances,” I said, but began to apply a very tentative sort of friction. His body hair had dried and begun to rise in its usual exuberant fuzz.

“Of course we think,” he said, closing his eyes again. An expectant look was beginning to bloom on his face; I’d definitely got his circulation restarted.

“About what, exactly …?” I lay down beside him and nuzzled his shoulder, not letting go. A large, cold hand rose up the back of my thigh, pushed under petticoat and shift, and grasped my bottom, with intent. I gasped, but didn’t—quite—shriek.

“That,” he said, with satisfaction. “Would ye maybe like to be on top, Sassenach? Or maybe bent over a pillow—for the view?”

I WASN’T SURE whether the adrenaline of battle just didn’t diffuse immediately, the recent nearness of death inducing a strong need to reproduce— or whether the desire for sex merely expressed a need to reassure oneself that one was still alive and in reasonable working order. Regardless, I had to admit that it had a settling effect.

I shook and patted myself back into some sort of order, looked at my reflection in the glass, then shook my head, and wound my hair up into a makeshift bun, precariously fastened by a couple of quills stolen from Jamie’s desk as I passed the study. I could hear voices in the kitchen, and one of them was Ian’s, which lifted my heart.

He and Tòtis were sitting at the table, eating bread and honey, conversing with Fanny and Agnes in a mélange of languages: I recognized English, Gaelic, and what I assumed to be Mohawk, plus a few words of French and a certain amount of sign language regarding food.

“So there you are!” I said, not quite accusingly.

“Here we are,” Ian agreed, amiably. “I hear ye’ve a visitor, Auntie.”

“We’ve had more than one,” I replied, and sat down, suddenly aware that it had been many hours since I’d eaten anything. “Did the girls tell you?”

“They’ve told me about the black soldiers,” he said, smiling at the girls. “And the man whose leg ye’ve sawed off? But I daresay ye ken a bit more about what’s happened, Auntie?”

“I do.” I reached for a slice of bread and the honey pot and filled him in. His eyes went round when I told him about the reappearance of Ulysses, whom he knew but hadn’t seen since that worthy’s departure from River Run years before. The same eyes narrowed when I told him just what Ulysses had said.

“Aye,” he said, when I’d finished my tale. “What does Uncle Jamie mean to do about it?”

“He hasn’t told me yet,” I said uneasily. “But he didn’t take out after the man. I mean, he could have followed Ulysses after the fight and left someone else to bring Corporal Jackson back here, but he didn’t.”

Ian lifted a shoulder, dismissing this.

“Well, he doesna really need to chase him, does he? Ye say Ulysses has a good-sized band of men—anyone could track a group like that, especially wi’ the ground like it is.” He bent and lifted Tòtis’s foot up high, to display the coating of mud that covered the boy’s moccasin and fringed the edge of his leggings. “And Uncle Jamie’s got a prisoner,” he added, putting down the foot and ruffling Tòtis’s hair, which made the boy giggle. “No point in chasing Ulysses without the militia—and it would take half a day to gather Uncle Jamie’s men.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t do that,” I said, pouring a cup of milk. “The last thing he’d want is a pitched battle that might get men killed—on either side. Let alone kill soldiers and bring down the wrath—well, more wrath—of the British army.”

“Aye, that would cause talk,” Ian said thoughtfully. “And the fewer folk who ken about that letter, the better.”

“Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about that,” I said. The bread and honey was restoring my depleted blood glucose and I was beginning to be able to think coherently. For the contents of that letter to become widely known—and thus known to Loyalists, not only on the Ridge but from the nearby backcountry—would be disastrous. They’d like nothing better than to rally a so-called Committee of Safety—cover for anything from blackmail to brigandage—and come arrest the Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge. Or burn his new—illicit—house over his head, as Ulysses had threatened.

“King beaver, forsooth,” I muttered under my breath.

“Uncle Jamie’s not damaged?” Ian said, an expression that couldn’t quite be called a smirk on his face as he looked me over.

“He’s asleep,” I said, ignoring the undertones. “Would you like some apple-and-raisin pie, Tòtis?”

Tòtis was normally a rather solemn little boy, but at this suggestion, he grinned hugely, displaying the gap where a late baby tooth had recently fallen out.

“Yes, please, Great-auntie Witch,” he said.

Fanny giggled.

“Great-auntie Witch?” I said, giving Ian an eye as I got up to fetch the pie.

He shrugged. “Well, the Sachem calls ye …”

The Sachem lived by himself, in a small dwelling he’d built that looked like part of the forest, but I gathered that he spent a great deal of time with the Murrays.

The Sachem was one thing; the inhabitants of the Ridge were something else. I couldn’t stop the more suspicious-minded tenants thinking—or saying—that I was a witch, but it was another thing to have my own great-nephew saying so in public.

“Hmm,” I said to Tòtis. “Perhaps you could call me by the Mohawk name for witch?”

He frowned at me, puzzled. Ian, with a slightly odd look on his face, bent down and whispered something in the boy’s ear. Both of them then looked at me, Tòtis in awe and Ian with circumspection.

“I dinna think so, Auntie,” he said. “There is a Mohawk word for it, but it’s a word that means ye have powers, without sayin’ quite what kind of powers.”

“Oh. Well, just Great-auntie, then, please.” I smiled at Tòtis, who returned the smile, but with an expression of caution.

“Aye, that’ll do fine.” Ian got up and brushed crumbs off his buckskins. “Tell Uncle Jamie I’ve gone to have a wee keek at Ulysses. I want to make sure he’s really got off the mountain and isna lurkin’ about. And I want to ken which way he’s going. So as we can find him when we want him.”

132 Man’s Medicine

THE HOUSE BEGAN TO breathe again, as things eased gradually through the evening. Ian hadn’t returned, but I’d sent Jem and Tòtis up to tell Rachel where he’d gone, and both boys returned for supper. The weather cleared and warmed, and a wonderful sunset spread a blazing curtain of bright-gold cloud in the western sky. Everyone went to sit on the porch and enjoy it, and I told Jamie—who had come down to eat—where Ian was. He’d paused for a moment, brow furrowed, but then nodded and relaxed, taking my hand. The vibrations of Ulysses’s visitation were still with us but beginning to fade, though the presence of Corporal Sipio Jackson in my surgery was an uneasy reminder.

I organized the four older girls into shifts to sit with Corporal Jackson and administer food, if wanted, honey-water, whether wanted or not, and laudanum, if needed. Then I fumbled my way upstairs, my eyes already closing, and fell asleep with no memory of undressing.

When I woke, somewhere past midnight, I discovered that this was because I hadn’t undressed at all but merely collapsed onto the bed. Jamie was sleeping deeply and didn’t stir when I got up and went down to relieve the watch and check on my patient.

Agnes was dozing in my rocking chair, but stirred and rose groggily when I came into the surgery. I put a finger to my lips and waved her back. Her knees folded at once; she was asleep again almost before her bottom hit the cushion. The chair rocked gently back under her weight—she was visibly pregnant by now—then came to rest. The only light came from the smothered embers in the tiny brazier on the counter, but the diffuse glow made the surgery seem soft and dreamlike, glimmering among the bottles, hazy among the hanging herbs drying overhead.

Corporal Jackson was asleep now, too; I’d looked in twice before going to bed, and finding him the last time wakeful, feverish, and in what hospital personnel tactfully call “discomfort,” had given him a tea of willow bark and valerian, with a few drops of laudanum. His face was slack and calm, mouth a little open, breathing with a slight congestive sound. I put both hands gently on his leg; one below the plaster dressing, a thumb on the pulse in his ankle, and the other on his thigh. His flesh was still noticeably warm, but not alarmingly so. I could feel the pulse of his femoral artery, slow and strong, and felt my own pulse in the fingertips of the hand on his ankle. I stood still, breathing slowly, and felt the pulses equalize between my hands.

The slow beat of the mingled pulses made me think suddenly of Roger’s throat—and of Brianna’s heart. And then of William. So she’d met her brother, at last.

That thought made me smile and at the same time experience a deep pang of regret. I’d have given a great deal to see that meeting.

From John’s carefully composed letter, it had been clear that that meeting was what he really wanted. Not that he wouldn’t want to help Bree to a fat commission, or have her there for the sake of her own company—but I recognized the commission as being merely the shimmering fly on the surface of his pond. Jamie, who probably knew John a lot better than I did, quite clearly saw that, too—and yet he’d simply picked up the baited hook, examined it, and then deliberately swallowed it.

Yes, he’d needed guns, urgently. Yes, he wanted to restore Germain to his parents. To some extent, he probably also wanted Roger to be ordained. But I knew what he wanted most, and knew that John wanted it just as badly. They wanted William to be happy.

Clearly, neither one was in a position to help William come to terms with the fact that they’d both lied to him. Let alone help him pick up the pieces of his identity. Nobody could do that but William. But Brianna was a part of his identity and possibly something for him to hang on to while he fitted the rest of his life together.

Even more than I would have wanted to see the meeting between William and Bree—each knowing who the other was—I longed to see Jamie’s face watching such a meeting.

I shook my head and let the vision fade, listening to Corporal Jackson’s body and the whisper of sand through the hourglass (Agnes and Fanny were meant to change places every two hours, but neither one could stay awake that long), letting the peace of the night surgery flow into me. And from me, with luck, into the young man under my hands. I’d thought him older when I first saw him, but with the lines of tension, fear, and pain smoothed out of his face, it was clear that he wasn’t more than twenty-five.

Moved by an impulse, I let go of his leg and fetched my medicine-bag amulet from the cupboard.

Nobody was watching, but I still felt self-conscious when I reached into the bag and withdrew the John-the-conqueror root. There must be some ritual connected with its use, but as I had no idea what that might be, I’d have to roll my own. I paused for a moment, holding the root in the palm of my hand, and thought of the woman who’d given it to him. His great-grandmother, he’d said. So she’d held this root herself, just as I did now.

“Bless your great-grandson,” I said softly, laying the root on his chest, “and help him to heal.”

I didn’t know why, but I felt I must stay—and I’d been at this business long enough to know when not to argue with myself. I roused Agnes and sent her upstairs to her bed, then sat down myself in the rocking chair and rocked gently, pressing down with the tips of my stockinged toes. After a time, I stopped and sat listening to the quiet of the room and the breathing of the man and the slow even beating of my own heart.

DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT roused me from my dozing trance. I got up, stiffly, and checked my patient. Still sleeping, though I could see dreams moving behind his closed eyelids; he was coming gradually to the surface. His skin was cool, though, and the flesh above and below the plaster was firm, no sense of puffiness or crepitation. The fire in the brazier had died to ash, and the air held a moving freshness.

“Thank you,” I murmured, plucking the conqueror root off Mr. Jackson’s chest and restoring it to my amulet. Man’s magic could be a useful thing, I thought, given recent events and the prospect of lots more like them.

I went out to the privy, then upstairs, where I washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed to a fresh shift, and put my work gown back on. The smell of bacon and fried potatoes was creeping enticingly into the room, and my stomach gurgled in anticipation. Perhaps there was time to grab a quick bite before Mr. Jackson rejoined the living …

Fanny and Agnes were giggling together over a slightly scorched pan of corn bread, but looked up guiltily when I came in.

“I forgot,” Fanny said, apologetic, “but then I remembered.”

“It will be fine,” I said, sniffing it. “Put out butter and a little honey with it and no one will notice. Have you seen Himself this morning?”

“Oh, yes’m,” Agnes said. “We went to the surgery a minute ago, to see if you were there or if the soldier wanted breakfast, and Mr. Fraser was there, with a, um, utensil in his hand. He told us to go and make up a plate whilst he talked to Corporal Jackson.” She nodded at a pewter plate on the end of the table, this holding two bannocks with jam, a heap of fried potatoes, and six rashers of bacon.

“I’ll take it,” I said, scooping up the plate and taking a fork from the yellow jar on the table. The metal was warm and the smell divine. “Thank you, girls. Keep the food warm until Mr. Fraser or I come back, will you?”

It was very thoughtful of Jamie to call on the corporal with a chamber pot, I thought, amused. That should go some way toward easing his mind. I paused outside the quilt that covered the surgery door, listening to be sure I wouldn’t interrupt Mr. Jackson at a delicate moment.

The quilt was red-side out. I couldn’t recall whether I’d pinned it up that way yesterday or not. It was a double-sided quilt that Jamie had bought me in Salem: two heavy woven wool pieces of cloth, elaborately fastened together with a beautiful quilting stitch that curled into leafy circles and zigzagged down the edges. The red cloth was the color of old brandy—or blood, as Jamie had observed more than once—and the other side was a deep golden brown, dyed with onion skins and saffron. It was my habit to put the quilt up red-side out when I was conferring privately with a patient or doing something embarrassingly intimate to them, as an indication to the household that they ought not to burst in without knocking.

I heard a last trickle, a deep sigh from Corporal Jackson, and the metallic scrape of a tin chamber pot sliding across wood, then the noise of Jamie—presumably—sliding it under the counter.

“I thank you, sir,” Jackson said, courteous but wary.

“Well, ye’re no my prisoner,” Jamie said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “But ye do seem to be my guest. As such, of course ye’re more than welcome to stay for as long as ye like—or need to. But I canna help but think ye might have other places ye’d rather be, once my wife is pleased wi’ your leg.”

Mr. Jackson made a brief sound in which surprise and amusement were mingled in equal proportion, and there was a rustling noise and the creak of my rocking chair as Jamie evidently made himself comfortable.

“I’m mos’ grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Jackson said. “And your wife’s care of me.”

“She’s a good healer,” Jamie said. “Ye’ll do fine. But your leg’s broken, so ye’re no walking out on your own. I’ll take ye in my wagon where ye want to go, so soon as Claire says ye’re fettled.”

Jackson seemed a bit taken aback by this, for he didn’t answer at once, but made a sort of low humming noise.

“I’m not your prisoner, you say,” he said, carefully.

“No. I’ve nay quarrel wi’ you, nor reason to do ye harm.”

“You and your men seem to think otherwise yesterday,” the corporal pointed out, a cautious tone in his voice.

“Ach, that.” Jamie was silent for a moment, then asked, with no apparent emotion other than mild curiosity, “Do ye ken Captain Stevens’s intent in calling upon me?”

“No, sir. And I don’ wish to know,” Jackson said firmly.

Jamie laughed. “Likely a wise choice. I willna tell ye, then, save to say it was a personal matter between him and me.”

“It looked that way.” Was that a hint of humor in Jackson’s voice? I was listening so intently that I’d paid no attention to the food I was holding, but the scent of bacon at close range was insistently seductive.

“Aye.” The hint of humor was stronger in Jamie’s voice. “I’m figuring that he didna drag the lot of you up here just to make a show of force for me. But there’s nothing else within fifty miles of this place—it’s nearly a hundred miles to the nearest town of any size, save Salem, and neither the Crown nor Captain Stevens would have business wi’ the Moravian brothers and sisters. Ye ken them?”

It was a casual question—ostensibly, I thought, and nibbled the crispy end of a rasher—and Jackson answered it likewise.

“I’ve been to Salem, once. You right, soldiers have no business there.”

“But they have business in the backcountry, apparently.”

Dead silence. Then I heard the faint squeak of my rocking chair, going back and forth, back and forth. Slowly. I swallowed the bacon, feeling a tightness in my throat.

For a roving company of British soldiers to have “business” in a general way, they must have intended one of two things—or possibly both. To rouse Loyalists, or to hunt, harass, and discomfit rebels. And a company of Black soldiers wouldn’t be sent to inspire Loyalists to form militias and turn against their neighbors. I glanced involuntarily at the ceiling above me, hearing in memory the crackle of wood and remembering the look of burning timbers, about to collapse.

But they wouldn’t burn this place—yet. Ulysses wanted it.

“If I was your prisoner,” Jackson said at last, slowly, “I wouldn’ have to answer your questions, is that right? I don’ know,” he added shyly. “I haven’ been a prisoner before.”

“I have,” Jamie assuredly him gravely, “and aye, that’s right. Ye have to tell your captors your name and rank, and the company ye belong to, but that’s all.” I heard the chair rock forward, and Jamie’s slight grunt as he rose to his feet. “Ye dinna even have to tell me that much, as my guest. But as ye honored me with your name and rank, and Captain Stevens told me your company, you’re square either way.”

I blinked at that. Perhaps he’d meant it casually, but “you’re square” was one of the coded phrases Freemasons used to identify one another; I’d heard it frequently in Jamaica when we had enlisted the local Lodge to help in our search for Young Ian. Were there black Freemasons in this time? Jackson made no reply, though.

“But I dinna suppose ye want to spend the next several weeks on my wife’s table. She’ll be needing it, sooner or later,” Jamie said.

“So.” His voice was slightly louder; he’d turned toward the door. “Say where ye’d like to go, Corporal, and someone will take ye there. In the meantime, let me go and see where your breakfast has got to.”

AFTER BREAKFAST AND a further brief discussion with Corporal Jackson, Jamie wrote a note and sent Jem up the hill to Captain Cunningham to deliver it. And two hours later, Lieutenants Bembridge and Esterhazy appeared at our door. I didn’t know what either the captain or Mrs. Cunningham had said to them, but neither one was battered, and when seen, they appeared to be working—somewhat uneasily—with each other. Just now, they both appeared rather nonplussed, and announced that they had come to escort our prisoner—er, guest—to the captain’s cabin. The captain had agreed—as the leading Loyalist on Fraser’s Ridge—to offer Corporal Jackson refuge until such time as he could be reunited with his company.

“He can’t walk,” Jamie advised them. “I’ll lend ye a mule.”

“He can’t ride, either,” I said. “You’ll need to make a travois for him.”

While the men went out to do this, I checked the corporal’s condition—feverish, but not a high fever, a certain amount of pain and some redness, but—I sniffed his leg discreetly—no overt infection, and I wrote up a medical note for Elspeth Cunningham, with a description of the injury and notes on care of the plaster cast. I offered him elevenses, which he refused, but he did drink another medicinal posset, involving an egg, cream, sugar, extract of willow bark, black cohosh, and meadowsweet, a good slug of whisky—and enough laudanum to fell a horse.

“You’re sure you want to go?” I asked, watching as he sipped the posset. “We’re happy to take care of you until you’re healed enough to rejoin your company.”

The corporal was heavy-eyed and his face was flushed, but he managed a smile.

“It’s bettah I go, madam. This Cap’n Cunningham, he can send to Cap’n Stevens, he will make provision for me to go to Charlotte.”

I shook my head dubiously. He was doing well enough, but being dragged uphill for two miles behind a mule while suffering from a broken leg wasn’t anything I’d wish on an enemy, let alone an innocent man. Still, it was his choice. I took my amulet bag from round my neck and opened it. The usual scent wafted out as I dipped my finger into it, earthy and unidentifiable but with an odd sense of reassurance.

“Well, let me give you back your High John the Conqueror,” I said, smiling as I plucked it out. “I hope you won’t need it on your journey, but just in case …”

“Oh, no, madam.” He waved a slow hand at me, pushing it away. “Its magic remain with me ’cause you have healed me with it—but it is part of your magic now.”

“Oh. Well … thank you, Mr. Jackson. I’ll take good care of it.” The hard little root was smooth and glossy, and my fingers caressed it briefly as I tucked it back into the amulet and tied the neck. He nodded approvingly, yawned suddenly and shook his head, then upended the posset cup and drained it. He put out his free hand suddenly, his fingers curling in invitation. I took it, automatically putting a finger on his wrist—pulse a little fast, but strong, and while his hand was very warm, it wasn’t alarming …

Then I realized that he was saying something, soft and slurred, but not English.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I bless you,” he said, blinking drowsily. He smiled and his fingers loosened and slid free. A moment later, he was asleep.

When we had seen the travois party safely off, and the girls and Jem had all gone off on their own errands, Jamie and I returned to the kitchen for a second breakfast.

He sat down gingerly, grimacing a little, but shook his head at my inquiring look.

“I’ll do. But I’ll maybe have a dram wi’ my parritch.” I looked at him narrowly.

“Have two,” I suggested, and he didn’t argue.

The big black-iron spider was hot in its bed of glowing charcoal, and I laid down several fresh rashers of bacon and broke the last of the eggs from the root cellar one at a time into a bowl to check that they were good before I dropped them into the sizzling fat. I could feel the house gradually settling back around us as the sense of intrusion and disruption faded. Still, the inside of my nose prickled at the smoke from the frying bacon, and the remembered smell of fire was sharp at the back of my throat.

“What do you think Ulysses will do now?” I asked, setting down the plates. My voice was steady, but my hands weren’t; the spoon twitched in my fingers as I shook salt onto the eggs and sent a spray of white crystals over the table.

Jamie’s eyes were focused on the table, but I thought he hadn’t even seen the scattered salt. He’d heard me, though, and after a moment he sat up straight and nodded, as though to himself.

“Kill me,” he said, with a sigh. “Or try to,” he added, seeing my face. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. I dinna mean to let him.”

“Oh, good,” I said, and he smiled, though it was a wry one. The bench creaked with his weight as he leaned forward and brushed the spilled salt neatly into the palm of his hand. He tossed a pinch of it over his left shoulder and carefully poured the rest back into the saltcellar.

I began to relax enough to feel hungry and picked up my fork.

“If he can somehow make away wi’ me, though,” he went on dispassionately, taking up the pepper, “he can ride up with his men and turn you and the lassies out and take possession o’ the place, wavin’ his letter under the noses of the tenants. They wouldna like it, but Cunningham and his men would support him, and while the Lindsays and MacMillans and Bobby are all good fighting men, none o’ them are what ye’d call leaders. They’d not stand long, against trained soldiers and Cunningham’s lot—and Ulysses wouldna hesitate to burn them out, should he feel the need. He wouldna mind a small war, at all.”

“Ian and Roger wouldn’t stand for that,” I said.

Jamie cocked a brow at me.

“Ian’s a Mohawk and he’d fight to the death, but he’s never commanded men,” he pointed out. “Mohawk dinna really fight that way. And while a good many of the men on the Ridge like him, just as many are that wee bit afraid of him—and liking’s not enough to get a man to risk his life and family. As for Roger Mac …” He smiled a little, ruefully.

“I won’t say I’ve never seen a priest be a bonnie fighter, because I have. And Roger Mac can draw folk together and make them listen. But it’s no his business to make war and he hasna got any experience in doin’ it. Besides—” He straightened his back and stretched, with a muffled popping of vertebrae. “Oh, God. Besides,” he repeated, and gave me a very direct look, “there’s nay telling when Roger Mac and Bree will be home from Salem. And I dinna ken when ‘Captain Stevens’ may come back—but come back he will, Sassenach.”

I glanced at the window. It was raining again, a speckle of fine droplets.

“I don’t suppose,” I said diffidently, “that Frank mentioned His Majesty’s Company of Black Pioneers in that book?”

“He did not. Yon bastard was only concerned wi’ the Scots,” he said, frowning. “I dinna recall one word in that book about black soldiers.” Then his face went blank for a moment and he made a Scottish noise between disgust and amusement. “Nay, he did say there were black men at the battle of Savannah. They were from Saint-Domingue, though—wi’ the French navy.”

He made an impatient gesture, dismissing all this complication.

“What I do ken is that Stevens will try to kill me if he can, and the sooner the better. And I also ken he’ll send someone to fetch his corporal sooner than that.”

The kitchen was warm and cozy but the breakfast congealed in my stomach.

“I don’t think so. Corporal Jackson said that Cunningham would make provision to send him to Charlotte,” I blurted.

Jamie stared at me for a moment, and I could see the counters falling into place behind his eyes.

“Ah,” he said, plainly thinking what I was: Charlotte must be the place where Ulysses planned to rendezvous with the rest of the Company of Black Pioneers. “That will be where Ian’s gone, then. He should be back soon, and then …”

“No!” I said. “You can’t take your militia after him!”

“I dinna mean to,” he said mildly, and picked up his fork. “It would be good exercise, but the weather’s chancy, and the game’s beginning to gather and move. The men need to be hunting deer, not British soldiers. Besides, ken what would happen if I caught him but some of his men got away to tell the tale?”

I did, but I let go the breath I’d been holding; he wasn’t going to do it. Then a second thought struck me in the solar plexus. I froze for a moment.

“No,” I said, and stood up suddenly, looming over him. “No! If you go hunting that man alone, Jamie Fraser, you—you—can’t.”

He blinked. Bluebell jerked out of sleep with a small, startled wuff! but, not seeing anything unusual, she sidled up to Jamie and nosed his leg. He put a hand down to scratch her ears but kept his gaze on me, considering.

“Jamie,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “If you love me … don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being killed, but nor could I bear the thought of his hunting, performing execution. The sound of a rifle shot echoed in my head whenever I thought of the man he had killed, rousing other echoes—of that night, a heavy body in the dark, pain and terror and helpless suffocation.

“And I don’t even bloody know if you shot him,” I said abruptly, and sat down. “The man … whose name I don’t know.”

He looked at me for a moment, head on one side, then reached out delicately and scooped up a bit of yellow with a fingertip. He touched this to my lower lip and I licked it off by reflex: warm, savory, delicious.

“I love you,” he said softly, and his hand cupped my cheek, big and warm. “As an egg loves salt. Dinna fash, mo chridhe. I’ll think o’ something else.”

133 Such an Odd Feeling

BRIANNA’S HANDS HAD GROWN sweaty in the reading, and a trickle of perspiration ran down the side of her neck. She knuckled it absently away and wiped her wet hand on her skirt before unfolding the smaller paper.

It was a crude sketch, a face-on portrait with the ears comically oversized and attached asymmetrically to the head, like butterflies about to take flight. She smiled for an instant, and then looked closer at the face between those ears. It wasn’t distinctive at all—which might have made the drawing better than it otherwise might have been, she thought, frowning. There was simply nothing complicated about the major’s very ordinary face, though she was pleased to see that William did indeed have at least some basic skill in drawing: he’d added a deep chiaroscuro to the left side of the face and quick thumb-shading to add hollows beneath the small, clever-looking eyes that …

She stopped, something tickling at her brain, and looked closer. Could anyone actually have ears that noticeably off-kilter? Big ears were one thing, but displaced ears … Perhaps if the man had had an accident that severed one ear and a surgeon had sewed it back on awry … The notion made her smile, despite her uneasiness, but another thought was pushing up behind the first, triggered by the thought of surgery. Plastic surgery.

She looked again, closer, at that very ordinary face, lacking most of the normal lines of expression. Alarm was flooding through her, even before her mind had dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s.

She felt suddenly ill and sat down abruptly, eyes closed. She hadn’t eaten lunch and now felt nauseated on an empty stomach. Common with morning sickness, her mother had said—but this wasn’t morning sickness. She opened her eyes and looked again.

And this time she breathed cold air smelling of pine and heather and burning rubber and hot metal and the acrid ghost of gunpowder. Remembered the hail-like sound of shotgun pellets pattering through gorse and heather. And the warm, greasy feel of an old wool cap in her hand, pulled off the head of a man whose face she hadn’t quite seen, as he tried to kidnap Jem and Mandy from the dark dooryard of Lallybroch. But now she saw him plain and saw through his disguise. Both of them.

Someone will come.

She leaned over and threw up.

ROGER WAS SITTING under a tree on the creek bank, theoretically writing a sermon about the nature of the Holy Trinity but in actuality hypnotized by the clear brown water gurgling past, letting random quotes about streams and water and eternity roll round inside his skull like rocks being dragged downstream, clacking into each other as they went.

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in,” he murmured, trying it out. He wasn’t worried about plagiarizing words that hadn’t been written yet. Besides, Davy Caldwell had assured him that quotation was the backbone of many good sermons—and a good place to start, if you found yourself without a thought in your head.

“Which is the case, roughly nine times out of ten,” Davy had said, reaching for a mug of beer. “And the tenth time, ye should write your brilliantly original thought down and put it aside and read it through next day, to be sure ye’re not talking out your arse.”

“I always thought Ralph Waldo Emerson was talking out his ass, but surely you aren’t going to say that in your next sermon, are you?”

“What?” He looked up from his notebook to see Bree making her careful way down the bank, and his heart lifted at the sight of her. She looked pregnant.

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you,” he said.

“What?” she said, startled. “Who said that?”

“Should I be hurt that you didn’t think it was me?” he said, laughing. “It’s A. A. Milne. From Winnie-the-Pooh, if you can believe it.”

“At this point,” she said, and sat down, sighing heavily, “I’ll believe anything. Look at this.”

She handed him an odd-looking drawing of a man’s head, the sheet showing the marks of having been folded.

“My brother sent it to me,” she said, and smiled, despite her apparent uneasiness. “He’s right, it does feel strange to say it. ‘Brother,’ I mean.”

“What is it? Or rather, who?” He could see what it was; a quick sketch of a man’s head, done in heavy graphite pencil. He frowned at it. “And what’s wrong with him?”

“Well, there’s a pair of good questions.” She took a deep breath and settled herself. “That’s a drawing of a man named Ezekiel Richardson. William says he’s a turncoat—started with the British, switched to the Continentals. He’s also some kind of skunk, who’s tried to do William harm of various kinds, but hasn’t yet succeeded. Does he look familiar to you?”

Roger glanced up at her, puzzled.

“No. Why should he?” He returned his gaze to the paper and slowly traced the outline of the face. “His ears aren’t quite straight, but I suppose William doesn’t have quite your artistic talent.”

She shook her head.

“No. Not that. Try imagining him with longer, curly, sandy-colored hair, light eyebrows, and a sunburn.”

Now slightly alarmed and wondering why, Roger frowned at the portrait of a man with slicked-back dark hair, level dark brows, and small eyes that gave away nothing.

“He certainly hasn’t got much expression …”

“Think bad plastic surgery,” she suggested, and there was a split second of incomprehension before it hit him. His mouth opened, and his throat closed, hard, and for an instant he was hanging, falling through a foot of air and ending with a heart-stopping jerk.

“Jesus,” he croaked, when his throat finally let go its death grip. “A time traveler? You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said flatly. “Do you remember, when we lived at Lallybroch, a guy named Michael Callahan—he went by ‘Mike’—who was an archaeologist who worked on Orkney? He came to look at the Iron Age fort on the hill above the—our—graveyard.” He saw her throat swell as she swallowed, hard. “Maybe he wasn’t looking at the fort. Maybe he was looking at the graves—and us.”

He looked from her tight lips to the drawing, back again.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said carefully. “But—”

“But I saw him again,” she said, and he saw that she was clutching the fabric of her skirt, bunched in both hands. “At the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.”

A surge of searing-hot vomit hit the back of his throat, and he forced it down. She saw his face and let go the bunched fabric to take his hand in both hers, holding hard.

“I wouldn’t have thought of it at all—but looking at the ears, and suddenly it just came to me that the only thing I could think of that would make someone’s ears be like that would be if they’d had some kind of surgery that didn’t quite come out the way it was supposed to … and the way his face is so blank—and just all of a sudden I remembered that night. He—he tried to get into the van where the kids and I—I grabbed the woolly hat off his head, and yanked out some of his hair with it, and I caught just a glimpse of his face—and then I didn’t think about it again, because we were trying to get away and then I got the kids to California, and … But just now.” She swallowed again, and he saw that the paleness of her face had given way to a flush of rage. “It’s him. I know it’s him.”

“Holy buggery,” he said, staring back at the expressionless face, trying to match it to Callahan’s mobile, always smiling face. But everything was beginning to fall into place, like dominoes paving a path to hell.

“He knew Rob Cameron,” he said. “And Cameron read the book. He knew what we were.”

“Rob couldn’t travel,” she said. “But maybe Mike Callahan can. And he knew we’d recognize his real face.”

134 F. Cowden, Bookseller

IT WAS NOT OUT of the ordinary, seen from the street. Not one of the fashionable streets, but not an alley, either. The building was red brick, like most of Philadelphia, with fresh white-painted brick facings on the windows and doorway. William paused for a moment to give himself countenance and wipe the sweat from his face, while pretending to examine the books displayed in the window.

Bibles, of course, but only a large one with an embossed leather cover and gilded pages, and a devotional-sized Book of Psalms beside it with a green leather cover, bright as a tiny parrot. He instantly revised his original opinion of the bookshop’s quality and likely custom, an opinion borne out by the neat array of novels in English, German, and French—including the French translation of Robinson Crusoe, intended for children, from which he’d been taught French at the age of ten or so. He smiled, momentarily distracted by the warmth of memory—and then glanced up from the display of books to see Amaranthus hovering behind it, no more than her pale face visible through the glass, as though she’d been beheaded.

The shock was so great that he gaped stupidly at her for a moment, but he observed that while not gaping stupidly, she appeared at least to be equally taken aback at sight of him. He drew himself up and fixed her with a stare meant to convey that it was no use her running out of the back door and down the alley, because he was undoubtedly faster than she was and would hunt her down like a fleeing tortoise.

She correctly interpreted this look and her changeable eyes—black, in the dimness of the shop—narrowed dangerously.

“Try me,” he said. Out loud, to the startlement of an elderly lady who had stopped beside him to peruse the bookshop’s wares.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “Will you have the goodness to excuse me?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pushed open the shop’s door and went in. Not surprisingly, Amaranthus was gone. He glanced hastily round the room, which—like every bookshop he’d ever entered—had piles of books stacked on every possible horizontal surface. The place smelled wonderfully of ink and paper and leather, but just this minute he hadn’t time to enjoy it.

A gnome stepped out from behind the piled desk, leaning on an ebony cane. It was only his height that was gnomish, William saw; he was slender but upright, with a full head of gray hair, thick and worn short, and a darkly tanned, deeply lined face whose lines were fixed in determination.

“Stay away from my daughter,” the gnome said, taking a double-handed grip on his cane. “Or I shall …” His eyes narrowed, and William saw just where Amaranthus had got both eyes and expression. Mr. Cowden—for surely this must be he—looked thoughtfully at William’s feet, then allowed his gaze to pass upward to his face—this a foot or so above his own.

“Or I shall break your knee,” Cowden said, deftly reversing his grip so as to hold the cane in the manner of a cricket bat and adopting the stance of one intending to smash the ball into the next county. So decided was his manner that William took a step backward.

Torn between annoyance and amusement, he bowed briefly.

“Your servant, sir. I am … William Ransom.” He’d been about to introduce himself as the Earl of Ellesmere, he realized. He also realized just how much deference that title might be worth, as he wasn’t getting any on the strength of his patronym.

“So?” inquired the gnome, not altering his posture in the slightest degree.

“I’ve come to deliver a message to your daughter, sir. From His Grace, the Duke of Pardloe.”

“Pah,” said Cowden.

“Did you say ‘Pah’?” William inquired, incredulous.

“I did, and I propose to go on saying it until you remove yourself from my premises.”

“I decline to leave until I’ve spoken with … um … well, whatever the bloody hell she’s calling herself these days. The Viscountess Grey? Mrs. General Bleeker? Or has she gone all the way back to Miss Cowden?”

Mr. Cowden’s cane swiped within an inch of William’s knee, missing only because William’s reflexes had carried him backward by a yard. Before the man could swing again, William bent and snatched the cane from his hand. He resisted the urge to break it—it was a fine piece, with a heavy bronze head in the shape of a raven—and instead placed it on the top of the nearest bookshelf, well out of Cowden’s reach.

“Now … why do you not wish me to speak to your daughter?” he asked, keeping his tone as reasonable as possible.

“Because she doesn’t wish to speak to you,” Mr. Cowden replied, his tone slightly less reasonable than William’s, but not enraged, either. “She said so.”

“Ah.”

The lack of aggression in William’s reply seemed to calm the bookseller slightly. His hair had risen like the crest of a cockatoo, and he made an attempt to smooth it with the palm of his hand. William coughed.

“If she won’t talk to me at present, perhaps I could leave her a note?” he suggested, gesturing toward an inkwell on the desk.

“Hm.” Cowden seemed dubious. “I doubt she’d read it.”

“I’ll lay you five to one she does.”

Mr. Cowden’s tongue poked into the side of his cheek, considering.

“Shillings?” he inquired.

“Guineas.”

“Done.” He moved behind the desk, drew out a sheet of paper, and handed William a slender glass pen with a swirling thread of dark blue running up its stem. “Don’t press too hard,” he advised. “It’s Murano glass and pretty strong, but it is glass, and you’re a ham-handed fellow. In terms of size,” he amended. “I don’t impugn your dexterity, necessarily.”

William nodded, and dipped the pen gently. Presumably one used it like a quill … one did, and it wrote beautifully, smooth as silk and holding its ink very well. No blots, either.

He wrote briefly, What are you afraid of? Whatever it is, it isn’t me. Your most humble and obedient Servant, William, then sanded the sheet and waved it gently to make sure it was dry. He didn’t see any sealing wax, but his father had shown him some years ago how to fold a letter like a Chinese puzzle, in a way that would make it nearly impossible to open and refold the same way. He pressed the creases with his thumbnail, to make sure they would show, should the letter be opened before reaching its intended recipient.

The bookseller accepted the folded square and raised a thick gray brow.

“Tell her I’ll come back tomorrow at three o’clock, without manacles,” William said, and bowed. “Your servant, sir.”

“Never have daughters,” Mr. Cowden advised him, tucking the note into a breast pocket. “They don’t listen worth a damn.”

WILLIAM SPENT A wakeful night, between bedbugs, inquisitive moths who seemed intent upon exploring his nostrils, despite these orifices lacking any light whatsoever, and his thoughts, which were undefined but active.

“You go into a situation with an expectation,” his uncle Hal had told him once, during a discussion of military tactics. “You should know what you want to happen, even if what you want is no more than your own survival. That expectation will dictate your actions.”

“Since,” his father had neatly interposed, “you might do something different, if you only wanted to get out alive, than you would if your primary desire was to keep a majority of your troops alive. And something else again, if what you wanted was to defeat an opposing commander and damn the cost.”

William scratched his middle, meditating.

Well, so … what do I want to happen?

On the face of it, he’d already achieved the stated purpose of his expedition, that being to discover where Amaranthus was and her circumstances and general well-being. Well, fine. She was with her father, which is where she’d said she was going, and was plainly neither ill nor injured, judging by the speed with which she’d left the premises.

What William wanted to know at the moment was whether or not she was wearing her wedding ring. Unfortunately, he couldn’t decide what either its presence or its absence might signify. He also couldn’t decide which condition he’d personally prefer. Would the sight of her ringless hand fill him with pity, sympathy, satisfaction—or excitement? He felt all those things, imagining it … You couldn’t miss it: a thick gold band with an ovoid swelling cut with a deep crease, in which was embedded a large diamond, flanked by pearls and tiny beads of Persian turquoise.

He yawned, stretched, and relaxed, so far as was possible; the inn’s bed was Procrustean for someone of his height, and he was lying with his knees raised, a dark double hillock under the blankets. He’d have to find better quarters if …

If what?

What, indeed? It wasn’t in his orders to drag the woman back to Savannah. He needn’t hang about in order to try to convince her to go with him. But what about Trevor?

Uncle Hal’s message—which had been dictated by Lord John, who said that Hal’s normal style of correspondence would drive any sane woman to instant flight—made it clear that he regarded her as a daughter and that she would always find protection and succor under his roof, for herself and her son.

Is she sane, I wonder …?

He was growing sleepy, but felt a distant throb at the thought, which had brought her suggestion regarding his personal difficulties to mind …

“You might … just possibly enjoy it.”

He’d rolled sideways, his legs folded up, and now pulled the pillow over his head to muffle the sounds from the bar below, where the singing seemed to be accompanied by someone beating a bass drum.

“You might, too,” he murmured, and slept.

AT THREE O’CLOCK the next afternoon, he presented himself at the bookshop. Mr. Cowden was standing behind his desk, writing in a large ledger. He looked up at William’s entrance, regarded him with a beady eye, and then pulled out a shallow drawer, from which he removed a single golden guinea and placed it precisely in the center of the desk.

“She’s in the courtyard out back,” he said, and returned to his accounts. William picked up the guinea, bowed, and went out.

The so-called courtyard was a small, fenced plot of ground, but had been designed by someone—probably Mr. Cowden—with a fine eye for a garden and a diverse taste in plants. It took William a moment to spot Amaranthus, even though he was looking for her. She was seated on a stone bench in one corner overhung by a rose trellis—not blooming, but lushly leaved, the foliage tinged with red. A small stone fountain bubbled in front of her; that’s why he hadn’t seen her at once.

She wore black, which didn’t become her, and her hair was pinned up under a cap with a tiny bit of lace edging. She still wore her wedding ring, and he felt a small twinge of what might be disappointment. Then he saw that while she still wore the ring, she’d changed it from her left hand to her right.

He stopped just by the fountain and bowed to her.

“So you’re not afraid of anything, now?”

She looked him over, soberly, then lifted her eyes to meet his. Pale blue, translucent.

“I wouldn’t say that. But I’m certainly not afraid of you.” It might have been a challenge or a sneer, but it wasn’t. It was just a statement of fact and rather warmed him.

“Good,” he said. “Why did you run when I came yesterday, then?”

“I panicked,” she said frankly. “I’d put away all thought of—of Father Pardloe and Lord John and Savannah—”

“—and me?”

“And you,” she said evenly, “and after a bit, it all began to seem unreal, like the sort of fantasy you have when you’re reading a good book. So when you popped up like the Demon King in a pantomime—” She flicked a hand. After a moment’s pause, she asked, “Do you want to sit down?”

He sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her—it was a small bench, and William was a large young man. He wasn’t sure quite what to ask. Yet.

“You’re a widow, then?” he said at last, and picked up her hand, examining the ring.

“Yes, I am,” she said coldly.

“Really? Or only so far as your father—and Philadelphia—know?”

She gave him a narrow look, but she didn’t pull her hand away, and she didn’t reply at once, either.

“Because,” he said, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, “if Ben’s really dead now, you haven’t any reason for not coming back to Savannah with me, do you? Don’t you want to see Trevor? He misses his mama.”

“You bastard,” she hissed. “Let go!” He did, folding his hands on his knees.

There was no sound for several minutes, save the rattle and hum of traffic in the street and the plash of the fountain. The smell of the garden was strong in the air, and while it was by no means as lush as the southern scents of Savannah, it was pungent enough to stir the blood—and memories of Mrs. Fleury’s garden, with its cold wet stone and the silent witness of a black-eyed toad.

“I’m the only one you can tell,” he said at last, quietly. “I don’t expect your father knows, does he? What happened to Ben?”

She laughed, short and bitter, but a laugh.

“‘What happened to Ben,’” she repeated. “Not, ‘What Ben did’? General Washington didn’t come and kidnap him, you know. He went. He did it all, all by himself!”

“You went to him, though, didn’t you?” This wasn’t entirely a guess; he’d seen that her fingers weren’t shadowed with ink. Everyone who worked in a printshop or a bookseller’s eventually had smudged fingers; her father did. If hers weren’t, she hadn’t been here long.

She didn’t answer at once, but sat silently fuming, mouth pressed tight.

“I did,” she said at last. “The more fool I. I thought I could talk him round. I’d seen what happened during the siege, in Savannah. I thought I could convince him—for God’s sake, he was a British officer! He should know what the army’s like, what they can do!”

“I suppose he does,” William said mildly. “Rather courageous of him to go take up arms against them, isn’t it?”

She made a noise like an angry cat and flounced away from him.

“So he wouldn’t come back to Savannah with you. Why didn’t you just go yourself? You know the Greys would welcome you with open arms—if only because you’d take Trev off their hands.”

She breathed hard through her nose, then suddenly flounced back round to face him.

“I did see Ben. I saw him in bed with a black-haired whore who was sucking his—” Choler choked her as efficiently as Ben had likely choked his inamorata when he saw Amaranthus looming in the doorway.

William hesitated to say anything, for fear of making her leap up and run inside. Instead, he placed his hand on the bench between them, barely touching her fingers. And waited.

“He got up and pushed me into his dressing room and kept me from going back into the bedroom until she’d got up and run, the filthy twat.”

“Where the devil did you learn a word like that?” he asked, truly shocked.

“A book of erotic poetry in Lord John’s library,” she said, glowering at him. “I would have killed both of them, right there, if I’d had any bloody thing to do it with. You don’t go to a reunion with your estranged husband with a knife in your shoe, though, do you?” She stared down at her naked left hand. “I yanked my ring off and tried to make him swallow it. I almost managed, too,” she said, defiant. There were tears of rage slicked down her cheeks, but she didn’t seem aware of them.

“I’m sorry you didn’t,” he said, and took a careful breath. “I don’t excuse Ben, by any means, but … he’s a soldier, and he thought you’d left him forever. I mean, a—a casual liaison—”

“Casual, my arse!” she snarled, snatching her hand away. “He’s married her!”

The words struck him in the pit of the stomach. William opened his mouth, but found nothing whatever to say.

“That’s why I brought the ring away with me,” she said, looking at it. “I wouldn’t let her have it!”

Of course she’d also needed it for her widow’s imposture, but he rather thought that continuing to wear it—if even on the right hand—might be something in the nature of a hair shirt for her, but didn’t say that.

“Marry me,” he said, instead.

She was frowning at a bird that had landed on the edge of the fountain to drink—a dressy little creature with black-and-white wings and dark red sides.

“Towhee,” she said.

“What?”

“Him.” She lifted her chin toward the bird, who promptly flew off. She turned on the bench to look William full in the face, her own features more or less composed.

“Marry you,” she said slowly. A twitch she couldn’t control showed briefly at the corner of her pale mouth, but he didn’t think it was an impulse to laugh. Maybe shock, maybe not.

“Marry me,” he said again, softly. Her eyes were bloodshot, and now a cloudy gray. She looked away.

“You mean a marriage blanc, I suppose?” she said, her voice a little hoarse. “Separate lives, separate beds?”

“Oh, no,” he said, and took hold of both her hands. “I definitely want to bed you. Repeatedly. What sort of marriage do you call that?”

“Well, bigamy, for a start.” She was looking at him in a different way, though, and the blood was thrumming in his chest.

“We can discuss the details on the way back to Savannah.” Still holding her hands tightly in his, he leaned down and kissed her. Her mouth moved under his, more in shock than response—but response it was.

“I did not say I’d do it!” she said, jerking back. He let her go, noting with a distant satisfaction that she hadn’t wiped her mouth in disgust.

“You can give me your answer when we get to Savannah,” he said, and, getting to his feet, he offered her his hand.

135 Just to Make Things Interesting

IN A SMALL TOWN to the south of Philadelphia, he’d hired them rooms in a decent inn and was pleased to find a small looking glass on the wall above his washbasin. He’d shaved carefully—Amaranthus had been first shocked and then amused by the discovery that his sprouting beard was a vivid dark red—and then dressed in his captain’s uniform, somewhat creased from being rolled up in his portmanteau, but clean.

She blinked when he got into the coach beside her and placed his hat on his knee.

“I thought you’d resigned your commission.”

“I did. I have. This is what you might call a ruse de guerre,” he said, gesturing at his scarlet coat. “Uncle Hal’s idea. He gave me a temporary captain’s commission, with orders for travel that would let me pass through any territory controlled by the King’s troops—which Richmond and Charles Town most assuredly are. I wasn’t joking,” he added gently. “He was worried about you and he does want you back.”

She glanced away, out the window, and bit her lip.

“I should have thought an earl would be shown a certain amount of courtesy, even without a uniform.”

“I’m not an earl, either,” he said firmly, and her head swiveled sharply round. She stared at him.

“I should have said, before,” he said. “If you were considering being a countess as part of the perquisites of marrying me, I’m afraid that’s off.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, and her mouth twitched slightly. She turned back to the window, through which the muddy streets of Richmond were giving way to equally rain-soaked cornfields.

“How did you manage it?” she said, not turning round. “I thought Father Pardloe told you a peer couldn’t stop being a peer without the permission of the King. Did you persuade the King?”

“I haven’t spoken to His Majesty yet,” William said politely. “But I shall. Still, it doesn’t matter what he says; I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not the Earl of Ellesmere anymore—if I ever was.”

That did make her turn around.

He felt a sudden rush of … something. Maybe fear but mostly excitement, as though he were just about to jump from a high cliff into the sea, not knowing if the water was deep enough and not caring.

“I’m a bastard,” he said. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and he felt sure it wouldn’t be the last, but he took a deep breath before going on. “I mean—I’m not legally a bastard, because the eighth earl and my mother were married when I was born. But the old earl wasn’t my father.”

She looked him slowly up and down, pausing at his face, her gaze traveling down and up again.

“Well, whoever he was, he must have been a, um … very striking gentleman. Is that where—” She pawed vaguely at her chin, still staring at him.

“Yes,” he said, not quite between his teeth. “And not ‘was’—he’s still alive.”

“You’ve met him?” She’d turned entirely to face him, her eyes alive with interest. He had the sudden illusion that he could feel the touch of her eyes on his face, tickling his skin.

“I have. He—knows me. And that I know about him.”

She didn’t say anything for a bit, but he could see her turning this revelation over in her mind. She still wore black but had taken to wearing a fichu of dark blue with it, rather than white; it made her eyes brilliant and warmed her skin. Plainly she knew it, and he hid a smile. She saw it, nonetheless, and leaned back, pursing her lips.

“Do you mean to tell me who this gentleman is?”

“I hadn’t,” he admitted. “But—if you’re to marry me …”

“I am not accepting your proposal. Not now. Probably not ever,” she added, giving him a look. “But even if I don’t, you should know that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Good of you,” he said. “His name is James Fraser. A Highland Scot, and a Jacobite—or was, I should say. He has some land in North Carolina; I visited there when I was quite young—didn’t have the slightest clue that he was … what he is.”

“He’s acknowledged you?” Amaranthus had never been one to hide what she thought, and the direction of her thoughts just now was easy to make out.

“No, and I don’t want him to,” William said firmly. “He owes me nothing. Though if you’re wondering how I shall support you without the Ellesmere estates,” he added, “don’t worry; I have a decent small farm in Virginia that my mother—well, my stepmother, really; Lord John’s first wife—left me.” There was Helwater, as well, but he thought that might disappear along with Ellesmere, so didn’t mention it.

“Lord John’s first wife?” Amaranthus stared at him. “I hadn’t thought he’d been married at all. How many wives has he had?”

“Well, two that I know of.” He hesitated, but in fact, he rather enjoyed shocking her. “His second wife was—well, she still is—the wife of James Fraser, just to make things interesting.”

She narrowed her eyes, looking to see if he was making game of her, but then shook her head, dislodging a hairpin that poked suddenly out of her hair. He couldn’t resist plucking it out and tucking the liberated curl behind her ear. A faint stipple of gooseflesh ran down the side of her neck and she shuddered, ever so faintly, despite the humid heat inside the carriage.

EMERGENCE FROM THE coach was like hatching out of a chrysalis, he thought, stretching his long-folded legs and his aching back before reaching to help Amaranthus out of their traveling womb. Air, sunlight, and above all, space! He yawned uncontrollably and air flooded into him, inflating him back to his proper dimensions.

He’d intended to take Amaranthus back to Uncle Hal’s quarters, and hesitated for a moment, but she said firmly that she’d rather go to Lord John’s house first.

“I trust Uncle John to listen,” she’d said. “And fond as I am of Father Pardloe—why are you looking like that? I am fond of him. I’m just never sure what he’ll do about things. And Ben’s his son, after all.”

“Good point,” William admitted. “Mind, I doubt my father knows what Hal will do, either, but he’s used to dealing with the effects, at least.”

“Exactly,” she’d said, and spoke no more on the drive through the city, only glancing at her reflection in the coach’s window and touching her hair now and then.

The door of Number 12, Oglethorpe Street opened before he could knock, his first inkling that something was wrong.

“Oh, you found her!” Miss Crabb was looking over his shoulder at Amaranthus, her lean face shifting between pleased relief and a desire to stay irritated. “The baby’s asleep.

“His Grace has gone to Charles Town,” the housekeeper added, stepping back to let them in. “He thought he’d be back within two weeks, but sent a letter that came two days ago that he was detained at my lord Cornwallis’s pleasure.”

Amaranthus had disappeared up the stairs in search of Trevor, so this explanation was delivered to William.

“I see,” he said, stepping inside. “Did my father go with His Grace?” It was evident that Lord John wasn’t in the house, because if he had been, he’d be present right now.

Miss Crabb’s abiding expression of discontent had shifted, showing something of uneasiness.

“No, my lord,” she said. “He went out day before yesterday, and he hasn’t come back.”

136 Two Days Previously

THE NOTE HAD ARRIVED at Number 12 Oglethorpe Street just after luncheon. It had been a casual meal, ham sandwiches and a bottle of beer, consumed in the cookhouse while Lord John watched Moira dealing with an enormous turbot that had been delivered that morning. The woman knew how to wield a cleaver, he thought, despite her recalcitrant attitude toward tomatoes. A pity; she was plainly capable of turning any tomato into an instant ketchup with one blow. He watched with keen anticipation as she squinted at the fish—it was so large that it hung off the sides of the small table—deciding upon the direction of her next attack.

Before she could strike, though, a shadow fell through the open door of the cookhouse and there was a brief knock upon its jamb.

“Mein Herr?” It was Gunter, an ostler from the livery stables Hal patronized, obsequious in his leather apron.

“Ja? Was ist das?” Grey asked. He saw Moira blink, momentarily suspend her next thwack, and swivel her head from him to Gunter and back, squinting suspiciously.

Gunter shrugged, raising his brows in abnegation of responsibility, and handed over a neatly folded note, sealed with candle wax, and waved a hand over his shoulder to indicate that someone at the livery had given it to him. Grey fumbled in his pocket for a coin, came out with a penny and a shilling, handed over the shilling, and took the note with a brief word of thanks.

He’d thought at first that it was something for Hal, but the note was addressed to Lord John Grey, in a neat, secretarial style quite at odds with the note’s casually obscure delivery. The message inside was in the same hand, but just as puzzling as the exterior.

“How very peculiar,” Grey said, turning the paper over, as though the back might be more informative.

“Oh, it ain’t peculiar, sir,” Moira assured him, wiping a hand across her sweating brow. “It’s only a female.”

“What?”

“Female,” she repeated, gesturing at the decapitated fish. “It’s females what has eggs, what’s called roe.”

“Oh.” He saw that she had not only removed the head, tail, and fins, opened the great flat body, and shoveled out the guts, but had also reserved a large, solid mass of some dark substance—presumably fish eggs—this oozing oil onto a plate that had been set aside on a shelf, there being no room for it on the scale-encrusted surface where the fish itself was being transformed into dinner. “Quite,” he said. “Might we have some with eggs, do you think?”

“Just what I had in mind, me lord,” she assured him. “Fresh toast soldiers with poached eggs and roe, with a bit o’ melted butter to pour over. What His Grace calls a horsederve.”

“Splendid,” he said, with a smile. “I’ll be home for supper in good time!”

Had it not been for this stark obtrusion of femininity, he might not have gone. But the mention of females had reminded him of Tom’s marked susceptibility to young women—something that had (so far as he knew) been held in strict abeyance during his two marriages. But his last letter from Tom—who wrote infrequently, but well—had told him that Tom’s second wife had recently died, and as his eldest boy was now eighteen, he had it in mind to leave young Barney in charge of the business for a bit and perhaps undertake a journey to Germany, he not having visited there since their early acquaintance with the Graf von Namtzen, and he begged that Lord John would be so kind as to extend his regards to the graf, when Lord John might be in communication with the same.

He supposed it was at least possible that Tom, embarked on a personal voyage of discovery, might have been inspired to leave Europe altogether. And that in doing so, still in the throes of grief, he might well have been drawn to a young woman in obviously dire straits. Tom was a gallant man, and a very kind one.

On the other hand, this letter had a distinct smell of fish, and it wasn’t turbot. He folded it thoughtfully and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“What the hell,” he said aloud, startling Moira in mid-chop. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. O’Meara. I meant only that it’s a pleasant day for a walk.”

IT WAS A pleasant day, with a breeze stirring the heavy summer air, and he enjoyed the stroll down to Bay Street, where he stopped to climb down the steps and walk barefoot on the sandy beach for a bit, before resuming a casual peregrination toward the warehouse district.

The produce fleet—fishermen and farmers bringing fruit and vegetables from upriver—consisted mostly of small boats, and thus docks near to Bay Street tended to be narrow and close together. The docks owned by the warehouses, though, were stout, wide affairs down which barrows could be driven, barrels rolled, and crates hauled with minimal danger of falling into the water. The big ships that sailed foreign seas anchored either by the warehouse docks or out in the river, if there was a great deal of ship traffic.

There was a great deal of such traffic at the moment, and Grey stopped to admire it; a beautiful sight, with tall masts swaying and sun glinting off the wings of the seabirds circling the ships. He liked ships of all sorts, though the sight of them always made him think of one James Fraser, who disliked ships to the point of nearly dying of seasickness every time he went aboard one. He smiled, the memory of an eventful Channel crossing with the Scotsman many years ago being now distant enough as to be entertaining.

He’d kept away from the easternmost dock, not being a complete fool. He bought some apples from a seller on one of the smaller docks, taking the opportunity to look over at the larger ships.

“What’s that Indiaman, anchored out in the channel?” he asked the apple seller, gesturing briefly at a large ship clearly capable of crossing the Atlantic. It was flying no flag he recognized, though.

“Oh,” she said, having glanced indifferently over her shoulder. “Castle, it’s called. No, I tell a lie, it’s Palace, that’s it.”

Well, that was one fact noted: a ship named Pallas did exist and was an Atlantic sailor. Whether Tom Byrd was or ever had been aboard her was another question, but—

“Sir? Sir!” The repetition jerked him from his thoughts to see a runty sailor with a rusty beard before him. “There’s summat on your hat, sir,” he said, pointing upward.

Seagulls instantly in mind, Grey clapped a hand over his head, then seized the hat and brought it down for inspection. Suddenly his vision went dark and something light tickled his face. Then something exploded in his head and everything went dark.

HE CAME ROUND with a sharp ache in the back of his head and a strong urge to vomit. He attempted to roll onto his side in order to do so, but discovered that his arms were bound to his sides. There was also a burlap sack over his head, and this decided him not to vomit, even though a dizzy sense of being rocked back and forth made the urge to do so still more urgent.

Shit. It’s a boat. Now he heard the splash of oars and the grunt of whoever was wielding them, and smelled the fecund scent of the distant marshes. It wasn’t a big boat; he’d been doubled up and stuffed into a small space between the seats. His knees were wet.

Before he could congratulate himself on the acuity of his suspicions or berate himself for stupidity in not paying sufficient attention to them, the sound of the oars ceased, and the next moment the boat came to a stop with a thump that jarred his throbbing head. More rocking and strong hands seized him and stood him up. A shout from whoever was holding him, and a rope dropped from above, hitting his shoulder. The kidnapper—was there only one?—wrapped this round his middle and knotted it, then shouted, “Heave away!” and he was jerked into the air and hauled up like a side of beef.

Hands pulled him aboard and stood him up again, but he had no balance with his arms bound and fell to his knees. The sack was jerked off his head, and the stab of sunlight into his eyes was too much. He threw up on the shoes of the man who stood before him, then collapsed gently onto his side and closed his eyes in hopes of finding equilibrium.

There was a certain amount of cursing and colloquy going on above him, but at the moment he didn’t care, as long as none of it resulted in his being obliged to stand up again.

Then he heard a voice he recognized.

“For God’s sake, untie him,” it said impatiently. “What happened to him?”

He cracked one eyelid open. His ears had not betrayed him, but his eyes had their doubts; everything overhead appeared in motion—masts, sails, clouds, sun, faces were all swirling in a dizzying fashion that made him want to vomit again.

“Someone hit me. On the head,” he said, closing one eye in hopes of stopping the maypole dance. Rather surprisingly, it did, and the blandly good-looking face of Ezekiel Richardson wavered into focus.

“My apologies,” Richardson said, and reaching down, pulled him to his feet and held him by the elbows while someone undid the ropes. “I told them to bring you, but I didn’t think to specify the means. Come below and sit down; I imagine you could use a drink.”

HE RINSED HIS mouth with brandy and spat into a bowl, then sat back and sipped a little, cautiously.

They sat in what was plainly the captain’s great cabin, for the stern windows rose in a blaze of scintillant light reflected from the river below. It made him queasy to look at it for more than a few seconds, but he was beginning to feel better.

“I really do apologize,” Richardson said, and sounded as though he meant it. “I have no personal animus against you at all, and if I could have managed this without involving you, I would have.”

Grey shifted his gaze reluctantly to Richardson, who wore the uniform of a British infantry major.

“I have heard of double agents, and met them, too,” he said, more or less politely. “But damned if I’ve seen one less able to make up his mind. Would you care to tell me which side you’re really on?”

He thought the expression on Richardson’s face was meant to be a smile, but it wasn’t altogether succeeding.

“That,” Richardson said, “is not as simple a question as you might think.”

“Well, it’s as good a question as you’re likely to get, under the circumstances.” Grey closed his eyes and lifted the glass under his nose; maybe inhaling brandy fumes would allay the headache without making him drunk. He thought it might be dangerous to be drunk in Richardson’s company.

“Let me ask you one, then.” Richardson was sitting in the captain’s chair; it creaked as he leaned forward. “When I asked you whether you had any personal interest in Claire Fraser, you replied that you didn’t, and then promptly married her. Why did you do that?”

That made John open his eyes. Richardson had spoken mildly, but was regarding him with the air of a very patient cat sat outside a mousehole. John touched the back of his head gingerly, then looked at his fingers. Yes, he was bleeding, but not heavily.

“I could tell you that it’s none of your business,” he said, wiping his fingers on his breeches. “But as it is, there’s no reason for secrecy. You had threatened to have the lady arrested for sedition. She was the widow of a good friend. It seemed to me that keeping her out of your clutches was perhaps the last office I could perform for Jamie Fraser.”

Richardson nodded.

“Just so,” he said. “A gallant gesture, my lord.” He seemed slightly amused, though it was hard to tell. “I understand that the marriage was necessarily of short duration, owing to Mr. Fraser’s unexpected return from a watery grave. But did the lady tell you, in some exchange of marital confidences, anything regarding her antecedents?”

“No,” Grey said, without hesitation.

“That seems rather remarkable,” Richardson said, “though given what those antecedents are, perhaps the lady’s reticence was justified.”

A ripple of unease crept down the back of Grey’s neck—or perhaps it was just a dribble of blood, he thought. Antecedents, my arse. He leaned back a little, careful of his tender head, and gave Richardson what he hoped was an inscrutable stare.

Richardson regarded him for a long moment, then, with a brief nod to himself, rose and fetched a leather folder from the shelf and sat down again. He opened the folder and removed an official-looking document, complete with seal and stamp, though Grey couldn’t tell from where he sat whose seal it was.

“Are you familiar with a man named Neil Stapleton?” Richardson asked, cocking one brow.

“In what sense, familiar?” Grey asked, raising both of his. “I might have heard the name, but if so, it’s been some time.” It had been some time, but the name “Neil Stapleton”—better known to Grey as Neil the Cunt—had struck him in the pit of the stomach with the force of a two-pound round shot. He hadn’t seen Stapleton in many years, but he certainly hadn’t forgot the man.

“Perhaps I should have inquired as to whether you knew him … in the biblical sense?” Richardson asked, watching Grey’s face. He pushed the document toward Grey, whose eyes fixed at once on the heading: Confession of Neil Patrick Stapleton.

No, he thought. Bloody hell, no …

He took up the document, glad in a remote way to see that his hands weren’t shaking, and read a moderately detailed and quite accurate account of what had occurred between himself and Neil Stapleton on the night of April 14, 1759, and again on the afternoon of May 9 of the same year.

He laid down the document and stared at Richardson over it.

“What did you do to him?” he asked. His stomach tightened at the thought of what they—for surely it was a “they” and not this man alone—might have done to a man like Neil.

“Do to him?” Richardson said, looking bland.

“Blackmail, bribery, torture …? He didn’t write this of his own free will. What sane man would?” And whatever else he might be, Neil had never been lacking in his wits.

Richardson shrugged.

“Is he alive?” Grey said, between his teeth.

“Do you care?” Richardson seemed only faintly interested. “Oh—but of course you do. If he were dead, you could claim that this document is a forgery. But I’m afraid that Mr. Stapleton is, in fact, still alive, though I naturally cannot guess as to how long he’ll stay in that condition.”

Grey stared at him. Was the fellow actually now threatening to have Neil killed? But that made no sense.

“He is, however, in London. Fortunately, though, I have additional … testimony, shall we say?—nearer to hand.” He rose and went to the cabin door, opened it, and put his head out.

“Come in,” he said, and stepped back to allow Percy Wainwright room to enter.

PERCY LOOKED DREADFUL, Grey thought. He was disheveled, his neckcloth missing, and his curly, graying hair matted in spots, sticking up in others. He was pale as skimmed milk, with dark circles under his eyes. The eyes themselves were bloodshot and fixed on Grey at once.

“John,” he said, a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat, hard, then looked away and said, “I’m sorry, John. I’m not brave. You’ve always been brave, but I never have.”

This was no more than the truth, acknowledged between them and part of the love they’d once shared; John had always been willing to be brave for both of them. He felt a tinge of sympathetic pity beneath the larger sense of annoyance—and the very much larger sense of fear.

“So you made him sign a statement of confession, too,” he said to Richardson, doing his best to keep calm.

Richardson pursed his lips and opened the folder again, this time drawing out a longer document. Well, it would be longer, wouldn’t it? Grey thought. How long were we lovers?

“Unnatural acts and incest,” Richardson remarked, turning over the pages of the new document. “Dear me, Lord John. Dear me.”

“Sit down, Percy,” Grey said, feeling unutterably tired. He caught a brief glimpse of the document’s heading, though, and his spirits rose a fraction of an inch. Confession of P. Wainwright, it said. So Percy had kept that one last bit of self-respect; he hadn’t given Richardson his real first name. He tried to catch Percy’s eye, but his erstwhile stepbrother was looking down at his hands, folded in his lap like a schoolchild’s.

You did try to warn me, didn’t you?

“You’ve gone to rather a lot of trouble for nothing, Mr. Richardson,” he said coolly. “I don’t care what you do with these documents; a gentleman does not submit to blackmail.”

“Actually, almost all of them do,” Richardson said, almost apologetically. “As it is, though, I’m not blackmailing you.”

“You’re not?” Grey waved a hand at the folder and its small sheaf of papers. “What on earth is this charade in aid of, then?”

Richardson folded his own hands on the desktop, leaned back, and looked at Grey, evidently assembling his thoughts.

“I have a list,” he said, finally. “Of persons whose actions have led—either directly or indirectly, but without doubt—to a particular outcome. In some cases, the person him—or her—self performs the action; in others, he or she merely facilitates it. Your brother is one who will facilitate a particular course of action that in turn will decide this war.”

“What?” … actions have led … will facilitate … will decide … He shot a sideways glance at Percy, who was looking up, but with an attitude of complete bewilderment, and no wonder.

“What, indeed?” Richardson had been watching the play of thoughts on Grey’s face. “I may be mistaken, but I believe that your brother intends to make a speech to the House of Lords. And I further believe that the effects of that speech will affect the will of the British army—and hence Parliament—to pursue this war.”

Percy was listening to this in total bewilderment, and Grey didn’t blame him.

“I desire that your brother not make that speech,” Richardson concluded. “And I think that your life and honor are probably the only things that would prevent him doing so.” He cocked his head to one side, watching Grey.

Grey blinked.

“If you think that, plainly you don’t know my brother.”

Richardson smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“You’ve seen a man hanged for sodomy.”

“I have.” He had, in fact, not only attended that hanging but had pulled on Bates’s legs in the desperate hope of hastening his end. He found that one hand was idly rubbing his chest, in the place where Bates had kicked him.

“The American colonies are no more tolerant of perversion than is England—probably less. Though you might have the luck to be stoned to death by a mob rather than formally hanged,” he added judiciously, and nodded toward the papers on the desk. “Your brother will appreciate the position, I assure you. You—and Mr. Wainwright—will remain aboard as my guests, while copies of these statements are delivered to your brother. What happens to you after that will depend upon His Grace.”

He closed the folder, picked it up, and bowed.

“I’ll have some food brought. Good day, gentlemen.”

137 Infamous and Scandalous Acts

WILLIAM’S FIRST RESPONSE TO learning of his father’s disappearance was to go and look for him. He began at General Prévost’s headquarters.

No one had seen Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey, he was told. They would like very much to know where he was, though, as Regimental Colonel His Grace the Duke of Pardloe had left responsibility for the soldiers remaining in Savannah in Colonel Lord John’s hands, and while the executive officers over these soldiers were fully capable of keeping the men fit and in order, they would certainly appreciate more specific orders, when these should be forthcoming.

At least they knew where Uncle Hal was—or was supposed to be. In Charles Town.

“Which is the devil of a lot of help,” he told Amaranthus, after two days of searching. “But if Papa doesn’t turn up here quite soon …”

“Yes,” she said, biting her lip. “I suppose you’ll have to go find Father Pardloe in Charles Town. If he …” Her voice died away.

“If he what?” he demanded, in no mood for obfuscation. She didn’t reply at once, but went to the sideboard and took down a bulbous black bottle. He recognized it; it was the German brandy Papa and Uncle Hal called black brandy, though the name was really “Blood of Martyrs.” He waved it away impatiently.

“I don’t need a drink.”

“Smell it.” She’d uncorked the bottle and now held it under his nose. He took an impatient sniff, then stopped. And sniffed again, more cautiously.

“I don’t pretend to be a judge of brandy,” Amaranthus said, watching him. “But Father Pardloe did give me a glass of this once. And it didn’t smell—or taste—like this.”

“You tasted it?” He raised a brow at her and she shrugged.

“Only a fingertip. It tastes much as it smells—hot, spicy. And that’s not how it should taste.”

William dipped a fingertip and tried it. She was right. It tasted … wrong, somehow. He wiped the drop of wine on his breeches, staring at her.

“Do you mean to say you think someone’s poisoned this?” His natural incredulity was lessened by the worry of the last few days, and he found that he wasn’t at all unwilling to believe this.

Amaranthus grimaced, gingerly putting the cork back into the bottle.

“A few weeks ago, Father Pardloe asked me did I know what foxglove is. I told him I did, and that he’d seen it—Mrs. Anderson has quite a lot of it bordering the front walk of her garden.” She took a short breath, as though her corset was too tight, and met William’s eye. “I told him it was poisonous. And I found that”—she nodded at the bottle—“locked up in the strongbox in his office. He gave me a key some time ago,” she added pointedly, “because all of my jewelry is in it.”

William looked at the bottle, black—and menacing. The fingers of the hand that had touched the stuff felt suddenly cold and seemed to be tingling. He rubbed them impatiently against his sleeve.

It wasn’t that he thought Uncle Hal wouldn’t kill someone he thought needed killing; he just didn’t believe he’d do it with poison. He said as much to Amaranthus, who looked at the bottle for a long moment, then back at him, her eyes troubled.

“Do you think he might have meant … to kill himself with it?” she asked quietly.

William swallowed. Faced with the imminent prospect of telling his wife what had become of their eldest son, and the eventual prospect of having his family and the regiment disgraced and destroyed … he didn’t think Harold, Duke of Pardloe, would seize upon suicide as an escape, but …

“Well, he didn’t take it with him to Charles Town,” he said firmly. “It’s no more than a three-day ride. I’ll go and find him. Put that stuff somewhere safe.”

WILLIAM HAD NOT expected ever to meet Sir Henry Clinton again. But there he was, frowning at William in a way that made it evident that Sir Henry recalled very well who he was. William had been waiting in an anteroom of the gracious Charles Town mansion presently serving as command headquarters for the Charles Town garrison, having requested a brief audience with Stephen Moore, one of Clinton’s aides-de-camp with whom he had been friendly—and one who he knew was familiar with the Duke of Pardloe. He’d sent in his name, though, and five minutes later Sir Henry himself popped up like a jack-in-the-box, his appearance nearly as startling.

“Still Captain Ransom, is it?” Sir Henry asked, elaborately courteous. There wasn’t any bar to a man resigning one commission and buying another, but the circumstances of William’s resignation of his commission under Sir Henry had been dramatic, and commanders in general disliked drama in their junior officers.

“It is, sir.” William bowed, very correctly. “I trust I see you well, sir?”

Sir Henry made a hrmph noise, but nodded briefly. He was, after all, surrounded by the evidences of a significant victory: the streets of Charles Town were pitted and marred by cannon fire, and soldiers—many of them black—were everywhere, laboriously restoring what they had spent weeks blowing up.

“I am come with a message for the Duke of Pardloe,” William said.

Sir Henry looked mildly surprised.

“Pardloe? But he’s gone.”

“Gone,” William repeated carefully. “Has the duke returned to Savannah?”

“He didn’t say he meant to,” Clinton replied, beginning to be impatient. “He left more than a week ago, though, so I imagine he’ll have got back to Savannah by now.”

William felt a coolness on the back of his neck, as though the room around them had subtly changed from one moment to the next and an unseen window had opened.

“Yes,” he managed to say, and bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

He walked out into the street and turned right, with no intent in mind save movement. He was at once alarmed and incensed. What the devil was Uncle Hal about? How dare he go off about his own business when his own brother had disappeared?

He stopped dead for a moment, as the thought struck him that his father and uncle might have disappeared together. But why? The thought died in the next moment, though, as he spotted a familiar red-coated form a hundred yards down the street, buying a packet of tobacco from a black woman in a spotted turban. Denys Randall.

“The very man I wanted to see,” he said a moment later, falling into step alongside Denys as he walked away from the tobacco seller.

Denys looked up, startled, then looked forward and back before turning to William.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“I might ask the same of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; I’m supposed to be here, and you aren’t.”

William didn’t bother asking what Randall was doing. He didn’t care.

“I’m looking for my uncle Pardloe. Sir Henry just told me that he left Charles Town more than a week ago.”

“He did,” Denys said promptly. “I crossed paths with him as I came down from Charlotte on the … oh, when was it … the thirteenth? Maybe the fourteenth …”

“Damn what day it was. You mean he was riding north, not south?”

“How clever you are, William,” Denys said in mock approval. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“Stercus,” William said. His stomach knotted. “Was he alone?”

“Yes,” said Denys, looking at him sideways. “I thought that odd. I don’t know him to speak to, though, and hadn’t any reason to do so.”

William asked a few more questions, with no results, and so took his leave of Denys Randall, with luck, for good.

North. And what lay to the north that might lead the colonel of a large regiment to depart suddenly and without word to anyone, riding alone?

Ben. He’s going to see Ben. The vision of a black bottle rose in the back of his mind. Had Hal thought of poisoning himself, his son, or both of them?

“Too bloody Shakespearean,” William said aloud, turning his horse to the south. “Fucking Hamlet, or would it be Titus Andronicus?” He wondered whether his uncle ever read Shakespeare, for that matter—but it didn’t matter; wherever he’d gone, he hadn’t taken the bottle. At the moment, all he could do was go back to Savannah and hope to find his father there.

Three days later, he walked into Number 12 Oglethorpe Street and found Amaranthus in the parlor, poking the fire. She swung round at the sound of his step and dropped the poker with a clang. An instant later, she was hugging him, but not with the fervor of a lover. More the action of a stranded swimmer reaching for a floating log, he thought. Still, he kissed the top of her head and took her hands.

“Uncle Hal’s gone,” he said. “North.” Her eyes were already dark with fear. At this, the little blood remaining in her face drained away.

“He’s going to see Ben?”

“I can’t think what else he could be doing. Have you had any word from Papa? Has he come back?”

“No,” she said, and swallowed. She nodded at an open letter that lay on a small table under the window. “That came this morning, for Father Pardloe, but I opened it. It’s from a man named Richardson.”

William snatched the letter up and read it quickly. Then read it again, unable to make sense of it. And a third time, slowly.

“Who is that man?” Amaranthus had retreated a little, eyeing the letter as though it might suddenly spring to life and bite. William didn’t blame her.

“A bad man,” William said, his lips feeling stiff. “God knows who he really is, but he seems to be—I don’t know, exactly. ‘Major General Inspector of the Army’? I’ve never heard of such an office, but—”

“But he says he’s arrested Lord John!” Amaranthus cried. “How could he? Why? What does he mean ‘infamous and scandalous acts’? Lord John?”

William’s fingers felt numb and he fumbled the sheet of paper, trying to refold it. The official stamp beneath Richardson’s signature felt rough under his thumb, and he dropped the letter, which caught a whiff of air and spun across the carpet. Amaranthus stamped on it, pinning it to the floor, and stood staring at William.

“He wants Father Pardloe to go and speak to him. What the devil shall we do?”

138 Inherited Evil

IT WAS QUIET, BAR the usual shipboard noises and shouted orders from the deck of the Pallas, echoed faintly across the water from other anchored ships.

Grey had quite recovered from the effects of his abduction and was somewhat prepared when two deckhands came to fetch him from his small cabin. They bound his hands loosely in front of him—a bit of thoroughness that he appreciated as professional caution, though he deplored its immediate effects—and propelled him forcibly up a ladder and across the deck to the captain’s cabin, where Ezekiel Richardson was waiting for him.

“Sit, please.” Richardson gestured him to a seat and stood looking down at him.

“I have as yet had no word from Pardloe,” he said.

“It may be some time before you can reach my brother,” Grey remarked, as casually as possible in the circumstances. And where the devil are you, Hal?

“Oh, I can wait,” Richardson assured him. “I’ve been waiting for years; a few weeks doesn’t signify. Though it would, of course, be desirable for you to tell me where you believe him to be.”

“Waiting years?” Grey said, surprised. “For what?”

Richardson didn’t answer at once, but looked at him thoughtfully, then shook his head.

“Mrs. Fraser,” he said abruptly. “Did you really marry her simply to oblige a dead friend? Given your natural inclinations, I mean. Was it a desire for children? Or was someone getting too close to the truth about you, and you married a woman to disguise that truth?”

“I have no need to justify my actions to you, sir,” Grey said politely.

Richardson seemed to find that amusing.

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t. But you do, I suppose, wonder why I propose to kill you.”

“Not really.” This was in fact true, and the disinterest in Grey’s voice needed no dissimulation. If Richardson truly meant to kill him, he’d already be dead. The fact that he wasn’t meant that Richardson had some use for him. That, he wondered about, but chose not to say so.

Richardson drew a slow breath, looking him over, then shook his head and chose a new tack.

“One of my great-grandmothers was a slave,” he said abruptly.

Grey shrugged. “Two of my great-grandfathers were Scotch,” he said. “A man can’t be responsible for his ancestry.”

“So you don’t think the sins of the fathers should be visited upon the children?”

Grey sighed, pressing his shoulders against the chair to ease the stiffness in his back.

“If they were, I should think humanity would have ceased to exist by now, pressed back into the earth by the accumulated weight of inherited evil.”

Richardson shrugged slightly, whether in acknowledgment or dismissal of the point, Grey couldn’t tell. Richardson turned to the wall of glass panes and looked out, presumably to give himself time to think up a new conversational gambit.

The sun was sinking and the light from the big stern window glittered from a million tiny wavelets, coruscating across the glass, the ceiling—did you call it a ceiling, in a ship?—and across the table at which Grey sat. It flickered over his hands, which were still rather the worse for wear. He flexed them, slowly, considering various nearby objects in terms of their effectiveness as weapons. There was a rather solid-looking clock and the bottle of brandy, but both were some distance away, on the far side of the cabin … God damn it, that was his bottle of brandy! He recognized the handwritten label, even at this distance. The bastard had been burgling his house!

“I beg your pardon?” he said, suddenly aware that Richardson had asked him something.

“I said,” Richardson said, with a pretense of patience, “how do you feel about slavery?” Not getting an immediate response, he said, much less patiently, “You were governor of Jamaica, for God’s sake—surely you’re well acquainted with the institution?”

“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” Grey said, gingerly touching the healing but still-swollen laceration on his scalp. “But if you insist … yes. I’m reasonably sure I know a great deal more about it than you do. As to my feelings regarding slavery, I deplore it on both philosophical and compassionate grounds. Why? Did you expect me to declare myself in favor of it?”

“You might have.” Richardson looked at him intently for a moment, and then seemed to come to some decision, for he sat down across the table from Grey, meeting his eyes on the level. “But I’m glad you didn’t. Now …” He leaned forward, intent. “Your wife. Or your ex-wife, if you prefer …”

“If you mean Mrs. Fraser,” Grey said politely, “she was in fact never my wife, the marriage between us having been arranged under the false impression that her husband was dead. He’s not.”

“I’m well aware of it.” There was a note of grimness in that remark, and it gave Grey an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The clock on the distant table uttered a clear ting!, then did it four more times, just to make its point. Richardson looked over his shoulder at it and made a displeased noise.

“I’ll have to go soon. What I want to know, sir, is whether you know what Mrs. Fraser is.”

Grey stared at him.

“I realize that being struck over the head has somewhat impaired my thought processes … sir … but I have the strong impression that it’s not I who am suffering from incoherence. What the devil do you mean by that?”

The man flushed, a strange, patchy sort of flush that left his face mottled like a frost-bitten tomato. Still, the look of displeasure on his face had eased, which alarmed Grey.

“I think you have a good idea what I mean, Colonel. She told you, didn’t she? She’s the most intemperate woman I’ve ever met, in this century or any other.”

Grey started involuntarily at that, and cursed himself as he saw the look of satisfaction in Richardson’s eyes.

What the devil did I just tell him?

“Ah, yes. Well, then—” Richardson leaned forward. “I am also—what Mrs. Fraser, and her daughter and grandchildren, are.”

“What?” Grey was honestly gobsmacked at this. “What the devil do you think they are, may I ask?”

“People capable of moving from one period of time to another.”

Grey shut his eyes and waited a moment, sighed deeply, and opened them.

“I’d hoped I was dreaming, but you’re still there, I see,” he said. “Is that my brandy? If so, give me some. I’m not listening to this sort of thing sober.”

Richardson shrugged and poured him a glass, which Grey drank like water. He sipped the second, and Richardson, who had been watching him patiently, nodded.

“All right. Listen, then. There is an abolitionist movement in England—do you know about that?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, it will take root, and in the year 1807, the King will sign the first Act of Abolition, outlawing the slave trade in the British Empire.”

“Oh? Well … good.” He’d been covertly looking for an avenue of escape ever since he’d awakened on deck and realized that he was on a ship. Now he realized that he was looking at it. The windows in the lowest row of that great wall of glass were hinged; two of them were in fact open, allowing a cool breeze to come in from the distant sea.

“And in 1833, the House of Commons will pass the Slavery Abolition Act, which will outlaw slavery itself and free the slaves in most of Britain’s colonies—some eight hundred thousand of them.”

Grey was a slender man, and not tall. He thought he might be able to squeeze through one of the panes. And if he could drop into the river, he was fairly sure he could swim ashore, though he’d seen the river’s currents …

“Eight hundred thousand,” he said politely, as Richardson had paused, evidently expecting a response. “Very impressive.” He was managing the glass of brandy well enough with his wrists bound, but swimming was another matter … He glanced briefly at the rope. Chew one of the knots loose, perhaps … Ought he to wait until he was out in the water, in case someone came in and caught him gnawing, though?

“Yes,” Richardson agreed. “But not nearly as impressive as the number of people in America who will not be freed, and who will continue to be enslaved, and then to suffer …”

Grey ceased listening, recognizing that the tone of Richardson’s speech had shifted from conversation to lecture. He dropped his hands to his lap, pulling inconspicuously to test the stretch of the rope ….

“I’m sorry?” he said, noticing that Richardson had stopped talking for a moment and was glaring at him. “My apologies; I must have dozed off again.”

Richardson leaned over, took the brandy glass from the table, and dashed the dregs in his face. Taken unaware, Grey inhaled some of the liquid and coughed and spluttered, eyes burning.

“My apologies,” Richardson said, politely. “No doubt you’ll need a bit of water with that.” There was a pitcher of water on the desk; he picked that up and poured it over Grey’s head.

This was actually helpful in washing the stinging brandy mostly out of his eyes, though it did nothing for the coughing and wheezing, which went on for some minutes. When this at last eased, he sat back and wiped his eyes on the backs of his tied hands, then shook his head, sending droplets across the desk. Some of them struck Richardson, who inhaled strongly through his nose, but then apparently regained control of himself.

“As I was saying,” he said, giving Grey a glare, “it’s the Revolution in America that will allow slavery to flourish unchecked here—and then lead, in part, at least, to another bloody war and more cruelty …”

“Yes. Fine.” Grey held up both hands, perforce, palms out. “And you propose to do something about this by moving through time. I understand perfectly.”

“I doubt that,” Richardson said dryly. “But you will, in time. It’s very simple: if the patriots don’t succeed, the American colonies remain under British law. They won’t engage in slave trading, and their existing slaves will all be freed in the next fifty years. They won’t become a slaveholding nation, and the Civil War—that’s going to happen in roughly a hundred years from now, if we don’t manage to put a stop to the present war—won’t happen, thus saving hundreds of thousands of lives, and the long-term consequences of slavery will not … Are you trying to feign sleep again, Lord John? I might be obliged to slap you awake, as the pitcher is empty.”

“No.” Grey shook his head and straightened up a little. “Just thinking. I gather that you’re telling me that you mean to cause the current rebellion to fail so that the Americans remain British subjects, is that right? Yes. All right. How do you mean to do that?” Plainly the man wasn’t going to shut up until he’d got his entire theory laid out—such people never did. He groaned inwardly—his head was aching again, from the coughing—but did his best to look attentive.

Richardson looked at him narrowly, but then nodded.

“As I said—if you remember—my associates and I have pinpointed several key persons whose actions will affect the trajectory of this war. Your brother is one of them. If we do not prevent him, he’ll go to England and deliver a speech to the House of Lords, describing his own experience and observation of the American war, and insisting that while the war might eventually be won, the expense of doing so will be disproportionate to any benefit from retaining the colonies.”

Jesus. If Hal does do that, he’d be doing it for Ben. If the war stops and the Americans are allowed to win, Ben won’t be captured and hanged as a traitor. He won’t be a traitor, as long as he stays in America. Oh, God, Hal … His eyes were watering again, but not from brandy fumes.

“He’s not the only person in a public position to hold that opinion,” Richardson added, “but he’ll be one of the people who, by virtue of chance or destiny, is in the right place at the right time. He’ll give Lord North the excuse he’s been looking for to abandon the war and devote England’s resources to more important ventures. It won’t be only Pardloe, of course—we have a list—”

“Yes, you said that.” Grey was beginning to have an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You said ‘we.’ How the devil many of you are there?”

“You don’t need to know that,” Richardson snapped, and Grey felt a small pulse of satisfaction. The answer was likely either “very few” or “no one but me,” he thought.

Richardson leveled a finger at him.

“All you need to know, my lord, is that your brother must not give that speech. With luck, his concern for your health will be sufficient to stop him. If not, we will be compelled to reveal your character and activities in the most public manner and make the scandal as sensational as possible by having you executed for the crime of sodomy. That should be enough to discredit your brother and anything he says.” He paused dramatically, but Grey said nothing. Richardson stared at him, then gave a short laugh.

“But you will have the comfort of knowing that your death will mean something. You will have saved millions of lives—and, incidentally, prevented the British empire from making the greatest economic blunder in history by abandoning America. That’s more than most soldiers get, isn’t it?”

139 Dreams of Glory

I WAS HAVING THE delightful sort of dream where you realize that you’re asleep and are enjoying it extremely. I was warm, bonelessly relaxed, and my mind was an exquisite blank. I was just beginning to sink down through this cloudy layer of bliss to the deeper realms of unconsciousness when a violent movement of the mattress under me jerked me into instant alertness.

By reflex, I rolled onto my side and reached for Jamie. I hadn’t achieved the stage of conscious thought yet, but my synapses had already drawn their own conclusions. He was still in bed, so we weren’t under attack and the house wasn’t afire. I heard nothing but his rapid breathing; the children were all right and no one had broken in. Ergo … it was his own dream that had awakened him.

This thought penetrated into the conscious part of my mind just as my hand touched his shoulder. He drew back, but not with the violent recoil he usually showed if I touched him too suddenly after a bad dream. He was awake, then; he knew it was me. Thank God for that, I thought, and drew a deep breath of my own.

“Jamie?” I said softly. My eyes were dark-adapted already; I could see him, half curled beside me, tense, facing me.

“Dinna touch me, Sassenach,” he said, just as softly. “Not yet. Let it pass.” He’d gone to bed in a nightshirt; the room was still chilly. But he was naked now. When had he taken it off? And why?

He didn’t move, but his body seemed to flow, the faint glow of the smoored fire shifting on his skin as he relaxed, hair by hair, his breathing slowing.

I relaxed a little, too, in response, though I still watched him warily. It wasn’t a Wentworth dream—he wasn’t sweating; I could almost literally smell fear and blood on him when he woke from those. They came rarely—but were terrible when they did come.

Battlefield? Perhaps; I hoped so. Some of those were worse than others, but he usually came back from a dream of battle fairly quickly and would let me cradle him in my arms and gentle him back toward sleep. I longed to do it now. An ember cracked on the hearth behind me, and the tiny spurt of sparks lit his face for an instant, surprising me. He looked … peaceful, his eyes dark-wide and fixed on something he could still see.

“What is it?” I whispered, after a few moments. “What do you see, Jamie?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed. Very slowly, though, the focus came back into them, and he saw me. He sighed once, deeply, and his shoulders went loose. He reached for me and I all but lunged into his arms, holding him tight.

“It’s all right, Sassenach,” he said into my hair. “I’m not … It’s all right.”

His voice sounded odd, almost puzzled. But he meant it; he was all right. He rubbed my back gently between the shoulder blades and I gingerly relaxed a little. He was very warm, despite the chill, and the clinical part of my mind checked him quickly—no shivering, no flinching … his breathing was quite normal and so was his heart rate, easily perceptible against my breast.

“Do you … can you tell me about it?” I said, drawing back after a bit. Sometimes he could, and it seemed to help. More often, he couldn’t, and would just shake until the dream let go its grip on his mind and let him turn away.

“I don’t know,” he said, the note of surprise still in his voice. “I mean—it was Culloden, but … it was different.”

“How?” I asked warily. I knew from what he’d told me that he remembered only bits and pieces of the battle, single vivid images. I’d never encouraged him to try to remember more, but I had noticed that such dreams came more frequently, the closer we came to any looming conflict. “Did you see Murtagh?”

“Aye, I did.” The tone of surprise in his voice deepened, and his hand stilled on my back. “He was with me, by me. But I could see his face; it shone like the sun.”

This description of his late godfather was more than peculiar; Murtagh had been one of the more dour specimens of Scottish manhood ever produced in the Highlands.

“He was … happy?” I ventured doubtfully. I couldn’t imagine anyone who’d set foot on Culloden moor that day had cracked so much as a smile—likely not even the Duke of Cumberland.

“Oh, more than happy, Sassenach—filled wi’ joy.” He let go of me then, and glanced down into my face. “We all were.”

“All of you—who else was there?” My concern for him had mostly subsided now, replaced by curiosity.

“I dinna ken, quite … there was Alex Kincaid, and Ronnie …”

“Ronnie MacNab?” I blurted, astonished.

“Aye,” he said, scarcely noticing my interruption. His brows were drawn inward in concentration, and there was still something of an odd radiance about his own face. “My father was there, too, and my grandsire—” He laughed aloud at that, surprised afresh. “I canna imagine why he’d be there—but there he was, plain as day, standing by the field, glowering at the goings-on, but lit up like a turnip on Samhain, nonetheless.”

I didn’t want to point out to him that everyone he’d mentioned so far was dead. Many of them hadn’t even been on the field that day—Alex Kincaid had died at Prestonpans, and Ronnie MacNab … I glanced involuntarily at the fire, glowing on the new black slate of the hearthstone. But Jamie was still looking into the depths of his dream.

“Ken, when ye fight, mostly it’s just hard work. Ye get tired. Your sword’s so heavy ye think ye canna lift it one more time—but ye do, of course.” He stretched, flexing his left arm and turning it, watching the play of light over the sun-bleached hairs and deep-cut muscle. “It’s hot—or it’s freezing—and either way, ye just want to go and be somewhere else. Ye’re scairt or ye’re too busy to be scairt until it’s over, and then ye shake because of what ye’ve just been doing …” He shook his head hard at this, dislodging the thoughts.

“Not this time. Once in a long while, something comes over ye—the red thing, is what I’ve always called it.” He glanced at me, almost shyly. “I had it—well, I was far beyond that—when I charged the field at Culloden. This time, though—” He ran a hand slowly through his hair. “In the dream … it was different. I wasna afraid at all, nor tired—do ye ever sweat in your dreams, Sassenach?”

“If you mean literally, yes. If you mean am I conscious of sweating in the dream … no, I don’t think so.”

He nodded, as though this confirmed something.

“Aye. I dinna think one smells things in a dream, either, unless it’s maybe smoke because the house took fire around ye whilst ye slept. But I felt things, just now, dreamin’. The rasp o’ the moor plants on my legs, gorse stuck to the edge of my kilt, and the feel o’ grass on my cheek when I fell. And I felt cold from the water I was lyin’ in, and felt my heart grow chill in my chest, and the beating grow slower … I kent I was bleeding, but nothing hurt—and I wasna afraid, either.”

“Did you take your clothes off in your dream?” I asked, touching his bare chest. He looked down at my finger, blank-faced. Then let his breath out explosively.

“God. I’d forgot that part. It was him—Jack Randall. He came out o’ nowhere, walking through the fight, stark naked.”

“What?”

“Well, dinna ask me, Sassenach, I dinna ken why. He just … was.” His hand floated back to his chest, gingerly touching the small hollow in his breastbone. “And I dinna ken why I was, either. I just … was.”

140 Three Rounds with a Rhinoceros

“ONE WOULD THINK YOU’D done this before,” I remarked, smiling up between Brianna’s knees.

“If one thinks I’m ever doing this again …” she panted, but broke off, her sweating face contorting like a gargoyle’s. “NRRRRGH.”

“Wonderful, darling,” I said, my fingers on the rounded, hairy object showing briefly between her legs. I felt it for only a second before it disappeared again, an instant’s throbbing pulse, but that was enough; there was no sense of distress, only of bewilderment and an intense curiosity.

“Jesus, it looks like a coconut,” Roger blurted from his spot kneeling on the floor behind me.

“ARRRGHHHH! NGGGGHHH! I’m going to kill you! You—effing—” Brianna stopped, panted like a dog, then drove her blood-streaked legs hard into the straw-covered floor, half-rose from the birthing chair, and the baby shot out and fell heavily into my hands.

“Oh, my God,” said Roger.

“Don’t faint back there,” I said, busy swabbing the little boy’s nose and mouth. “Fanny? If he falls over, drag him out of the way.”

“I won’t faint,” he said, his voice trembling. “Oh, Bree. Oh. Oh, Bree!” I could feel him scuffling the straw as he rose to go to her, but my attention was split between Brianna and the baby—a good bit of blood, a small perineal tear, but no apparent hemorrhage—pink, wriggling, face screwed up in the exact gargoyle’s expression his mother had had a moment before, heart thumping like a tiny trip-hammer and … I was already smiling, but my smile widened as he jerked away from my bit of gauze and started yelling like an angry buzz saw.

“Apgar nine or ten,” I said happily. “Well done, darling—both of you!”

“Where’s his Apgar?” Fanny said, frowning at the baby. “Is that what you call his—”

“Oh. No, it’s a list you run through with a new baby, to evaluate their state. ‘Apgar’ stands for Activity, Pulse, Grimace—he’s certainly got that—Appearance—see how pink he is? A baby that’s had a difficult time might have bluish fingers and toes, or be blue all over—that would be very bad.” I had a quick vision of Amanda’s birth—and of the last blue baby I’d held—and gooseflesh rippled over my arms. I closed my eyes with a quick prayer for little Abigail Cloudtree and for the healthy grandson in my arms.

“What’s the ‘R’ for?” Roger asked, curious. I glanced up; he was cradling Bree’s head, gently wiping back the strands of sweat-soaked hair pasted to her face, but his eyes were glued to the baby.

“Respiration,” I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the baby’s rhythmic—and loud—cries. “If they’re yelling, they’re breathing. Come down here and cut his cord for him, Daddy. Fanny, come down here, too; the placenta will be along any minute.”

“Where’s Da?” Brianna said, lifting her head.

“Just here, lass.”

Jamie, who had been lurking in the doorway, tucked his rosary into his pocket and came in to Bree, bending down to kiss her forehead and murmur something to her in Gaelic that made her tired-but-smiling face blossom.

The room reeked of blood and shit and the peculiarly fecund, swampish smell of birthwaters.

“Here, sweetheart.” I rose, knees stiff from an hour of kneeling on the hard floor, and put the naked baby into her arms. “Be careful, he’s still a little slippery.” He had the faintly waxy look of a newborn, still coated with the protective vernix that had sheltered him in the waters he’d just traversed. It took a moment for my back to unkink sufficiently for me to stand fully upright, and I stretched my arms up, groaning.

“I’m not seeing it yet,” Fanny said. She was still kneeling, peering intently between Brianna’s splayed legs.

“See if he’ll suckle, will you, darling?” I said to Bree. “That will help your uterus contract.”

“That’s just what I need,” she muttered, but nothing touched the beatific smile that flickered on and off through the exhaustion that veiled her face. She tugged down the neck of her sweat- and bloodstained shift and carefully guided Junior’s squalling face to her breast. Everyone watched, riveted, as he rubbed his face to and fro on the breast, still squawking. Bree squinted down her nose, trying to move her nipple with one hand while holding the baby with the other. The nipples each showed a tiny drop of clear liquid.

“See?” I said to Fanny, nodding at them. “That’s colostrum. It comes before the real milk. It’s full of antibodies and useful things like that.” She turned her head to me, squiggle-eyed. “It means the baby will be protected from any illness—well, most illnesses—that his mother has had,” I explained.

The baby squirmed, and Bree nearly dropped him.

“Whoa!” said nearly everyone. She scowled at Roger, who was closest.

“I have him,” she said. Junior threw his head back and then flung it forward, found the nipple, and latched on with a sigh of exasperation that said, “Well, at last!” so eloquently that everybody laughed and the room relaxed.

A light tap on the doorjamb announced the advent of Patience and Prudence Hardman, their faces alight with curiosity.

“We heard the baby cry,” Prudence said. “What is it, pray?”

“And is thee well, Friend Bree?” Patience asked, smiling tentatively at Brianna, whose hair was beginning to dry and fluff, and who looked like a lion that had gone three rounds with a rhinoceros and wasn’t yet sure who’d won. She was still smiling, though, and stroked the baby’s head, looking down at him.

“He’s a little boy,” she said, her voice rough from screaming, but soft.

“Ooh!” Patience and Prudence said together, then looked at each other and laughed. Patience recovered, though, and asked whether Bree would like something to eat.

“Mummy’s made some soda bread with jam, in case thee should be famished, and there’s sweet milk aplenty,” Prudence added. “What is thy son’s name?”

“I’m starving,” Bree said. “As for … urgh.” She broke off, her eyes closing in a grimace. “Mmph.”

“There it is!” Fanny exclaimed. “It’s coming, I see— Oh!” She was on her hands and knees, peering intently, and jerked upright as the placenta slithered out and landed with a healthy plop! on the straw-strewn floorboards. Roger and Jamie looked hastily away, but the two young Quakers nodded in solemn approval.

“That looks just like Mummy’s, when she gave birth to Chastity,” Prudence said. “We made a tea of it.”

The placenta, dark with its writhing network of blood vessels and trailing the ropy remains of the umbilical cord, added its own meaty aroma to the pungent sweat and the smell of trampled fresh straw.

“I think perhaps we’ll bury it in the garden,” I said hastily, seeing the look on Bree’s face. “It’s very good for the soil. As to names—have you thought of any?”

“Lots,” she said, and looked down, nestling the baby closer. “But we thought we’d wait until we met him—or her—to decide for sure.”

“We thought perhaps Jamie?” Roger said, raising an eyebrow at the present holder of that name, who shook his head.

“Nay, ye dinna want to have a Jemmy and a Jamie,” he objected. “They’ll never ken who’s bein’ called. And Jem’s already named after your own da, Roger Mac—but maybe the Reverend?”

Roger smiled.

“It’s a kind thought, but the Reverend’s name was Reginald, and I don’t think … and you’re already named for Jamie’s father,” he said to Bree. “Claire? What was your father’s name?”

“Henry,” I said absently, glancing at the miniature buttocks. A diaper would be needed momentarily … “He doesn’t really look like a Henry, does he? Or a Harry?” The blood flow had slackened after delivery of the placenta, but it was still coming. “Sweetheart, I need you to move to the bed so I can knead your belly.”

Roger and Jamie got Bree up, baby attached, and safely removed to the bed, where I’d spread a canvas sheet. The discussion of names—with everyone, including Fanny and the Hardmans, adding suggestions, and Bree declaring emphatically that she wasn’t having little Anonymous going without a name for months, like Oggy-cum-Hunter—went on for some time, while I kneaded Bree’s large, increasingly flaccid belly—pausing momentarily to check her normally beating heart—and then, feeling the uterus stir sluggishly into action, stitched the small perineal tear and gently washed her legs clean.

“Aye, well, there’s David, I suppose,” Jamie was saying. “That was my da’s second name. And it’s the name of a King, forbye. Well, two, really—the Scottish one and the Hebrew one—a great warrior, though given to fornication.”

A moment’s silence, and a small hum of thoughtful consideration.

“David,” Bree said, beginning to be drowsy. The baby had gone to sleep, the distended nipple pulling slowly from his mouth as his head lolled. “Wee Davy. That’s not bad.” She yawned and looked up at Jamie, who was looking at the little boy with such tenderness that it struck me in the heart and tears came to my eye. “Could we give him William for his second name, Da? I’d like that.”

Jamie cleared his throat and nodded.

“Aye,” he said, his voice husky. “If ye like. Roger Mac?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “And Ian, maybe?”

“Oh, yes,” Bree said. “Oh, God, is that food?” I’d vaguely heard footsteps on the stairs, and now Silvia, holding a tray with bread and jam, fried potatoes, a bowl of stew, and a pitcher of milk, edged carefully into the room.

“I see all is well with thee, sister,” she said softly to Bree, and set down the tray. “And the little one, praise God.”

“Here, Roger,” Bree said, struggling to sit upright with the baby in her arms. “Take him.”

Roger did, and stepped back a little, so we could finish tidying Bree and propping her up to eat. I glanced over to see Roger, his face soft, look up from the freshly wrapped baby and see Jamie, who was shyly looking over his shoulder at his new grandson.

“Here, Grandda,” Roger said, and carefully laid wee David William Ian Fraser MacKenzie in his grandfather’s arms, the little boy’s head cupped in Jamie’s big hand, held gently as a soap bubble.

Fanny, straightening up beside me with an armful of soiled and reeking linens, turned from this beatific scene and looked at me seriously.

“I am never getting married,” she said.

141 A Bee-loud Glade

JAMIE FOLDED THE LETTER carefully, noting dimly that his fingers had slightly smeared the ink of Locke’s signature, by reason of his sweating hands.

The temptation was great. He could take his men and join Locke, rather than fight with the Overmountain men at Kings Mountain. Locke and his regiment had routed a substantial group of Loyalists at Ramseur’s Mill in June and made a creditable job of it, from what he heard. Randall’s book had mentioned the incident briefly, but what it said matched the accounts he had heard—down to mention of an unlikely group of Palatine Germans who had joined Locke’s troops.

Beyond that, though … nothing more was said in the Book (for he couldn’t help thinking of it as that) regarding Locke until a skirmish at a place called Colson’s Mill in the following year. Kings Mountain lay between now and then, casting its long shadow in his direction. And Jamie couldn’t leave the Ridge undefended for any great span of time, regardless. He knew there were still Tories amongst his tenants, and he thought of Nicodemus Partland. He’d heard of no further attempts, but was well aware that almost anything—or anyone—could come over the Cherokee Line without his knowing.

He sighed, tucked the letter into his pocket, and, unable to sit still with his thoughts, walked up the hill to Claire’s garden, not meaning to tell her about Locke’s letter and his thoughts—just wanting the momentary comfort of her presence.

She wasn’t there, and he hesitated inside the gate, but then closed it after him and walked slowly toward the row of hives. He’d built a long bench for her, and there were nine hives now on it, humming peacefully in the autumn sun. Some of them were the coiled-straw skeps, but Brianna had built three boxes, too, with wooden frames inside and a sort of drain to make harvesting the honey easier.

Something was in the back of his mind, a poem Claire had told him once, about nines and bees. Only a bit of it had stuck: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade. The number nine always made him wary, owing to his meeting with an old Parisian fortune-teller.

“You’ll die nine times before your death,” she’d told him. Claire had tried, now and then, to reckon the times he should have died but hadn’t. He seldom did, having a superstitious fear about attracting misfortune by dwelling on it.

The bees were about their business. The air was full of them, the late sun catching their wings and making them glisk like sparks among the green of the garden. There were some tattered sunflowers along one wall, their seeds like gray pebbles, along with sedum and cosmos. Purple gentians—he recognized those, because Claire made an ointment out of them that she’d used on him more than once, and had brought some back from Wilmington and coddled it here in a sandy spot she’d made for it. He’d dug the sand for her and smiled at the pale splotch of soil among the darker loam. The bees seemed to be liking the goldenrod—but Claire said they were hunting mostly in the woods and meadows now.

He came slowly to the bench and put out a hand toward the hives, but didn’t touch one until one or two bees had landed lightly on his hand, their feet tickling his skin. “So they won’t think you’re a bear,” Claire had said, laughing. He smiled at the memory and put his hand on the sun-warmed straw and just stood there for a bit, letting go of his troublesome thoughts, little by little.

“Ye’ll take care of her, aye?” he said at last, speaking soft to the bees. “If she comes to you and says I’m gone, ye’ll feed her and take heed for her?” He stood a moment longer, listening to the ceaseless hum.

“I trust ye with her,” he said at last, and turned to go, his heart easier in his chest. It wasn’t until he’d shut the gate behind him and started down toward the house that another bit of the poem came to him. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow …

142 Don’t You …?

JAMIE WONDERED HOW MANY men paused at this point to debate the state of their minds with themselves. If ye’d been talking with a dead man for the last year, ye might reasonably have some doubts, he thought. On the other hand, who’d admit in writing that he kent for sure he was away with the faeries?

Or if not actually mad, what about men who’d not been sober a day in twenty years, or those who’d come back from war with something missing—or something riding their backs. That thought made the hairs ripple from nape to arsehole, and he clutched his quill so hard that it split with a tiny crack.

Aye, well, if he wanted his Last Will and Testament to be paid attention to, he supposed he’d have to say he was of sound mind, no matter what he really thought.

He sighed and looked over the quills he had left in the jar. Mostly goose or turkey—but two were barred wing feathers from an owl. Well, he meant to keep this quiet …

He cut the owl quill into a good point, composing his mind. The ink was fresh, smelling sharply of iron and the woody scent of oak galls. It calmed him. A wee bit.

He continued with similar bequests to Roger, Jeremiah, Amanda, and—after a moment’s thought—Frances. Whether she might be his blood or not, he couldn’t leave her without resources, and if she had land here, perhaps she’d stay nearby, where Brianna and her family could take care of her, help her to find her way in life, make a good match for her …

Oh, a moment—Brianna’s new bairn; David, he added, smiling.

Fifty acres to Bobby Higgins; he’d been a good henchman, Bobby, and deserved it.

Was that too much? Wealth like that would attract scoundrels like flies to shit, if it was known. Both Fergus and Marsali were canny creatures, though; he could trust them to take care.

There were small things to be given—his ruby stickpin, his books (he’d leave the Hobbit ones to Jem, perhaps), his tools (those were for Brianna, of course) and weapons (if they come back without me) … but there was one more important person to be considered. He hesitated, but wrote it, slowly. Just to see how it looked, put down on paper …

To my Son … He set the quill down carefully, so as not to make blots on the paper—though he’d have to redo it in any case, because of the scratchings-out.

It wasn’t as though William needed anything of a material nature from him.

Or might he? Bree says the lad wishes to shed his title—if he does, will he lose all the property belonging to it? But the duke thinks he can’t … And even if he could, or refused it, John Grey will see to him; who does he have to leave his money to, if not William?

That was logical. Unfortunately, he wasn’t; not at the moment. And whether it was love, sinful pride, or something even worse, he couldn’t die without leaving something of himself to William. And I’m no dying without claiming William in public, whether I’m there to see his face when he hears it or not. His mouth twitched at that thought, and he pressed his lips together to stop it. More scratching out …

He bit the end of his quill, tasting bitter ink, then wrote:

“He might find more in the whisky,” Jamie murmured to himself, but his soul felt lighter.

Ten pounds each to all of the grandchildren, by name. It made him happy, seeing the whole list. Jem, Mandy, Davy, Germain, Joanie, Félicité—he made a small cross on the paper for Henri-Christian, and felt his throat grow tight—and the new wee boys, Alexandre and Charles-Claire. And any further issue of … any of my children. That was an odd feeling, to think not only that Brianna might bear more bairns but also Marsali—her sister Joan, if she married (damn, he’d forgot to put Joanie with his other children; more scratching out …)—or William’s wife, whoever she might be.

He was beginning to be sorry that he wouldn’t be alive to meet William’s wife or see his children, but pushed that thought firmly away. If he made it to Heaven, he was sure there would be some accommodation made for knowing how your family was getting along without you, maybe letting you have a wee look-in or lend a hand in some way. He thought being a ghost might well be interesting … There were a number of folk he wouldn’t mind calling on in such a state, just to see the looks on their faces …

Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is His reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.

He smiled at the thought, but thinking of children brought yet one more to mind.

Damn, he’d forgotten Jenny, Ian, and Rachel, and wee Hunter James Little Wolf—and Rachel’s new unknown, who wasn’t due until the spring.

He rubbed two fingers between his eyes. Perhaps he should think more, finish this later.

The trouble was that he didn’t dare go to Kings Mountain without making disposition of his property, in case he was right about what he thought Frank Randall was telling him.

Would he lie? A historian, sworn—to himself, at least—to tell the truth as far as he could?

Any man would lie, under the right circumstances—and given what Frank Randall had certainly known of Jamie Fraser …

He couldn’t risk it. He picked up the quill again, and wrote.

143 Will I Tell You Something?

I, OF ALL PEOPLE, should have known that written history has only a tenuous connection with the actual facts of what happened. Let alone the thoughts, actions, and reactions of the people involved. I did know that, in fact, but had somehow forgotten, and had embarked on this military excursion with the historical account firmly, if subconsciously, in mind.

I had assumed that the meeting at Sycamore Shoals would be the usual boiling of miscellaneous people arriving at different times, followed by the usual confusion and disorganization attendant on any enterprise involving more than one leader, and that, indeed, was exactly what happened.

I hadn’t thought that no one—besides me—would bring anything substantial in the way of food or medical supplies, nor did I realize that none of the militia leaders knew where we were going.

The thought of Kings Mountain had been so long in my mind as a blunt, rocky spike wreathed with menace that it had taken on the aspect of Mount Doom. Prophesied and inexorable. But none of the militia who were going to end up there knew it. Lacking one Franklin W. Randall’s (Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I thought. Had Frank’s parents actually named him after Benjamin Franklin? Calm down, Beauchamp, you’re becoming hysterical …) brief but meticulous exegesis of the battle, Sevier, Shelby, Cleveland, Campbell, Hambright, and the rest had no idea that we were headed for Kings Mountain. We were in pursuit of Patrick Ferguson, a much less well-defined goal.

News of his movements reached us in dribs and drabs, depending on the erratic arrival of scouts and the detail of their reports. We knew that he and his growing body of Provincials—official British militia—and adherent Loyalists who had joined him out of fear or fury were moving south, toward South Carolina, with the intent of attacking and destroying small patriot settlements. Like Fraser’s Ridge, for instance. We knew, or thought we knew, that his troops numbered more or less a thousand men, which was not peanuts.

We had nine hundred or so, counting me. My presence had caused a lot of staring and muttering, and Jamie had been summoned to talk to the other militia leaders, presumably so they could tell him to send me home.

“I said I wouldn’t,” he replied briefly, when I’d asked him how that conversation had gone. “And I said that if ye were molested or troubled in any way, I would take my men right away and fight on my own.”

Consequently, I wasn’t troubled or molested, and while the staring and muttering continued for a bit, it didn’t take more than a week of my attending to the minor accidents and ills that beset an army until that stopped, too. I had become the company medic, and there were no more questions as to what I was doing there.

While we didn’t know exactly where Ferguson was, we weren’t precisely wandering in the wilderness, either. Ferguson wasn’t moving his troops across trackless mountains, and neither were we. An army needs roads, most of the time, and the scouts reported which roads the Loyalist militia was following. Plainly, we would converge at some point.

Jamie, Young Ian, Roger, and I knew where that convergence would be, but that knowledge was of no practical value, as we couldn’t tell Colonel Campbell and the rest how we happened to know that.

Nor would it be of much value if we could have. We were moving fast, and in the general direction of Kings Mountain—so was Patrick Ferguson.

We had left Sycamore Shoals on September 26. The battle would happen—according to history and Frank—on October 7.

IT WAS AUTUMN, and the weather was changeable. The first balmy days gave way quickly to torrential rains and freezing winds in the mountains, only to return to a brief sear of heat as we came down into a valley. We carried no tents, and had only the occasional sheet of canvas for shelter, so were frequently soaked to the skin. And while each man had brought something in the way of provisions, these didn’t last long on the march.

Lacking anything in the nature of a quartermaster or supply wagons, our motley band existed hand-to-mouth, calling on the hospitality of family members or known rebels whose farms we passed, occasionally raiding the fields and farmhouses of Loyalists—though Sevier and Campbell did exert themselves to keep the men from shooting or hanging the Loyalists they victimized—or going hungry. There were two or three wagons—these constantly bogging down and having to be heaved out of mud or dragged through streams—but they were for the transport of weapons and powder; Mrs. Patton had supplied a satisfying number of barrels. Some men always carried their rifles, shot bags, and powder horns; others would leave them in the wagons unless or until trouble threatened. Jamie and Young Ian always carried theirs. I had two pistols, visible in holsters—and a knife in my belt and another in my stocking. Even Roger was visibly armed, with pistol and knife, though he normally didn’t carry his gun loaded and primed.

“I stand a much better chance hitting someone on the head with it,” he’d told me. “Carrying it loaded just means I could shoot myself in the foot more easily.”

Doctoring was what I did during the nightly wrangling over precedence. It was clear that somebody needed to be in overall charge, but none of the militia leaders was willing to submit his men to the orders of any of the others. Eventually, they settled on William Campbell as the overall leader of the group; he was in his mid-thirties, like Benjamin Cleveland and Isaac Shelby, and a well-known patriot, a planter of substance—and the brother-in-law of Patrick Henry. So far as I could tell, his chief qualification for the present command was that he came from Virginia and therefore was free of the entanglements and competitions amongst the Overmountain men.

“And he has a loud voice,” I observed to Jamie, hearing Campbell’s shouting two campfires away. He appeared to be apostrophizing the rain, the recalcitrant fire, and the fact that someone had taken the canvas off one of the wagons, letting the guns get wet.

“Aye, he does,” he agreed, without much enthusiasm. “Ye need one, aye? If ye’re going to send men into battle or get them out of one.”

“You’d best take care of yours, then,” I observed, handing him a wooden cup of hot, mint-scented water. I’d got a fire started, under a sort of junior lean-to made of canvas—our canvas, not the canvas from the wagon—and a handy bush, but a fitful wind kept springing up, shaking the canvas and blowing wet off the trees, then passing on, only to return again in a few minutes.

“Do you want a drop of whisky in that?”

He considered for a moment, but then shook his head.

“Nay, keep it. We may need it more, later.”

I sat down beside him and sipped my own cup, slowly, warming both my hands and my insides. We hadn’t any food to cook, and precious little to eat: corn dodgers and a bag of apples Roger had coaxed from a farmstead we’d passed. Jamie had made the rounds of his men, making sure they’d got a few scraps of whatever food was available and had places to sleep. Now he leaned back against the trunk of a large pine beside me, took off his hat, and shook the water off it.

“Will I tell ye something, Sassenach?” Jamie said, after a long silence. He leaned back to look up at the crescent moon, briefly visible through the shredding clouds, and set his hand on my knee. It was his right hand, and I could see the thin line of the scar where I had removed his ring finger, white against the cold-mottled darkness of his skin, the four remaining fingers cramped with grasping reins all day.

“You shall,” I said, taking the hand and beginning to massage it. He didn’t seem worried or upset, so it probably wasn’t bad news.

“I was sitting on the porch, just afore we left, and I had wee Davy in my arms, him sucking on my thumb, and Mandy came up the steps covered in mud, to show me a bone she’d found by the lake and ask who’d owned it. I took it, looked at it, and told her it was from the backbone of a beaver, and she looked at me and asked did I hear animals.”

I started to straighten and stretch his fingers, and he settled his back more firmly against the tree and made a small sound of mingled pain and pleasure in the back of his throat.

“Hear them … how?” It had rained on and off all day but had stopped in the evening, and while I was damp all the way to my underthings, I’d established enough equilibrium of body temperature not to be shivering, and it was tranquil here, away from the large campfires.

“Ken she and Jem can tell where each other are, without seeing each other?”

“They can?” I said, a little startled. “No, I don’t think I did know that.” I wasn’t completely surprised to hear it, though. I supposed I’d actually seen them do it a number of times, without really noticing. “Do their parents know, do you think?”

“Aye, she said her mother kent it—had tried them, in Boston, having them go some distance apart and say could each still tell where the other was. Mandy didna pay attention to how far it was—it was only a game to them, though she thought it was strange that her parents couldna tell where she or Jem were, once she realized it.”

“Is it only her and Jem?” I asked. “Or can they, um, hear other people, too? Like their parents, I mean.”

“I asked her that, and she said they can, aye—but not everybody. Just each other and their parents. And you, but not so much.”

That gave me a shiver that had nothing to do with cold.

“Do they, er, hear you?”

He shook his head.

“Nay, I asked. She says I’m a different color in her head. She kens when I’m near her, but canna feel me at a distance.”

“What color are you?” I asked, fascinated.

He made a small sound of amusement. “Water,” he said.

“Really?” I squinted at him. It was dark, and the tiny fire was sputtering on damp wood, but my eyes had adapted to the dark and there was enough moonlight to make out his features. “Any particular kind of water? Blue like the ocean, or brown, like the creek?”

He shook his head. “Just water.”

“You should ask Jem if that’s what he thinks,” I said, and slid my fingers between his, pressing his fingers back to stretch the knuckles.

“I will,” he said, with a slightly odd note in his voice. “If I see him again.”

And there it was. The stone in my heart, the lump of hot lead in my viscera. I’d forgotten, briefly, worn out by the labor of the day. But the thought of what might happen on Kings Mountain was never far from my conscious mind.

Jamie felt my shock, and his fingers closed suddenly over mine, still cold, but firm, and he put his other hand over mine as well, sheltering it.

“If I die this week, I’d ask ye three things, a nighean,” he said quietly. “Three things that I want. Will ye give them to me?”

“You know I will,” I said, though my throat was tight and my voice thick. “If I can.”

“Aye, I do,” he said softly, and raising my hand, kissed it, his breath warm on my cold skin. “Well, then. When ye can, find a priest and have a Mass said for my soul.”

“Done,” I said, and cleared my throat. “It might take some time, though. I think the nearest priest is probably in Maryland.”

“Aye, fine. I’ll stick it out in Purgatory ’til ye manage. I’ve been there before; it’s none sae bad.”

I thought he was joking. About Purgatory, at least.

“And the second thing?”

“Wee Davy,” he said. “Amanda says that he’s like me. The color o’ water. He’s not the same as she and Jem are … and I think that maybe means he canna pass through the stones.”

That one came out of nowhere, and I blinked. My eyelashes were heavy with wet, and drops flowed down my cheeks like tears. His hands tightened on mine and he turned his head toward me, a barely perceptible movement in the dark.

“I’ve said this before, but I say it now again, and I mean it. If I’m dead, ye should all go back. If it should be that Davy canna travel, give him to Rachel and Young Ian. They’ll love him wi’ all their hearts and keep him safe.”

I wanted to say, “I love you with all my heart—and I can’t keep you safe.”

But I squeezed back and said, as well as I could for the real tears starting, “I will.”

He lifted my hand and kissed my cold knuckles.

“Tapadh leat, mo chridhe.”

We sat together in silence, listening to the rain pattering through the leaves, water dripping from the trees, distant voices. The infant fire had died a-borning, though we could still smell the ghost of its smoke.

“You said three things,” I said at last. My voice was hoarse. “What’s the third?”

He let go of my hand and opened my fingers, as I’d done for him a few moments before, but his fingertips traced the lines of my palm and rested at the base of my thumb, where the letter J had nearly faded into my skin.

“Remember me,” he whispered.

We made love to each other, under the layers of sodden clothing, finding little warmth save that at the point of connection. We kept on well past the point where it was clear that neither of us could finish. Our bodies slowly left each other and we clung together through the dark until the dawn.

144 A Hanging Matter

IT WASN’T THE FIRST time he’d gone to a battle knowing he’d die. The difference was that last time, he’d wanted to.

The rain had kept them from lighting fires. They’d eaten what scraps they had left and then huddled in the dark, under what shelter they could find. He’d found a fallen tree, a big poplar whose roots had come up when the tree went down, making a rudimentary shelter. There wasn’t much room; he sat cross-legged, his back to the roots, and Claire was curled up beside him like a dormouse, wrapped in her soggy cloak and covered with half of his, her head resting warm on his thigh under the woolen folds. It was the only place he felt warm.

He wasn’t the sort of soldier who fought old battles over beer and salted bread in taverns. He didn’t seek to summon ghosts; they came by themselves, in his dreams.

But dreams don’t always tell the truth; he’d had dreams of Culloden many, many times over the years—and yet none of his dreams had shown him how Murtagh died or given him the peace of knowing that he’d killed Jack Randall.

Did you know? he thought suddenly, toward Frank Randall. The man was a historian—and Jack Randall had been his ancestor, or at least he’d thought so. That was how it had all begun, Claire had told him: Frank had wanted to go to Scotland, to see what he could find regarding his five-times-great-grandfather. Maybe he had found out what happened to him, found some survivor’s account that told about Red Jamie, the Jacobite who’d gutted the gallant British captain. And maybe that finding-out had set Frank Randall on that Jacobite’s trail …

He snorted, watching the breath curl away from him, white in the dark. Claire stirred and huddled closer and he put a hand on her, patting her as he might reassure a dog who’d just heard thunder in the distance.

“Uncle Jamie?” Ian’s voice came out of the darkness near his shoulder, making him start, and Claire shuddered, waking.

“Aye,” he said. “I’m here, Ian.”

Ian’s lanky shape separated itself briefly from the night, and he crouched beside Jamie, dripping.

“The colonels want ye, Uncle,” he said, low-voiced. “Someone’s brought in some Tory prisoners and they’re arguing whether to hang the lot of them, or only one or two as an example.”

“Christ. Ye dinna need to tell me whose idea that was.”

“What?” Claire said blearily. She’d lifted her head off his leg, and he felt the sudden chill of the spot where she’d lain. She shook off the fold of his cloak, emerging into the rain-chilled air. “What’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

“No, a nighean,” he said. “I’ve got to go for a bit, though. Here, it’s only damp where I’ve been sitting; curl up there, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She cleared her throat—everyone had catarrh from spending day and night in wet clothes beside smoky fires—and shook her head to clear that, too, but Ian was wise enough to keep quiet, and she settled into the little half-warm hollow he’d made, scuttering into the wet leaves and drawing herself up into a ball.

THE RAIN HAD actually stopped, he realized. It was only that the dripping foliage all around made the same sound as the rain itself. The respite had allowed someone to light a tiny fire—no doubt someone had thought to bring a bit of kindling in his pack—but it hissed and fumed in the damp, billowing smoke over the gathered men as the wind changed. Jamie caught a sudden lungful and coughed, squinting through watering eyes at the hulking dark shape of Benjamin Cleveland, who was addressing a number of smaller shapes with violent language and gestures of the same nature.

“Ian,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve, “go and find Colonel Campbell, aye? Tell him what’s afoot.”

Ian shook his head, the movement visible only because he was wearing a hat.

“No, Uncle,” he said. “Whatever’s afoot is going to happen in the next few minutes.”

“Damn you for a lily-livered pig-son,” Cleveland said—fairly mildly—to one of the smaller figures. “We’ve got no place to keep prisoners, and no need to try ’em in any case. I know the smell of a Tory. We’ll string ’em up and there’s an end to it!”

There was a shuffling and mumbling among the men, but Young Ian was right; Jamie could feel the shift of sentiment among them. The doubters were still trying to make a case for mercy, but were being overwhelmed by a rising flame of anger, lit and encouraged by Cleveland himself, who was visible in the fitful light, brandishing a large coil of rope.

Does he travel about with a dozen nooses, just in case of need? Jamie thought, unnerved and growing angry himself. He shoved between two men and got close enough to Cleveland to shout loud enough to interrupt him.

“Stad an sin!” he bellowed. Cleveland, as he’d hoped, turned toward him in puzzlement.

“Fraser?” he said, squinting into the hazy dark. “That you?”

“It is,” Jamie said, still loud. “And I dinna mean to let ye make me a murderer!”

“Why, if that troubles you, Mister Fraser,” Cleveland said with elaborate courtesy, “you just turn round and trot back to your wife, and your conscience won’t itch you a bit.”

That made most of the crowd laugh, though there were still dissenters calling out, “Murder! He’s right! It’s goddamned murder, ’thout a trial!” The breeze changed again and the cloud of smoke that had hidden the prisoners fled away, showing a line of six men, each with his hands bound behind his back, swaying to keep his balance. And then the clouds split for an instance, and Jamie saw the prisoners’ faces.

“Holy Mary!” he said, loud enough that Young Ian, at his shoulder, glanced at him, then at what Jamie was looking at, and said something that was probably the Mohawk equivalent.

At the end of the line stood Lachlan Hunt, one of the tenants Jamie had banished from the Ridge. Lachlan hadn’t let his wife go to plead for him; he was among the men who had left. Jamie’s wame clenched into a ball.

Lachlan had seen him, too, and was directing a wide-eyed look of terror at him.

He hesitated, but not more than a few seconds.

“Stop!” he shouted, as loud as he could, and Young Ian backed him up.

“This man—” Jamie said, pointing at Hunt. “He’s one of my tenants.”

“He’s a hell-bound Tory, is what he is!” Cleveland riposted smartly, and lunging forward, dropped a noose over Lachlan Hunt’s head. Jamie flexed his shoulders and felt Young Ian draw up close behind him.

Before he could carry out his plan of butting Cleveland in his massive belly and knocking him over, then jumping on him and enduring whatever Cleveland might do to him long enough for Young Ian to get Hunt away into the darkness, another voice rang out in anguish.

“Locky!” it called. “That’s my brother!” A young man was elbowing his way through the crowd, which was beginning to be amused by this second interruption.

“And I s’pose that’un is somebody’s grandpa, eh?” some wag shouted, pitching a wet pine cone that hit the youngest prisoner in the chest. That caused laughter, and Jamie managed a breath.

“Don’t matter who they are!” someone else yelled. “They’re Tories and they’re gonna die!”

“Not without a trial!”

“Please, please—let me say goodbye to him!” Lachlan’s brother was pushing urgently through the crowd—which, Jamie saw, was letting him. There was even a murmur of sympathy; both prisoner and brother were young men, no more than twenty.

Jamie didn’t wait; he elbowed Ian and slid sideways through the crowd.

The clouds had closed again, and the light beneath the chosen hanging-tree was no more than scattered patches of lighter dark. The tiny fire expired in a final puff of smoke, and Young Ian let fly with the sort of Indian yips and howls that were calculated to startle and freeze the blood of all who heard them. Jamie dived under the tree and grabbed Hunt by his bound arms, propelling him violently away into the nearby forest.

Lachlan staggered, off-balance, but lunged along as well as he could, and within moments they were out of sight of the fire and the stramash that was starting there.

Jamie drew his dirk and sawed at the rope.

“D’ye ken where we are?” he asked Hunt. There was a great deal of racket back by the tree.

“No.” Locky Hunt’s face was no more than a dark oval, but the fear in his voice was clear as day. “Please, sir … please. My—my wife …”

“Shut your gob,” Jamie said, grunting as he wrenched and sawed. “Listen. That way”—he pointed, his finger directly under the man’s nose—“is west. Medway Plantation is maybe three miles in that direction. It belongs to a nephew of Francis Marion; he’ll help ye. I dinna ken where ye live these days, but my advice is to go do it somewhere else. Send for your wife when you’re safe away.”

“She—but she—the big man fired our cabin,” Hunt said, beginning to weep from nerves, relief, and renewed fear.

“She’s no dead,” Jamie said, with a certainty he hoped was justified. Cleveland was a brute, but so far as Jamie knew, he’d never killed a woman, save perhaps by crushing her to death by lying on her. Not on purpose, anyway … “She’ll have taken refuge wi’ someone nearby. Send a note to your nearest neighbor, they’ll find her. Now go!” The last fibers parted and the strands of the rope fell away.

Lachlan Hunt made more noises, babbling thanks, but Jamie turned him and gave him a solid push in the middle of the back that sent him staggering on his way. He didn’t watch to see how the man fared but hared back toward the hanging-tree, where a good bit of what Claire called argy-bargy was going on.

To his great relief, a good bit of the shouting was being done by Isaac Shelby and Captain Larkin, who were taking vigorous issue with Cleveland’s notion of sport. It had also commenced to rain again, which further dampened enthusiasm for the prospect of hanging the Tory prisoners; the crowd was beginning to melt away.

Jamie was beginning to feel that wee bit soluble himself, and when Young Ian turned up at his elbow, he merely nodded, patted Ian’s shoulder in thanks, and walked back through the dark to Claire, feeling very tired.

145 The Mirror Crack’d

FOUR DAYS LATER, THE mountain came in sight, and with its appearance, a jolt of expectation ran through the men. Jamie felt his own blood rise and knew every other man felt it, too. It had been a long time since he’d fought with an army, but he recognized the surge of strength and heat that burned away tiredness and hunger. Thoughts of pain and loss were still with him, but now seemed insubstantial. God willing, they’d reach the point in battle where death ran with you and sometimes you could ride it. His mouth was dry; he took a swig of tepid water and glanced at Claire, offering the canteen.

She was white to the lips, but she managed a smile and reached for the canteen. The horses had felt that charge of energy among the men, though, and were snorting and jostling, tossing their heads, and she dropped the canteen. It vanished at once in a trampling of muddy hooves. He thought for a moment she meant to dive after it and grabbed her arm, holding on.

“Dinna fash,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him through the rising noise of the men. There was no advantage to silence, and many of the younger ones were whooping and shouting incoherent threats at an enemy too far distant to hear them. She nodded, nonetheless, and patted his hand.

He heard Cleveland’s hoarse bellowing up ahead, and the body of men began to slow. Time to fall out and check weapons, have a quick piss, and fettle themselves.

Jamie pulled up, raised his rifle to summon his own band, and swung down from the saddle. Roger Mac was there; he lifted Claire down, her long, bare legs a flash of white in the muddy ruins of her petticoats. Young Ian appeared at Jamie’s shoulder. He’d painted his face at dawn, and Jamie saw Roger Mac notice it and blink. He wanted to laugh but didn’t, just clapped Young Ian on the shoulder and jerked his head at the men, saying, “See to them, aye?

“Keep Claire with ye,” he said to Roger, and went to confer with the other colonels.

They’d drawn up and dismounted near Campbell, who still sat his big black gelding. John Sevier’s younger brother, Robert, and two other young men had left camp in the dark to scout the situation, and Jamie had a brief sense of falling, hearing them say the words that painted in Frank Randall’s account and brought it vividly to life.

“You can tell Major Ferguson right off,” Robert Sevier was saying, swiping a hand down his chest in illustration. “He’s got on a red-and-white-check shirt and he wasn’t wearin’ a coat when we saw him. Shows up right well amongst all those green Provincials.” He cocked his thumb and finger in the semblance of a gun, closed one eye, and pretended to aim.

John Sevier frowned at him, but said nothing, and Campbell merely nodded.

“All Provincials, are they?”

“No, sir,” said another young scout, quickly so as to keep Sevier from sticking his neb in. “Near on half of ’em don’t have uniforms, at least.”

“But they do all have guns. Sir,” said the third scout, not to be left out.

“How many?” Jamie asked, and felt the words strange in his throat.

“A few more’n us, but not enough to make a difference,” Sevier replied, but in Jamie’s mind there echoed another voice: Frank Randall’s.

The forces were nearly equal, though Ferguson’s troops numbered over a thousand, as compared with the nine hundred Patriots attacking him.

A sort of murmur ran through the men: acknowledgment and satisfaction. Jamie swallowed, a taste of bile in his mouth.

“There’s more of ’em, but they’re trapped up there.” Cleveland put the sense of the meeting into words. “Like rats.” And he laughed and stamped a large boot as though crushing a rat into bloody mush.

Likely what he does for fun, Jamie thought. He cleared his throat and spat into the dead leaves.

It took no more than a few minutes to sort out whose men should take which direction. Jamie’s band would go with Campbell and several others, and he went back to gather the men and tell them how it would be.

ROGER HAD BEEN told off to mind me—or, as Jamie put it more politely, to wait until the attackers reached the saddle of the mountain.

“Ye’ll do most good comin’ in when folk will need ye most,” he’d said to us both, in the firm tone that meant he expected to be obeyed. My face must have expressed what I was thinking, for he glanced at me, smiled involuntarily, and looked down.

“Look after her, Roger Mac,” he said, then cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, briefly. His hands and face were pulsing with heat and I felt a sudden coolness when his touch left my skin.

“Tha gràdh agam ort, mo chridhe,” he said, and was gone.

Roger and I looked at each other with a perfect understanding.

“He told you, didn’t he?” I said, watching him disappear upward into the brush. “About Frank’s book?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. I’m going after him.”

The brush above was crackling and snapping as though the mountain was on fire. I could see men flickering through the leaves and trunks, reckless and purposeful. It was happening.

“The curse has come upon me, said the Lady of Shalott.” I hadn’t thought I’d spoken aloud, until I saw Roger’s startled look. Whatever he might have said, though, was drowned by William Campbell’s shout.

“Whoop, boys, whoop! Shout like the devil and fight like hell!”

The mountainside erupted and a panicked squirrel leapt from a branch above me and hit the ground running, leaving a spray of moist droppings behind it.

Roger did the same—minus the droppings—climbing as fast as he could through the trees on the slope, grabbing branches to help himself along.

I saw William Campbell, a little below where I stood, still mounted on his big black horse. He saw me, too, and shouted, but I didn’t listen and I didn’t stop, but hitched up my skirts and ran. Whatever happened to Jamie in the next little while, I was going to be there.

“YE’LL HELP NOBODY if ye’re dead, and ye may be useful if ye’re not. Ye may be God’s henchman, but ye’ll follow my orders for now. Stay here until it’s time.”

Jamie had clapped him on the shoulder, grinning, then turned on his heel and shouted to his men that it was time. Jamie had given Roger two decent pistols, in holsters, with a cartridge box and powder horn. And a large, hand-carved wooden cross on a leather thong, which he’d dropped over Roger’s head last thing.

“So nobody will shoot ye,” he’d said. “Not from the front, anyway.”

Claire, tense and worried, had smiled involuntarily, seeing the cross, then handed Roger a sloshing canteen.

“Water,” she said, “with a bit of whisky and honey in. Jamie says there’s no water on the summit.”

The men had been ready; they swarmed out of the trees and bushes at once, bristling with guns. Faces sweaty and gleaming under their hats, teeth showing, eager for the fight. Roger felt that eagerness hum briefly in his own blood, but his part in this fight would be later, among the fallen, and the memory of the battlefield at Savannah chilled his heart, despite the heat of the day.

To his surprise, though, the men were crowding up together before him, taking their hats off, expectant looks on their faces. Jamie appeared suddenly beside him.

“Bless us before the battle, a mhinistear, if ye will,” he said respectfully, and took off his own hat, holding it to his breast.

Jesus. What on earth …

“Dear Lord,” he started, with not the faintest notion what might come next, but a few words showed up, and then a few more. “Protect us, we pray, O Lord, and be with us this day in battle. Grant us mercy in our extremities and grant us the grace to show mercy where we can. Amen. Amen,” he repeated more strongly, and the men murmured, “Amen,” and put their hats back on.

Jamie raised his rifle overhead and shouted, “To Colonel Campbell! At the quick-march!” The militia drew together with a growl of satisfaction and set off at once toward Colonel Campbell, who sat his black gelding on the rough track at the base of the mountain. Jamie looked after them, then turned suddenly and pressed his hand over the cross on Roger’s breast.

“Pray for me,” he said in a low voice, and then was gone.

146 The Curse Is Come upon Me

THE SHOOTING STARTED before I had made it a hundred feet up the hill, slipping on dead leaves and grabbing branches to save myself falling. Panicked, I whirled round and ran downhill but slipped almost at once, tripped on a rock and tobogganed a few feet on my stomach, arms flung out.

I slammed into a sapling of some sort; it bent and I rolled over it, ending flat on my back. I lay frozen for a moment, gasping for breath, hearing the battle begin in earnest.

Then I turned over, got to my hands and knees, and started crawling up the mountain.

IT WAS FAST and it was fierce.

Frank Randall had described it as a “just fight,” and he wasna wrong about that, though maybe he hadn’t been thinking about wringing with sweat and breathing air full of gun smoke.

He gave a sharp whistle, and the few of his men in hearing ran to his side.

“We’ll go up, but go canny,” he said, shouting over the crack of the guns. “The Provincials have bayonets, and they’ll use ’em. If they do, fall away to the side. Come back up somewhere else.”

Nods and they were pushing upward, pausing every few feet to fire and reload, dodge to another tree, and do it again. It wasn’t only gun smoke now, but the smell of battered trees, sap, and burning wood. It wasn’t bayonets yet.

I’D HAD TO stop, a hundred feet lower than the summit. I stood plastered against a big walnut tree, eyes closed, holding on hard. A ball slammed into the trunk just above my hand and I jerked my arms back in panic. More balls were humming through the trees, shredding leaves, making sharp little pocks! as they struck wood. Occasional brief cries and grunts nearby indicated that flesh was being struck, as well.

I’d dug my fingers so hard into the bark that sharp bits were wedged under my nails, but I was much too scared to worry about it. They’d seen me move; an instant later, shots struck the tree in a fusillade that sent bark and wood chips flying; they stung my face and flew into my eyes. I pressed hard to the tree, eyes shut tight and watering, using all my strength not to run downhill, shrieking. I was shaking everywhere and couldn’t tell if it was sweat or urine running down my legs and didn’t care.

It seemed to go on for a very long time. I could hear my heart, booming in my ears, and clung to the sound. I was scared—very scared—but no longer panicked. My heart was still beating; I hadn’t been shot.

Yet.

The memory of Monmouth shuddered through me. My eyes were burning and filled with the dizziness of spinning leaves and an empty sky and I felt my blood draining out, my knees giving way …

“Whoop! Whoop! One more, one more!” It was Campbell’s voice, behind and below me. And in the next second, screams and bellows and shrieks broke out and men rushed close past me, clanking and thumping and bellowing when they could draw enough breath to do it.

Jesus, where’s Roger?

HE RAMMED THE rod home and home again. Paused to gulp air, and touched the lumpy shot pouch on his belt. How many left? Enough …

They were close enough to the meadow now as to be able to see the enemy. He stepped out from the shelter of his tree and fired. Then he heard a faint, sharp whistle. Ferguson, that was him. Randall said the wee man hadn’t enough voice to call above the roar of battle, so he used a whistle to manage his troops. Like callin’ in a pack of sheepdogs, he thought.

A shout came from above, repeated and echoed across the meadow.

“Fix bayonets!”

THERE WERE SCATTERED shouts from above, distant. Then all of a sudden there was another ragged roar from the besiegers and the forest was moving, men running out from the shelter of their trees, leaping, crawling upward around me, powder horns swinging and rifles in hand. I heard a shrill whistle through the uproar, far above, and then another and another. Ferguson, rallying his troops.

But now I was hearing a fresh outbreak of battle—far above me. A few shots now, and the sort of yelling men do when they’re beyond words. A shrill whistle and the spreading cry of “Bayonets!”

Still shaking, I forced myself to stand up. I wiped a sleeve across my face and saw the forest blurred and shattered around me. Broken limbs dangled from trees, and the air was thick with the smell of crushed plants and powder smoke. And men were still running uphill, panting, flickering through the trees; one knocked into me in passing and I fell back against the big walnut tree.

“Auntie!” Young Ian appeared suddenly, grasping my arm. “What are ye doing here? Are ye all right? What have ye done wi’ Roger Mac?”

I hadn’t managed more than a faint bleat in reply when I heard Colonel Campbell’s voice bellowing somewhere below me.

“One more, boys! One more whoop!”

Answering whoops rose from every man near enough to hear him. Ian disappeared up the hill into the rising smoke, leaving me swaying like one of the broken tree limbs, hanging by a thread of bark.

Suddenly there was a crunch and slither of dirt as someone slipped and a muffled curse, and I turned to look into the face of a woman. She was as startled as I was; we stared at each other for an instant, and I registered nothing but her eyes, black with terror. She ran past me, stumbling and falling and rising in what seemed the same movement, and disappeared down the mountain. I blinked, not sure I’d seen her at all. But I had; she’d ripped her dress and left a strip of her yellow calico gown fluttering from a dogwood. I looked around, dazed.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Colonel Campbell was on foot now, next to me, still in his shirtsleeves, face black with powder smoke. “Go down, go down at once, ma’am!” He didn’t pause to see if I obeyed, but ran upward, shouting. There were cries from above and a wash of men coming down, but only a little way, then moving to the side, following an officer for another try. Two crows came sailing down and landed in a nearby tree, eyeing me with casual interest. One noticed the flapping yellow rag and hopped down, pecking at it.

My mouth was dry, and when I raised a hand to wipe sweat from my forehead, I realized that my face was imprinted with the pattern of the walnut’s bark.

The whistle was shrieking above, then drowned by a tremendous shouting—and the sound of shots again, in great number. The attackers had reached the meadow.

THE KERCHIEF ROUND his head was sopping, sweat and gun smoke stung his eyes. He blinked hard to clear them, felt the clash and thud of loading in his bones, the weight of the rifle in his hands, butt hard against his sore shoulder. Green … The meadow was surging with men, speckled with clots of green uniforms. He fired and one dropped.

Ferguson’s whistle screamed thin and high through the noise. The man was still on his horse, trying to rally his men, though by now it was like rallying fish in a net—they surged to and fro, bayonets still fixed, stabbing air, some firing, but being driven closer in, jostling as they strove to find a target.

Why not?

He coughed again, smoke rasping in his chest, and spat. It was no more than minutes now, and he kent from Randall’s book what would happen to Ferguson. Spare him knowing what’s coming to him … Let it be a Scot, at least … He hadn’t time to think more, before his sight fixed on the checked shirt and his finger tightened on the trigger. He took a step sideways, barrel following his target, and something snagged round his foot. He kicked at the clinging shrub, impatient, and a thorn pierced his calf.

“Ifrinn!” He jerked, and looked down. The large snake that had bitten him was writhing round his leg in panic, and he flung himself away, kicking out in his own panic.

The first bullet struck him in the chest.

147 A Lot of Blood

IT SEEMED TO GO on forever, but I knew it was only minutes, would be only minutes more. Shouts from above, yelling, shooting … the crash of fired muskets and the higher-pitched crack of rifles … I felt each shot as though it had hit me and shuddered against my tree.

I HEARD IT when the tide turned. An instant’s silence and more shooting and yelling, but it was different now. Less noise, the shots were fewer … The whistle fell silent, and the yelling increased, but it had a different tone. Savage. Exultant.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I left the refuge of my tree and scrambled up the mountainside, slipping and falling and scrambling on all fours.

I came high enough to be able to see what was going on. Chaos, but the shooting had all but stopped. I made my way up higher, onto the meadow. I was drenched in sweat, my legs shaking from the tension of the last hour and my heart pounding like a steam hammer.

Where are you? Where are you?

There was a crush of men at one side of the meadow; the Loyalist prisoners, half of them in green Provincial uniforms, the rest farmers like our own men …

Our own—I tried to look in all directions at once, to see, if not Jamie himself, someone I knew.

I saw Cyrus. The Tall Tree, looking as though he’d been struck by lightning, his face black with powder smoke except where the sweat had made runnels. He was standing up, though, looking about him in a dazed sort of way.

People were moving, everywhere, jostling, milling—one young man ran into me, knocking me off-balance. I caught myself and began to say “I beg your pardon” by reflex.

Then I saw that he had Jamie’s rifle.

“Where did you get that gun?” I said fiercely, and grabbed him by the arm, squeezing as hard as I could.

“Who the hell are you?” He was shocked and offended, trying to pull away. I dug my fingers into his armpit, and he yelped and jerked, trying to get away.

“Where did you get it!” I screamed.

I was clinging like grim death and he screamed, too, writhing and cursing. He kicked me solidly in the shin, but he loosed his hold on the rifle and I let go his other arm and snatched it.

“Tell me where you fucking got this, or so help me God I will beat you to death with it!”

His eyes showed white, like a panicked horse, and he backed away from me, hands out in placation.

“He’s dead! He don’t need it no more!”

“Who’s dead?” I hardly heard the words; the blood had surged so hard into my ears that they were ringing. But a big hand clasped me by the shoulder and pulled me away from the boy. He promptly turned to flee, but Bill Amos—for it was he—let go of me and with two giant strides he had hold of the boy, picked him up with both hands, and shook him like a rag.

“What’s going on, Missus?” he asked, setting the boy down and turning to me. The words were calm, but he wasn’t; he was trembling all over with a mixture of bloodlust and reaction, and I thought he might just kill the boy inadvertently; his big fist was squeezing the boy’s shoulder rhythmically, as though he couldn’t stop, and the boy was squealing and begging to be let go.

“This—” I couldn’t hold the rifle; it slipped from my grasp and I barely caught it, its butt jolting into the ground. “It’s Jamie’s. I need to know where he is!”

Amos blew out a long breath and huffed air for a moment, nodding.

“Where’s Colonel Fraser?” he asked the boy, shaking him again, but more gently. “Where’s the man you took this’n from?”

The boy was crying, head wobbling and tears making tracks through the dirt and powder stains on his face.

“But he’s dead,” he said, and pointed a shaking finger toward a small rocky outcrop near the edge of the saddle, maybe fifty yards away.

“He’s bloody not!” I said, and slapped him. I shoved past him, hobbling—his kick had bruised my shin, though I didn’t feel pain—leaving Bill Amos to deal with whatever he felt like dealing with.

I found Jamie lying in a patch of dry grass, just behind the outcrop. There was a lot of blood.

I FELL TO my knees and groped frantically through his heavy clothes, wet with sweat—and blood.

“How much of this blood is yours?” I demanded.

“All of it.” His eyes were closed, his lips barely moving.

“Bloody fucking hell. Where are you hit?”

“Everywhere.”

I was deeply afraid he was right, but I had to start somewhere. I could see that one leg of his breeks was sodden with blood. No arterial spurting, though, that was good … I started feeling my way down his thigh.

“Dinna … fash, Sass …” He wheezed deeply. With tremendous effort, he opened his eyes and turned his head enough to look up at me.

“I’m … no … afraid,” he whispered. “I’m not.” A bout of coughing seized him. It was nearly silent, but the violence of it shook his whole body. He wasn’t coughing up blood …

Why is he coughing? Pneumothorax? Cardiac asthma? His shirt was sodden. If a ball had touched his heart but not penetrated …

“Well, I’m bloody afraid!” I snapped, and tightened my hold on his thigh, digging my fingers into his unresisting flesh. “Do you think I’m just going to sit here and watch you die by inches?”

“Aye.” His eyes closed, and the word was no more than a whisper. His lips were white.

He sounded completely certain about it, and the fear that was swarming over my skin burrowed suddenly inward and seized my heart with its claws.

His blood was spreading slowly, dark and venous. I was kneeling in the blood-soaked mud and there were huge splotches of it on my apron, black-red; it felt warm on my skin, though that must only be the heat of the day.

“You can’t,” I said, helpless. “Jamie—you can’t.”

His eyes opened and I saw them look past and through me, as though fixed on something far, far away.

“For … give me …” he said, his voice no more than a thread, and I didn’t know whether he spoke to me or to God.

“Oh, Jesus,” I said, tasting cold iron on my tongue. “Jamie—please. Please don’t go.”

His eyelids fluttered, and closed.

I COULDN’T SPEAK. I couldn’t move. Grief overwhelmed me and I curled into a ball, still grasping his arm, holding it with both hands, hard, to keep him from drowning, from going down into the bloody earth, away from me forever.

Beneath the grief was fury, and the sort of desperation that lets a woman lift an automobile off her child. And with the thought of a child and the reek of blood, I was for a split second not kneeling in Jamie’s blood on a blistering plain of surrender but on splintered floorboards by a sputtering fire, hearing screams and smelling blood, with nothing to hold on to but a wet scrap of life and that one phrase: Don’t let go.

I didn’t let go. I seized him by the shoulder and managed to roll him onto his back, shoved the soaked coat back, and ripped his shirt down the middle. The bullet wound in his chest was evident, slightly left of center, welling blood. Welling, not spurting. And I didn’t hear the distinctive sound of a sucking chest wound; wherever the ball was, it hadn’t—yet—penetrated a lung.

I felt as though I were trudging through molasses, moving with unutterable slowness—and yet I was doing a dozen things at once: yanking tight a tourniquet around his thigh (the femoral artery was all right, thank God, because if it wasn’t, he’d already be dead), applying pressure to the chest wound, shouting for help, palpating his body for other injuries, one-handed, shouting for help …

“Auntie!” Ian was suddenly on his knees beside me. “Is he—”

“Push on this!” I grabbed his hand and slapped it on the compress over the chest wound. Jamie grunted in response to the impact, which gave me a small jolt of hope. But the blood was spreading under him.

I worked doggedly on.

“LISTEN TO ME,” I said, after what seemed a long time. His face was closed and white and the rumble of the crowds reached me like distant thunder from a clear blue sky. I felt the sound move through me and I fixed my mind on the blue, vast and empty, patient, peaceful—waiting for him.

“Listen!” I said, and shook his arm, hard. “You think you’re going to die by inches, but you’re not. You’re going to live by inches. With me.”

“Auntie, he’s dead.” Ian’s voice was low, rough with tears, and his big hand warm on my shoulder. “Come. Stand up now. Let me take him. We’ll bring him home.”

I WOULDN’T LET go. I couldn’t speak anymore, I hadn’t strength for it. But I wouldn’t let go and I wouldn’t move.

Ian spoke to me now and then. Other voices came and went. Alarm, concern, anger, helplessness. I didn’t listen.

BLUE. IT’S NOT empty. It’s beautiful.

I FOUND FOUR wounds. A ball had gone clean through his thigh muscle but missed both bone and artery. Good. Another had scored his right side, below the rib cage, a deep furrow, bleeding profusely, but it hadn’t penetrated his abdomen, thank God. Another had struck him in the left kneecap. Fortunate as to minimal bleeding, and as to his walking in future, that could take care of itself. As to the chest wound …

It hadn’t penetrated his sternum entirely or he’d be dead, I thought. But it might have gone through and torn his pericardium or one of the smaller vessels of the heart, its momentum killed by the sternum but still allowing damage.

“Breathe,” I said to him, realizing that his chest wasn’t rising noticeably anymore. “Breathe!”

I didn’t see any chest movement, but when I held my hand in front of his mouth, I thought I could detect the faint movement of air. I couldn’t do chest compressions, not with a cracked sternum and an invisible ball in or under it.

“Breathe,” I said, under my breath, as I pressed a fresh dressing onto his knee and wrapped it hastily with a length of bandage to give light pressure. “Please, please, please breathe …”

Young Ian had materialized again at some point and was squatting beside me, handing me things from my pack as I needed them. He seemed to be saying the Hail Mary, though I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking Gaelic or Mohawk. I wondered vaguely how I knew it was the Hail Mary and realized slowly that I had the vision of a vast blue space in my mind. “Blue, like the Virgin’s cloak …” I blinked away stinging sweat and saw Jamie’s face, composed and tranquil. Was he seeing Heaven, and I seeing it through his closed eyes?

“You are losing your mind, Beauchamp,” I muttered, and kept working, willing the bleeding to stop. “Feed him honey-water,” I said to Ian.

“He canna swallow it, Auntie.”

“I don’t bloody care! Give it to him!”

A hand reached over Ian’s shoulder and took the canteen. Roger, face and hands blood-smeared and his black hair come loose, hanging wet with sweat, full of red and yellow leaves.

I might have sobbed, in the minor relief of having him there. He held the canteen to Jamie’s mouth with one hand; the other reached out and touched my face gently. Then his hand rested on Jamie’s shoulder and shook it, less gently.

“Ye can’t die, mate. Presbyterians don’t do Last Rites.”

I might have laughed, if I’d had any breath to spare. My hands and arms were red to the elbows.

I WOULDN’T LET go. I couldn’t speak anymore, I hadn’t strength for it. But I wouldn’t let go and I wouldn’t move.

Ian spoke to me now and then. Other voices came and went. Alarm, concern, anger, helplessness. Ian and Roger. I didn’t listen.

BLUE.

So beautiful.

It’s not empty.

MY FACE WAS pressed against his chest, my mouth on his wounded breastbone, the silver taste of blood and salt of sweat on my tongue. I thought I could feel the slow—so slow—thump of his heart.

Lub … Dub ……… Lub …… Dub …

I thought of Bree’s racing heart, of tiny David’s small, busy thump beneath my fingers, tried to feel my own heart in my fingertips, force all of that life into his.

Don’t let go.

I WAS VAGUELY aware, from time to time, that things were happening around me. People were shouting, a few shots, more shouting …

I heard Roger’s voice, but didn’t, couldn’t spare enough attention to know what he was saying. I felt it, though, when he knelt by Jamie and laid a hand on him. Something flickered through him and through me, and I breathed it in like oxygen.

JAMIE’S SMELL HAD changed, and that frightened me badly. I could smell hot dust and horses and hot metal and gun smoke and the muddy stink from puddles of horse piss and the panicked sharp smell of broken plants and the shattered tree trunks on the hillside below. I could smell Jamie’s sweat and his blood—God, the blood, it had saturated my bodice and stays and the fabric stuck to me and to him, a thin crust of hot stickiness, not the cut-metal smell of fresh blood but the thick stink of butchery. The sweat was cold on his skin, slick and nearly odorless, no vital reek of manhood in it anymore.

His skin was cold beneath the film of sweat and blood and I pressed myself as hard against him as I could, holding tight to the shapes of his back, trying to force myself into the fibers of his muscle, reach the heart inside the bony cage of his chest, make it beat.

Suddenly I was aware that there was something warm and round in my mouth, a metal taste, stronger than blood. I coughed, lifted my head enough to spit, and found that it was a musket ball, warm from his body.

He was breathing still … only a faint waft of air on my forehead, perceptible only because it cooled my own sweat.

Breathe, I thought fiercely, and pressed my forehead against his chest, against the small dark hole of the wound, seeing the bloodstained pink and the air-starved blue of his lungs beneath. I reached for his heart, but had no words, only the weight of its soft, slowing beat, the motion, like two small heavy balls that I held, one in each hand, one heavier than the other, and tossed them to and fro, to and fro, catching each one separately but close together.

Lub-dub … lub-dub … lub—dub …

“Shouldn’t we … take her away?” A rough, uncertain voice somewhere far above me. “I mean … he’s …”

“Leave her.” Young Ian. He sat down beside me; I heard the scuff of dirt beneath his moccasins and the sigh of stretching buckskin on his thighs.

I drew a quick, sobbing breath, deep as I could, pulling air for both of us, and Young Ian rested a hand on my shoulder, tentative, not sure what he should do, but he was there.

There. A solid shape with no form, glowing with a fractured light; Ian was hurt, but not badly, I could feel his strength pulse and fade, pulse and fade …

I felt the pulse of it through my flesh. For an instant, I was disoriented, couldn’t find the limits of my own body. I felt Jamie’s slow surrender in my belly and veins, Ian’s strong pulse in my heart and arteries.

Where am I?

I concluded, dimly, that it didn’t matter.

Help me, I said silently, and yielded my own boundaries.

148 Not … yet …

WE STAYED THERE, THE four of us, through the rest of that day, the night beyond, and most of the next day. When I finally resumed contact with the world, I was curled beside Jamie, a sheet of canvas flapping in a gentle wind above us.

“Here, Auntie.” Young Ian’s hands slid under my arms, and he lifted me gently into a sitting position.

“What …?” I croaked, and he put a canteen to my mouth. I drank. It was cider and I had never tasted anything better. Then I remembered.

“Jamie?” I looked blearily round for him, but couldn’t make my eyes focus.

“He’s alive, Claire.” It was Roger, squatting next to me, smiling. Bloodshot and black-stubbled, but smiling. “I don’t know how you did it, but he is alive. We were afraid to move you—the two of you, I mean, because you wouldn’t let go of him.”

I looked around. We were still behind the rocky outcrop, shielded from the battlefield, but I could hear—and smell—the cleaning-up. Grunts and talk and the shoof of shovels and soft thud of dirt cast aside. Burying the dead.

But not us.

I put a hand on Jamie. He looked dead. I certainly felt dead. But apparently we weren’t.

Jamie’s chest moved under my hand. He was breathing, and slight as the movement was, I felt it as though the gentle wind moved through me.

“Do you think it’s safe to move him, Auntie?” Young Ian asked. “Roger Mac’s found a farmhouse, not too far away, where ye can stay for a bit, until ye’re both strong enough to travel.”

I wetted my cracked lips and leaned over Jamie.

“Can you hear me?” I said.

His face twitched briefly, fell into stillness, and then—after an agonizingly long moment—his eyes opened. Only a dark-blue, red-rimmed slit, but open.

“Aye,” he whispered.

“The battle’s over. You’re not dead.”

He regarded me for a long moment, his mouth slightly open.

“Not … yet,” he said, in what I thought was a rather grudging tone.

“We’re going home,” I said.

He breathed for a minute, then said, “Good,” and closed his eyes again.

149 Angry, Irascible, Difficult Sons of Bitches

“I’M NO DYING IN my sleep,” Jamie said stubbornly. “I mean—should the Lord choose to take me in my bed, I’ll go, of course. But if I’m going to die by your hand, I want to be awake.”

My hands were shaking; I folded them under my apron, both to hide the trembling and to control the urge to throttle him.

“You have to be asleep,” I said, as reasonably as I could manage, which wasn’t all that reasonably. “Your leg has to be completely immobile, and I can’t manage that if you’re awake. I don’t care how strong you think you are, you can’t keep still enough, and even tying you to the table—which I fully intend to do”—I glared at him—“wouldn’t be enough to completely immobilize you.

“So.” My hands had stilled, thank God, and I brought them out from under the apron, picked up the ether mask, and pointed a finger at him. “Either you lie flat right now and take it, or I get Roger and Ian to tie you down and then you take it. But you’re getting it, like it or not.”

He immediately sat up and swung his feet off the table, apparently intending to make a break for it, cracked kneecap or no.

“No, mate.” Roger grabbed him by an arm and a shoulder, and Ian, slithering behind the table like a water moccasin, grabbed Jamie’s other arm with one hand and forearmed him across the throat.

“Lie down, Uncle,” he said soothingly, tightening the choke hold and pulling Jamie back against him. “It will be all right. Auntie Claire willna kill ye, and if by accident she does, Roger Mac’s a proper minister now and he’ll give ye a fine funeral.”

Jamie made a noise somewhere between a gurgle and a growl, his face going a dark, congested red as he struggled. I was actually pleased to see that he had enough blood now to achieve such a color.

“Let him go.” I waved Roger and Ian off, and they reluctantly released him. He eyed me, his chest heaving, but didn’t try to get away as I came closer. I put my hand on his uninjured knee and leaned close to speak quietly to him.

“If you lie down by yourself, I’ll put you out before they tie you,” I said. “And I’ll untie you as soon as I’ve finished the surgery. I won’t let you wake up bound. I promise.”

He was getting enough air now, and his face lost the look of incipient seizure.

“Ye want to promise me I’ll wake up?”

He spoke gruffly, and not only because of the choking.

“I can’t promise that,” I said, as steadily as I could. I squeezed his knee. “But I’ll lay you odds of a hundred to one that you will.”

He looked at me searchingly for a long moment, then sighed.

“Aye, well. I’ve been a gambler since I was wee. I suppose this is no time to quit.”

Leaning back on his palms, he brought his legs back up on the table. The effort to move the wounded one made sweat spring out on his forehead, but he kept his lips tight pressed together and made no sound when Roger and Ian took his shoulders and eased him down.

A boiled napkin lay on the counter behind me, displaying four narrow strips of hammered gold. Bree had made them and had painstakingly bored the tiny holes I would use to screw them to the bone—the steel screws courtesy of Jenny’s watch, offered immediately when I asked.

This was going to be a tricky, painstaking bit of surgery, but I was smiling behind my mask as I soaped and shaved, then swabbed the skin of his knee with alcohol. The situation reminded me strongly of the day I had prepared to amputate his snakebitten leg—this leg; I could still see the narrow groove the bite had left, just above his ankle, nearly hidden by the furze of red-blond hair. Today, I wasn’t afraid for his life, and I rejoiced in the knowledge that what I was going to do to his knee wouldn’t hurt him while I was doing it. I glanced up the table at him; he met my eye, and scowled at me.

I wiggled my eyebrows at him and scowled, too, mocking him. He snorted and lay back, but his face relaxed. That was what I was happiest about; he’d fought me, and even though he’d been forced to give in, he wasn’t giving up his right to be cranky about it.

Over the years, I’d seen a lot of sweet, amiable, biddable patients, who succumbed within hours to their ailments. The angry, irascible, difficult sons of bitches (of either sex) almost always survived.

The cotton gauze of the mask had grown damp in my hand, and I wiped my hand on my apron. I nodded toward the ether bottle on the counter, and Bree handed it to me, troubled eyes fixed on her father, who had folded his hands across his belly and was staring doggedly at the ceiling, looking disturbingly like a medieval knight in the crypt of some cathedral.

“All you need is a sword clasped to your chest and a little dog under your feet,” she told him. “And maybe a suit of chain mail.”

He snorted slightly, but his face relaxed just a hair.

“Breathe slow and deep,” I said, in a low, soothing voice. The scent of ether had risen like a ghost when I uncapped the bottle, and I saw Ian hold his breath as it reached him.

Jamie’s eyes met mine and his muscles tensed as I fitted the mask over his nose and mouth.

“Just breathe. You’ll feel dizzy for a moment, but only a moment.” The clear drops fell one by one onto the gauze and disappeared. “Breathe in. Count for him, Bree, backward from ten.”

She looked startled, but obligingly began, “Ten … nine … eight … seven …” His eyelids fluttered and then popped open as he felt it.

“Breathe,” I said firmly. “… six … five …”

“He’s gone,” Roger said quietly, then realized what he’d said. “I mean—he’s asleep.”

“… three, two, one.”

I handed Roger the bottle.

“Make sure he stays that way,” I said. “One drop every thirty seconds.”

I went to wash my hands in alcohol one final time and checked over the instruments and supplies I’d laid ready, while Ian and Bree tied him firmly to the table with rags and linen bandages. His fingers had relaxed and his hands hung limp when they laid his arms at his sides. The light was good; the fine hairs on his arms and legs glowed gold, and the seeping blood in his bandage was the color in the heart of a rose. My own breath had calmed and my heart beat slowly; I could feel it in my fingertips. Some saint was with me now. I wanted to smooth the soft hair back from his brow, but didn’t want to break what semblance of sterility I had, so left it.

Jamie was tied down as securely as a barrel of tobacco in a ship’s hold, but Brianna took hold of his leg and steadied it, just to be sure. I nodded at her, turned to my work, and spread the skin over Jamie’s kneecap as taut as I could.

I picked up a pledget, and the sharp sting of alcohol joined the musky ether, drowning the smell of the pines and chestnut mast from the window.

“Smells like a proper hospital, doesn’t it?” I said, and tied my own mask tight over my face.

I SAW JAMIE safely awake, his knee bandaged and splinted, and a solid dose of laudanum administered for pain. Leaving him asleep in the surgery for now, I wandered down the hall toward the kitchen, feeling somewhat sharp-set, though with a deep feeling of satisfaction. The surgery had gone beautifully; he had good, dense bones that would knit well, and while recovery would undoubtedly be painful, I was sure that he would walk easily again, in time.

The house was quiet; my assistants had all scattered: Fanny was walking out somewhere with Cyrus, and the rest of them had all gone up to the Murrays’ cabin to drink apple cider and milk the goats. I was therefore somewhat surprised to see Jenny in the kitchen, sitting alone on the settle, gazing contemplatively at the big cauldron, steaming gently on the fire.

“Your brother’s doing well,” I said casually, and opened the pie safe to see what was available.

“Good,” she said, absently, but then sharpened into attention. “I mean—aye, that’s very good. Will he walk easy, d’ye think?”

“Not for some weeks, probably,” I said. “But he’ll certainly walk, and it will get easier, the more he does it.” I found three-quarters of a dried-peach pie and brought it back to the table. “Will you have a bit of this with me?”

“No,” she said automatically, but then noticed what it was. “Och. I will, thanks.”

I sliced the pie, fetched milk from the cooling cistern Bree had built in the corner of the kitchen floor, and set out the food. She rose slowly and came to sit opposite me.

“The Sachem came to my house this morning, to say it’s time for him to be away back north,” she said.

“Oh?” I took a forkful of the pie—delicious. Probably Fanny had made it; she was the best of the family bakers. Jenny said nothing, and while she had a fork in her hand, she hadn’t yet stuck it into the pie.

“And?” I said.

No answer. I took another bite and waited.

“Well,” she said at last. “He kissed me.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Did you kiss him back?”

“Aye, I did,” she said, sounding astonished. She sat for a moment, contemplating, then looked at me sideways. “I didna mean to,” she said, and I smiled.

“Did you like it?”

“Well, I’ll no lie to ye, Claire. I did.” She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “Now what?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m askin’ me,” she said, adding a small Scottish snort for emphasis. “He’s goin’ north, back to his nephew. To tell him what-all he’s learnt about the war, so he can decide whether to stick wi’ the British or …” Her voice trailed off. “He’ll need to go before the weather turns.”

“Did he ask you to go with him?” I asked, gently.

She shook her head. “He didna need to ask and I didna need to answer. He wants me, and I … well, if it was only him and me, that would be one thing, but it’s not, and so it’s the other thing. I canna go and leave my family here, especially when I ken all the things that might happen to all of ye. And then there’s Ian …”

The softness in her voice told me that it was Ian Mòr she meant; her husband, rather than her son.

“I ken he wouldna mind,” she said, “and no just because the Sachem told me so,” she added, giving me a direct blue look. “But he sees Ian with me, and I didna need to hear it; I know he’s with me. He always will be,” she said, more softly. “One day, it may be different. Not that Ian will leave me, but … it may be different. I said so, and the Sachem says he’ll come back. When the war is over.”

When the war is over. I felt a huge lump in my throat. I’d heard that before, long ago, caught in the jaws of another war. Spoken in that same tone of longing, of anticipation, of resignation. Knowledge that if the war should ever end—it never truly would end. Things would be different.

“I’m sure he will,” I said.

150 And What of Lazarus?

I FELT JAMIE WAKE beside me. He stretched, then made a horrible noise and froze. I yawned and rose up on one elbow.

“I don’t know why it should be the case,” I remarked, “but with injuries of the knee and foot, lying down actually makes them hurt more badly than standing up.”

“It hurts when I stand up, too,” he assured me, but he shrugged off my offer of a helping hand and gingerly swung his bad leg off the edge of the bed with no more than a hiss of pain and a muffled “Mother of God.” He used the chamber pot and sat gathering his strength before he pushed himself up with a hand on the bedside table and stood swaying like a flower in the breeze.

I hopped out of bed, fetched his stick from the corner where he’d thrown it last night, and put it into his hand, wondering just what life had been like for Mary and Martha after their brother, Lazarus, came back from the dead. Then—watching Jamie struggle into his clothes—I wondered what it had been like for Lazarus.

Whatever his state of mind when he died, the poor man would presumably have left his body with the notion that he was finished with the world. Being unceremoniously reinserted into said body was one thing—returning to a life that you never expected to lead again was something else.

Jamie cast a bleak glance at himself in the looking glass, rubbed a hand over his stubble, muttered something in Gaelic, rubbed the same hand through his hair, shook his head, and made his way downstairs for breakfast, his passage marked by the thump of his stick on every other step.

Beginning to dress myself, I thought that in fact such a thing happened to a hell of a lot of people, who perhaps hadn’t come as close to physical death as Jamie had but had still lost the life they were accustomed to. I realized, with a small shock, that I’d had exactly that experience myself—and more than once. When I’d come through the stones the first time, yanked away from Frank and a new life that we’d just begun, after the war—and then again when I’d had to leave Jamie before Culloden.

I hadn’t revisited those memories in a long time. I didn’t want them back now, either—but it was actually a small comfort to remember that they’d happened … and that I’d survived being uprooted, losing everything I’d known and loved—and yet, I’d bloomed anew.

That was a comfort, and I comforted myself further by considering Jenny, who’d lost the greater part of her life when Ian had died, and then courageously turned her back on what was left of it, to come to America with Jamie.

The Provincial prisoners from the battle had been disarmed, rounded up, and marched away; I didn’t know where. But the militias had all disbanded, essentially as soon as the shooting stopped, men making their ways home in small groups, looking for the pieces of their lives that they’d lost along the way.

How long would it be, I wondered, before we might be compelled to do it again? It was 1781. In October, the Battle of Yorktown would be fought—and won. The war would be over—or as over as wars ever are.

There would be more fighting between now and then. Much of it in the South, but not near us. Or so Frank’s book said.

“He’ll be all right, then,” I said to my reflection in the looking glass. Jamie had healed well, physically; his knee would improve with use—and he was back in the house he loved. Most of his militia had survived the battle with mostly minor injuries, though we had lost two men: Tom McHugh’s second-eldest son, Greg, and Balgair Finney, a single man in his fifties from Ullapool who had lived on the Ridge less than a year. If Jamie was inclined to sit in his study and stare pensively into the fire, or to set out for the still and turn back—he hadn’t yet gone all the way there, and I didn’t know whether he couldn’t bear to see it deserted and in disrepair, or couldn’t yet face the job of getting it back into production—I had faith that he would come all the way back.

Little Davy had been a great help. The tiny boy had brightened everyone’s heart, and Jamie loved to sit with him and say things in Gaelic to him that made Fanny laugh when she heard them.

Still … there was something missing in him. I glanced back at the unmade bed. He hadn’t felt up to making love for more than two months after we’d come home—little wonder—and while I had been able to rouse him physically as he healed … there was something missing.

“Patience, Beauchamp,” I said to the mirror, and picked up my hairbrush. “He’ll mend.” I normally brushed my hair by feel, but was still looking into the glass as I raised the brush—and stopped.

“Well, bloody hell,” I said. My hair was white. Jamie had told me my hair was the color of moonlight, once, but then it was no more than streaks of white around my face. It was not entirely white now; the mass of curls that foamed around my shoulders was still a mix of brown and blond and silver—but the newer growth above my ears was a pure and simple white that shimmered in the morning sun.

I set down the brush and looked at my hand, turning it back and forth. It looked quite as usual: thin and long-fingered, with strongly marked tendons and blue veins visible …

I remembered Nayawenne then, and what she’d said to me: “When your hair is white … that is when you will find your full power.” I hadn’t thought of it in some time and felt a tingle down my spine now. The memory of holding Jamie’s soul on that mountaintop, calling him back to his body … Roger had said to me, quietly, when no one was nearby to hear, that he thought he had seen a faint blue light come and go in my hands as I touched Jamie, flickering like swamp fire.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said, very quietly.

IN THE AFTERNOON, I went up to my garden. The air was still chilly, but patches of bare earth were beginning to show through the melting snow, and it was time to prepare trenches for the early peas and bean vines. Jamie came with me, saying he could do with air, and we walked—slowly, to accommodate his knee—up the slope.

The two lieutenants, Gilbert and Oliver, had dug good trenches for me the year before—before all hell broke loose, and I said a brief prayer for them, and for Agnes (which one did she marry? I wondered), and for Elspeth and Charles Cunningham. Were they all back in England now?—for sweet peas and pole beans and edible peas, these all carefully saved from last year’s harvestings. Jamie obligingly dumped the manure into one trench and set about the job of shoveling earth in and mixing it well with the manure, merely hissing through his teeth when his bad knee twinged.

This trench ran behind the beehives. There were eleven hives now: One swarm had divided before Kings Mountain and I had been in time to catch a departing new queen and install her in a new hive with her followers, and Young Ian had found a wild swarm and gone with Rachel and Jenny to capture them and bring them back. All of them had survived the winter, and a few bees would now and then come out and cruise slowly round the garden before going back in. Jamie looked cautiously behind him, to make sure he wouldn’t knock against the hives with his spade, then glanced at me in surprise.

“I hear them!” he said. “Or at least I think I do …” He advanced cautiously, putting his ear close to the woven straw of the skep.

“Yes, you do,” I said, amused at his expression. “Honeybees don’t die in the winter and they don’t really hibernate, either—so long as they have enough honey stored up to last them ’til spring. They cluster together and shiver to generate warmth, but otherwise they just eat and … sleep, I suppose.”

“I can think o’ worse ways to pass the winter,” he said, and smiled. “Holdin’ your feet.”

The interesting question as to just what parts of him I would like to hold while sleeping was obliged to wait, as we heard the rustlings and shuffle of heavy footsteps coming up the path.

I wasn’t surprised to see John Quincy Myers—he routinely stopped at Fraser’s Ridge when he came back from the Cherokee villages where he usually spent the winter—but I was very pleased.

“How are you?” I asked, standing back to look up at him after greetings and embraces had been exchanged. He had apparently left his pack at the house and looked much as usual, but thin from the winter, like everyone else.

“Sprightly, Missus, sprightly,” he said, giving me a wide smile that had one or two fewer teeth than it had when last seen. “And I see your bees are thrivin’, too.”

“Yes, they seem to be—and thank you again for giving them to me. We were just talking about what bees do in the winter. Eat and sleep, I imagine.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do that,” he said, and reached delicately to put his hand on one of the hives. He smiled, feeling the faint hum on his skin. “But I think they pass the time much as we do in the cold, tellin’ each other stories through the long nights.”

Jamie laughed at that, but came cautiously closer, putting his hand on one of the hives as well. “What sorts of stories d’ye think bees tell, a charaid?”

“Tales of bears and flowers, I reckon. Though a queen maybe dreams of other things.”

“If you mean laying thousands of eggs, that sounds more like a nightmare,” I said. John Quincy laughed, but tilted his head to and fro in equivocation.

“It’s not for a man to say, but I think she maybe dreams of flyin’ free and high with a hundred drones in a cloud o’ mad desire. Oh—” He stopped, feeling in his pouch. “I ’most forgot, Missus. I’ve summat here for you.” He drew out a small package, wrapped in a piece of grimy pink calico.

“Who is it from?” I asked, taking it. It was light, no more than a few ounces, and something crackled faintly inside.

“That, I don’t rightly know, Missus Claire,” he said. “’Twas given me by a woman keeps a tavern down near Charlotte, in January. She said it was a black man left it, sayin’ it was for the conjure-woman what lived at Fraser’s Ridge, and would she kindly pass it on when someone was to be headin’ up this way. I do suppose he meant you,” he added with a smile. “Ain’t that many conjure-women in this neck o’ the woods.”

Puzzled, I opened the little parcel to find a sheet of thick paper, carefully folded around a hard object. I unfolded it and a rock the size of a hen’s egg—and roughly the same shape—fell out into my hand. It was a mottled gray in color, with white and green splotches. It was smooth and felt remarkably warm, considering the chilliness of the air. I handed it to Jamie and unfolded the large sheet of paper it had been wrapped in. The note was written with quill and ink, the writing a little straggly but quite legible.

I have left the army and returned to my home. My grandmother sends this for you, in thanks. It is a bluestone from an old place and she says it will heal sickness of spirit and of body.

I read this, astonished, and was about to tell Jamie that it must be from Corporal—evidently now ex-Corporal—Sipio Jackson, when he suddenly reached over and took the paper out of my hand.

“A Mhoire Mhàthair!”

John Quincy craned his neck to see, interested.

“I be damned,” he said. “That there’s your name, ain’t it, Jamie?”

It was substantially battered; it was torn at one corner, rubbed and dirty, some of the ink had evidently got wet and run, and the red wax seal had fallen off, leaving a round red stain behind—but there was no doubt at all what it was.

It was a copy—the original copy, signed by Governor William Tryon—of the grant of ten thousand acres of land in the Royal Colony of North Carolina, to one James Fraser, in recognition of his services to the Crown. And sewn to it with thick black pack-thread was the letter from Lord George Germain.

151 A Message in a Bottle

JOHN GREY WAS ALLOWED to exercise on deck twice a day—for as long as he liked, while they were at anchor. He was accompanied throughout by a powerfully built monoglot sailor whose sole apparent purpose was to keep him from leaping overboard and swimming for it and whose one language was neither English, French, German, Latin, Hebrew, nor Greek. He thought it might conceivably be Polish, but if it was, the knowledge wouldn’t help him.

The rest of the time, he was not only confined to his cabin but attached to it by means of a shackle round his ankle, this equipped with a long chain, this in turn attached to a ring set into the bulkhead. He felt like a limpet.

Reasonably adequate meals were provided, as was a chamber pot and a small pile of books, including several treatises on the evils of slavery. If these were intended to reconcile him to his presumably eventual fate, they had missed their mark by several miles, and he had pushed them out of the small port before settling down with a translation of Don Quixote.

He’d been held captive before, but not often, thank God—and never for very long, though the night he’d spent—at sixteen—tied to a tree on a dark Scottish mountain with a broken arm had seemed endless. Why think of that now? He’d largely forgotten it in the confusion of circumstance that had attended his acquaintance with a man he’d thought he’d never see again, and good riddance. But Jamie Fraser was not a man to be easily forgotten, damn him.

He wondered briefly what Jamie would think of his present circumstance—or worse, of the circumstances of his eventual death—but pushed that out of his mind as pointless. He didn’t bloody mean to die, so why waste time envisioning it?

The one thing he was reasonably certain of, regarding Richardson and that gentleman’s singular motives, was that he, Grey, wouldn’t be killed until Richardson managed to locate Hal, as his life had value—to Richardson—only as a lever to affect Hal’s actions.

As to those … He scratched absently at his jaw. Richardson didn’t trust him with a razor; his beard was growing out and itched considerably.

Hal had, now and then, made intemperate remarks about the conduct of the war, and had, more than once, threatened to go to England and denounce Lord North to his face about the waste of lives and money. “There are things that need to be said, by God—and I’m one of the few who can say them” was the last such remark Grey had heard from his brother … when was it? Six weeks, at least, perhaps longer.

But John was morally sure that Hal had gone north to find Ben—a conviction supported by the fact that Richardson had so far apparently failed to find him in any of the southern ports. He knew as much from the comings and goings of Richardson’s shore agents; his cabin was directly below the big stern cabin, and while he couldn’t make out many words, the tone of frustration—with the occasional stamp of a boot overhead—couldn’t be mistaken.

How long might it take Hal to find Ben? he wondered. And what the devil would happen when he did? Knowing Hal, the only circumstance in which he would not find his errant son was if the damned boy actually was dead now, whether in battle or from illness—he remembered William’s description of Dr. Hunter’s vaccinating the populace of New Jersey for smallpox.

The wind had changed. It blew into the tiny room, lifted his hair, and prickled his skin. He closed his eyes instinctively and turned his face toward the port. Then he realized that it wasn’t the wind that had shifted; the boat had moved. He glanced up, then went to the door of his cabin, where a small latticed opening at the top provided occasional light from the hatchways. He pressed his ear against the opening and strained his ears. No. There was no sound of order and rapid feet and the rumble and snap of unfurling sails. Thank God, they weren’t about to up anchor and leave.

“I suppose it’s just caught a hatful of wind, as my old grandmother used to say about a stiff breeze,” he muttered, trying to ignore the spasm of alarm that had clenched his belly for a moment when he thought the ship might be about to sail.

Richardson had moved the ship several times, though not far. Grey had recognized the harbor at Charles Town, but there were two other, smaller ports that he didn’t know. Now they were back in Savannah; he could see the stumpy steeple of the small church near his house.

He’d tried not talking to himself, fearful that he might go mad, but he found that the effort not to was making him clench his jaws, so he allowed himself the odd remark. He also talked to the might-be Pole, which amounted to the same thing, but was less socially reprehensible.

Still, he found himself staring absently out of the port for increasing lengths of time, eyes following small boats, flights of pelicans, or now and then a fleeting sight of porpoises, sometimes one or two, sometimes dozens, who proceeded in a remarkably graceful fashion, leaping rather than swimming, but so smoothly that they seemed still part of the water.

He was engaged in this sort of mindless abstraction when he heard a key turned in the lock behind him and whirled round to see fucking Percy Wainwright.

Who, to add insult to injury, stood staring at him for a moment, openmouthed, and then dissolved in laughter.

“What?” John snapped, and Percy stopped laughing, though his mouth still twitched. He hadn’t seen Percy in weeks. Evidently Percy had served his purpose, and was allowed ashore.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said. “I didn’t expect—I mean …” He giggled. “You look like Father Christmas. I mean—a very young Father Christmas, but—”

“God damn your eyes, Perseverance,” John said crossly. He touched his beard, self-conscious. “Is it really white?”

Percy nodded and edged closer. “Well, not entirely white; it’s just that your hair is so fair anyway that it, um, blends in, rather.”

John made a gesture of irritation and sat down.

“What are you doing here, anyway? I take it you haven’t come to liberate me.” Someone had accompanied Percy; he’d heard the key click in the lock again when the door closed behind his visitor.

“No,” said Percy, suddenly sobered. “No. I would if I could, John. Please believe me.”

“If it helps you to sleep at night, I believe you,” John said, with as much vitriol as he could put into the words, and had the bleak satisfaction of seeing Percy’s face fall. John sighed.

“What the devil do you want, Perseverance?”

“I—well.” Percy steeled himself enough to look up and meet John’s eyes directly. “I wanted to say two things to you. First … that I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” John stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. I believe that, too, for what it’s worth. Which is not all that much, as I’ll likely be dead soon, but still. And the second.”

“That I love you.” The words came softly, seeming to be addressed to the tabletop rather than John, but he heard them and was both shocked and annoyed to feel a small lump in his throat. He looked down, too, not answering. The sounds of the river and the marsh and the distant sea washed through the tiny room, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his fingertips where they rested on the rough wood.

I’m alive. I don’t know how to be anything else. He cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose pelicans don’t call out?” he said. “Gulls scream and cackle like witches, all the time, but I never hear the pelicans make any sort of noise.”

“I don’t know.” Percy’s voice was stronger now, though he also had to stop to clear his throat. “I—that’s all I wanted—all I needed to say to you, John. Have you … anything to say to me?”

“God. Where would I start?” But he didn’t say it unkindly. “No. Or—no, wait. There’s one thing.” The notion had just come to him, and he doubted that it would be of any help; Percy was a coward and always would be. But maybe … He straightened up and leaned toward Percy, the chain rattling on the floor.

“Richardson doesn’t allow me paper or ink—probably thinking I’ll try to toss a message to some passing boat below. I can’t write to anyone—last words, I mean, or farewell, or what-have-you. I gather you have some freedom, though.” He’d seen, from his port, Percy being rowed ashore now and then, presumably doing errands for Richardson. “If you can, will you at least go to my house—it’s Number Twelve Oglethorpe Street—”

“I know where it is.” Percy was pale, but his face had settled on its bones.

“Of course you do. Well, if you meant what you just said, then for the sake of any love you’ve ever had for me—go and tell my son that I love him.” He badly wanted to shout, “For God’s sake, tell Willie what’s happened! Tell him to go to Prévost and get help!” But Percy was terrified of Richardson—and everything else in the world, he thought with an exhausted pity—and to ask him to risk something like that was likely to make him run away, get drunk, or cut his own throat.

“Please,” he added, gently.

It was a long moment, and he imagined he heard the wingbeats of the pelicans passing soberly over the river below, but Percy nodded at last and stood up.

“Goodbye, John,” he whispered.

“Goodbye, Perseverance.”

152 Titus Andronicus

WILLIAM CAME BACK TO the house after yet another unfruitful search of the docks and the taverns on the roads leading out of Savannah, to find Amaranthus pacing to and fro in the front garden.

“There you are,” she said, in a tone mingling accusation and relief. “A man’s come; I saw him at Mrs. Fleury’s tea, but I don’t know his name. He says he’s a friend of Lord John’s and he knows you. I’ve put him in the parlor.”

He found the man who’d been introduced to him at Mrs. Fleury’s as the Cavalier Saint-Honoré in the parlor. He’d picked up one of Lord John’s treasured Meissen plates from the sideboard, and was running a finger gently round the gilt edging. Yes, it was the same man, a Frenchman; he’d seen him briefly at Madame Prévost’s luncheon, too.

“Your servant, sir. Puis-je vous aider?” William asked, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. The man turned round and his face changed as he saw William, going from exhaustion and strain to something like relief.

“Lord Ellesmere?” he said, in a thoroughly English accent.

William was too tired and in much too bad a temper to make either inquiries or explanations.

“Yes,” he said brusquely. “What do you want?” The fellow was much less soigné than when last seen; minus his wig, his hair was short and curly, frosted with gray and matted with sweat, and his linen was soiled, his expensive suit crumpled.

“My name is—Percy Wainwright,” the fellow said, as though not quite sure that it was. “I am … I was … well, I suppose I still am, come to think … I’m Lord John’s stepbrother.”

“What?” By reflex, William grabbed the Meissen plate before the fellow could drop it, and set it back on the sideboard. “What the devil do you mean, stepbrother? I’ve never heard of a stepbrother.”

“I don’t suppose you would have.” A faint grimace that might have started as a smile faded, leaving Wainwright’s face pale and exhausted.

“The family no doubt did their best to expunge me from memory, after … well, that’s of no account. There was a rupture, and a parting of ways—but I still consider John my brother.” He swallowed, swaying a little, and William thought the man was unwell.

“Sit down,” he said, grabbing one of the small armchairs and turning it round, “and tell me what’s going on. Do you know where Lord John is?”

Wainwright shook his head.

“No. I mean … yes, but he’s not …”

“Filius canis,” William muttered. He glanced round and saw Amaranthus, lurking curiously just outside the door, and jerked his chin at her as though she were the maid. “Get us some brandy, please.”

He didn’t wait for it to arrive, but sat down opposite Wainwright. His stomach had curled up into a ball, tight with apprehension and excitement.

“Where did you last see him?” he asked, hoping to restore Wainwright to coherence by means of simple, logical questions. Rather to his surprise, it worked.

“Aboard a ship,” Wainwright said, and straightened up a little. “An—an Indiaman, called the Pallas. A Greek name, I mean—a god of some kind?”

“The god of battle,” Amaranthus said, coming in with a glass of brandy on a tray. She eyed Wainwright narrowly, then glanced at William, lifting a brow. Should she stay or go? He gestured briefly to another chair and turned back to Wainwright.

“A ship. All right. Where is this ship?”

“I don’t know. They—they move it. They were lifting anchor as I—as I left. I didn’t abandon him!” he cried, seeing William’s frown. “I—I would never have left him, but I could do him no good, and I thought—well, he told me, in fact. He told me to go and to find you.”

Amaranthus made a small hum, expressing doubt. William shared it, but no choice but to go on and hope the man could be encouraged to make more sense.

“Of course,” he said, trying to be soothing. “And what did he tell you to say when you did find me?”

“He didn’t … say … exactly. I mean, there wasn’t time for a message, they were getting ready—”

“More brandy?” Amaranthus asked, getting her feet under her.

“Not yet.” William raised a hand and she sat down, her eyes fixed warily on Wainwright, who was looking more wretched by the moment. All three of them were silent, while Lord John’s clock ticked peacefully on the mantelpiece, the cloisonné butterfly within its dome slowly raising and lowering its blue and gold wings. At last Wainwright looked up from his tight-folded hands.

“It’s my fault,” he said. His voice trembled. “I didn’t know, I swear it. But—” He licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “Lord John has been kidnapped and is in the hands of a madman. He is in great danger. And yes, please, more brandy.”

“In a moment,” Amaranthus said, sitting forward on the edge of her seat. “Tell us who this madman is, if you please.”

Wainwright looked at her and blinked.

“Oh. His name is Richardson. Ezekiel Richardson.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” William was on his feet and had jerked Wainwright out of his chair by his shirtfront in an instant. “What the devil does he want with my father? Tell me, God damn it!”

“Oh,” said Amaranthus, rising. “So he really is a madman? Maybe you’d best put Mr. Wainwright down, William; he can’t talk like that.”

William reluctantly did so. The blood was pounding through his temples, and he felt as though his head would explode any minute. He let go of Wainwright and stepped back, breathing as evenly as he could.

“Tell me,” he said again. Wainwright was trembling all over now, and sweating heavily, but he nodded, jerky as a puppet, and began to talk.

It took several minutes to get it all out, but Wainwright gradually calmed as he spoke and at last fell silent, staring at the green figured carpet under his feet. William and Amaranthus exchanged glances over his bowed head.

“So this gentleman—well, this person,” Amaranthus said, mouth pursed as though to spit, “wants the duke not to go to England and tell Lord North things about the war, and so he’s kidnapped Lord John and is threatening to kill him unless your uncle acquiesces?” She sounded incredulous, William thought. Richardson’s letter had been hard to believe, but to hear the facts like this … Wainwright was nodding.

“That’s it,” he said, dully. “He—has his own reasons for wanting the war to continue, and he thinks Pardloe might be able to convince the prime minister otherwise.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one with an interest in the war continuing,” William said, beginning to get hold of himself. “War is an expensive business—and that means the men who supply it are making a lot of money. I can think of two or three who might want to stop the duke from spreading notions to the contrary around England. But Richardson—” He eyed Wainwright narrowly, but the man gave no sign of deliberate deception—or of anything, really, save profound distress.

“I told you, I know this Richardson,” William said abruptly, turning to Amaranthus. “And God help me, I think he likely is mad. Some of the things he’s done …” He shook his head.

“Wait here,” he said to Wainwright, and put out a hand to Amaranthus. “Come with me for a moment.”

THE HOUSE WAS quiet; Moira had gone to market and Miss Crabb was lying down. Even Trevor was asleep, thank God. Still, William guided Amaranthus out into the garden, just in case. Sight of the little grape-bower made him think vaguely that neither of them had mentioned his proposal since their return, but the thought vanished like smoke.

“What do you think?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the house.

“I think there must be more truth to the letter this Richardson sent than we even thought. Mr. Wainwright seems more or less sane, but I don’t know about Captain Richardson—is that his rank, captain?”

“Well, it was when he was on our side,” William said with a shrug. “He’s turned his coat now, and I think the Americans may have given him a major’s commission, or even a colonelcy of some kind; they poach officers from European armies with rank because they haven’t got any money. The Americans, I mean.”

“So this Richardson is a turncoat and a madman? The Americans seem not to be very choosy, do they?”

“I gather they made James Fraser a general, if that tells you anything.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“I do hope he isn’t mad,” she said, and looked at William speculatively. “I don’t believe that treason shows up in the blood, necessarily, but I’m reasonably sure madness is inheritable. Look at the King, I mean.”

“No,” William said. “Mr. Fraser may be a good many things, but he’s not mad. And I agree with you about Mr. Wainwright. He may be telling the truth about being Papa’s stepbrother; my grandmother Benedicta married a widower, and he may well have had a son. But his being Papa’s stepbrother is just an explanation for his concern, isn’t it?”

“You mean he might have another reason for coming to find you?” Amaranthus leaned to the side, looking round William toward the house.

“Maybe.” William dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “But the basic facts are—according to him and the letter, now—these: one, Papa is actually in the hands of Richardson, who is bloody dangerous. Two, Richardson apparently is holding him hostage in order to compel Uncle Hal to do—or rather, not do something. And three, no matter whether it’s possible for anyone whatever to compel Uncle Hal to do anything whatever—he bloody isn’t here to do it, anyway.”

“Well, but that’s good, isn’t it?” Amaranthus objected. “Presumably, if the only reason this Richardson is keeping your father is to make the duke do what he wants, then Lord John is safe, as long as the duke can’t be found. Isn’t he?”

“Mmphm,” William said, in dubious agreement. “I don’t know; Wainwright says my father’s in danger, and he must have reason for thinking that. Regardless, I have to find him, and as quickly as possible. If Richardson is truly mad, then he’s unpredictable; he might take a sudden whim and toss Papa overboard in the middle of the sea—or sail away to the West Indies.” The thought struck him like an ice pick in the heart. In the shock of Wainwright’s appearance, he’d momentarily forgotten the most important thing the man had said.

“He said they were preparing to move it just as he lef—” He seized her arm so suddenly that she yelped. “I have to go to the docks! If they haven’t sailed—”

“But they have! He said they were lifting the anchor—they’ll be gone by now!”

“Come on, I need to find out where that ship is—or was!” He let go of her arm and, turning, ran toward the house, Amaranthus hard on his heels.

William hit the corridor at a dead run, scaring Moira, who was coming down it with her huge shopping basket overflowing with fish and loaves of bread. She leapt out of the way but lost her grip on the basket. William heard feminine cries behind him but didn’t stop.

The door to the parlor was standing ajar and he was vaguely conscious of a smell as he shoved it open. Brandy. And … vomit.

The source of both was Percy Wainwright, who was lying on the floor, curled up like a hedgehog, his back heaving as he retched. He’d thrown up profusely already, but the smell was overlain by the stronger reek of spilled brandy.

“Jesus,” William said, swallowed, and knelt to grab Wainwright by the shoulder. “Moira!” he shouted, seeing the man’s face. “Amaranthus! Get a doctor! Bring some water and salt, quick!”

Wainwright was conscious, but his face was clenched like a baby’s fist, all lumps and lines. His lips were blue—actually blue. William hadn’t seen that before, but he knew it wasn’t good.

“What happened?” he asked urgently, trying to unfold Wainwright and get him into a more comfortable position. “What’s the matter with you?”

Wainwright heard him. He brought one trembling hand to his chest, pressed hard in the middle.

“It’s … it won’t … I can’t …”

William had seen Mother Claire take someone’s pulse, more than once, and he hastily pressed his fingers at the side of Wainwright’s neck. He didn’t feel anything, moved his fingers, nothing … there. He’d felt a single throb. And then another. One more—then a light, rapid tapping—but this was nothing like the way a heart should beat.

“Here’s water and the saltcellar.” Amaranthus spoke behind him, breathless. “Moira’s gone for Dr. Erasmus. What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, God, he must have drunk the brandy!” The pulse—if that’s what it was—was getting slower, and Wainwright’s body twisted, mouth gaping open, looking for air. “His heart, I think, maybe … Here, give me it!” He took the carafe from her hand and sloshed some over Wainwright’s face, making him open his eyes, then poured a little into his open mouth. It ran out at the side, and so did the next try.

“Salt?” Amaranthus said, very doubtfully.

“You give it to soldiers with heatstroke,” William said, and having no other possibility to hand, grabbed the saltcellar and spooned salt onto the back of Wainwright’s tongue, trying to wash it down with water.

That worked, to the point that it did make Wainwright come to himself sufficiently as to swallow, but within a few moments a new spasm seized him and he belched everything up in a spew of salt, water … and blood. Not a lot of blood, but the sight alarmed William beyond anything he’d seen so far.

“Brandy,” he said urgently, and sat back on his heels. It was the most popular remedy for almost anything, maybe … He spotted the bottle on the floor and grabbed it, hearing Amaranthus’s cry even as his fingers touched the round black glassy curve.

“Not that one!” she said, and bent to snatch it from his hand. It slipped and rolled across the rug, spilling the last of its aromatic reddish drops and displaying its label: Blut der Märtyrer.

Wainwright made a soft gurgling noise that faded into a sigh, echoed by the faint sputter of his loosened bowels.

There was a deep silence in the room, but beyond it, William heard the faint cries of distant gulls.

“Jesus,” he said softly. “The ship will have sailed by now.”

153 Special Delivery

I WAS IN THE garden, sowing turnips and talking to the bees, who were beginning to float through the air in ones and twos, following the elusive scents of early dogwood and redbud, when I heard the faint rumble of a wagon coming up the road to the dooryard. Then I heard an unmistakable yodeling hail, borne on the breeze.

“That’s John Quincy!” I said to the bees, and laying down my trowel I hurried to the house, rubbing dirt from my hands with my apron.

It was indeed John Quincy, beaming with delight.

“Brung you-all a special delivery, Missus,” he said, and pulled the canvas off the load in his wagon, revealing the excited faces of Germain, Joanie, and Félicité, where they had been hiding, packed in amongst his boxes and barrels like heads of cabbage.

“Grand-mère!” “Grannie!” “Grandma!” The children leapt out of the wagon and rushed to me, all talking at once. I was hugging everyone, overwhelmed by the gangly, long-legged bodies of the girls and the sweetly grubby scent of unwashed children. Germain stood back, smiling shyly, but then Jamie came round the corner of the house and shouted, “Germain!” and Germain broke into a run and leapt into his grandfather’s arms, nearly knocking him flat.

Jamie grunted from the impact, laughed and kissed him, then looked up at John Quincy, the question clear in his eyes. Where are the rest of them? What’s happened?

“Fergus and Marsali send ye their kind love,” John Quincy assured him, interpreting his look. “And they’re all well. They thought as how it might be healthier for the little’uns to have some mountain air, though, so when I passed through Wilmington, they asked would I bring ’em on. Fine company they’ve been, too!”

“Healthier,” Jamie repeated, eyes still fixed on John Quincy, who nodded. Germain’s arms were still locked around Jamie’s waist, his face buried in Jamie’s shirt. He patted the boy’s back. “Aye. I expect so. Come along in and hae a bite and a whet. There’s fresh buttermilk and the girls have made beer.”

GERMAIN HAD CHANGED. Children do, of course, and with astonishing rapidity, but he had taken that abrupt step across the chasm into puberty while he was away, and seeing the new edition was something of a shock. It wasn’t only that he was taller—though he was, by a good four inches—it was that the bones of his face now framed a man’s eyes, and those eyes kept careful watch on his sisters, and on any threat to them.

We’d made a fuss of everyone and brought them and John Quincy in to eat. The girls kissed me, then flung themselves on Jamie with cries of joy, questioning and exclaiming in horror at the bandage round his knee and the raw scar on his arm, the healed and half-healed ones on his chest …

“Grand-père will be fine,” I said firmly, luring them away with molasses cookies. “All he needs is rest.” I flicked my eyebrows upward, indicating that he might decamp to the bedroom, but he smiled and shook his head.

“I’ll do, a nighean. And surely ye dinna think I’d leave whilst ye have a bowlful of sweeties in your hand?”

Fanny poured milk for everyone, smiling—with a special smile for Germain, who went pink in the face and buried his nose in his cup—and I passed out cookies.

“I thank ye kindly, Missus,” John Quincy said, and nibbled his cookie like a mouse, his teeth not allowing for more robust eating. “Germain, did ye give your grandpa and grannie what you brought for ’em?”

“Oh!” Germain clapped a hand to the small leather bag he carried, with a strap across his chest. He gave Jamie a slightly guilty look, but reached into the bag and handed the letter to me, as I was closest. It was written on good rag paper and sealed with green wax.

“For you and Grand-père,” he said, frowning as his voice soared and broke in the middle of the last word. “Grand-père,” he repeated, in a voice as deep as he could make it. I kept my face as grave as possible, and broke the seal.

“Oh,” I said softly. Germain’s lips were pressed tight and his eyes were shiny. “Germain,” I said, and kissed his forehead. “We’re so glad to see you. And what a wonderful job you’ve done, seeing your sisters safely all this way.”

“Mph,” he said, but looked somewhat happier.

TWO DAYS LATER, we were up in our bedroom in midafternoon, me attempting to read Manon Lescaut in French while preventing Jamie from executing a quiet sneak to avoid what he referred to as the third level of Purgatory.

“Have any o’ the bairns told ye what Fergus’s unpleasant event was, Sassenach?” Jamie paused in the midst of a set of the exercises I had set for him, and I frowned at him.

“You’re just trying to get out of the lunges,” I said. “I know it hurts. Do it anyway, if you ever expect to walk without a stick again.” He gave me a long, level look, then shook his head.

“When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou,” he muttered.

I laughed.

“O, Woman, in our hours of ease,” I quoted back, “uncertain, coy, and hard to please. Where the devil did you get that one?”

“Roger Mac,” he said, gingerly bending his bad knee while easing his weight onto it. “Ifrinn!”

“Someone—or several someones—shoot you full of holes and fracture your sternum and you don’t make a peep,” I observed. “Ask you to stretch a few muscles …”

“I was busy dying,” he said through gritted teeth. “And if ye think it’s simple to talk wi’ a fractured sternum … Oh, God …”

“Just three more,” I coaxed. “If you promise to do your arm rotations and push-ups next, I’ll go and talk to Fanny. Germain’s spent a lot of time with her since he came back; if he’s told anyone, it will be her.”

He made a noise that I took for agreement, and I sponged his face with a damp towel and went to find Fanny. She was luckily in the root cellar, and alone.

“Oh,” she said, when I explained my curiosity. “Yes, he did. I asked him,” she added honestly. “He said he didn’t mind telling me, but he didn’t want his little sisters or the other girls to find out. I’m sure he didn’t mean you, though,” she assured me.

War was everywhere, and so it was no surprise to hear that Fergus’s new printshop in Wilmington had suffered the same sort of petty vandalism and anonymous threats shoved under the door as had happened in Charles Town. Nothing worse had happened, though, and the town as a whole was fairly quiet.

The family took good care to bolt their doors at night and latch their shutters, but they felt safe in the daytime.

“Germain and Mr. Fergus were working the press, he said, and his mam and the girls had gone out. Two men came in, and Germain went to the counter to see what they wanted.”

One man had said he wanted to see the proprietor, well enough. But the other had a short fowling piece under his coat and Germain saw it. He didn’t know what to do, but stuttered out that he’d fetch his father. He’d turned to go back to the press, when the first man quickly opened the hatch in the counter and pushed Germain to the floor. Both men ran through toward the back room where Fergus was working, but Germain managed to cling to the leg of the second man and shriek at the top of his lungs.

“He said he was looking straight up into the barrel of the gun,” Fanny said, her eyes wide with the telling. “He thought he’d be kilt any moment, and I suppose he might have been, save Mr. Fergus shot out of the back room with a ladle full of hot lead from the forge and flung it at the first man.”

Not unreasonably, the man had bellowed in pain and panic, turned and tried to run, blind, had tripped over Germain, still on the floor, and crashed into the second man, who was trying to raise his gun.

“Mr. Fergus grabbed hold of the gun with his one hand, Germain said, and they fought over it and the other man was crawling about the floor screaming. Then the gun went off and blew a hole in the ceiling, and there was plaster and pieces of wood everywhere. Germain was too scared to move, but his father had a big pistol in a holster and got it out and shot the man right in the head.” Fanny swallowed, looking a little ill. “And … then he told Germain to go in the back room and he did, but he looked out and saw his father kneel down and shoot the other man in the head, too. He said Mr. Fergus’s gun was a special two-barreled canon,” she added, obviously impressed by this detail. “Because he only has one hand.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” I felt almost as shocked as though I had seen it myself—the printshop splattered with blood and broken plaster, Fergus white-faced and shaking with reaction, and Germain frozen with shock.

“Germain and his papa had to haul the bodies out the back door into the alley before his mama and the girls came back. He said his little brothers were screeching in their cradle, but they couldn’t stop to do anything about it.”

They had put the bodies under some rubbish and then swept the shop and cleaned things as well as they could, and when Germain’s mama came home with the girls, his papa told Germain to take the girls to the ordinary and bring back food for supper. Mr. Fergus must have told Germain’s mama what happened, because she was gone when he came back, and then she came in a little while later and said something quiet to Mr. Fergus, and Germain heard a wagon in the alley that night and when he peeked out in the morning, the men were gone.

“Germain thinks it was the Wilmington Sons of Liberty who came and took the men away,” Fanny said seriously. “His papa knows all of them.”

“I … would suppose so,” I murmured, feeling somewhat thankful that at least Fergus and Marsali weren’t completely without support and protection. That knowledge did nothing for the ball of ice that had formed in my chest.

“I cannot leave undone the Work of Freedom to which I am called.”

“Oh, Marsali,” I said, under my breath. “Oh, dear.”

I WOKE TO the whisper of falling snow, and the strange gray snow-light seeping through the shutters. Peeping out, I saw the world of the forest—dark conifers and the sprouts of spring plants alike—robed in a pure and delicate white. It was a spring snow and would be gone in hours—but for the moment, it was beautiful, and I put my hand against the cold windowpane and breathed its freshness, wanting to be part of it.

Jamie was still asleep, and I made no move to wake him; Roger would tend the livestock this morning, assisted by the younger children. I tiptoed out of the room and made my way down to the kitchen, where Silvia and Fanny were sitting at the table, nibbling toast before beginning to make breakfast. Bree was dozing in the corner of the settle, Davy at her breast, making smacking noises as he nursed.

I yawned, blinked, and nodded, but didn’t join them. I’d made beef tea the day before and thought that perhaps a nice hot cuppa would hearten Jamie on his rising.

He’d had a bad night; one of those nights that everyone over the age of forty has now and then, when the body is beset by cramping muscles, aching joints, and sudden jactitations that jerk you from the edge of sleep as though you’ve been tossed off a gallows. And in his case, doubtless the sudden searing of his mostly healed wounds as he twitched and turned.

He was awake when I came upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed in his shirt, rumpled, stubbled, and apparently still half asleep, his shoulders slumped, hands hanging between his thighs.

I set down the two cups I’d brought and ran a hand gently over his tousled hair.

“How do you feel this morning?” I said.

He groaned and opened his eyes a little more.

“Like someone’s stepped on my cock.”

“Really? Who?” I asked lightly.

He closed his eyes again. “I dinna ken, but it feels like it was someone heavy.”

“Mmm.” I put a hand to his forehead; he was warm, but warm from bed, not feverish. I fetched a cup of beef tea and put it into his hand. He breathed in the steam, then took a sip, but set it aside and stretched himself slowly, groaning.

I eyed him for a moment, then knelt down on the floor in front of him and took hold of the hem of his shirt. “Let me see about that,” I said.

His eyes opened all the way and fixed on me. “Ye do ken what a metaphor is, Sassenach …” he began, making an abortive effort to catch my hands, but my touch, very warm from the teacups, made him exhale and lean back a little.

“Hmm …” I rubbed a little with both hands, slowly. “I think your circulation is in order …. Any bruising?”

“Well, not yet,” he said, sounding mildly apprehensive. “Sassenach. Would ye—”

I pushed the shirt back and bent down, and he stopped speaking abruptly. I reached farther under, making him spread his thighs by reflex, and saw the small curly hairs rise.

“Would ye let go my balls, Sassenach?” he said, stirring restively. “It’s not that I dinna trust ye, but—”

“I’m checking for any sign of an incipient hernia,” I told him, and ran two fingers well up, probing gently into the deep heat of the flesh between his legs. His thighs were lean and chilly, but …

“Oh, I’ve got an incipience,” he said, squirming a little. “But I’m sure it’s no a hernia. Now what the devil are ye doing?”

I’d let go. Turning, I reached over to the small bedside table where I’d left a scatter of things—things turned out of my apron pockets at night and not always retrieved in the mornings. The bluestone Corporal Jackson had sent me was there, and I picked it out of the litter, rubbing it between my hands to warm it. There was a little bottle of sweet oil on the table, too, and I dribbled a bit onto the stone. Jamie was watching this process, still apprehensive.

“If ye mean to stick that up my arse, Sassenach,” he said, “I’d be very much obliged if ye didn’t.”

“You might enjoy it,” I suggested, and took hold of him with one hand, applying the warm, oiled stone in a therapeutic manner with the other.

“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.” But he’d relaxed a little, leaning back on his hands. And then relaxed a little more, sighing, his eyes closing again. I went on with the slow massage but reached out with my other hand and picked up one of the cups, taking a mouthful of the still-hot beef tea. It tasted wonderful, soothing and delicious. I swallowed, set down the cup, and put my mouth on him.

His eyes flew open and his hands clenched on the bedclothes.

“Hmmm?” I said.

He said something in Gaelic under his breath, but it wasn’t a word I knew. I laughed, but silently, and knew he felt the vibration; his hand was resting on my back, large and warm.

Something had happened between us, on the battlefield, and while most of it had gone, I could still feel the echoes of his body in a deeper way than I had before. I felt the blood rise in him, pulsing, warming his skin, and the air he breathed, deep and pure in my own lungs.

Suddenly his hands were under my arms, and he lifted me, urgent.

“Inside ye,” he said, his voice husky. “I want to be inside ye.”

I scrambled up in a flurry of skirts, and he lay back on the bed. A brief scuffle and then that sudden, solid, gliding joining that was never a shock and always a shock. Both of us sighed and settled into each other.

I lay on him moments later, feeling his heart beat under me, slow and strong. I breathed in and smelled the deep, bitter tang of him.

“You smell wonderful,” I said. I felt drowsy and deeply happy.

“What?” He lifted his head and turned it, sniffing down the collar of his shirt. “Jesus, I stink like a dead boar.”

“You do,” I said. “Thank God.”

154 Never Fear to Negotiate; Never Negotiate from Fear

I WAS SMASHING LUMPS of asafetida resin with a hammer when Jamie stuck his head into my surgery.

“Jesus, Sassenach.” He pinched his nose between two fingers. “What the devil is that? And why are ye pounding it with a hammer?”

“Asafetida,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding and taking a step backward. “First you extract the resin from the roots of the Ferula plant, which is relatively simple—but the resin is very hard and you can’t grate it, so you have to smash the lumps with a hammer—or stones, if you haven’t a hammer. Um …” It occurred to me that the hammer I had was in fact his, and I reversed it in my hand, offering it to him hilt-first like a surrendered sword. “Do you want it back?”

He took the hammer, inspected it at arm’s length for damage, then shook his head and handed it back.

“It’s all right. Wash it before ye bring it back to me, aye? Is that the stuff they call devil’s dung?”

“Well, yes. But I’m told that the people where it grows use it as a spice. In food, I mean.”

He looked as though he wanted to spit, but refrained. “Who told ye that?”

“John Grey. It probably tastes better when cooked,” I said hurriedly. “Did you come in here for something, or were you just looking for your hammer?”

“Och. Aye, I was sent to ask will ye come be a witness.”

“To what?” I was already rubbing charcoal dust over my hands to kill the stink.

“I’m no altogether sure. Right now, it’s a wee stramash, but it might be a wedding, if they’ll quit cryin’ themselves down to each other.”

I didn’t waste time asking for details, but quickly rinsed away the charcoal and dried my hands on my apron as I followed him down the hall to the parlor.

Rachel, Ian, Jenny, and Silvia Hardman were there, along with Prudence, Patience, and Chastity, and so were Bobby Higgins and his sons, Aidan, Orrie, and Rob. The Hardmans and the Higginses were drawn up like opposing armies, Silvia and her daughters on the settee with Bobby facing them from the depths of Jamie’s big chair, Aidan standing by his side and Orrie and Rob sitting—insofar as one can use such a word when describing young males under the age of six—on the carpet at his feet.

Rachel, Jenny, and Ian stood at the end of the settee. Everyone turned to look when we came in, and I sensed at once a tumultuous atmosphere in the room. It wasn’t as though they were quarreling, but clearly there was some tension.

Jamie touched the small of my back and guided me to Bobby’s side of the room, where he himself took up a station behind the big chair.

“We’re fettled,” he announced. “What was it ye were sayin’ as I left, Friend Silvia?”

She gave him a narrow look and drew herself up with dignity.

“I said to Friend Higgins,” she said evenly, “that he should know that I have the name of a whore.”

“So I was told,” Bobby said, diplomatically not saying who told him. He looked at her and touched the faded—but still stark—white brand on his cheek. “I’m a convicted murderer. I think maybe you should be more bothered than me.”

A pink tinge crept into Silvia’s cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

“I didn’t need telling,” she said, “but I thank thee for thy consideration. While as a Friend, I must naturally deplore violence, I understand that thy circumstances were such as to cause thee to believe that thee did no more than thy duty.”

Bobby looked down briefly, but his eyes came back to hers.

“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.

The most striking thing about this one was the number of children present. There were two benches at the head of the Meeting House, with the entire Higgins family seated on one, and all of the Hardmans on the other. Bree and Roger sat down front, Brianna with wee Davy in her arms. Fanny, Jem, Amanda, Tòtis, Germain, Joanie, and Félicité (so aptly called Fizzy) were squirming on the bench in front of Claire and himself, presumably on the theory that a soft but menacing clearing of the throat on his part would ensure restraint on theirs. He hummed a bit, low in his chest, to make sure his voice was in good order, and saw Jem and Germain stiffen slightly. Good.

His breastbone still hurt when he took a deep breath, but he could take a deep breath, and he thanked God for that.

He’d walked all the way to church. Slowly, and his left knee hurt like the devil, but his heart was light. He was alive, he could walk, Claire was beside him, and death was once more a matter that he needn’t fash himself about.

Bobby Higgins abruptly stood up, and the congregation hushed instantly.

“I thank you all for comin’ here today,” he said, but it came out squeaky and he cleared his throat audibly and repeated it, nodding to the congregation. His face was flushed—he was very shy, and no orator—but he stood steady and held out his hand to Silvia, who was pale but poised. She stood, took his hand, and turned to the congregation herself.

“As Robert says, we thank thee for coming,” she said simply.

“I’ve not done this before,” Bobby said to her. “You’ll maybe need to guide me.”

“It’s not difficult,” Patience Hardman said, encouragingly.

“No,” Prudence agreed. “All thee has to say is that thee marries her.”

“Well, but he has to say he’ll feed her—well, us—doesn’t he?” Prudence put in. “And protect us?”

“He might say that,” Patience agreed dubiously. “But he doesn’t have to. ‘I marry thee’ is enough. Isn’t it, Mummy?”

Silvia had her eyes squinched shut and was rapidly turning as red as her husband-to-be.

“Girls,” she murmured. “Please.”

The ripple of amusement among the congregation died away. Bobby and Silvia looked at each other, away, faces flaming, then back. Aidan McCallum stood up from the bench and walked up beside his stepfather. Aidan was thirteen and nearly as tall as Bobby.

“It’s all right, Da,” he said, and turning round he beckoned to his younger brothers, who scrambled up beside him. He beckoned to the Hardman girls, who looked at one another in question, then came to a silent agreement and stood up, too.

“We’re going to marry you,” Aidan said firmly to the girls. “All of us are marrying all of you. Will you— Oh, sorry, will thee all marry us all?”

“We will!” Patience and Prudence said together, beaming. Patience bent down and murmured to Chastity, who turned her cherubic, beaming face on Rob, said loudly, “I mawwy thee!” and, toddling over, clutched him round the middle. “Kith me!” she added, and standing on tiptoe, planted a loud “Mwah!” on his cheek.

It was some time before order was restored.

Jamie’s half-healed sternum hurt amazingly, and he was not the only member of the congregation who had laughed themselves to tears. He found that he couldn’t stop, though. Claire handed him a clean handkerchief and he buried his face in it, remembered grief and present joy and fear and peace all spilling out like cold, pure water.

EVERYONE CAME DOWN the hill to the New House, where we’d unpacked the baskets the women had brought and laid out the rudiments of the wedding feast before leaving for the Meeting House. Now the kitchen was organized—mostly—chaos, as we rushed to slice fruit and meat and pie and bread, to shake the butter from its molds and ladle bowls of jelly and ketchups and sauces and drizzle honey over the roasted yams and chestnuts.

Jamie, Roger, and Young Ian had brought down three barrels of the two-year-old whisky, and Lizzie and Rachel had made enough beer to drown an army of thirsty moose; I hoped it would be enough.

I caught a glimpse of Mandy by the window, her curls tied up with a blue silk bow, earnestly poking bits of food into Chastity’s mouth like a mother robin feeding her brood, though Chastity was quite old enough to eat with a spoon by herself. I smiled and looked round for the other girls, only to find them under my nose, earnestly shoveling succotash into several large wooden bowls, chattering like magpies.

“You’re so lucky,” Fanny was saying, envy in her voice. “Three brothers! I’ve never had so much as one!”

Prudence and Patience were quite beside themselves, pink with excitement under their new starched caps, and both laughed at this.

“We will share them with thee, Frances,” Patience assured her. “Especially Rob.”

“And we will be thy sisters,” Prudence added kindly. “Thee shall not lack for family.”

I saw Fanny’s face change and she looked down to hide it, realizing only then that she had accidentally dropped a spoonful of butter beans and corn onto the table, instead of into the bowl.

“God damn it!” she said. Prudence and Patience gasped, and I stepped forward, meaning to make intervention, but Patience blinked, suddenly catching sight of something, and I turned to see what she was looking at.

The Crombies had not come to the wedding, feeling that people marrying each other without benefit of clergy was, if not ungodly, at least slightly immoral. Roger had pointed out to them that a Quaker ceremony was essentially the same thing as handfasting, which as Highlanders they abided. To which Hiram had riposted that handfasting was necessary when there was no minister to be had, in order to prevent outright sin and illegitimate children, but as the Ridge had a minister at present, how was it that Mr. MacKenzie was not personally offended at this refusal of his services?

Rachel had sent Ian up to tell the Crombies that they were more than welcome to come to the wedding feast afterward, even if they didn’t feel they could sanction the meeting at which the marriage occurred, but I’d doubted that any of them would.

And most of them hadn’t. Cyrus, however, was now hovering in the kitchen door, his eyes fixed resolutely on Fanny, despite the rich blush on his cheeks. He was dressed in his best Sunday clothes, with what had to be Hiram’s ancient but well-tended dark-blue plaid over his shoulder, and his hair braided formally over each ear.

“Er …” I took the spoon from Fanny’s hand and nodded toward Cyrus, who had a small package wrapped in a linen napkin in one hand. “Why don’t you take Cyrus to give his congratulations to the happy couple?”

Fanny was as scarlet as Cyrus by this time, but she tidied her cap, brushed down the front of her good white dress with the blue and yellow embroidery, and went to meet him with every evidence of self-possession.

“Ooh,” said Patience, with respect. “Is he Fanny’s … suitor?”

“Does Friend Jamie approve of this?” Prudence asked, frowning at them. “Fanny’s too young for such things, is she not?”

“She’s got her courses,” Patience said, with a shrug. “She told me.”

“But he’s so tall. How could they—”

“It’s a little early to be calling Cyrus anything like that, I think,” I said firmly. “They’re friends, that’s all. Here, give me a hand with these trays of fried fish; they’re to go down to the big table under the spruce tree.”

I helped them out to the porch, then stood for a bit, looking over the festivities. Silvia and Bobby sat in chairs beside each other under the big white oak, and I saw Fanny leading Cyrus down through the multitudes to talk to them. It was too early for people to be drunk, but a number of them would be in another hour or two. People were eating at trestle tables and on the grass, on the porch and the steps, and the delectable smells of roast pork and cinnamon cake, laced with whisky fumes, perfumed the air.

My stomach rumbled suddenly, and Jamie, who had come out of the house behind me, laughed.

“Have ye no eaten anything at all yet, Sassenach?”

“Well … no. I was busy.”

“Well, now ye’re not,” he said firmly, and handed me the plate of buttered corn, fresh roast pork, and yams with chestnuts he was holding. “Sit down and eat, a nighean. Ye’re run off your feet.”

“Well, but there’s still—” I swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “Well, maybe—”

He took my elbow and led me to my rocking chair, this temporarily empty. I sat, suddenly grateful for the throb of relief that shot up from my ankles to the back of my neck. Jamie put the plate on my lap and thrust a fork into my hand.

“Ye’re no going anywhere, Sassenach, until ye’ve eaten that, so dinna be telling me otherwise. Jem! Bring your grannie some nut bread and some of the peach cobbler—wi’ a good bit o’ cream on it.”

“I—that’s—well … if you insist …” I smiled up at him, forked up a bite of honeyed yams, and closed my eyes, giving myself up to ecstasy.

I opened them, hearing a slight change in the rumble and chatter of the crowd.

Had the rest of the Crombies come after all? But no—it was a rider on a gray horse, a single tall man in a tricorne and a dark greatcoat that flapped like wings as he rode, coming up the wagon road and doing so at the gallop.

“If that’s effing Benjamin Cleveland …” I began, getting my feet under me. Jamie stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“No, it’s not.” Something in his voice brought me slowly to my feet. I set my plate down beneath the rocking chair and moved next to Jamie. He was steady enough, but his right hand was folded hard round the head of his stick, the knuckles white.

People were turning to look at the rider, distracted from their conversations. Jamie stood stock-still, his face unreadable.

Then the rider came right to the edge of the porch and reined up and my heart leapt as I saw who it was. William snatched off his hat and bowed from the saddle. He was breathing hard, his dark hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and there were hectic patches of red across his broad cheekbones. He gulped air, his eyes fixed on Jamie.

“Sir,” he said, and swallowed. “I need your help.”