There had luckily been enough sewage in the bottom of the pit to break his fall. From appearances, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere had landed facedown. Lord John stood for a moment on the path, wiping his hands on his breeches and surveying the encrusted object before him. He rubbed the back of a hand over his mouth, trying either to hide a smile or to stifle his sense of smell.
Then his shoulders started to shake.
“What news from the Underworld, Persephone?” he said, unable to keep the quaver of laughter out of his voice.
A pair of slanted eyes looked blue murder out of the mask of filth obscuring his Lordship’s features. It was a thoroughly Fraser expression, and I felt a qualm go through me at the sight. By my side, Ian gave a sudden start. He glanced quickly from the Earl to Jamie and back, then he caught my eye and his own face went perfectly and unnaturally blank.
Jamie was saying something in Greek, to which Lord John replied in the same language, whereupon both men laughed like loons. Trying to ignore Ian, I bent an eye in Jamie’s direction. Shoulders still shaking with suppressed mirth, he saw fit to enlighten me.
“Epicharmus,” he explained. “At the Oracle of Delphi, seekers after enlightenment would throw down a dead python into the pit, and then hang about, breathing in the fumes as it decayed.”
Lord John declaimed, gesturing grandly. “ ‘The spirit toward the heavens, the body to the earth.’ ”
William exhaled strongly through his nose, precisely as Jamie did when tried beyond bearing. Ian twitched beside me. Good grief, I thought, freshly unnerved. Does the boy have nothing from his mother?
“And have you attained any spiritual insights as a result of your recent m-mystical experience, William?” Lord John asked, making a poor attempt at self-control. He and Jamie were both flushed, with a laughter that I thought due as much to the release of nervous tension as to brandy or hilarity.
His Lordship, glowering, pulled off his neckcloth and flung it on the path with a soggy splat. Now Ian was giggling nervously, too, unable to help himself. My own belly muscles were quivering under the strain, but I could see that the patches of exposed flesh above William’s collar were the color of the ripe tomatoes by the privy. Knowing all too well what usually happened to a Fraser who reached that particular level of incandescence, I thought the time had come to break up the party.
“Er-hem,” I said, clearing my throat. “If you will allow me, gentlemen? Unlearned as I am in Greek philosophy, there is one small epigram I know by heart.”
I handed William the jar of lye soap I had brought in lieu of a tourniquet.
“Pindar,” I said. “ ‘Water is best.’ ”
A small flash of what might have been gratitude showed through the muck. His Lordship bowed to me, with utmost correctness, then turned, gave Ian a fishy stare, and stomped off through the grass toward the creek, dripping. He seemed to have lost his shoes.
“Puir clarty bugger,” Ian said, shaking his head mournfully. “It’ll be days before he gets the stink off.”
“No doubt.” Lord John’s lips were still twitching, but the urge to declaim Greek poetry seemed to have left him, replaced by less elevated concerns. “Do you know what has become of my pistol, by the way? The one William was using before his unfortunate accident?”
“Oh.” Ian looked uncomfortable. He lifted his chin in the direction of the privy. “I … ah … well, I’m verra much afraid—”
“I see.” Lord John rubbed his own immaculately barbered chin.
Jamie fixed Ian with a long stare.
“Ah …” said Ian, backing up a pace or two.
“Get it,” said Jamie, in a tone that brooked no contradiction.
“But—” said Ian.
“Now,” said his uncle, and dropped the slimy rope at his feet.
Ian’s Adam’s apple bobbed, once. He looked at me, wide-eyed as a rabbit.
“Take your clothes off first,” I said helpfully. “We don’t want to have to burn them, do we?”
26
PLAGUE AND PESTILENCE
I left the house just before sunset, to check on my patient in the corncrib. He was no better, but neither was he visibly worse; the same labored breathing and burning fever. This time, though, the sunken eyes met mine when I entered the shed, and stayed on my face as I examined him.
He still had the raven’s-feather amulet, clutched in his hand. I touched it and smiled at him, then gave him a drink. He still would take no food but had a little milk, and swallowed without protest another dose of my febrifuge. He lay motionless through examination and feeding, but as I was wringing out a hot cloth to poultice his chest, he suddenly reached out a hand and grabbed my arm.
He thumped his chest with his other hand, and made an odd humming noise. This puzzled me for a moment, until I realized that he was humming.
“Really?” I said. I reached for the packet of poulticing herbs and folded them into the cloth. “Well, all right then. Let me think.”
I settled on “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” which he appeared to like—I was obliged to sing it through three times before he seemed satisfied and sank back on his blanket with a small spate of coughing, wrapped in camphor fumes.
I paused outside the house, cleansing my hands carefully with the bottle of alcohol I carried. I was sure I was safe from contagion—I had had measles as a child—but wanted to take no chance of infecting anyone else.
“There was talk of an outbreak of the red measle in Cross Creek,” Lord John remarked, upon my reporting to Jamie the condition of our guest. “Is it true, Mrs. Fraser, that the savage is congenitally less able to withstand infection than are Europeans, while African slaves are yet more hardy than their masters?”
“Depends on the infection,” I said, peering into the cauldron and giving the stew bottle a cautious poke. “The Indians are a lot more resistant to the parasitic diseases—malaria, say—caused by organisms here, and the Africans deal better with things like dengue fever—which came with them from Africa, after all. But the Indians haven’t much resistance to European plagues like smallpox and syphilis, no.”
Lord John looked a bit taken aback, which gave me a small sense of satisfaction; evidently he had only asked out of courtesy—he hadn’t actually expected me to know anything.
“How fascinating,” he said, though, sounding truly interested. “You refer to organisms? Do you then subscribe to Mister Evan Hunter’s theory of miasmatical creatures?”
Now it was my turn to be taken aback.
“Er … not precisely, no,” I said, and changed the subject.
We passed a pleasant enough evening, Jamie and Lord John exchanging anecdotes of hunting and fishing, with remarks on the amazing abundance of the countryside, while I darned stockings.
Willie and Ian had a game of chess, which the latter won, to his evident satisfaction. His Lordship yawned hugely, then catching his father’s minatory eye, made a belated attempt to cover his mouth. He relaxed into a sleepy smile of contentment, brought on by repletion; he and Ian between them had demolished an entire currant cake, following their huge supper.
Jamie saw it, and cocked a brow at Ian, who obligingly rose and towed his Lordship away to share his pallet in the herb shed. Two down, I thought, keeping my eyes resolutely away from the bed—and three to go.
In the event, the delicate problem of bedtime was solved by my retiring, cloaked in modesty—or at least in my nightgown—while Jamie and Lord John took over the chess table, drinking the last of the brandy by firelight.
Lord John was a much better chess player than I—or so I deduced from the fact that the game took them a good hour. Jamie could normally beat me in twenty minutes flat. The play was mostly silent, though with brief spurts of conversation.
At last Lord John made a move, sat back and stretched, as though concluding something.
“I collect you will not see much disturbance in the political way, here in your mountain refuge?” he said casually. He squinted at the board, considering.
>
“I do envy you, Jamie, removed from such petty difficulties as afflict the merchants and gentry of the lowlands. If your life has its hardships—as cannot help but be the case—you have the not inconsiderable consolation of knowing your struggles to be significant and heroic.”
Jamie snorted briefly.
“Oh, aye. Verra heroic, to be sure. At the moment, my most heroic struggle is like to be with the pig in my pantry.” He nodded toward the board, one eyebrow raised. “Ye really mean to make that move?”
Grey narrowed his eyes at Jamie, then looked down, studying the board with pursed lips.
“Yes, I do,” he answered firmly.
“Damn,” said Jamie, and with a grin, reached out and tipped over his king in resignation.
Grey laughed, and reached for the brandy bottle.
“Damn!” he said in turn, finding it empty. Jamie laughed, and rising, went to the cupboard.
“Try a bit of this,” he said, and I heard the musical glug of liquid into a cup.
Grey lifted the cup to his nose, inhaled and sneezed explosively, scattering droplets over the table.
“It’s not wine, John,” Jamie observed mildly. “Ye’re meant to drink it, aye? not savor the bouquet.”
“So I noticed. Christ, what is it?” Grey sniffed again, more cautiously, and essayed a trial sip. He choked, but swallowed gamely.
“Christ,” he said again. His voice was hoarse. He coughed, cleared his throat, and set the cup gingerly on the table, eyeing it as though it might explode.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess. It’s meant to be Scotch whisky?”
“In ten years or so, it might be,” Jamie answered, pouring a small cupful for himself. He took a small sip, rolled it around his mouth and swallowed, shaking his head. “At the moment, it’s alcohol, and that’s as much as I’d say for it.”
“Yes, it’s that,” Grey agreed, taking another very small sip. “Where did you get it?”
“I made it,” said Jamie, with the modest pride of a master brewer. “I’ve twelve barrels of the stuff.”
Grey’s fair brows shot up at that.
“Assuming that you don’t mean to clean your boots with it, may I ask what you intend doing with twelve barrels of this?”
Jamie laughed.
“Trade it,” he said. “Sell it, when I can. Customs tax and a license to brew spirits being one of the petty political concerns wi’ which I am not afflicted, owing to our remoteness,” he added ironically.
Lord John grunted, tried another sip, and set the cup down.
“Well, you may well escape the Customs, I’ll grant you—the nearest agent is in Cross Creek. But I cannot say I think it a safe practice on that account. To whom, may I ask, are you selling this remarkable concoction? Not to the savages, I trust?”
Jamie shrugged.
“Only verra small amounts—a flask or two at a time, as a gift or in trade. Never more than would make one man drunk.”
“Very wise. You’ll have heard the stories, I expect. I spoke with one man who’d survived the massacre at Michilimackinac, during the war with the French. That was caused—in part, at least—by a great quantity of drink falling into the hands of a large gathering of Indians at the fort.”
“I’ve heard about it, too,” Jamie assured him dryly. “But we are on good terms wi’ the Indians nearby, and there are none so many of them as all that. And I’m careful, as I say.”
“Mm.” He essayed another sip, and grimaced. “I expect you risk more by poisoning one of them than by intoxicating a mob.” He set the glass down and changed the subject.
“I have heard talk in Wilmington of an unruly group of men called Regulators, who terrorize the backcountry and cause disruption by means of riot. Have you encountered anything of such nature here?”
Jamie snorted briefly.
“Terrorize what? Squirrels? There is the backcountry, John, and then there is the wilderness. Surely ye will have remarked the lack of human habitation on your journey here.”
“I did notice something of the kind,” Lord John agreed. “And yet I had heard certain rumors regarding your presence here—that it was in part meant as a quelling influence upon the growth of lawlessness.”
Jamie laughed.
“I think it will be some time before there is much lawlessness for me to quell. Though I did go so far as to knock down an old German farmer who was abusing a young woman at the grain mill on the river. He had it in mind she had given him short weight—which she had not—and I couldna convince him otherwise. But that is my only attempt so far at maintaining public order.”
Grey laughed, and picked up the fallen king.
“I am relieved to hear it. Will you redeem your honor with another game? I cannot expect the same trick to work twice, after all.”
I rolled onto my side, facing the wall, and stared sleeplessly at the timbers. The firelight glimmered on the wing-shaped marks of the ax, running along the length of each log, regular as sand ripples on a beach.
I tried to ignore the conversation going on behind me, to lose myself instead in the memory of Jamie hewing bark and squaring logs, of sleeping in his arms under the shelter of a half-built wall, feeling the house rise up around me, enclosing me in warmth and safety, the permanent embodiment of his embrace. I always felt safe and soothed by this vision, even when I was alone on the mountain, knowing I was protected by the house he had built for me. Tonight, though, it wasn’t working.
I lay still, wondering exactly what was the matter with me. Or rather, not what, but why. I knew by now what it was, all right; it was jealousy.
I was indeed jealous; an emotion I hadn’t felt for some years, and was appalled to feel now. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the murmur of conversation.
Lord John had been nothing but courtesy itself to me. More than that, he had been intelligent, thoughtful—thoroughly charming, in fact. And listening to him making intelligent, thoughtful, charming conversation with Jamie knotted my insides and made me clench my hands under cover of the quilt.
You are an idiot, I told myself savagely. What is the matter with you? I tried to relax, breathing deeply through my nose, eyes closed.
Part of it was Willie, of course. Jamie was very careful, but I had seen his expression when he looked at the boy in unguarded moments. His whole body was suffused with shy joy, pride mingled with diffidence; and it smote me to the heart to see it.
He would never look at Brianna, his firstborn, that way. Would never see her at all. That was hardly his fault—and yet it seemed so unfair. At the same time, I could scarcely begrudge him his joy in his son—and didn’t, I told myself firmly. The fact that it gave me a terrible pang of longing to look at the boy, with that bold, handsome face that mirrored his sister’s, was simply my problem. Nothing to do with Jamie, or with Willie. Or with John Grey, who’d brought the boy here.
What for? That was what I’d been thinking ever since I had recovered from the first shock of their appearance, and that was still what I was thinking. What in hell was the man up to?
The story about the estate in Virginia might be true—or only an excuse. Even if it was true, it was a considerable detour to come to Fraser’s Ridge. Why had he taken so much trouble to bring the boy here? And so much risk; Willie was clearly oblivious to the resemblance that even Ian had noticed, but what if he hadn’t been? Had it been so important to Grey, to restate his claim on Jamie’s obligation to him?
I rolled onto my other side and cracked an eyelid, watching them over the chessboard, redhead and fair head, bent together in absorption. Grey moved a knight and sat back, rubbing the back of his neck, smiling to himself at the effect of his move. He was a good-looking man; slight and fine-boned, but with a strong, clear-cut face and a beautiful, sensitive mouth that many a woman had no doubt envied.
Grey was even better at guarding his face than Jamie was; I hadn’t yet seen an incriminating look from him. I’d seen one once, though, in Ja
maica, and wasn’t in any doubt about the nature of his feelings for Jamie.
On the other hand, I wasn’t in any doubt about Jamie’s feelings in that regard, either. The knot under my heart eased a bit, and I took a deeper breath. No matter how late they sat up over the board, drinking and talking, it would be my bed Jamie came to.
I unclenched my fists, and it was then, as I rubbed my palms covertly against my thighs, that I realized with a shock just why Lord John affected me so strongly.
My fingernails had dug small crescents in my palms, a small line of throbbing half-moons. For years, I had rubbed away those crescents after every dinner party, every late night when Frank had “worked at the office.” For years, I had lain intermittently alone in a double bed, wide-awake in the darkness, nails digging into my hands, waiting for him to come back.
And he had. To his credit, he always did return before dawn. Sometimes to a back curled against him in cold reproach, sometimes to the furious challenge of a body thrust against him in demand, urging him wordlessly to deny it, to prove his innocence with his body—trial by combat. More often than not, he accepted the challenge. But it didn’t help.
Yet neither of us spoke of such things in the daylight. I could not; I had no right. Frank did not; he had revenge.
Sometimes it would be months—even a year or more—between episodes, and we would live in peace together. But then it would happen again; the silent phone calls, the too-excused absences, the late nights. Never anything so overt as another woman’s perfume, or lipstick on his collar—he had discretion. But I always felt the ghost of the other woman, whoever she was; some faceless, indistinguishable She.
I knew it didn’t matter who it was—there were several of them. The only important thing was that She was not me. And I would lie awake and clench my fists, the marks of my nails a small crucifixion.
The murmur of conversation by the fire had mostly ceased; the only sound the small click of the chessmen as they moved.
“Do you feel yourself content?” Lord John asked suddenly.
Jamie paused for a moment.
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