The Companion to the Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, an Echo in the Bone, and Written in My Own Heart's Blood
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As Hal is leaving his brother, though, he quietly remarks that he’s had news himself—his eldest son, Benjamin, is dead.
Lord John awakes next morning, wondering whether he dreamed that last bit—but he didn’t. Hal explains that his eldest son had been captured at the battle at Brandywine Creek and was held in a prisoner-of-war camp in the Watchung Mountains of New Jersey. Hal has now received a letter telling him that Benjamin died in the camp. He firmly tells John that he doesn’t believe it and proposes to find out the truth.
This belief is enhanced by what John tells him about the reappearance of Captain Richardson and his interest in William—it’s Richardson who brought Hal the news about Benjamin. The Grey brothers speculate that Richardson’s news may well be a trap, designed to get Hal away from the safety of the army, either to abduct or threaten him. Beyond these considerations, though, John is worried about William; Percy Beauchamp told him that Richardson had designs on the Grey family in general, and while he wouldn’t touch Percy with a ten-foot pole (Something shorter, though…he thinks), in this instance he’s inclined to give Percy, rather than Richardson, the benefit of the doubt.
The Grey brothers separate, to look for Richardson and William, respectively. They reconvene several hours later with no results; both William and Richardson are gone, and it seems more than likely that William has gone with the duplicitous captain, whether willingly or not.
In fact, William has had a visit from Banastre Tarleton, who fills him in on the German deserters who bashed him on the head, informs him that he (Tarleton) has William’s missing horse, and also mentions that the Captain Harkness for whom William was looking has turned up AWOL. As he was talking of going back to the brothel to “give some whore a proper seeing-to,” the assumption is that he’s done just that and is in Philadelphia.
Jane and her sister, Fanny, had been knocked out of William’s head, but this story brings them back with a jolt.
He had an immediate impulse to get up and go find her, make sure they were all right. The fugitive Loyalists and camp followers would have been well clear of the actual battle, of course—but the violence and agitation that attended fighting didn’t simply stop when the fighting did. And it wasn’t only deserters and scavengers who looted, raped, and hunted among the hapless sheep.
William does go in search of Jane and Fanny, but they have left the camp, according to his groom. William has been relieved of duty and has no role to play in the army’s movements; he manages to borrow a mule and cart from the teamsters and goes in search of the girls; how far could they get?
Farther than he bargains for, and it’s not until the next day that he finds them—and rescues them from a small party of German deserters, with the timely assistance of Rachel Hunter, out on a mule looking for Ian.
Jane attempts to flee. Chasing after her into the brush, Fanny reappears to tell William that she has found an Indian lying in the wood.
This is, of course, Ian, in a state of high fever and dehydration, with his arrow wound beginning to go bad. Plainly, he has to be taken to a doctor—preferably Claire. William is disturbed at hearing that Claire has been shot, but there’s nothing he can do about that, and he has a young murderess and her even younger sister on his hands.
Rather to his indignant surprise, Jane refuses to come back with him, telling him that Banastre Tarleton had approached her in the bread line. He had visited the brothel in Philadelphia where she worked and was bound to recall where he had seen her before. She can’t risk being suspected of Captain Harkness’s murder—the more so because, in fact, she has killed him.
Ultimately, Rachel takes the girls in the cart, headed for a small Quaker settlement that will give them shelter until William is able to make provisions for them to go to New York. Leaving Ian in his state nearly kills her, but she entrusts his life and safety to William.
“This man is my heart and my soul,” she said simply, looking up into his face. “And he is thy own blood, whatever thee may presently feel about the fact. I trust thee to see him safe, for all our sakes.”
William gave her a long look, thought of several possible replies, and made none of them, but gave a curt nod.
Ian is in bad shape but not quite unconscious, and he and William have a barbed but civil conversation as they head toward Free hold, where—with luck—Denny Hunter is still working on the wounded from the battle.
“D’ye want me to tell ye, or no?” Murray said suddenly.
“Tell me what?”
There was a brief sound that might have been either amusement or pain.
“Whether ye’re much like him.”
Possible responses to this came so fast that they collapsed upon themselves like a house of cards. He took the one on top.
“Why do you suppose I should wonder?” William managed, with a coldness that would have frozen most men. Of course, Murray was blazing with such a fever, it would take a Quebec blizzard to freeze him.
“I would, if it was me,” Murray said mildly.
That defused William’s incipient explosion momentarily.
“Perhaps you think so,” he said, not trying to hide his annoyance. “You may know him, but you know nothing whatever about me.”
This time, the sound was undeniably amusement: laughter, of a hoarse, creaking sort.
“I helped fish ye out of a privy ten years ago,” Murray said. “That was when I first kent it, aye?”
BACK IN FREEHOLD, Claire has survived her wound, the subsequent operation, and a rising fever; though still very weak, she is able to receive a pair of unlikely callers: Lord John Grey and his brother, the Duke of Pardloe. They’ve come, out of uniform and unarmed save for a flag of truce, to ask a favor of Jamie: will he write a note to Benedict Arnold, his friend and now military governor of Philadelphia, asking him to allow the Greys to remain in the city for a time in order to search for William (not mentioning the elusive Captain Richardson, though they definitely want to catch up to that gentleman).
Jamie is both suspicious and aloof with the man who’s had sexual relations with his wife, but William is his son, and he writes the requested letter.
Worn out by long vigil, Jamie sleeps, and so does Claire—but she awakens at the sound of a knock below and staggers to the window.
There was a handsome bay mule in the dooryard, with a half-naked body laid over the saddle. I gasped—and immediately doubled in pain, but didn’t let go the sill. I bit my lip hard, not to call out. The body was wearing buckskins, and his long brown hair sported a couple of bedraggled turkey feathers.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I breathed, through gritted teeth. “Please, God, don’t let him be—” But the prayer was answered before I’d finished speaking it; the door below opened, and in the next moment William and Lieutenant Macken walked out and lifted Ian off the mule, put his arms about their shoulders, and carried him into the house.
I turned, instinctively reaching for my medical bag—and nearly fell. I saved myself by a grab at the bed frame but let out an involuntary groan that brought Jamie up into a crouch, staring wildly about.
“It’s…all right,” I said, willing my belly muscles into immobility. “I’m fine. It’s—Ian. He’s come back.”
Jamie sprang to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and at once went to the window. I saw him stiffen and, clutching my side, followed him. William had come out of the house and was preparing to mount the mule. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, very grubby, and the sun licked his dark chestnut hair with streaks of red. Mrs. Macken said something from the door, and he turned to answer her. I don’t think I made a noise, but something made him look up suddenly and he froze. I felt Jamie freeze, too, as their eyes met.
William’s face didn’t change, and after a long moment he turned to the mule again, mounted, and rode away. After another long moment, Jamie let out his breath.
“Let me put ye back to bed, Sassenach,” he said calmly. “I’ll have to go and find Denny to put Ian right.”
Finally a shiver went over Rachel, as though she shook herself awake, and she put a hand on his forehead, smoothing back his hair as she looked into his eyes, her own now soft and fathomless. Her thumb came down and traced the tattooed line across his cheekbones, very slowly.
“I think we can’t wait any longer to be married, Ian,” she said softly. “I will not have thee face such things alone. These are bad times, and we must be together.”
He closed his eyes and all the air went out of him. When he drew breath again, it tasted of peace.
“When?” he whispered.
“As soon as thee can walk without help,” she said, and kissed him, lightly as a falling leaf.
WHILE THE AMERICANS slowly gather up the pieces, the brothers Grey reach Philadelphia, and after a chilly but civil reception by Benedict Arnold, are given leave to search for William. They begin at Lord John’s house on Chestnut Street.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Figg, has not seen William and is disturbed at the news that he’s missing. However, she informs Hal that his daughter, Dottie, is at the house, and there is a tender meeting between them—tender in spite of Dottie’s bringing up the matter of her marriage to Denzell Hunter. She asks Lord John if they might use his house for the wedding, whereupon Mrs. Figg offers the use of her husband’s church—in view of the fact that Lord John provided part of the money to build it, she thinks this only right, and surely they will need more room than the house on Chestnut Street can provide.
Discussion of the wedding is abruptly interrupted, though, by a visitor:
Not bothering to complete her thought, she flew to the unbolted door and yanked it open, revealing a startled William on the stoop.
“Dottie!” he said. “What—” And then caught sight of John and Hal. William’s face underwent a lightning shift that made a frisson run straight down John’s back to his tailbone. He’d seen that exact expression on Jamie Fraser’s face a hundred times, at least—but had never before seen it on William’s.
It was the look of a man who doesn’t like his immediate prospects one bit—but who feels himself entirely capable of dealing with them. William stepped inside, repelling by force of will Dottie’s abortive attempt to embrace him. He removed his hat and bowed to Dottie, then, punctiliously, to John and Hal.
“Your servant, ma’am. Sirs.”
William and his stepfather and uncle exchange what knowledge they have of Captain Richardson—unfortunately very little—and William learns about Ben. At the conclusion of his visit, he offers to go and make inquiries regarding Ben in New Jersey; he is, after all, at loose ends, having now resigned his commission.
Lord John is somewhat rocked by this and asks why William has come to Philadelphia.
“I came on a personal matter,” William said, in a tone suggesting that the matter was still personal and was going to remain that way. “But also…” He pressed his lips together for a moment, and again John had that odd sense of dislocation, seeing Jamie Fraser. “I was going to leave this here for you, in case you came back to the city. Or ask Mrs. Figg to send it to New York, if…” His voice trailed away, as he pulled a letter from the breast of his dark-blue coat.
“But I needn’t now,” he concluded firmly, and put it away again. “It’s only saying what I’ve already told you.” A slight flush touched his cheekbones, though, and he avoided John’s eye, turning instead to Hal.
“I’ll go and find out about Ben,” he said simply. “I’m not a soldier any longer; there’s no danger of my being taken up as a spy. And I can travel much more easily than you can.”
“Oh, William!” Dottie took the handkerchief from her father and blew her nose with a small, ladylike honk. She looked at him with brimming eyes. “Will you, really? Oh, thank you!”
That was not, of course, the end of it. But it was no revelation to Grey that William possessed a stubbornness so obviously derived from his natural father that no one but Hal would even have thought of arguing with him. And even Hal didn’t argue long.
In due course, William rose to go.
“Give Mrs. Figg my love, please,” he said to John, and, with a small bow to Dottie, “Goodbye, cousin.”
John followed him to the door to let him out, but at the threshold put a hand on his sleeve.
“Willie,” he said softly. “Give me the letter.”
For the first time, William looked a little less than certain. He put his hand to his breast, but left it there, hesitant.
“I won’t read it—unless you don’t come back. But if you don’t…I want it. To keep.”
William drew breath, nodded, and, reaching into his coat, removed a sealed cover and handed it over. Grey saw that it had been sealed with a thick daub of candle wax and that William hadn’t used his signet, preferring instead to stamp it with his thumbprint, firm in the hot wax.
“Thank you,” he said through the lump in his throat. “Godspeed. Son.”
CHAPTER 94, “THE Sense of the Meeting,” concludes Part Five, describing the double wedding between Rachel and Ian and Dottie and Denzell before a motley congregation consisting of Quaker witnesses and family of all sorts:
Hal, who had flushed at Dottie’s remarks, went somewhat redder at Denny’s and breathed in a menacing rasp, but didn’t say anything further. Hal and John were both wearing full dress uniform and far outshone the two brides in splendor. I thought it rather a pity that Hal wouldn’t get to walk Dottie down the aisle, but he had merely inhaled deeply when the form of the marriage was outlined to him and said—after being elbowed sharply in the ribs by his brother—that he was honored to witness the event.
Jamie, by contrast, did not wear uniform, but his appearance in full Highland dress made Mrs. Figg’s eyes bulge—and not only hers.
“Sweet Shepherd of Judea,” she muttered to me. “Is that man wearing a woolen petticoat? And what sort of pattern is that cloth? Enough to burn the eyes out your head.”
“They call it a Fèileadh beag,” I told her. “In the native language. In English, it’s usually called a kilt. And the pattern is his family tartan.”
She eyed him for a long moment, the color rising slowly in her cheeks. She turned to me with her mouth open to ask a question, then thought better and shut it firmly.
“No,” I said, laughing. “He isn’t.”
She snorted. “Either way, he’s like to die of the heat,” she predicted, “and so are those two gamecocks.” She nodded at John and Hal, glorious and sweating in crimson and gold lace. Henry had also come in uniform, wearing his more modest lieutenant’s apparel. He squired Mercy Woodcock on his arm and gave his father a stare daring him to say anything.
“Poor Hal,” I murmured to Jamie. “His children are rather a trial to him.”
“Aye, whose aren’t?” he replied. “All right, Sassenach? Ye look pale. Had ye not best go in and sit down?”
***
Both curiosity and conversation rose to a much higher pitch when Ian walked in. He wore a new shirt, white calico printed with blue and purple tulips, his buckskins and breechclout, moccasins—and an armlet made of blue and white wampum shells, which I was reasonably sure that his Mohawk wife, Works With Her Hands, had made for him.
“And here, of course, is the best man,” I heard John whisper to Hal. Rollo stalked in at Ian’s heel, disregarding the further stir he caused. Ian sat down quietly on one of the two benches that had been set at the front of the church, facing the congregation, and Rollo sat at his feet, scratched himself idly, then collapsed and lay panting gently, surveying the crowd with a yellow stare o
f lazy estimation, as though judging them for eventual edibility.
Quaker weddings are a matter of witness and discussion, just like any other meeting of Friends, and there’s a good bit of both in the preliminaries:
“Now, pardon me for interrupting, but from what I understand, you Friends think a woman’s equal to a man, is that right?”
“It is,” Rachel and Dottie said firmly together, and everyone laughed.
Mrs. Figg flushed like a ripe black plum, but kept her composure. “Well, then,” she said. “If these ladies want to marry with you gentlemen, why do you think you got any business trying to talk them out of it? Have you maybe got your own reservations about the matter?”
A distinctly feminine murmur of approval came from the congregation, and Denny, who was still standing, seemed to be struggling for his own composure.
“Does he have a cock?” came a French-accented whisper from behind me and an unhinged giggle from Marsali in response. “You can’t get married without a cock.”
This reminiscence of Fergus and Marsali’s unorthodox wedding on a Caribbean beach made me stuff my lace handkerchief into my mouth. Jamie shook with suppressed laughter.
“I do have reservations,” Denzell said, taking a deep breath. “Though not,” he added hastily, with a glance at Dottie, “regarding my desire to wed Dorothea or the honor of my intentions toward her. My reservations—and perhaps Friend Ian’s, though I must not speak for him—lie entirely the other way. That is, I—we, perhaps—feel that we must lay bare our failings and limitations as…as husbands—” And for the first time, he, too, blushed. “That Dorothea and Rachel may…may come to a proper—er…”