Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (35 page)

“What did ye use for money, lass?” he asked mildly. “Did ye happen to bring a bit when ye…came?”

“I had some coins—what I could get without too much fuss and expense—”

He nodded approvingly at that, but stopped abruptly when she withdrew another gold slip—it barely qualified to be called an ingot—from her pouch.

“And I got thirty of these, and sewed them into our clothes and the heels of my shoes.”

Her father said something that she didn’t understand in Gaelic, but the look on his face was enough.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked sharply. “Gold works anywhere.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, but the added oxygen seemed to be enough to enable him to get a grip on himself, for his jaw relaxed and the color in his face receded a little.

“Aye, it does.” The fingers of his right hand twitched briefly, then stopped as he shifted the reins a little.

“The trouble, lass,” he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “is just that. Gold
does
work everywhere. That’s why everyone wants it. And in turn, that’s why ye dinna want it to be widely known that ye have it—let alone in any quantity.” He turned his head toward her for a fraction of a moment, one eyebrow raised. “I would ha’ thought…I mean, from what ye told me about yon Rob Cameron…I thought ye’d know that.”

The quiet admonition made a hot flush burn up from chest to scalp, and she closed her fist around the slip of gold. She felt like an idiot, but also unfairly accused.

“Well, just how
would
you go about spending gold, then?” she demanded.

“I don’t,” her father said bluntly. “I try never to touch what’s hidden. For the one thing, I dinna feel it’s truly mine, and I’ll use it only in case of urgent need, to defend my family or tenants. But even then, I dinna use it directly.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and perforce, so did she. They’d left Patton’s well behind by now, and the road—a well-traveled one—lay empty.

“If I have to use it—and I will have to, if I’m to equip a militia—I shave bits away and pound them into small nuggets, rubbed in dirt and wiped down. Then I send Bobby Higgins, Tom MacLeod, and maybe one or two of the other men I’d trust with my family’s lives, each with a bittie pouchful. Not at the same time, not to the same place, and seldom to the same place twice. And they’ll change it, bit by bit, into cash—buying something and getting back the change in coin, maybe selling a nugget or two outright to a jeweler, changing a bit more with a goldsmith…and the money they bring back,
that’s
what I spend. Cautiously.”

That “trust with my family’s lives” made a hard nugget in her stomach. It was all too easy to see, now, the risk to which she’d just exposed Jem and Mandy and Roger and all the other inhabitants of the New House.

“Ach, dinna fash,” her father said, seeing her distress. “It’ll likely be fine.” He gave her a half smile and a brief squeeze of the knee. The horses were moving along at a much brisker pace now, and she realized that he was trying to get as far as he could away from the Powder Branch before nightfall.

“Do you…” The words died in her throat, drowned by the wagon’s rattle, and she tried again. “Do you think the men there”—she gestured behind them—“would come after us?”

He shook his head and leaned forward, intent on his driving.

“Not likely. The Pattons ken our business is worth more to them than what we carry. But I’d bet money one or another of the young ones will say something about the braw lassie in men’s clothes wi’ a purse of gold at her belt. It’s just luck whether they say it to anyone who might be moved to come and visit us—and we’ll pray they don’t.”

“Yes.” The first rush of shock and anger was passing, and she felt light-headed. Then she remembered something else that felt like a punch in the stomach.

“What?” Her father sounded alarmed; she’d made a noise as though she really had been punched. He was slowing the horses, and she waved her hands and shook her head.

“I’m—it’s just…they know who you are. Mrs. Patton recognized you.”

“Who I am? I told them who I am.” He’d slowed the horses further in order to hear what she had to say, though.

“She knows you’re Red Jamie,” she blurted.

“That?” He looked surprised but not worried. Slightly amused, in fact. “How the devil did she come to ken that? The lass is younger than you; she wasna born the last time someone called me that.”

She told him about Mrs. Patton’s uncles, and the broadsheet.

“Evidently you still look like you might have done the sorts of things that would get your picture on a
Wanted
poster,” she said, with a feeble attempt at humor.

“Mmphm.”

He’d slowed the horses to a walk, and the respite from the shaking and noise calmed her. She stole a glance at him; he didn’t look angry anymore—not even upset. Just thoughtful, with an expression she thought might be described as rueful.

“Mind,” he said at last, “it’s nay a good thing to have done the sorts of things that earn ye a reputation as a madman that kills without thought or mercy. But looked at from the other side—it’s nay altogether a bad thing to
have
such a reputation.”

He clicked his tongue to the horses and they slowly moved into a trot and then faster. The sense of urgency seemed to have left him, though. She watched him, sidelong, relieved that he wasn’t worried about being known as Red Jamie—and more relieved that the fact that he
was
known seemed to have made him less anxious about the gold.

They went on without speaking further, the silence between them easier. But when they stopped to camp, just after moonrise, they ate without fire and she slept lightly and woke often, always seeing him near her, in the black shadow of a tree, his rifle by his right hand and a loaded pistol on his left.

I FOLLOWED ROGER THROUGH
a growth of immense poplar trees, their canopies so high above the trail we walked that it felt as though we had come into a quiet church, its rafters twittering with birds, rather than bats. Very suitable, I thought, given our mission.

My part, though, was more cloak-and-dagger than diplomacy. I reached through the slit in my skirt to check my pocket for the third time: three good-sized, knobbly ginger-roots at the bottom, and on top of them, a few packets of dried herbs that one wouldn't find locally.

My job—assuming that Roger managed to make the introductions before we were both hurled out on our ears—was to engage Mrs. Cunningham in prolonged conversation. First, with effusive thanks for the Jesuit bark (accompanied with muted apologies for Mandy's outburst), then by presentation of my reciprocal gifts, one at a time, with detailed explanations of their origin, uses, and preparation.

All of which should give Roger enough time to lure Captain Cunningham outside, proper men naturally not wanting to hear two herbalists exchanging thoughts on how to make a clyster that would clear the most stubborn case of constipation. After that, it would be up to Roger. He was walking in front of me, shoulders squared in resolution.

We'd passed out of the poplars and were climbing again, into a rocky zone of fir and hemlock, richly resinous in the sun.

“It smells like Christmas,” Roger said, smiling over his shoulder as he held back a large branch for me. “I suppose we'll do a family Christmas, won't we? For Jem and Mandy, I mean; it's what they're used to, and they're old enough to remember.” Christmas, as a holiday, was purely religious among the Scots—celebrating was done on Hogmanay.

“That would be wonderful,” I said, a little wistful. The Christmases of my childhood—the ones I remembered—had mostly taken place in non-Christian countries, and had featured Christmas crackers from England, Christmas pudding in a tin, and one year, a crèche festooned with camel bells and inhabited by Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, and the attendant kings, shepherds, and angels, all constructed from some sort of local seedpods wearing tiny clothes.

Making a proper Christmas for Brianna every year had been wonderful; I'd felt as though the festivity was for me, as well—the joy of doing things I'd read or heard about, but never done or seen. Frank, the only one of us who had truly experienced the traditional British Christmas, was the authority on menus, gift wrapping, carol singing, and other arcane lore. From the decorating of the tree until it came down after New Year's, the house was full of excited secrets, with an underlying sense of peace. To have that in our new house, with everyone together…

“I tell you what, though,” I said, coming back to myself just in time to duck beneath the overhang of a blue spruce. “Don't mention Santa Claus while you're talking to Captain Cunningham.”

“I'll add that to my list of things to avoid,” he assured me gravely.

“What's number one on your list?”

“Well, normally, it would be you,” he said frankly. “But in the present circumstances, it's a tie between the Beardsleys and Jamie's whisky. I mean, the Cunninghams are bound to find out about both—if they don't know already—but no reason they should hear it from me.”

“Odds on, they know about the Beardsleys,” I said. “Mrs. Cunningham gave me the Jesuit bark, I mean. Someone had to have told her I needed it—and very likely, what for. And no one could resist telling her about Lizzie and her two husbands, if they did.”

“True.” Roger glanced at me, a smile in the corner of his mouth. “I don't suppose you happen to know if…I mean…”

“Both of them at once?” I laughed. “God knows, but there are three small children in that house, and at least two of them are still sleeping in their parents' bed. They must be very sound sleepers,” I added thoughtfully, “but just the constraints of space…”

“Where there's a will, there's a way,” Roger assured me. “And the weather's still fine out of doors.”

The trail had widened enough for us to walk side by side for a little. “Anyway, I'm amazed that the old lady made such a gesture, after what she said to Brianna and me about witches, but—”

“Well, she did assure all of us—including me and Mandy—that we were going to Hell.”

That made him laugh.

“Have you seen Mandy imitating Mrs. Cunningham doing that?”

“I can't wait. How much farther is this place?”

“Almost there. Am I still decent?” he asked, brushing maple leaves off the skirt of his waistcoat.

He'd dressed carefully for the occasion, in good breeches, a clean shirt, and a waistcoat with humble wooden buttons, these hastily substituted by Bree for the bronze ones it normally sported. In addition, Brianna had plaited his hair and Jamie—who had much more experience in such matters—had clubbed it for him, neatly folding up the plait and tying it firmly at the nape with Jamie's own broad black grosgrain ribbon.

“Go with God,
a charaid,
” he'd told Roger, grinning. Go with God, forsooth…

“Perfect,” I assured him.

“Onward, then.”

I'd never been as far as the Cunninghams' cabin. It was a new building, and far toward the southern end of the Ridge. We'd been walking for more than an hour, brushing off the leaves—and with them, gnats, wasps, and spiders—that fell in a gentle green rain from the deciduous trees. The air was very warm, though, and I was beginning to wish that I'd packed some form of liquid refreshment when Roger stopped, just short of a clearing.

Brianna had already told me about the whitewashed stones and the shining glass windows. There was also a large vegetable and herb garden laid out behind the house, but it was evident that Mrs. Cunningham hadn't yet managed to contrive a fence that would keep deer and rabbits out of it. It gave me distress to see the trampled ground, the broken stems, and the stubby tops of turnips, gnawed and denuded of their greens—but on the bright side, it might make the items in my pocket more desirable.

I took off my hat and hastily tidied my hair, insofar as such a thing was possible after walking four miles on a hot day.

The door opened before I could put my hat back on.

Captain Cunningham started visibly at sight of us. If he'd been expecting anyone, it wasn't us. My heart sped up a little as I rehearsed my opening lines of gratitude.

“Good afternoon, Captain!” Roger called, smiling. “I've brought my mother-in-law, Mrs. Fraser, to call on Mrs. Cunningham.”

The captain's mouth opened slightly as his gaze shifted to me. He didn't have a poker face, and I could see him trying to reconcile whatever his mother had been saying about me with my appearance—which was as respectable as I could make it.

“I—she—” he began. Roger had taken my arm and was ushering me quickly up the path, saying something cordial about the weather, but the captain wasn't attending.

“I mean…good afternoon, mum.” He gave me a jerky bob of the head as I came to a stop and curtsied in front of him.

“I am afraid my mother's not in,” he said, eyeing me warily. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, has she gone visiting?” I asked. “I'm so sorry; I wanted to thank her for her gift. And I'd brought a few things for her…” I gave Roger a sideways glance that said,
Now what?

“No, she's just gone foraging by the creek,” the captain said, with a vague wave of the hand toward the woods. “She, um…”

“Oh, in that case,” I said hastily, “I'll just go and see if I can find her. Why don't you and the captain have a nice visit, Roger, while I look round for her?”

Before he could say anything else, I picked up my skirts, stepped neatly over the line of white stones, and made for the woods, leaving Roger to his own devices.

“AH…
PLEASE COME
in.” Cunningham yielded to circumstance with some grace, opening the door wide and beckoning Roger inside.

“Thank you, sir.” The cabin was as orderly as it had been on his first visit, but it smelled different. He could swear the ghost of coffee hung invitingly in the air.
My God, it
is
coffee…

“Do sit down, Mr. MacKenzie.”

Cunningham had recovered his composure, though he was still giving Roger sidelong glances. Roger had composed a few opening remarks, but those had been designed to deflect Mrs. Cunningham until Claire could get her oar in.
Best just get it out, before either of them comes back…

“I recently had an interesting conversation with my cousin-by-marriage, Rachel Murray,” he said. Cunningham, who had been bending to get a coffeepot that was keeping warm in the hearth, shot up like a jack-in-the-box, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the chimney breast, and turned round.

“What?”

“Mrs. Ian Murray,” Roger said. “Young Quaker woman? Tallish, dark, very pretty? Baby with a loud voice?”

The captain's face took on a somewhat flushed, congested appearance.

“I know whom you mean,” he said, rather coldly. “But I am surprised to hear that she should have repeated our conversation to you.” There was a slight emphasis on “you,” which Roger ignored.

“She didn't,” he said easily. “But she told me that you had said something she thought I should know, and recommended that I come and talk to you about it.” He lifted a hand, acknowledging the surroundings.

“She told me that you preached on Sundays to your men in the navy—and that you had found it…‘gratifying' was the word she used. Is that in fact the case?”

The flush was receding a bit. Cunningham gave a short, unwilling nod.

“I cannot see that it's any business of yours, sir, but yes, I did preach when we rigged church, on those occasions when we sailed without a chaplain.”

“Well, then. I have a proposition to put to you, sir. Might we sit down?”

Curiosity won out; Cunningham nodded toward a large wheel-backed chair that stood to one side of the hearth, and himself took a smaller one at the other side.

“As you know,” Roger said, leaning forward, “I am a Presbyterian, and by courtesy referred to as a minister. By that, I mean that I'm not yet ordained, though I have completed all of the necessary studies and examinations, and I have hopes of being ordained soon. You'll also know that my father-in-law—and my wife, mother-in-law, and children, for that matter—are Catholics.”

“I do.” Cunningham had relaxed enough to show disapproval. “How can you possibly square such a situation with your conscience, sir?”

“One day at a time, for the most part,” Roger said, and shrugged, dismissing this. “But the point is that I am on good terms with my father-in-law, and when he had a cabin built to serve as a schoolhouse, he also invited me to use it for church services on Sunday. We had a small Lodge of Freemasons established at that time—this was more than three years ago—and Mr. Fraser also permitted the Lodge to use this structure in the evenings for their own purposes.”

To this point, he'd been looking earnestly into Cunningham's face, but now he glanced down into the smoldering hearth as he mentioned Freemasons, to give the man a moment to make up his mind—if there was anything to make it up about.

Possibly there was. The captain's earlier discomposure and disapproval had receded like a melting glacier—slowly, but surely. He didn't speak, but his silence had a different quality now; he was eyeing Roger in an assessing sort of way.

Nothing to lose…

“We met on the level,” Roger said quietly.

Cunningham drew a visible breath and nodded, very slightly. “And we parted on the square,” he said, just as quietly.

The atmosphere in the room shifted.

“Allow me to pour you some coffee.” Cunningham got up, fetched cups from a sideboard that looked as though it had been abducted from its London home, and handed one to Roger.