Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (127 page)

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.

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:

To Harold, Duke of Pardloe

Colonel, 46th Regiment of Foot

Savannah, Georgia

Dear Hal—

Yes.

Foxglove leaves. Mash them and make a strong tea, or just put them in the salad and invite the rats to dinner.

Your erstwhile sister-in-law,

C.

PostScriptum: It's not a good way to die, even for a rat. Shooting is much more efficient.

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.”