Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (38 page)

“It was maybe the worst thing I’ve ever done,” he said at last, very quietly.

“Morally, do you mean?” Roger asked, his own voice carefully neutral. Jamie’s head turned toward him, and Roger caught a blue flash of surprise as the last of the sun touched the side of his face.

“Och, no,” his father-in-law said at once. “Only hard to do.”

“Aye.” Roger let the silence settle again, waiting. He could
feel
Jamie thinking, though the man didn’t move. Did he need to tell it to someone, relive it and thus ease his soul by full confession? He felt in himself a terrible curiosity, and at the same time a desperate wish not to hear. He drew breath and spoke abruptly.

“I told Brianna. That I’d killed Boble, and—and how. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

Jamie’s face was completely in shadow, but Roger could feel those blue eyes on his own face, fully lit by the setting sun. With an effort, he didn’t look down.

“Aye?” Jamie said, his voice calm, but definitely curious. “What did she say to ye? If ye dinna mind telling me, I mean.”

“I—well. To tell the truth, the only thing I remember for sure is that she said, ‘I love you.’ ” That was the only thing he’d heard, through the echo of drums and the drumming of his own pulse in his ears. He’d told her kneeling, his head in her lap. She’d kept on saying it then: “I love you,” her arms wrapping his shoulders, sheltering him with the fall of her hair, absolving him with her tears.

For a moment, he was back inside that memory, and he came to himself with a start, realizing that Jamie had said something.

“What did you say?”

“I said—and how is it Presbyterians dinna think marriage is a sacrament?”

Jamie moved on his rock, facing Roger directly. The sun was all but down, no more than a nimbus of bronze in his hair; his features were dark.

“You’re a priest, Roger Mac,” he said, in the same tone he might have used to describe any natural phenomenon, such as a piebald horse or a flight of mallard ducks. “It’s plain to me—and to you, I reckon—that God’s called ye so, and He’s brought ye to this place and this time to do it.”

“Well, the being a minister part is clear,” Roger said dryly. “As for the rest…your guess is possibly no better than mine. And a guess is the best
I’ve
got.”

“That would put ye well ahead of the rest of us, man,” Jamie said, the smile evident in his voice. He rose to his feet, a black shadow with rod in hand, stooping for the rush-woven creel. “We’d best start back, aye?”

There was no real passage between the shore of the trout pond and the deer trail that led along the lower slopes of the Ridge, and the effort of scrambling up through boulders and heavy brush in the fading light kept them from speaking much.

“How old were you, the first time you saw a man killed?” Roger said abruptly to Jamie’s back.

“Eight,” Jamie replied without hesitation. “In a fight during my first cattle raid. I wasna much troubled about it.”

A stone rolled under his foot and he slid, snatching at a fir branch in time to save himself. Getting his feet back under him, he crossed himself and muttered something under his breath.

The smell of bruised fir needles was strong in the air as they moved more slowly, watching the ground. Roger wondered whether things really did smell stronger at dusk, or whether it was that with your sight fading, you just paid more attention to your other senses.

“In Scotland,” Jamie said, quite abruptly, “in the Rising, I watched my uncle Dougal kill one of his own men. That was a terrible thing, though it was done for mercy.”

Roger drew breath, meaning to say…what, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

“And then I killed Dougal, just before the battle.” Jamie didn’t turn round; just kept climbing, slow and dogged, gravel sliding now and then beneath his feet.

“I know,” Roger said. “And I know why. Claire told us. When she came back,” he added, seeing Jamie’s shoulders stiffen. “When she thought
you
were dead.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing and the high, thin
zeek!
of hunting swallows.

“I dinna ken,” Jamie said, obviously taking care with his words, “if I could bring myself to die for an idea. No that it isn’t a fine thing,” he added hurriedly. “But…I asked Brianna whether any o’ those men—the ones who thought of the notions and the words ye’d need to make them real—whether any of them actually did the fighting.”

“In the Revolution, ye mean? I don’t think they did,” Roger said dubiously. “Will, I mean. Unless you count George Washington, and I don’t believe he does so much talking.”

“He talks to his troops, believe me,” Jamie said, a wry humor in his voice. “But maybe not to the King, or the newspapers.”

“No. Mind,” Roger added in fairness, pushing aside a pine branch, thick with a pungent sap that left his palm sticky, “John Adams, Ben Franklin, all the thinkers and talkers—they’re risking their necks as much as you—as we—are.”

“Aye.” The ground was rising steeply now, and nothing more was said as they climbed, feeling their way over the broken ground of a gravel fall.

“I’m thinking that maybe I canna die—or lead men to their own deaths—only for the notion of freedom. Not now.”

“Not now?” Roger echoed, surprised. “You could have—earlier?”

“Aye. When you and the lass and your weans were…there.” Roger caught the brief movement of a hand, flung out toward the distant future. “Because what I did here then would be—it would
matter,
aye? To all of you—and I can fight for you.” His voice grew softer. “It’s what I’m made to do, aye?”

“I understand,” Roger said quietly. “But ye’ve always known that, haven’t you? What ye’re made to do.”

Jamie made a sound in his throat, half surprised.

“Dinna ken when I knew it,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Maybe at Leoch, when I found I could get the other lads into mischief—and did. Perhaps I should be confessing that?”

Roger brushed that aside.

“It will matter to Jem and Mandy—and to those of our blood who come after them,” he said.
Provided Jem and Mandy survive to have children of their own,
he added mentally, and felt a cold qualm in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

Jamie stopped quite suddenly, and Roger had to step to the side to avoid running into him.

“Look,” Jamie said, and he did. They were standing at the top of a small rise, where the trees fell away for a moment, and the Ridge and the north side of the cove below it spread before them, a massive chunk of solid black against the indigo of the faded sky. Tiny lights pricked the blackness, though: the windows and sparking chimneys of a dozen cabins.

“It’s not only our wives and our weans, ken?” Jamie said, and nodded toward the lights. “It’s them, as well. All of them.” His voice held an odd note; a sort of pride—but rue and resignation, too.

All of them.

Seventy-three households in all, Roger knew. He’d seen the ledgers Jamie kept, written with painful care, noting the economy and welfare of each family who occupied his land—and his mind.

“Now therefore so shalt thou say unto my servant David, Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I took thee from the sheepcote, from following the sheep, to be ruler over my people, over Israel.”
The quote sprang to mind, and he’d spoken it aloud before he could think.

Jamie drew a deep, audible breath.

“Aye,” he said. “Sheep would be easier.” Then, abruptly, “Frank Randall—his book, it says the war is coming through the South, not that I needed him to tell me that.

“But Claire, Brianna, and the children—and them—I canna shield them, should it come close.” He nodded toward the distant sparks, and it was clear to Roger that by “them” he meant his tenants—his people. He didn’t pause for a reply, but resettled the creel on his shoulder and started down.

The trail narrowed. Roger’s shoulder brushed Jamie’s, close, and he fell back a step, following his father-in-law. The moon was late in rising tonight, and sliver-thin. It was dark and the air had a bite in it now.

“I’ll help you protect them,” he said to Jamie’s back. His voice was gruff.

“I ken that,” Jamie said, softly. There was a short pause, as though Jamie was waiting for him to speak further, and he realized that he should.

“With my body,” Roger said quietly, into the night. “And with my soul, if that should be necessary.”

He saw Jamie in brief silhouette, saw him a draw a deep breath and his shoulders relax as he let it out. They walked more briskly now; the trail was dark, and they strayed now and then, the brush catching at their bare legs.

At the edge of their own clearing, Jamie paused to let Roger come up with him, and laid a hand on his arm.

“The things that happen in a war—the things that ye do…they mark ye,” he said quietly. “I dinna think bein’ a priest will spare you, is what I’m sayin’, and I’m sorry for it.”

They mark ye. And I’m sorry for it.
But he said nothing; only touched Jamie’s hand lightly where it lay upon his arm. Then Jamie took his hand away and they walked home together, silent.

ADSO, DRAPED LANGUIDLY AS
a scarf over the table, opened his eyes and gave a small inquisitive “mowp” at the scraping noise.

“Not edible,” I said to him, tapping the last glob of gentian ointment off the spoon. The big celadon eyes went back to slits. Not all the way closed, though—and the tip of his tail began to stir. He was watching something, and I swung around to find Jemmy in the doorway, swathed in his father’s ratty old blue calico shirt. It nearly touched his feet and was falling off one bony little shoulder, but that clearly didn’t matter; he was wide-awake and urgent.

“Grannie! Fanny’s took bad!”

“Taken,” I said automatically, corking the jar of grease to keep Adso out. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s rolled up like a sow bug and grunting like she’s got the bellyache—but, Grannie, there’s blood on her night rail!”

“Oh,” I said, taking my hand off the jar of peppermint leaves I’d been reaching for and reaching instead for a small gauze package on the highest shelf. I’d had it made up for the last two months, in readiness. “I think she’s fine, sweetheart. Or will be. Where’s Mandy?” The children all shared a room—and often enough, a single bed; it was common to come in late at night and find a mattress ticking on the floor, and all four of them sprawled in a sweetly moist tangle of limbs and clothes on top of it. Germain had gone hunting with Bobby Higgins and Aidan—Jemmy being prevented because he’d cut his foot yesterday—but Mandy was here, and I didn’t think her insistent curiosity and voluble opinions would be of help in the present situation.

“Asleep,” Jem answered, watching me drop the gauze packet of herbs into a clay teapot and pour boiling water over it. “What’s that potion for, Grannie?”

“It’s just a tea made with ginger-root and rosemary,” I said. “And a bit of yarrow. It’s an emmenagogue.” I spelled that for him, adding, “It’s to help with a woman’s courses. You’ve heard about courses?”

Jemmy’s eyes went quite round.

“You mean Fanny’s on heat?” he blurted. “Who’s going to breed her?”

“Well, it doesn’t work
quite
that way with people,” I said, adding craftily, “Ask your mother to explain it all to you in the morning. Right now, why don’t you go and crawl in with Grandpa, and I’ll take this up to Fanny.”

Before leaving the surgery, though, I pulled the box of river stones out from under the table and picked out my favorite: a weathered chunk of gray calcite the size of Jamie’s fist, with a thin, vivid green line of embedded emerald showing on one side, reminding me of the emerald I’d picked up by the creek. I’d added that one to my medicine bag—my amulet. I laid the stone in the hearth and shoveled hot embers on top of it, just in case heat should be required.

The candle was lit in the children’s room and Fanny was on her own narrow bed, uncovered and curled up tight as a hedgehog, her back to the door. She didn’t look round at the sound of my footsteps, but her shoulders rose up higher round her ears.

“Fanny?” I said softly. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” From Jemmy’s obvious concern about the blood, I’d been a bit worried—but I could see only a single small streak of blood and one or two spots on the muslin of her night rail, the rusty brown of first menstruation.

“I’m fine,” said a small, cold voice. “It’s juth—
just
—blood.”

“That’s quite true,” I said equably, though the tone in which she’d said it rather alarmed me. I sat down beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. It was hard as wood, and her skin was cold. How long had she been lying there uncovered?

“I’m all right,” she said. “I got the rags. I’ll wath—
wash
—my rail in the morning.”

“Don’t trouble about it,” I said, and stroked the back of her head very lightly, as though she was a cat of uncertain temper. I wouldn’t have thought she could become any more tense, but she did. I took my hand away.

“Are you in pain?” I asked, in the business-like voice I used when taking a physical history from someone who’d come to my surgery. She’d heard it before, and the slender shoulders relaxed, just a hair.

“Not weal—I mean, not
ree
-lee,” she said, pronouncing it very distinctly. It had taken no little practice for her to be able to pronounce words correctly, after I had done the frenectomy that had freed her from being tongue-tied, and I could tell that it annoyed her to be slipping back into the lisp of her bondage.

“It jusst feels
tight,
” she said. “Like a fist squeezing me right there.” She pushed her own fists into her lower abdomen in illustration.

“That sounds quite normal,” I assured her. “It’s just your uterus waking up, so to speak. It hasn’t moved noticeably before, so you wouldn’t have been aware of it.” I’d explained the internal structure of the female reproductive system to her, with drawings, and while she’d seemed mildly repulsed at the word “uterus,” she
had
paid attention.

To my surprise, the back of her neck went pale at this, her shoulders hunching up again. I glanced over my shoulder, but Mandy was snoring in the quilts, dead to the world.

“Fanny?” I said, and ventured to touch her again, stroking her arm. “You’ve seen girls come into their courses before, haven’t you?” So far as we could estimate, she’d lived in a Philadelphia brothel since the age of five or so; I would have been astounded if she hadn’t seen almost everything the female reproductive system could do. And then it struck me, and I scolded myself for a fool. Of course. She
had
seen everything.

“Yess,” she said, in that cold, remote way. “It means two things. You can be got with child, and you can start to earn money.”

I took a deep breath.

“Fanny,” I said, “sit up and look at me.”

She stayed frozen for a moment, but she was used to obedience, and after a moment she turned over and sat up. She didn’t look at me, but kept her eyes fixed on her knees, small and sharp under the muslin.

“Sweetheart,” I said, more gently, and put a hand under her chin to lift her face. Her eyes met mine like a blow, their soft brown nearly black with fear. Her chin was rigid, her jaw set tight, and I took my hand away.

“You don’t really think that we intend you to be a whore, Fanny?” She heard the incredulousness in my voice, and blinked. Once. Then looked down again.

“I’m…not good for anything else,” she said, in a small voice. “But I’m worth a lot of money—for…
that.
” She waved a hand over her lap, in a quick, almost resentful gesture.

I felt as though I’d been punched in my own belly. Did she really think—but she clearly did. Must have thought so, all the time she had been living with us. She’d seemed to thrive at first, safe from danger and well fed, with the boys as companions. But the last month or so, she’d seemed withdrawn and thoughtful, eating much less. I’d seen the physical signs and reckoned them as due to her sensing the imminent change; had prepared the emmenagogue herbs, to be ready. That was apparently the case, but obviously I hadn’t guessed the half of it.

“That isn’t true, Fanny,” I said, and took her hand. She let me, but it lay in mine like a dead bird. “That’s
not
your only worth.” Oh, God, did it sound as though she had another, and that’s why we had—

“I mean—we didn’t take you in because we thought you…you’d be profitable to us in some way. Not at all.” She turned her face away, with an almost inaudible sniffing noise. This was getting worse by the moment. I had a sudden memory of Brianna as a young teenager, and spending hours in her bedroom, mired in futile reassurances—
no, you aren’t ugly; of course you’ll have a boyfriend when it’s time; no, everybody doesn’t hate you
. I hadn’t been good at it then, and clearly those particular maternal skills hadn’t improved with age.

“We took you because we wanted you, sweetheart,” I said, stroking the unresponsive hand. “Wanted to take care of you.” She pulled it away and curled up again, face in her pillow.

“Do, you didn.” Her voice came thick, and she cleared her throat, hard. “William made Mr. Fraser take me.”

I laughed out loud, and she turned her head from the pillow to look at me, surprised.

“Really, Fanny,” I said. “Speaking as one who knows both of them rather well, I can assure you that no one in the world could make either one of those men do anything whatever against his will. Mr. Fraser is stubborn as a rock, and his son is just like him. How long have you known William?”

“Not…long,” she said, uncertain. “But—but he tried to save J-Jane. She liked him.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her face back into the pillow.

“Oh,” I said, much more softly. “I see. You’re thinking of her. Of Jane.” Of course.

She nodded, her small shoulders hunched and shaking. Her plait had unraveled and the soft brown curls fell away, exposing the white skin of her neck, slender as a stalk of blanched asparagus.

“It’th the only t-time I ever thaw her cry,” she said, the words only half audible between emotion and muffling.

“Jane? What was it?”

“Her firtht—
first
—time. Wif—with—a man. When she came back and gave the bloody towel to Mrs. Abbott. She did that, and then she crawled into bed with me and cried. I held huh and—and petted huh—bu—I couldn’t make her thtop.” She pulled her arms under her and shook with silent sobs.

“Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, husky with sleep. “What’s amiss? I rolled over and found Jem in my bed, instead of you.” He spoke calmly, but his eyes were fixed on Fanny’s shivering back. He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, and moved his head slightly toward the doorjamb. Did I want him to leave?

I glanced down at Fanny and up at him with a helpless twitch of my shoulder, and he moved at once into the room, pulling up a stool beside Fanny’s bed. He noticed the blood streaks at once and looked up at me again—surely this was women’s business?—but I shook my head, keeping a hand on Fanny’s back.

“Fanny’s missing her sister,” I said, addressing the only aspect of things I thought might be dealt with effectively at the moment.

“Ah,” Jamie said softly, and before I could stop him, he had bent down and gathered her gently up into his arms. I stiffened for an instant, afraid of having a man touch her just now—but she turned in to him at once, flinging her arms about his neck and sobbing into his chest.

He sat down, holding her on his knee, and I felt the unhappy tension in my own shoulders ease, seeing him smooth her hair and murmur things to her in a
Gàidhlig
she didn’t speak but clearly understood as well as a horse or dog might.

Fanny went on sobbing for a bit but slowly calmed under his touch, only hiccuping now and then.

“I saw your sister just the once,” he said softly. “Jane was her name, aye? Jane Eleanora. She was a bonnie lass. And she loved ye dear, Frances. I ken that.”

Fanny nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, and I looked at the corner where Mandy lay on the trundle. She was still out, thumb plugged securely into her mouth. Fanny got herself under control within a few seconds, though, and I wondered whether she had been beaten at the brothel for weeping or displaying violent emotion.

“She did it fuh me,” she said, in tones of absolute desolation. “Killed Captain Harkness. And now she’th dead. It’th all my fault.” And despite the whiteness of her clenched knuckles, more tears welled in her eyes. Jamie looked at me over her head, then swallowed to get his own voice under control.

“Ye would have done anything for your sister, aye?” he said, gently rubbing her back between the bony little shoulder blades.

“Yes,” she said, voice muffled in his shoulder.

“Aye, of course. And she would ha’ done the same for you—and did. Ye wouldna have hesitated for a moment to lay down your life for her, and nor did she. It wasna your fault,
a nighean.
”

“It
was
! I shouldn’t have made a fuss, I should have—oh, Janie!”

She clung to him, abandoning herself to grief. Jamie patted her and let her cry, but he looked at me over the disheveled crown of her head and raised his brows.

I got up and came to stand behind him, a hand on his shoulder, and in murmured French acquainted him in a few words with the other source of Fanny’s distress. He pursed his lips for an instant, but then nodded, never ceasing to pet her and make soothing noises. The tea had gone cold, particles of rosemary and ground ginger floating on the murky surface. I took up the pot and cup and went quietly out to make it fresh.

Jemmy was standing in the dark just outside the door and I nearly crashed into him.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, only just managing to say it in a whisper. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you asleep?”

He ignored this, looking into the dim light of the bedroom and the humped shadow on the wall, a deeply troubled look on his face.

“What happened to Fanny’s sister, Grannie?”

I hesitated, looking down at him. He was only nine. And surely it was his parents’ place to tell him what they thought he should know. But Fanny was his friend—and God knew, she needed a friend she could trust.

“Come down with me,” I said, turning him toward the stair with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you while I make more tea. And
don’t
bloody tell your mother I did.”