The woman took a step back and squinted at me. I realized that she must—as the other house servants were—be in the habit of giving careful descriptions to her mistress. The dark eyes passed swiftly over me, pausing on my face for a long moment of assessment. She took two pins from her mouth before replying.
“Just fine, Miss Jo,” Phaedre said. She nodded once, slowly. “Just fine,” she said again. “She got white skin, white as skim milk; looks real fine with that bright green.”
“Mm. But the underskirt is ivory; if she is too fair, will she not look washed out?”
I disliked being discussed as though I were an objet d’art—and a possibly defective one, at that—but swallowed my objections.
Phaedre was shaking her head, definitely.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” she said. “She ain’t washed out. She got them bones as makes shadows. And brown eyes, but don’t be thinkin’ they’s mud-color. You recall that book you got, the one with the pictures of all them strange animals?”
“If you mean Accounts of an Exploration of the Indian Subcontinent,” Jocasta said, “yes, I recall it. Ulysses read it to me only last month. You mean that Mrs. Fraser reminds you of one of the illustrations?” She laughed, amused.
“Mm-hm.” Phaedre hadn’t taken her eyes off me. “She look like that big cat,” she said softly, staring at me. “Like that there tiger, a-lookin’ out from the leaves.”
An expression of startlement showed briefly on Jocasta’s face.
“Indeed,” she said, and laughed. But she didn’t touch me again.
* * *
I stood in the lower hall, smoothing the green-striped silk over my bosom. Phaedre’s reputation as a sempstress was well founded; the dress fit like a glove, and the bold bands of emerald satin glowed against the paler shades of ivory and leaf.
Proud of her own thick hair, Jocasta did not wear wigs, so there was fortunately no suggestion that I adopt one. Phaedre had tried to powder my hair with rice flour instead, an attempt I had firmly resisted. Inadequately concealing her opinion of my lack of fashionable instinct, she had settled for snaring the mass of curls in a white silk ribbon and pinning them high to the back of my head.
I wasn’t sure quite why I had resisted the array of baubles with which she had tried to further bedizen me; perhaps it was mere dislike of fussiness. Or perhaps it was a more subtle objection to being made an object, to be adorned and displayed to Jocasta’s purpose. At any rate, I had refused. I wore no ornament save my wedding ring, a small pair of pearl earbobs, and a green velvet ribbon round the stalk of my neck.
Ulysses came down the stairs above me, impeccable in his livery. I moved, and he turned his head, catching the flicker of my skirts.
His eyes widened in a look of frank appreciation as he saw me, and I looked down, smiling a bit, as one does when being admired. Then I heard him gasp and jerked my head up to see his eyes still wide, but now with fear; his hand so tight on the banister that the knuckles shone.
“Your pardon, madame,” he said, sounding strangled, and rushed down the stairs and past me, head down, leaving the door to the cookhouse breezeway swinging in his wake.
“What on earth…?” I said aloud, and then I remembered where—and when—we were.
Alone for so long, in a house with a blind mistress and no master, he had grown careless. He had momentarily forgotten that most basic and essential protection—the only true protection a slave had: the blank, bland face that hid all thoughts.
No wonder he had been terrorized when he realized what he had done. If it had been any woman other than myself to have intercepted that unguarded look…my hands grew cold and sweaty, and I swallowed, the remembered scent of blood and turpentine sharp in my throat.
But it had been me, I reminded myself, and no one else had seen. The butler might be afraid, but he was safe. I would behave as though nothing had happened—nothing had—and things would be…well, things would be what they were. The sound of footsteps on the gallery above interrupted my thoughts. I glanced upward, and gasped, all other thoughts driven at once from my mind.
A Highlander in full regalia is an impressive sight—any Highlander, no matter how old, ill-favored, or crabbed in appearance. A tall, straight-bodied, and by no means ill-favored Highlander in the prime of his life is breathtaking.
He hadn’t worn the kilt since Culloden, but his body had not forgotten the way of it.
“Oh!” I said.
He saw me then, and white teeth flashed as he made me a leg, silver shoe-buckles gleaming. He straightened and turned on his heel to set his plaid swinging, then came down slowly, eyes fixed on my face.
For a moment, I saw him as he had looked the morning I married him. The sett of his tartan was nearly the same now as then; black check on a crimson ground, plaid caught at his shoulder with a silver brooch, dipping to the calf of a neat, stockinged leg.
His linen was finer now, as was his coat; the dirk he wore at his waist had bands of gold across the haft. Duine uasal was what he looked, a man of worth.
But the bold face above the lace was the same, older now, but wiser with it—yet the tilt of his shining head and the set of the wide, firm mouth, the slanted clear cat-eyes that looked into my own, were just the same. Here was a man who had always known his worth.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he said. And then burst into a face-splitting smile as he descended the last few stairs.
“You look wonderful,” I said, hardly able to swallow the lump in my throat.
“It’s none so bad,” he agreed, with no trace of false modesty. He arranged a fold over his shoulder with care. “Of course, that’s the advantage of a plaid—there’s no trouble about the fit of it.”
“It’s Hector Cameron’s?” I felt ridiculously shy of touching him, garbed so splendidly. Instead, I touched the hilt of the dirk; it was topped with a small knurl of gold, roughly shaped like a bird in flight.
Jamie drew a deep breath.
“It’s mine, now. Ulysses brought it to me—with my aunt’s compliments.” I caught an odd undertone in his voice, and glanced up at him. Despite his obvious deep pleasure at wearing the kilt again, something was troubling him. I touched his hand.
“What’s wrong?”
He gave me half a smile, but his brows were drawn together in concern.
“I wouldna say anything’s wrong, exactly. It’s only—”
The sound of feet on the stairs interrupted him, and he drew me to one side, out of the way of a hurrying slave with a pile of linens. The house was humming with last-minute preparations; even now, I could hear the sound of wheels on the gravel at the back of the house, and savory smells floated through the air as platters were brought in at a gallop from the kitchen.
“We canna talk here,” he muttered. “Sassenach, will ye stand ready at dinner? If I should signal to ye”—and he tugged at his earlobe—“will ye make a diversion, right then? It doesna matter what—spill wine, swoon away, stab your dinner partner with a fork—” He grinned at me, and I took heart from that; whatever was worrying him wasn’t a matter of life and death, then.
“I can do that,” I assured him. “But what—”
A door opened onto the gallery above, and Jocasta’s voice floated down, giving last-minute orders to Phaedre. Hearing it, Jamie stooped quickly and kissed me, then whirled away in a swirl of crimson plaid and silver shoebuckles, disappearing neatly between two slaves bringing trays of crystal goblets toward the drawing room. I stared after him in astonishment, barely getting out of the way in time to avoid being trampled by the servants.
“Is that you, sweet Claire?” Jocasta paused on the bottom step, head turned toward me, eyes trained just over my shoulder. She was quite uncanny.
“It is,” I said, and touched her arm to let her know more precisely where I was.
“I smelt the camphor from the dress,” she said in answer to my unspoken question, tucking her hand in the crook of my elbow. “I thought I heard Jamie’s voice; is he nearby?”
“No,” I said, quite truthfully, “I believe he’s gone out to greet the guests.”
“Ah.” Her hand tightened on my arm, and she sighed, somewhere between satisfaction and impatience. “I am not one to lament what cannot be mended, but I swear I should give one of my eyes, could the sight of the other be restored long enough to see the lad in his plaidie this night!”
She shook her head, dismissing it, and the diamonds in her ears flared with light. She wore dark blue silk, a foil to her shining white hair. The cloth was embroidered with dragonflies that seemed to dart among the folds as she moved under the lights of the wall sconces and candle-heavy chandeliers.
“Ah, well. Where is Ulysses?”
“Here, madame.” He had come back so quietly that I hadn’t heard him, appearing on her other side.
“Come then,” she said, and took his arm. I didn’t know if the order applied to him or me, but followed obediently in her shimmering wake, dodging to avoid two kitchen boys bearing in the centerpiece—a whole roasted boar, tusked head intact and fiercely glaring, succulent backside gleaming fatly, ready for the knife. It smelled divine.
I smoothed my hair and prepared to meet Jocasta’s guests, feeling rather as though I, too, were being presented on a silver platter, with an apple in my mouth.
* * *
The guest list would have read like the Who’s Who of Cape Fear River gentry, had there been such a thing. Campbell, Maxwell, Buchanan, MacNeill, MacEachern…names from the Highlands, names from the Isles. MacNeill of Barra Meadows, MacLeod of Islay…many of the plantation names carried the flavor of their owners’ origins, as did their speech; the high plastered ceiling echoed with the lilt of spoken Gaelic.
Several of the men came kilted, or with plaids wrapped over their coats and silk breeches, but I saw none as striking as Jamie—who was conspicuous by his absence. I heard Jocasta murmur something to Ulysses; he summoned a small serving girl with a clap of his hands and sent her zooming off into the lanterned half-dark of the gardens, presumably in search of him.
Nearly as conspicuous were the few guests who were not Scots; a broad-shouldered, gently smiling Quaker by the picturesque name of Hermon Husband, a tall, rawboned gentleman named Hunter, and—much to my surprise—Phillip Wylie, immaculately suited, wigged and powdered.
“So we meet again, Mrs. Fraser,” he remarked, holding on to my hand much longer than was socially correct. “I confess that I am ravished with enchantment to behold you again!”
“What are you doing here?” I said, rather rudely.
He grinned impudently.
“I was brought by mine host, the noble and puissant Mr. MacNeill of Barra Meadows, from whom I have just purchased an excellent pair of grays. Speaking of which, wild horses would have proved insufficient to restrain me from attendance this evening, upon my hearing that this occasion is held in your honor.” His eyes wandered slowly over me, with the detached air of a connoisseur appreciating some rare work of art.
“May I observe, ma’am, how most becoming is that shade of green?”
“I don’t suppose I can stop you.”
“To say nothing of the effect of candlelight upon your skin. ‘Thy neck is as a tower of ivory,’ ” he quoted, drawing a thumb insinuatingly over my palm, “ ‘thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon.’ ”
“ ‘Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon, which looketh toward Damascus,’ ” I said, with a pointed look at his aristocratically pronounced proboscis.
He burst out laughing, but didn’t let go. I stole a glance at Jocasta, who stood only a few feet away; she seemed engrossed in conversation with a new arrival, but experience had taught me just how sharp her ears were.
“How old are you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him and trying to retrieve my hand without unseemly struggle.
“Five-and-twenty, ma’am,” he answered, rather surprised. He patted at the star-shaped patch near his mouth with a finger of his free hand. “Am I looking indecently haggard?”
“No. I merely wished to be sure I was telling you the truth in informing you that I am old enough to be your mother!”
This news appeared not to distress him in the slightest. Instead he raised my hand to his lips and pressed them fervently upon it.
“I am enchanted,” he breathed. “May I call you Maman?”
Ulysses stood behind Jocasta, dark eyes intent on the guests coming up the lighted walk from the river—he leaned forward now and then to whisper in her ear. I removed my hand from Wylie’s grasp by main force, and used it to tap the butler on the shoulder.
“Ulysses,” I said, smiling charmingly at Wylie, “would you be so kind as to ensure that Mr. Wylie is seated near me at dinner?”
“Indeed, madame; I will attend to it,” he assured me, and returned at once to his surveillance.
Mr. Wylie bowed extravagantly, professing undying gratitude, and allowed himself to be propelled into the house by one of the footmen. I waved pleasantly after him, thinking how much I should enjoy sticking a fork into him, when the time came.
* * *
I couldn’t tell whether it was the luck of the draw, or considerate planning, but I found myself between Mr. Wylie and the Quaker, Mr. Husband, with Mr. Hunter—the other non-Gaelic speaker—across the table from me. We formed a small island of English in the midst of a sea of swirling Scots.
Jamie had appeared at the last moment, and was now seated at the head of the table, with Jocasta at his right hand. For the dozenth time, I wondered what was going on. I kept a sharp eye on him, a clean fork by my plate, ready for action, but we had reached the third course with no untoward occurrence.
“I am surprised to find a gentleman of your persuasion in attendance at such an occasion, Mr. Husband. Does not such frivolity offend you?” Having failed to divert my attention to himself during the first two courses, Wylie now resorted to leaning across me, the action bringing his thigh casually into contact with mine.
Hermon Husband smiled. “Even Quakers must eat, Friend Wylie. And I have had the honor to enjoy Mrs. Cameron’s hospitality on many occasions; I should not think to refuse it now, only because she extends it to others.” He switched his attention back to me, resuming our interrupted conversation.
“Thou asked of the Regulators, Mrs. Fraser?” He nodded across the table. “I should recommend thy questions to Mr. Hunter, for if the Regulators might be said to enjoy the benefits of leadership, it is to this gentleman that they look.”
Mr. Hunter bowed at the compliment. A tall, lantern-jawed individual, he was more plainly dressed than most of those in attendance, though not a Quaker. He and Mr. Husband were traveling together, both returning from Wilmington to their homes in the backcountry. With Governor Tryon’s offer in mind, I wanted to find out whatever I could about matters in that area.
“We are but a loose assembly,” he said modestly, putting down his wineglass. “In truth, I should be reluctant to claim any title whatever; it is only that I am fortunate enough to have a homestead so situated that it is a convenient meeting place.”
“One hears that the Regulators are mere rabble.” Wylie dabbed at his lips, careful not to dislodge his patch. “Lawless, and inclined to violence against the duly authorized deputies of the Crown.”
“Indeed we are not,” Mr. Husband put in, still mildly. I was surprised to hear him claim association with the Regulators; perhaps the movement wasn’t quite so violent and lawless as Wylie implied. “We seek only justice, and that is not a quantity that can be obtained by means of violence, for where violence enters in, justice must surely flee.”
Wylie laughed, a surprisingly deep and masculine sound, given his foppery.
“Justice apparently should flee! That is certainly the impression I was given by Mr. Justice Dodgson when I spoke with him last week. Or perhaps he was mistaken, sir, in his identification of the ruffians who invaded his chambers, knocked him down, and dragged him by the heels into the street?” He smiled engagingly at Hunter, who flushed dark
red beneath his weathered tan. His fingers tightened about the stem of his wineglass. I glanced hopefully at Jamie. No sign of a signal.
“Mr. Justice Dodgson,” Hunter said precisely, “is a userer, a thief, a disgrace to the profession of law, and—”
I had for some little time been hearing noises outside, but had put these down to some crisis in the cookhouse, which was separated from the main house by a breezeway. The noises became clearer now, though, and I caught a familiar voice that quite distracted me from Mr. Hunter’s denunciations.
“Duncan!” I half rose from my seat, and heads nearby turned inquiringly.
There was a sudden confusion of movement out on the terrace, with shadows jerking past the open French windows, and voices calling, arguing and exhorting.
Conversation in the dining room fell silent, and everyone looked to see what was happening. I saw Jamie push back his chair, but before he could rise, an apparition appeared in the doorway.
It was John Quincy Myers, the mountain man, who filled the open double door from top to bottom and side to side, resplendent in the same costume in which I had first met him. He leaned heavily upon the doorframe, surveying the assemblage through bloodshot eyes. His face was flushed, his breathing stertorous, and in one hand he held a long glass bottle.
His eyes lit upon me, and his face contorted into a fearful grimace of gratification.
“THERE ye are,” he said, in tones of the deepest satisfaction. “Said sho. Duncan wudd’n havit. Said yesh, Mishess Claire said gotter be drunk afore she cuts me. Sho I’m drunk. Drunk—” He paused, swaying dangerously, and raised his bottle high. “As a SKUNK!” he ended triumphantly. He took a step into the room, fell flat on his face, and didn’t move.
Duncan appeared in the doorway, looking a good deal the worse for wear himself. His shirt was ripped, his coat hung off his shoulder, and he had the beginnings of what looked like a black eye.
He glanced down at the prostrate form at his feet, then looked apologetically at Jamie.
“I did try to stop him, Mac Dubh.”
I extricated myself from my seat, and reached the body at the same time as Jamie, followed by a tidal wave of curious guests. Jamie glanced at me, eyebrows raised.
“Well, ye did say he must be unconscious,” he observed. He bent over the mountain man and thumbed back an eyelid, showing a slice of blank white eyeball. “I’d say he’s made a good job of it, myself.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean dead drunk!” I squatted by the insensible form, and put a ginger two fingers over the carotid pulse. Nice and strong. Still…
“Alcohol isn’t a good anesthetic at all,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s a poison. It depresses the central nervous system. Put the shock of operating on top of alcohol intoxication, and it could kill him, easily.”
“No great loss,” said someone among the guests, but this caustic opinion was drowned in a flood of reproachful shushing.
“Shame to waste so much brandy,” someone else said, to general laughter. It was Phillip Wylie; I saw his powdered face loom over Jamie’s shoulder, smiling wickedly.
“We’ve heard a great deal of your skill, Mistress Fraser. Now’s your chance of proving yourself—before witnesses!” He waved a graceful hand at the crowd clustered round us.
“Oh, bugger off,” I said crossly.
“Ooh, hear her!” Someone murmured behind me, not without admiration. Wylie blinked, taken aback, but then grinned more broadly than ever.
“Your wish is my command, ma’am,” he murmured, and bowed himself back into the crowd.
I stood up, racked with doubt. It might work. It was a technically simple operation, and shouldn’t take more than a few minutes—if I encountered no complications. It was a small incision—but it did involve going into the peritoneum, with all the attendant risk of infection that implied.
Still, I was unlikely to encounter better conditions than I had here—plenty of alcohol for disinfection, plenty of willing assistants. There was no other means of anesthesia available, and I could under no circumstances do it with a conscious patient. Above all, Myers had asked me to do it.
I sought Jamie’s face, wanting advice. He was there, standing beside me, and saw the question in my eyes. Well, he’d wanted a diversion, damn it.
“Best do it, Sassenach.” Jamie eyed the prostrate form. “He may ne’er have either the courage or the money to get that drunk again.” I stooped and checked his pulse again—strong and steady as a carthorse.
Jocasta’s stately head appeared among the curious faces looming over MacNeill’s shoulder.
“Bring him into the salon,” she said briefly. Her head withdrew, and the decision was made for me.
I had operated under odd conditions before, I thought, rinsing my hands hastily in vinegar brought from the kitchen, but none odder than this.
Relieved of his nether garb, Myers lay tastefully displayed on the mahogany table, boneless as a roasted pheasant, and nearly as ornamental. In lieu of platter, he lay upon a stable blanket, a gaudy centerpiece in his quilled shirt and bear’s-claw necklace, surrounded by a garnish of bottles, rags, and bandages.
There was no time to change my own clothes; a leather butchering apron was
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