Shadowbrook (91 page)

Three o’clock, dinnertime, and Groesbeck’s taproom at the Sign of the Nag’s Head was filled to overflowing. The smell of squirrel stew hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of yeasty ale and fiery rum and the sweat of hardworking men. Henry Morris wedged his way into the crowd and called for the punch bowl, downing two cups one right after the other when it came, and paying for them with a couple of shiny coppers picked from the handful of coins he’d been paid for ferrying Quentin Hale and the young woman upriver to Shadowbrook. Waste of good Hale money, that was, might as well o’ buried her where she was as pay for her passage. But rich folk had their own way o’ goin’ on. And these days the Hales were rich enough. Hell, everyone was richer than they’d been a few years back. Even himself, if the truth be told. Rich enough to buy a hot dinner here in the tavern, and not settle for a morsel from the pie-woman’s wares out on the street.

He was hungry and there was no place to sit at the front. Morris worked his way through the throng until he found a vacant place at a long table hard by the rearmost fireplace, nearly out the door to the yard where the whores did their business. “A bowl of that good stew I smell,” he yelled. “And an ale to wash it down.” The serving woman signaled that she’d heard. Morris pulled out a few more coins in readiness, salivating at the thought of what good eating squirrels were just now. Chock-full of acorns, they were, and thick with the fat they’d stored to see them through the coming winter.

A log of applewood too green for proper burning crackled loudly when a pocket of sap caught, and rolled forward to the edge of the hearth. The man next to Morris stretched out a leg to kick it back but couldn’t reach. The man slid out of his seat to do the job properly. Another slid instantly into his place. “Hey! I’m sitting there!”

“Not now, you’re not.”

The man by the fireplace knew John Hale’s reputation for violence. Besides, he’d already finished his dinner, He reclaimed what was left of his mug of ale and went away muttering about them as felt they were better than the rest. John tumed to Morris. “I’m told you made a run up to my place last night.”

“Aye, I did that.”

“I’m also told it was my brother hired you.”

“There’s some around here with mouths bigger than they should be.” Morris leaned back to let the serving woman put down a wooden bowl filled with steaming stew and a pewter tankard of ale. She scooped up the coins he’d left on the table and backed away. The tar picked up his spoon and began eating.

“Some as know who butters their bread,” John said. His left arm hung by his side and he used his right to lift it onto the table. “What I want to know, who’d he have with him?”

“Can’t say. Didn’t get a good look.”

“But he wasn’t alone?”

“Folks pay for passage, I don’t ask questions. Just brings ’em where they want to go.”

John took the knife from his belt and with his right hand began cleaning the fingernails of the useless left. “Plenty of competition on the river these days, isn’t there?”

The tar waited until he’d finished chewing a particularly succulent morsel of squirrel. “Aye, but enough work for all.”

“Did you know we’re to build an extra landing place on the Patent this year?”

“Hadn’t heard.”

“You have now. And with all the transport available, I can be as choosy as I like deciding who lades from my property and who does not.”

Morris turned his head and spat two small bones onto the floor. “Near as I can tell, it’s the mistress says who ferries for Shadowbrook and who don’t.” Then, before John could answer: “Your brother had a young woman with him. Never heard her name. Not worth learning it neither. Burning with fever, she was. Near as I can tell, Quent brought her to Shadowbrook so’s he could bury her there.”

John stared at nothing for a few moments, then got up and pushed his way through the mob to the front door.

Ten o’clock Quent climbed the stairs, feeling the heaviness in his legs and thinking that a night in his old bed under Shadowbrook’s roof would make a world of difference. He started down the hall, then paused outside the room where they’d put Nicole. The door was ajar and he could see her small form in the bed. A black girl sat beside her, sponging her face. She must be the Ibo John had bought. She looked up and saw him, and left her patient and came to the open door. “You be wanting me, master?”

“Only to ask how she is.”

“Sleeping. And the fever be not so fierce. Sally Robin put something in the water I be using to keep her cool.”

“Where is Sally?”

“Down below, master, getting something for mistress. Some bedtime thing she be bringing her most nights.”

“So you’re in charge up here?”

“Only till Sally Robin comes back, master. But Sally Robin, she be learning me how to do things for sick folks and I be doin’ everything she says.”

“Good, that’s fine. You’re Taba, aren’t you?”

“Yes, master.”

Fourteen or fifteen, maybe. Not pretty, but there was intelligence behind her eyes. “I’m glad to meet you, Taba. My mother speaks highly of you. You take good care of mademoiselle and we’ll be well pleased.”

“Yes sir, master. I best be goin’ back to her now.”

The lure of his bed was irresistible. Quent walked toward it, heard a sound, and glanced over the banister to the floor below. Sally Robin was hurrying across the hall, carrying a steaming glass of liquid. He waited just until he saw her knock at Lorene’s door, then stumbled into his room. The bed had been turned down and his dressing gown was spread beside it on the chair. Corn Broom Hannah, or Runsabout, doing for him as they always had. Reminding him he was supposed to be a gentleman, at least when he was at Shadowbrook. Hell with it, he was too tired to get undressed. Still in his buckskins he fell on the feather mattress and was instantly asleep.

Downstairs Lorene murmured, “Come,” when she heard Sally’s tap on the door.

“Hot drink for you, mistress.”

“Thank you, Sally.” Lorene was sitting up in her bed, covered with a lace and linen nightdress full enough to hide her unnatural thinness. She’d removed her mobcap, and her hair, more gray than brown these days, hung in a single plait. She took the glass and a first sip of hot milk and honey, and whatever other herbs Sally Robin put in the drink to make her sleep. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and your potions. How is your new patient?”

“Some better. Taba be with her.”

“Good. You’ve got to get her well, Sally Robin. For the sake of the Patent as well as for Master Quent. She’ll be a fine mistress for you all.”

“I like the mistress we got. So do everyone else.”

Lorene smiled. “I look better to all of you now that you know I’m about to go, don’t I?”

“Don’t you talk that way, mistress. You got to think happy thoughts. That be doing as much for you as any brew.”

Lorene glanced at the shelf above her desk There was a blue glass bottle beside the neat stacks of ledgers. It was tightly closed, with a coating of wax covering the wooden stopper. “I’m happier because of your brews, Sally Robin. Knowing that if the pain gets too bad I don’t have to endure it is a comfort.”

The black woman followed her mistress’s glance. “Not yet,” she said firmly. “There be plenty Sally Robin can do ’fore you open that there bottle.”

“Not yet,” Lorene promised. But maybe sooner rather than later. Particularly if Nicole can be made well and I can see the Patent in Quent’s hands, with a wife who will look after him as well as Shadowbrook I’m coming, Ephraim. You shan’t have to wait much longer.

Despite Sally Robin’s potion, Lorene had not slept a night through for many weeks. The pain was bearable by day; at night it threatened to overwhelm her. She looked at the blue bottle with longing. But if she could hold on a few weeks more, just until she was certain that Nicole would live, or if she did not, that Quent would remain without her, then she might—

She heard the front door open. There was only one person who would let himself into the big house by the front door in the dark of night. She got up to meet him. “Good evening, John.”

John looked up the stairs to the faint light that showed beneath the door to the corner bedroom. “The Frenchwoman?”

“Mademoiselle Crane, yes.”

“Why did he bring her here?”

“She was wounded in Québec. Quent brought her home so Sally Robin could look after her.”

“Not his home,” John muttered. “Needs to ask me before he puts my slaves to his work.”

She could smell the rum on him even though he remained standing near the door. Pity the horse hadn’t thrown him before he arrived. A broken neck in the woods would have been a thousand times easier than what would happen now. John started for the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Have to see my brother. Welcome home the prodigal son. Like it says in the Bible, madam. You know all about the Bible, so now you can kill the fatted calf. Or something like it. Make a great feast because my brother is home. Only right that I go upstairs and welcome him.”

“He will kill you, John.” Her eldest son had one foot on the steps. “You mean to kill Quent, I know that. But that is not how it will be. He will kill you.” And for the rest of his life he will feel shame and bitterness over it.

John hesitated, his body sagging slightly. His back was to her and she could not see his face, but Lorene could smell the fear on him. Poor John, she wanted to weep for him. God knew how many times she had wept for him, many fruitless tears that had changed nothing. He was what he was. If it were her fault, God help her. She’d face justice soon enough. “Come sit with me for a bit. I am poorly, John. You and Quent have the rest of your lives to settle your differences.”

He turned. “I am sorry you are unwell, madam.”

“It will be over soon,” Lorene said, gesturing to the open door of her room. “Meanwhile I’ve a good blaze going. And some fine brandy sent by your uncle Bede. You and I haven’t had such a visit in a long time.”

John looked once more up the stairs to the place where his brother slept. Fear and hatred mingled in him, making his gut roil and his mouth taste of ashes. “Uncle Bede’s brandy sounds a fine thing,” he muttered as he followed his mother into her room.