Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (36 page)

It was actually coffee. Freshly ground. Roger closed his eyes in momentary ecstasy, and recalled what Rachel had said about being served tea. Evidently the captain
had
kept his seagoing connections. Was that who the two mysterious visitors had been? No more than smugglers?

They sipped in a guardedly companionable silence for a minute or two. Roger took a last, luxurious mouthful and swallowed.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “the cabin was struck by lightning a year ago, and burned to the ground.”

“So Mrs. Murray told me.” The captain drained his own cup, set it down, and raised a brow at Roger, nodding at the coffeepot.

“If you please.” Roger handed over his cup. “Had Jamie Fraser been living on the Ridge at the time, I'm sure he would have rebuilt it—but owing to the…erm, fortunes of war…he and his family were unable to return immediately. But I suppose you know that.”

“Yes. Robert Higgins informed me of that when I made application to settle here.” The shadow of disapproval fell across his face once more. “Mr. Fraser seems a gentleman of unusually flexible principles. Appointing a convicted murderer as the factor of his property, I mean.”

“Well, he thinks I'm a heretic, and he puts up with
me.
Or perhaps that's what you meant by ‘flexible principles'?” He smiled at Cunningham, who had choked on his coffee at the word “heretic.”
Better take it easy; Masonic brotherhood might have limits…

Roger coughed, giving Cunningham time to finish doing so.

“Now, the proposition I mentioned to you. Mr. Fraser is willing that the cabin be rebuilt on its original location, and used for all of its previous purposes. He's also willing to supply the raw timber for the building. As I'm sure you know, though, he's in the process of building his own house, and can't spare the time or money to complete the cabin until next year.

“So what I should like to propose, sir, is that we—you and I, and Mr. Fraser—should pool our resources in order to accomplish the rebuilding as soon as possible. And once the building is habitable, I propose that you and I take it in turns to preach there, on alternate Sundays.”

Cunningham had frozen, cup in hand, but the outer crust of coldness and reserve had melted. Thoughts were darting behind his eyes like minnows, too fast to catch.

Roger put down his half-finished cup and got to his feet.

“Would you like to go and look at the site with me?”

THE CREEK WAS
easy to find. There was no well near the house yet, so the Cunninghams must be carrying water, and that being so…yes, there was a trail going off into a scrim of dogwood bushes, and within moments the sound of burbling water reached my ears.

Finding Mrs. Cunningham might be a little harder. Would she have gone upstream, or down? I tossed a mental coin and turned downstream. A good guess; there was a slight bend in the creek and a muddy spot on the near shore, showing the marks of many feet—or rather, the marks of one or two pairs of feet making frequent visits—and a series of circular marks and scuffs showing where a bucket had been set down.

There had been rain lately and the creek was high; there was thick growth right down to the water on the far side of the creek, and I thought she wouldn't have tried to cross here; there were stones in the creek bed that one might use as stepping-stones, but most of them were submerged. I made my way down beside the creek, walking slowly and listening carefully. I wasn't expecting Mrs. Cunningham to be singing hymns as she foraged, but she might be making enough noise that the birds near her would either shriek or fall silent.

In fact, I found her because she had attracted the notice of a kingfisher who took issue with her presence. I followed the long, chittering calls of the bird and saw it, a long-beaked blob of rust, white, and gray-blue riding the breeze on a long branch that reached out over a small pool formed by an eddy. Then I saw Mrs. Cunningham.
In
the pool. Naked.

Luckily she hadn't seen me, and I squatted hastily behind a buttonbush, snatching off my hat.

The kingfisher
had
seen me and was having a fit, its vivid little body swelling with indignation as it shrilled at me, but Mrs. Cunningham ignored it. She was washing in a relaxed, leisurely fashion, her eyes half closed with pleasure and her long gray hair streaming wet down her back. A trickle of sweat ran down my back and another dripped from my chin; I wiped it with the back of my hand, envying her.

For an instant, I had the absurd impulse to disrobe and join her, but quelled it instantly. I ought to have left instantly, too—but I didn't.

Part of it was just the common interest that makes people look at other people when they're laughing, angry, naked, or engaged in sexual acts. The rest was simple curiosity. There's quite a thin line, sometimes, between a scientist and a voyeur, and I was aware that I was walking it, but Mrs. Cunningham was undeniably a mystery.

Her body was still powerful, broad-shouldered and erect, and while the skin of arms and breasts had loosened, she still had visible musculature. The skin of her belly sagged and the marks of multiple births showed plainly. So the captain was not her only child.

Her eyes were closed in simple pleasure, and without the forbidding expression, she was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, and deeply marked by years, experience, and anger, but there was still a strong, symmetrical appeal to her features. I wondered how old she might be—the captain had seemed about forty-five, but I had no idea whether he might be her eldest child or her youngest. Somewhere between sixty and seventy, then?

She squeezed water from her straggling hair and put it back behind her ears. There was a half-submerged log at the far side of the pool, and she leaned her back carefully against this, closed her eyes again, and reached a hand down into the water between her legs. I blinked, and then duck-walked backward as quietly as I could, skirts kirtled up and hat in hand. The line had definitely been crossed.

My heel caught against a protruding tree root and I nearly fell, but managed to save myself, though dropping both skirts and hat in the process. The heavy pocket thumped against my hip, reminding me of my original intent.

I couldn't very well hang about until she finished what she was doing, came out of the water, and dressed. I'd just go back to the cabin, tell the captain I hadn't been able to find his mother, and leave the ginger and herbs, with my thanks.

I was putting my own dress back in order when I realized that I'd made very visible footmarks in the damp clay where I'd been lurking. Cursing under my breath, I scrabbled under the bushes behind me, raking out handfuls of dead leaves, twigs and pebbles, and scattered these hastily over my telltale traces. I was rubbing a handful of damp leaves between my hands to clean them when I realized that there was a pebble among the leaves.

I tossed it away, but caught a glimpse of vivid color as it flew through the air, and grabbed it up again.

It was a raw emerald, a long rectangular crystal of cloudy green in a matrix of rough rock.

I looked at it for several moments, rubbing my thumb gently over the surface.

“You never know when it might come in handy, do you?” I said, under my breath, and tucked it into my bag.

“HOW MANY PEOPLE
could the original building accommodate?” the captain asked, nodding at the fragile black skeleton of the door.

“About thirty, standing. We didn't have benches to begin with. The Lodge brothers would each bring a stool—and often a bottle—from home, when we had meetings.” He smiled at the memory of Jamie, passing round one of the earliest bottles of his own distilling, eyeing the drinkers closely in case any of them should fall over or die suddenly.

“Oh,” he said. “That reminds me. You should know that Mr. Fraser is a brother. In fact, he's the Worshipful Master; he established the Lodge here.”

Cunningham dropped his charcoal fragment, truly shocked.

“A Freemason? But surely Catholics are not allowed to take the oaths of freemasonry. The Pope forbids it…” His lip curled slightly at the word.

“Mr. Fraser became a Freemason while in prison in Scotland, following the Jacobite Rising. And as he would tell you himself, ‘The Pope wasna in Ardsmuir Prison and I was.' ” Roger had so far always used his Oxford accent when speaking to the captain, but now he let Jamie's Highland accent stand behind the statement, and was amused to see Cunningham blink, though whether it was the accent or the enormity of Jamie's actions, he couldn't tell.

“Perhaps that's further illustration of the…flexibility…of Mr. Fraser's principles,” the captain observed dryly. “Has he any he will stand by, pray?”

“I think it's a wise man who knows how to be flexible in times such as these,” Roger countered, keeping his temper. “If he weren't capable of walking between two fires, he'd have been ashes long since—and so would the people who depend on him.”

“You being one?” It wasn't said with hostility, but the edge was there.

“Me being one.” He took a deep breath, sniffing, but the smell of lightning and the reek of fire were long gone; with a little work, the clearing might once more be ready for peace.

Roger went on, “As for whether there are principles Jamie Fraser will stand by, yes, there are, and God help anyone who stands between him and what he thinks he must do. Do you think we should expand the building? There are a lot more families on the Ridge now.”

Cunningham nodded, looking at the back of his hand, where he'd scrawled their paced-out measurements with a bit of charcoal.

“How many, do you know? And are you familiar with their religious dispositions? Mr. Higgins told me that Mr. Fraser does not discourage settlement by anyone, provided that they seem honest and willing to work. Still, it seems that the great preponderance of the tenants are Scottish.” This last was said with a rising inflection, and Roger nodded.

“They are. He began his settlement here with a number of Scots who were with him during the Rising, and with people who are kin to others he knows from the Piedmont; there are a lot of Scots there,” he added. “Most of the original settlers are Catholic—naturally—but there were a few Protestants among them, mostly Presbyterians—the Church of Scotland. A large party emigrated later from Thurso, and they're all Presbyterians.”
Virulently so…
“I've only recently returned to the Ridge myself, though; I was told that we have some Methodist families as well. Do you mind if I ask, sir—what brought you to settle here?”

Cunningham gave a brief “hmp,” but one indicating pause for summation, rather than hesitance.

“Like a good many others, I came here because I had acquaintances here. Two of my seamen have settled in North Carolina, as has Lieutenant Ferrell, who served with me through three commissions before being wounded severely enough that he was obliged to leave the service with a naval pension. His wife is here as well.”

Roger wondered whether—and how—the pension might continue to be paid, but it luckily wasn't his problem at the moment.

“So,” Cunningham continued, meeting Roger's eye ironically, “that will give me a congregation of at least six souls.”

Roger smiled obligingly, but told the truth when he assured Cunningham that entertainment was sufficiently scarce as to ensure a full house for anyone who was willing to get up in public and provide it.

“Entertainment,” Cunningham said, rather bleakly. “Quite.” He coughed. “Might I ask just
why
you have proposed this arrangement, Mr. MacKenzie? You seem entirely capable of entertaining any number of people, all by yourself.”

Because Jamie wants to know whether you're a Loyalist and what you might be inclined to do about it if you are—and luring you out to preach and talk to people in public will probably show him.

He wouldn't lie to Cunningham, but didn't mind offering him an alternative truth.