“Near enough.”
He breathed in deeply; the air was freshening with the scent of ozone; the rain was near. He reached for the cup of applejack and drank, then looked at me for the first time, holding up the cup inquiringly.
“Yes, thanks.” I struggled to sit up, but Jamie took me by the shoulders and lifted me to lean against him. He held the cup for me to drink, the blood-warm liquid sliding soft across my tongue, then taking fire as it slid down my throat, burning away the traces of sickness and tobacco, leaving in their place rum’s lingering taste of burning sugarcane.
“Better?”
I nodded, and held up my right hand. He slid the ring onto my finger, the metal warm from his hand. Then, folding down my fingers, he squeezed my fist hard in his own and held it, tight.
“Had he been following us since Charleston?” I wondered aloud.
Jamie shook his head. His hair was still loose, heavy waves falling forward to hide his face.
“I dinna think so. If he’d kent we had the jewels, he would have set upon us on the road before we reached Wilmington. No, I expect he learned it from one of Lillington’s servants. I thought we’d be safe enough, for we’d be away to Cross Creek before anyone heard of the gems. Someone talked, though—a footman; perhaps the sempstress who sewed your gown.”
His face was outwardly calm, but it always was, when he was hiding strong emotions. A sudden gust of hot wind shot sideways across the deck; the rain was getting closer. It whipped the loose ends of his hair across his cheek, and he wiped them back, running his fingers through the thick mass.
“I’m sorry for your other ring,” he said, after a moment.
“Oh. It’s—” I started to say “It’s all right,” but the words stuck in my throat, choked by the sudden realization of loss.
I had worn that gold ring for nearly thirty years; token of vows taken, forsaken, renewed, and at last absolved. A token of marriage, of family; of a large part of my life. And the last trace of Frank—whom, in spite of everything, I had loved.
Jamie didn’t say anything, but he took my left hand in his own and held it, lightly stroking my knuckles with his thumb. I didn’t speak either. I sighed deeply and turned my face toward the stern; the trees along the shore were shivering in a rising wind of anticipation, leaves rustling loudly enough to drown the sound of the vessel’s passage.
A small drop struck my cheek, but I didn’t move. My hand lay limp and white in his, looking unaccustomedly frail; it was something of a shock to see it that way.
I was used to paying a great deal of attention to my hands, one way and another. They were my tools, my channel of touch, mingling the delicacy and strength by which I healed. They had a certain beauty, which I admired in a detached sort of way, but it was the beauty of strength and competence, the assurance of power that made its form admirable.
It was the same hand now, pale and long-fingered, the knuckles slightly bony—oddly bare without my ring, but recognizably my hand. Yet it lay in a hand so much larger and rougher that it seemed small, and fragile by comparison.
His other hand squeezed tighter, pressing the metal of the silver ring into my flesh, reminding me of what remained. I lifted his fist and pressed it hard against my heart in answer. The rain began to fall, in large, wet drops, but neither of us moved.
It came in a rush, dropping a veil over boat and shore, pattering noisily on leaves and deck and water, lending a temporary illusion of concealment. It washed cool and soft across my skin, momentary balm on the wounds of fear and loss.
I felt at once horribly vulnerable and yet completely safe. But then—I had always felt that way with Jamie Fraser.
PART FOUR
River Run
10
JOCASTA
Cross Creek, North Carolina, June 1767
River Run stood by the edge of the Cape Fear, just above the confluence that gave Cross Creek its name. Cross Creek itself was good-sized, with a busy public wharf and several large warehouses lining the water’s edge. As the Sally Ann made her way slowly through the shipping lane, a strong, resinous smell hung over town and river, trapped by the hot, sticky air.
“Jesus, it’s like breathin’ turpentine,” Ian wheezed as a fresh wave of the stultifying reek washed over us.
“You is breathin’ turpentine, man.” Eutroclus’s rare smile flashed white and disappeared. He nodded toward a barge tethered to a piling by one of the wharfs. It was stacked with barrels, some of which showed a thick black ooze through split seams. Other, larger barrels bore the brandmarks of their owners, with a large “T” burned into the pinewood below.
“ ’At’s right,” Captain Freeman agreed. He squinted in the bright sunlight, waving one hand slowly in front of his nose, as though this might dispel the stink. “This time o’ year’s when the pitch-bilers come down from the backcountry. Pitch, turpentine, tar—bring it all down by barge t’ Wilmington, then send it on south to the shipyards at Charleston.”
“I shouldna think it’s all turpentine,” Jamie said. He mopped the back of his neck with a handkerchief and nodded toward the largest of the warehouses, its door flanked by red-coated soldiers. “Smell it, Sassenach?”
I inhaled, cautiously. There was something else in the air here; a hot, familiar scent.
“Rum?” I said.
“And brandywine. And a bit of port, as well.” Jamie’s long nose twitched, sensitive as a mongoose’s. I looked at him in amusement.
“You haven’t lost it, have you?” Twenty years before, he had managed his cousin Jared’s wine business in Paris, and his nose and palate had been the awe of the winery tasting rooms.
He grinned.
“Oh, I expect I could still tell Moselle from horse piss, if ye held it right under my nose. But telling rum from turpentine is no great feat, is it?”
Ian drew a huge lungful of air and let it out, coughing.
“It all smells the same to me,” he said, shaking his head.
“Good,” said Jamie, “I’ll give ye turpentine next time I stand ye a drink. It’ll be a good deal cheaper.”
“Turpentine’s just about what I could afford now,” he added under cover of the laughter this remark caused. He straightened, brushing down the skirts of his coat. “We’ll be there soon. Do I look a terrible beggar, Sassenach?”
Seen with the sun glowing on his neatly ribboned hair, his darkened profile coin-stamped against the light, I privately thought he looked dazzling, but I had caught the faint tone of anxiety in his voice, and knew well enough what he meant. Penniless he might be, but he didn’t mean to look it.
I was well aware that the notion of appearing at his aunt’s door as a poor relation come a-begging stung his pride considerably. The fact that he had been forced into precisely that role didn’t make it any easier to bear.
I looked him over carefully. The coat and waistcoat were not spectacular, but quite acceptable, courtesy of Cousin Edwin; a quiet gray broadcloth with a good hand and an excellent fit, buttons not silver, but not of wood or bone either—a sober pewter, like a prosperous Quaker.
Not that the rest of him bore the slightest resemblance to a Quaker, I thought. The linen shirt was rather grubby, but as long as he kept his coat on, no one would notice, and the missing button on the waistcoat was hidden by the graceful fall of his lace jabot, the sole extravagance he had permitted himself in the way of wardrobe.
The stockings were all right; pale blue silk, no visible holes. The white linen breeches were tight, but not—not quite—indecent, and reasonably clean.
The shoes were the only real flaw in his ensemble; there had been no time to have any made. His were sound, and I had done my best to hide the scuff-marks with a mixture of soot and dripping, but they were clearly a farmer’s footwear, not a gentleman’s; thick-soled, made of rough leather, and with buckles of lowly horn. Still, I doubted that his aunt Jocasta would be looking at his feet first thing.
I stood on tiptoe to straighten his jabot, and brushed a floatin
g down-feather off his shoulder.
“It will be all right,” I whispered back, smiling up at him. “You’re beautiful.”
He looked startled; then the expression of grim aloofness relaxed into a smile.
“You’re beautiful, Sassenach.” He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “You’re flushed as a wee apple; verra bonny.” He straightened up, glanced at Ian, and sighed.
“As for Ian, perhaps I can pass him off as a bondsman I’ve taken on to be swineherd.”
Ian was one of those people whose clothes, no matter what their original quality, immediately look as though they had been salvaged from a rubbish tip. Half his hair had escaped from its green ribbon, and one bony elbow protruded from a rip in his new shirt, whose cuffs were already noticeably gray round the wrists.
“Captain Freeman says we’ll be there in no time!” he exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement as he leaned over the side, peering upriver in order to be first to sight our destination. “What d’ye think we’ll get for supper?”
Jamie surveyed his nephew with a marked lack of favor.
“I expect you’ll get table scraps, wi’ the dogs. Do ye not own a coat, Ian? Or a comb?”
“Oh, aye,” Ian said, glancing round vaguely, as though expecting one of these objects to materialize in front of him. “I’ve a coat here. Somewhere. I think.”
The coat was finally located under one of the benches, and extracted with some difficulty from the possession of Rollo, who had made a comfortable bed of it. After a quick brush to remove at least some of the dog hairs from the garment, Ian was forcibly inserted into it, and sat firmly down to have his hair combed and plaited while Jamie gave him a quick refresher course in manners, this consisting solely of the advice to keep his mouth shut as much as possible.
Ian nodded amiably.
“Will ye tell Great-auntie Jocasta about the pirates yourself, then?” he inquired.
Jamie glanced briefly at Captain Freeman’s scrawny back. It was futile to expect that such a story would not be told in every tavern in Cross Creek, as soon as they had left us. It would be a matter of days—hours perhaps—before it spread to River Run plantation.
“Aye, I’ll tell her,” he said. “But not just on the instant, Ian. Let her get accustomed to us, first.”
* * *
The mooring for River Run was some distance above Cross Creek, separated from the noise and reek of the town by several miles of tranquil tree-thick river. Having seen Jamie, Ian, and Fergus all rendered as handsome as water, comb, and ribbons could make them, I retired to the cabin, changed out of my grubby muslin, sponged myself hastily, and slipped into the cream silk I had worn to dinner with the Governor.
The soft fabric was light and cool against my skin. Perhaps a bit more formal than was usual for afternoon, but it was important to Jamie that we must look decent—especially now, after our encounter with the pirates—and my only alternatives were the filthy muslin or a clean but threadbare camlet gown that had traveled with me from Georgia.
There wasn’t a great deal to be done with my hair; I gave it a cursory stab with a comb, then tied it back off my neck, letting the ends curl up as they would. I needn’t trouble about jewelry, I thought ruefully, and rubbed my silver wedding ring to make it shine. I still avoided looking at my left hand, so nakedly bare; if I didn’t look, I could still feel the imaginary weight of the gold upon it.
By the time I emerged from the cabin, the mooring was in sight. By contrast to the rickety fittings of most plantation moorings we had passed, River Run boasted a substantial and well-built wooden dock. A small black boy was sitting on the end of it, swinging bare legs in boredom. When he saw the Sally Ann’s approach, he leapt to his feet and tore off, presumably to announce our arrival.
Our homely craft bumped to a stop against the dock. From the screen of trees near the river, a brick walk swept up through a broad array of formal lawns and gardens, splitting in two to circle paired marble statues that stood in their own beds of flowers, then joining again and fanning out in a broad piazza in front of an imposing two-storied house, colonnaded and multichimneyed. At one side of the flower beds stood a miniature building, made of white marble—a mausoleum of some kind, I thought. I revised my opinions as to the suitability of the cream silk dress, and touched nervously at my hair.
I found her at once, among the people hurrying out of the house and down the walk. I would have known her for a MacKenzie, even if I hadn’t known who she was. She had the bold bones, the broad Viking cheekbones and high, smooth brow of her brothers, Colum and Dougal. And like her nephew, like her great-niece, she had the extraordinary height that marked them all as descendants of one blood.
A head higher than the bevy of black servants who surrounded her, she floated down the path from the house, hand on the arm of her butler, though a woman less in need of support I had seldom seen.
She was tall and she was quick, with a firm step at odds with the white of her hair. She might once have been as red as Jamie; her hair still held a tinge of ruddiness, having gone that rich soft white that redheads do, with the buttery patina of an old gold spoon.
There was a cry from one of the little boys in the vanguard, and two of them broke loose, galloping down the path toward the mooring, where they circled us, yapping like puppies. At first I couldn’t make out a word—it was only as Ian replied jocularly to them that I realized they were shouting in Gaelic.
I didn’t know whether Jamie had thought what to say or to do upon this first meeting, but in the event, he simply stepped forward, went up to Jocasta MacKenzie, and embraced her, saying, “Aunt—it’s Jamie.”
It was only as he released her and stepped back that I saw his face, with an expression I had never seen before; something between eagerness, joy, and awe. It occurred to me, with a small jolt of shock, that Jocasta MacKenzie must look very much like her elder sister—Jamie’s mother.
I thought she might have his deep blue eyes, though I couldn’t tell; they were blurred as she laughed through her tears, holding him by the sleeve, reaching up to touch his cheek, to smooth nonexistent strands of hair from his face.
“Jamie!” she said, over and over. “Jamie, wee Jamie! Oh, I’m glad ye’ve come, lad!” She reached up once more, and touched his hair, a look of amazement on her face.
“Blessed Bride, but he’s a giant! You’ll be as tall as my brother Dougal was, at least!”
The expression of happiness on his face faded slightly at that, but he kept his smile, turning her with him so she faced me.
“Auntie, may I present my wife? This is Claire.”
She put out a hand at once, beaming, and I took it between my own, feeling a small pang of recognition at the long, strong fingers; though her knuckles were slightly knobbed with age, her skin was soft and the feel of her grip was unnervingly like Brianna’s.
“I am so glad to meet ye, my dear,” she said, and drew me close to kiss my cheek. The scent of mint and verbena wafted strongly from her dress, and I felt oddly moved, as though I had suddenly come under the protection of some beneficent deity.
“So beautiful!” she said admiringly, long fingers stroking the sleeve of my dress.
“Thank you,” I said, but Ian and Fergus were coming up to be introduced in their turn. She greeted them both with embraces and endearments, laughing as Fergus kissed her hand in his best French manner.
“Come,” she said, breaking away at last, and wiping at her wet cheeks with the back of a hand. “Do come in, my dearies, and take a dish of tea, and some food. Ye’ll be famished, no doubt, after such a journey. Ulysses!” She turned, seeking, and her butler stepped forward, bowing low.
“Madame,” he said to me, and “Sir,” to Jamie. “Everything is ready, Miss Jo,” he said softly to his mistress, and offered her his arm.
As they started up the brick walk, Fergus turned to Ian and bowed, mimicking the butler’s courtly manner, then offered an arm in mockery. Ian kicked him neatly in the backside, and walked
up the path, head turning from side to side to take in everything. His green ribbon had come undone, and was dangling halfway down his back.
Jamie snorted at the horseplay, but smiled nonetheless.
“Madame?” He put out an arm to me, and I took it, sweeping rather grandly up the path to the doors of River Run, flung wide to greet us.
* * *
The house was spacious and airy inside, with high ceilings and wide French doors in all the downstairs rooms. I caught a glimpse of silver and crystal as we passed a large formal dining room, and thought that on the evidence, Hector Cameron must have been a very successful planter indeed.
Jocasta led us to her private parlor, a smaller, more intimate room no less well furnished than the larger rooms, but which sported homely touches among the gleam of polished furniture and the glitter of ornaments. A large knitting basket full of yarn balls sat on a small table of polished wood, beside a glass vase spilling summer flowers and a small, ornate silver bell; a spinning wheel turned slowly by itself in the breeze from the open French doors.
The butler escorted us into the room, saw his mistress seated, then turned to a sideboard that held a collection of jugs and bottles.
“Ye’ll have a dram to celebrate your coming, Jamie?” Jocasta waved a long, slim hand in the direction of the sideboard. “I shouldna think ye’ll have tasted decent whisky since ye left Scotland, aye?”
Jamie laughed, sitting down opposite her.
“Indeed not, Aunt. And how d’ye come by it here?”
She shrugged and smiled, looking complacent.
“Your uncle had the luck to lay down a good stock, some years agone. He took half a shipload of wine and liquor in trade for a warehouse of tobacco, meaning to sell it—but then the Parliament passed an Act making it illegal for any but the Crown to sell any liquor stronger than ale in the Colonies, and so we ended with two hundred bottles o’ the stuff in the wine cellar!”
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