Lizzie, gray eyes blinking in the sudden light, tiny and pale in the arms of a sturdy black groom with an improbable Scottish accent. A wagon piled with glass and fragrant wood. The polished rumps of horses, and the jolt and creak of wooden wheels. Her father’s voice, deep and warm in her ear, describing a house to be built, high on a mountain ridge, explaining that the windows were a surprise for her mother.
“But no such a surprise as you, lassie!” And a laugh of deep joy that seemed to echo in her bones.
A long ride down dusty roads, and sleeping with her head on her father’s shoulder, his free arm around her as he drove, breathing the unfamiliar scent of his skin, his strange long hair brushing her face when he turned his head.
Then the cool luxury of the big, breezy house, filled with the scent of beeswax and flowers. A tall woman with white hair and Brianna’s face, and a blue-eyed gaze that looked disconcertingly beyond her. Long cool hands that touched her face and stroked her hair with abstract curiosity.
“Lizzie,” she said, and a pretty woman bent over Lizzie, murmuring, “Jesuit bark,” her black hands beautiful against the yellow porcelain of Lizzie’s face.
Hands—so many hands. Everything was done as if by magic, with soft murmurs as they passed her from hand to hand. She was stripped and bathed before she could protest, scented water poured over her, firm, gentle fingers that massaged her scalp as lavender soap was sluiced from her hair. Linen towels and a small black girl who dried her feet and sprinkled them with rice powder.
A fresh cotton gown and floating barefoot over polished floors, to see her father’s eyes light at sight of her. Food—cakes and trifles and jellies and scones—and hot, sweet tea that seemed to replace the blood in her veins.
A pretty blond girl with a frown on her face, who seemed peculiarly familiar; her father called her Marsali. Lizzie, washed and wrapped in a blanket, both frail hands round a mug of pungent liquid, looking like a steppedon flower newly watered.
Talk, and people coming, and more talk, with only the occasional phrase penetrating through her growing fog.
“… Farquard Campbell has more sense …”
“Fergus, Da, did ye see him? Is he all right?”
Da? she thought, half puzzled, faintly indignant that someone else should call him that, because … because …
Her aunt’s voice, coming from a great distance, saying, “The poor child is asleep where she sits; I can hear her snoring. Ulysses, take her up to bed.”
And then strong arms that lifted her with no sense of strain, but not the candlewax smell of the black butler; the sawdust and linen scent of her father. She gave up the struggle and fell asleep, her head on his chest.
* * *
Fergus Fraser might sound like a Scottish clansman; he looked like a French noble. A French noble on his way to the guillotine, Brianna silently amended her first impression.
Handsomely dark, slightly built, and not very tall, he sauntered into the dock, and turned to face the room, long nose lifted an inch above the usual. The shabby clothes, the unshaven jaw, and the large purple bruise over one eye subtracted nothing from his air of aristocratic disdain. Even the curved metal hook that he wore in replacement of a missing hand only added to his impression of disreputable glamour.
Marsali gave a small sigh at sight of him, and her lips grew tight. She leaned across to Brianna to whisper to Jamie.
“What have they done to him, the bastards?”
“Nothing that matters.” He made a small motion, gesturing her back, and she subsided into her seat, glowering at bailiff and sheriff in turn.
They had been lucky to procure seats; every space in the small building was filled, and people were jostling and muttering at the back of the room, kept in order only by the presence of the red-coated soldiers who guarded the doors. Two more soldiers stood to attention at the front of the room, beside the Justice’s bench, an officer of some sort lurking in the corner behind them.
Brianna saw the officer catch Jamie Fraser’s eye, and a look of malign satisfaction crept over the man’s broad features, a look almost of gloating. It made the small hairs rise on the back of her neck, but her father met the man’s gaze squarely, then turned away, indifferent.
The Justice arrived and took his place, and the ceremonies of justice being duly performed, the trial began. Evidently, it was not intended to be a trial by jury, since no such body was present; only the Justice and his minions.
Brianna had made out little from the conversation the evening before, though over breakfast she had managed to disentangle the confusion of persons. The young black woman’s name was Phaedre, one of Jocasta’s slaves, and the tall homely boy with the charming smile was Jamie’s nephew, Ian—her cousin, she thought, with the same small thrill of discovered kinship she had felt at Lallybroch. The lovely blond Marsali was Fergus’s wife, and Fergus, of course, was the French orphan whom Jamie had informally adopted in Paris, before the Stuart Rising.
Mr. Justice Conant, a tidy gentleman of middle age, settled his wig, arranged his coat, and called for the charges to be read. These were, to wit, that one Fergus Claudel Fraser, resident of Rowan County, had on August 4 of this year of our Lord 1769, feloniously assaulted the person of one Hugh Berowne, a deputy sheriff of said county, and stolen from him Crown property, then lawfully in the deputy’s custody.
The said Hugh, being called to the stand, proved to be a gangling fellow of some thirty years and a nervous disposition. He twitched and stammered through his testimony, averring that he had encountered the defendant on the Buffalo Trail Road, while he, Berowne, was in pursuit of his lawful duties. He had been roughly abused by the defendant in the French tongue, and upon his endeavoring to leave, had been pursued by the defendant, who had apprehended him, struck him in the face, and taken away the property of the Crown in Berowne’s custody, to wit, one horse, with bridle and saddle.
Upon the invitation of the court, the witness here pulled back the right side of his mouth in a grimace, disclosing a broken tooth, suffered in the assault.
Mr. Justice Conant peered interestedly at the shattered remains of the tooth, and turned to the prisoner.
“Indeed. And now, Mr. Fraser, might we hear your account of this unfortunate event?”
Fergus lowered his nose half an inch, awarding the justice the same regard he might have bestowed on a cockroach.
“This loathsome wad of dung,” he began in measured tones, “had—”
“The prisoner will refrain from insult,” Justice Conant said coldly.
“The deputy,” Fergus resumed, without turning a hair, “had come upon my wife as she returned from the flour mill, with my infant son upon her saddle. This—the deputy—hailed her, and without ceremony dragged her from the saddle, informed her that he was taking the horse and its equipment in payment of tax, and left her and the child on foot, five miles from my home, in the blazing sun!” He glared ferociously at Berowne, who narrowed his own gaze in reply. Next to Brianna, Marsali exhaled strongly through her nose.
“What tax did the deputy claim was owed?”
A dark flush had mantled Fergus’s cheeks.
“I owe nothing! It was his claim that my land is subject to an annual rent of three shillings, but it is not! My land is exempt from this tax, by virtue of the terms of a land grant made to James Fraser by Governor Tryon. I told the stinking salaud as much, when he visited my home to try to collect the money.”
“I heard nothing of such a grant,” Berowne said sulkily. “These folks will tell you any tale at all, to put off paying. Lallygags and cheats, the lot of them.”
“Oreilles en feuille de chou!”
A small ripple of laughter ran through the room, nearly drowning out the Justice’s rebuke. Brianna’s high-school French was just about adequate to translate this as “Cauliflower ears!” and she joined in the general smile.
The Justice lifted his head and peered into the courtroom.
“Is James Fraser present?”
; Jamie rose and bowed respectfully.
“Here, milord.”
“Swear the witness, Bailiff.”
Jamie, having been duly sworn, attested to the facts that he was in fact the proprietor of a grant of land, that said grant had been made and its terms agreed to by Governor Tryon, that said terms did include a quitment of land rent to the Crown for a period of ten years, such period to expire some nine years hence, and finally, that Fergus Fraser did maintain a house upon and farm crops within the boundaries of the granted territory, under license from himself, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.
Brianna’s attention had at first been fixed upon her father; she could scarcely get enough of looking at him. He was the tallest man in the courtroom, and by far the most striking, attired in snowy linen and a coat of deep blue that set off his slanted eyes and fiery hair.
A movement in the corner attracted her eye, though, and she looked to see the officer she had noticed before. He was no longer looking at her father, but had fixed Hugh Berowne with a penetrating stare. Berowne gave the shadow of a nod, and sat back to await the end of Fraser’s testimony.
“It would appear that Mr. Fraser’s claim of exemption holds true, Mr. Berowne,” the Justice said mildly. “I must therefore hold him acquitted of the charge of—”
“He cannot prove it!” Berowne blurted out. He glanced at the officer, as though for moral support, and stiffened his long chin. “There is no documentary proof; only James Fraser’s word.”
Another stir went through the courtroom; this one uglier in tone. Brianna had no trouble hearing the shock and outrage that her father’s word had been called in question, and felt an unexpected pride.
Her father showed no anger, though; he rose again, and bowed to the Justice.
“And your Lordship will permit me.” He reached into his coat and removed a folded sheet of parchment, with a blob of red sealing wax affixed.
“Your Lordship will be familiar with the Governor’s seal, I am sure,” he said, laying it on the table before Mr. Conant. The Justice raised one eyebrow, but looked carefully at the seal, then broke it open, examined the document within, and laid it down.
“This is a duly witnessed copy of the original grant of land,” he announced, “signed by His Excellency, William Tryon.”
“How did you get that?” Berowne blurted. “There wasn’t time to get to New Bern and back!” Then all the blood drained from his face. Brianna looked at the officer; his pudgy face seemed to have acquired all the blood Berowne had lost.
The Justice cast him a sharp glance, but merely said, “Given that documentary proof is now entered in evidence, we find that the defendant is plainly not guilty of the charge of theft, since the property in question was his own. On the matter of assault, however—” At this point he noticed that Jamie had not sat down, but was still standing in front of the bench.
“Yes, Mr. Fraser? Had you something else to tell the court?” Justice Conant dabbed at a trickle of sweat that ran down from under his wig; with so many bodies packed into the small room, it was like a sweatbath.
“I beg the court might gratify my curiosity, your Lordship. Does Mr. Berowne’s original charge describe more fully the attack upon him?”
The Justice raised both eyebrows, but shuffled quickly through the papers on the table before him, then handed one to the bailiff, pointing to a spot on the page.
“Complainant stated that one Fergus Fraser struck him in the face with his fist, causing complainant to fall stunned upon the ground, whereat the defendant seized the bridle of the horse, leapt upon it, and rode away, calling out remarks of an abusive nature in the French tongue. Complainant—”
A loud cough from the dock pulled all eyes to the defendant, who smiled charmingly at Mr. Justice Conant, plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and elaborately wiped his face—using the hook at the end of his left arm.
“Oh!” said the Justice, and swiveled cold eyes toward the witness chair, where Berowne squirmed in hot-faced agony.
“And would you care to explain, sir, how you have sustained injury upon the right side of your face, when struck by the left fist of a man who does not have one?”
“Yes, crottin,” Fergus said cheerfully. “Explain that one.”
Perhaps feeling that Berowne’s attempts at explanation were best conducted in privacy, Justice Conant mopped his neck and put a summary end to the trial, dismissing Fergus Fraser with no stain upon his character.
* * *
“It was me,” Marsali said proudly, clinging to the arm of her husband at the celebratory feast that followed the trial.
“You?” Jamie gave her an amused glance. “That fisted yon deputy in the face, ye mean?”
“Not my fist, my foot,” she corrected. “When the wicked salaud tried to drag me off the horse, I kicked him in the jaw. He’d never ha’ got me down,” she added, glowering at the memory, “save he snatched Germaine from me, so of course I had to go and get him.”
She petted the sleek blond head of the toddler who clung to her skirts, a piece of biscuit clutched in one grubby fist.
“I don’t quite understand,” Brianna said. “Did Mr. Berowne not want to admit that a woman hit him?”
“Ah, no,” Jamie said, pouring another cup of ale and handing it to her. “It was only Sergeant Murchison making a nuisance of himself.”
“Sergeant Murchison? That would be the army officer who was at the trial?” she asked. She took a small sip of the ale, for politeness’ sake. “The one who looks like a half-roasted pig?”
Her father grinned at this characterization.
“Aye, that’ll be the man. He’s a mislike of me,” he explained. “This wilna be the first time—or the last—that he’s tried such a trick to cripple me.”
“He could not hope to succeed with such a ridiculous charge,” Jocasta chimed in, leaning forward and reaching out a hand. Ulysses, standing by, moved the plate of bannocks the necessary inch. She took one, unerringly, and turned her disconcerting blind eyes toward Jamie.
“Was it really necessary for you to subvert Farquard Campbell?” she asked, disapproving.
“Aye, it was,” Jamie answered. Seeing Brianna’s confusion, he explained.
“Farquard Campbell is the usual justice of this district. If he hadna fallen ill so conveniently”—and here he grinned again, mischief dancing in his eyes—“the trial would have been held last week. That was their plan, aye? Murchison and Berowne. They meant to bring the charge, arrest Fergus, and force me down from the mountain in the midst of the harvest—and they succeeded in that much, damn them,” he added ruefully.
“But they counted on my not being able to obtain a copy of the grant from New Bern before the trial—as indeed I could not, had it been last week.” He gave Ian a smile, and the boy, who had ridden hellbent to New Bern to procure the document, blushed pink and buried his face in a bowl of punch.
“Farquard Campbell is a friend, Auntie,” Jamie said to Jocasta, “but ye ken as well as I that he’s a man of the law; it wouldna make a bit of difference that he knows the terms of my grant as well as I do; if I couldna produce the proof in court, he would feel himself forced to rule against me.
“And if he had,” he went on, returning to Brianna, “I should have been forced to appeal the verdict, which would mean Fergus being taken to prison in New Bern, and a new trial scheduled there. The end of it would have been the same—but it would have taken both Fergus and myself off the land for most of the harvest season, and cost me more in fees than the harvest will bring.”
He looked at Brianna over the rim of his cup, blue eyes suddenly serious.
“You’ll no be thinking me rich, I hope?” he asked.
“I hadn’t thought of it at all,” she replied, startled, and he smiled.
“That’s as well,” he said, “for while I’ve a good bit of land, there’s little of it under cultivation as yet; we’ve enough—barely—to seed the fields and feed ourselves, wi’ a bit left over for t
he cattle. And capable as your mother is”—the smile widened—“she canna bring in thirty acres of corn and barley by herself.” He set down his empty cup and stood up.
“Ian, will ye see to the supplies and drive up the wagon with Fergus and Marsali? The lass and I will go ahead, I think.” He glanced down at Brianna questioningly.
“Jocasta will care for your wee maid here. Ye dinna mind going so soon?”
“No,” she said, putting down her cup and standing up too. “Can we go today?”
* * *
I took down the bottles from the cupboard, one by one, uncorking one now and then to sniff at the contents. If not thoroughly dry before storage, fleshy-leaved herbs would rot in the bottle; seeds would grow exotic molds.
The thought of molds made me think once more of my penicillin plantation. Or what I hoped might one day be one, were I lucky enough, and observant enough to know my luck. Of the hundreds of molds that grew easily on stale, damp bread, Penicillium was only one. What were the odds of a stray spore of that one precious mold taking root on the slices of bread I laid out weekly? What were the odds of an exposed slice of bread surviving long enough for any spores to find it? And lastly, what were the odds that I would recognize it if I saw it?
I had been trying for more than a year, with no success so far.
Even with the marigolds and yarrow I scattered for repellency, it was impossible to keep the vermin away. Mice and rats, ants and cockroaches; one day I had even found a party of burglarious squirrels in the pantry, holding riot over scattered corn and the gnawed ruins of half my seed potatoes.
The only recourse was to lock all edibles in the big hutch Jamie had built—that, or keep them in thick wooden casks or lidded jars, resistent to the efforts of tooth and claw. But to seal food away from four-footed thieves was also to seal it away from the air—and the air was the only messenger that might one day bring me a real weapon against disease.
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 400
