Brianna had hobbled the horses, and made a hasty camp near a small creek, then made trip after trip through the night, scrabbling up and down a muddy bank in the dark, carrying water in a small canteen to dribble down Lizzie’s throat and over her steaming body. She wasn’t afraid of dark woods or lurking animals, but the thought of Lizzie dying in the wilderness, miles from any sort of help, was terrifying enough to make her want to head straight back to Charleston as soon as Lizzie could sit a horse.
By morning, however, the fever had broken, and though Lizzie was weak and pale, she had been able to ride. Brianna had hesitated, but finally decided to press on toward Wilmington, rather than turn back. The urge that had driven her all this way now had a sharper spur; she had to find her mother, for Lizzie’s sake as well as her own.
Brianna hadn’t appreciated her size for most of a life spent looming in the back row of class pictures, but she had begun to feel the advantages of height and strength as she grew older. And the longer she spent in this miserable place, the more advantageous they seemed.
She braced one arm against the bed frame as she eased the chamber pot out from under Lizzie’s frail white buttocks with the other hand. Lizzie was scrawny but surprisingly heavy, and no more than half conscious; she moaned and twitched restlessly, the twitch suddenly springing into the full-fledged convulsion of a chill.
The shivering was beginning to ease a little now, though Lizzie’s teeth were still clenched hard enough to make the sharp bones of her jaws stand out like struts beneath her skin.
Malaria, Brianna thought, for the dozenth time. It must be, to keep coming back like this. A number of small pink welts showed on Lizzie’s neck, reminders of the mosquitoes that had plagued them ever since the Phillip Alonzo drew within sight of land. They had made landfall too far south, and wasted three weeks in meandering through the shallow coastal waters to Charleston, gnawed incessantly by bloodsucking bugs.
“There now. Feeling a little better?”
Lizzie nodded feebly, and tried to smile, succeeding only in looking like a white mouse that had taken poisoned bait.
“Water, honey. Try a little, just a sip.” Brianna held the cup to Lizzie’s mouth, coaxing. She felt a strange sense of déjà vu and realized that her voice was the echo of her mother’s, both in words and tone. The realization was oddly comforting, as though her mother somehow stood behind her, speaking through her.
If it were her mother speaking, though, next would have come the orange-flavored St. Joseph’s aspirin, a tiny pill to be sucked and savored, as much treat as medicine, the aches and fever seeming to subside as quickly as the sweet tart pill dissolved on her tongue. Brianna cast a bleak glance at her saddlebags, bulging in the corner. No aspirin there; Jenny had sent a small bundle of what she called “simples,” but the chamomile and peppermint tea had only made Lizzie vomit.
Quinine was what you gave people for malaria; that’s what she needed. But she had no idea whether it was even called quinine here, or how it was administered. Malaria was an old disease, though, and quinine came from plants—surely a doctor would have some, whatever it was called?
Only the hope of finding medical help had kept her going through Lizzie’s second bout. Afraid to stop on the road again, she had taken Lizzie up in front of her, cradling the girl’s body against her as they rode, leading Lizzie’s horse. Lizzie had alternately blazed with heat and shaken with chill, and both of them had arrived in Wilmington limp with exhaustion.
But here they were, in the midst of Wilmington, and as far from real help as they had ever been. Bree glanced at the bedside table, lips tight. A wadded cloth lay there, dabbled with blood.
The landlady had taken one look at Lizzie and sent for an apothecary. Despite what her mother had said about the primitive state of medicine and its practitioners here, Brianna had felt a sudden instinctive surge of relief at sight of the man.
The apothecary was a decently dressed young man with a kindly air and reasonably clean hands. No matter what his state of medical knowledge, he was likely to know as much about fevers as she herself did. More important, she could feel that she wasn’t alone in caring for Lizzie.
Modesty prompted her to step outside when the apothecary drew down the linen sheet to make his examination, and it was not until she heard a small cry of distress that she flung open the door, to find the young apothecary, fleam in hand, and Lizzie, her face white as chalk, red blood streaming from a cut in the crook of her elbow.
“But it is to draw the humors, miss!” the apothecary had pleaded, trying to shield both himself and the body of his patient. “Do you not understand? You must draw the humors! If it is not done, hot bile will toxify within her organs and fill her body entirely, to her certain detriment!”
“It will be to your certain detriment if you don’t leave,” Brianna had informed him, through clenched teeth. “Get out of here this minute!”
Medical zeal disappearing in favor of self-preservation, the young man had picked up his case and left with what dignity he could, pausing at the foot of the stairs to shout dire warnings up at her.
The warnings kept echoing in her ears, between trips downstairs to fill the basin from the kitchen copper. Most of the apothecary’s words were simple ignorance—ranting about humors and bad blood—but there were some that came back with uncomfortable force.
“If you will not take heedful advice, miss, you may well condemn your maid to death!” he had called, indignant face upturned in the darkness of the stairwell. “You do not know how to care for her yourself!”
She didn’t. She didn’t even know for sure what Lizzie’s sickness was; the apothecary had called it an “ague,” and the landlady had talked of “seasoning.” It was quite common for new immigrants to fall ill repeatedly, exposed as they were to an unfamiliar array of new germs. From the landlady’s unguarded remarks, it seemed apparent that it was also quite common for such immigrants not to survive this seasoning process.
The basin tilted, slopping hot water over her wrists. Water was the only thing she had. God knew whether the well behind the inn was sanitary or not; better to use the boiling water from the copper and let it cool, even if it took longer. There was cool water in the pitcher; she dribbled a little between Lizzie’s dry, cracked lips, then eased the girl down on the bed. She washed Lizzie’s face and neck, pulled back the quilt and soaked the linen nightdress again, the tiny nipples showing as dark pink points beneath.
Lizzie managed a small smile, eyelids drooping, then sank back with a tiny sigh and fell asleep, loose joints relaxing like a rag doll’s.
Brianna felt as though her own stuffing had been removed as well. She dragged the single stool over to the window and collapsed on it, leaning on the sill in a vain effort to get a breath of fresh air. The atmosphere had lain on them like a thick blanket all the way from Charleston—little wonder that poor Lizzie had crumpled under its weight.
She scratched uneasily at a bite on her own thigh; the bugs were not nearly as fond of her as they were of Lizzie, but she had suffered a few bites. Malaria wasn’t a danger; she had had the shots for that, as well as for typhoid, cholera, and anything else she could think of. But there was no vaccine for things like dengue fever, or any of a dozen other diseases that haunted the thick air like malevolent spirits. How many of those were spread by biting insects?
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wooden frame, blotting trickles of sweat from her breastbone with the folds of her shirt. She could smell herself; how long had she been wearing these clothes? It didn’t matter; she had been awake for most of two days and two nights, and was too tired to undress, let alone make the effort to wash.
Lizzie’s fever seemed to have broken—but for how long? If it kept coming back, it was sure to kill the little maidservant; she had already lost all the weight she had gained on the voyage, and her fair skin was beginning to show a yellow tinge in sunlight.
There was no help to be found in Wilmington. Brianna sat up straight,
stretching and feeling the bones of her back pop into place. Tired or not, there was only one thing to do. She had to find her mother, and as quickly as possible.
She would sell the horses and find a boat to take them up the river. Even if the fever came back, she could take care of Lizzie as well on a boat as she could in this hot, smelly little room—and they would still be traveling toward their goal.
She got up and splashed a little water on her face, twisting her sweat-soaked hair up out of the way. She loosened the crumpled breeches and stepped out of them, making plans in a dreamy, disconnected sort of way.
A boat, on the river. Surely it would be cooler on the river. No more riding; her thigh muscles ached from four days in the saddle. They would sail to Cross Creek, find Jocasta MacKenzie.
“Aunt,” she murmured, swaying slightly as she reached for the oil-dip lamp. “Great-aunt Jocasta.” She imagined a kindly white-haired old lady who would greet her with the same joy she had found at Lallybroch. Family. It would be so good to have family again. Roger drifted into her thoughts, as he did so often. She resolutely pushed him out again; time enough to think of him when her mission was accomplished.
A tiny cloud of gnats hovered over the flame, and the wall nearby was spattered with the arrowed shapes of moths and lacewings, taking respite from their quest. She pinched out the flame, scarcely hotter than the air in the room, and pulled the shirt off over her head in darkness.
Jocasta would know exactly where Jamie Fraser and her mother were—would help her get to them. For the first time since stepping through the stones, she thought of Jamie Fraser with neither curiosity nor trepidation. Nothing mattered but finding her mother. Her mother would know what to do for Lizzie; her mother would know how to take care of everything.
She spread a folded quilt on the floor and lay down naked on it. She was asleep in moments, dreaming of the mountains, and clean white snow.
* * *
By the next evening, things looked better. The fever had broken, just as before, leaving Lizzie spent and weak, but clearheaded, and as cool as the climate allowed. Restored by a night’s rest, Brianna had washed her hair and sponge-bathed in the basin, then had paid the landlady to keep an eye on Lizzie while she, dressed in breeches and coat, went about her business.
It had taken most of the day—and the suffering of a good many widened eyes and gaping mouths as men realized her sex—to sell the horses at what she hoped was an honest price. She had heard of a man named Viorst, who took passengers between Wilmington and Cross Creek in his canoe for a price. She hadn’t found Viorst before dark, though—and wasn’t about to hang around the docks at night, breeches or no breeches. Morning would be time enough.
Still more heartening, Lizzie had been downstairs when she returned to the inn toward sunset, being cosseted by the landlady and fed morsels of corn pudding and chicken fricassee.
“You’re better!” Brianna exclaimed. Lizzie nodded, beaming, and gulped her mouthful.
“I am, so,” she said. “I feel quite myself again, and Mrs. Smoots has been so kind as to let me wash all of our things. Oh, it’s so nice to feel clean again!” she said fervently, laying a pale hand on her kerchief, which looked freshly ironed.
“You shouldn’t be washing and ironing,” Brianna scolded, sliding into the bench beside her maid. “You’ll wear yourself out, and get sick again.”
Lizzie looked down her thin nose, a prim smile perched at the corners of her mouth.
“Well, I didna think ye’d be wanting to meet your Da in clothes all spotted wi’ filth. Not but what even a clarty gown would be better than what ye’ve got on.” The little maid’s eyes passed reprovingly over Brianna’s breeches; she didn’t approve at all of her mistress’s penchant for male costume.
“Meet my Da? What do you—Lizzie, have you heard something?” A flare of hope shot up inside her, a sudden bright puff like the lighting of a gas stove.
Lizzie looked smug.
“I have that. And ’twas all because of the washin’, too—my Da did always say as how virtue brings its reward.”
“I’m sure it does,” Brianna said dryly. “What did you find out, and how?”
“Well, I was just after hanging out your petticoat—the nice one, aye, wi’ the lace about the hem—”
Brianna picked up a small jug of milk, and held it menacingly over her maid’s head. Lizzie squeaked and ducked away, giggling.
“All right! I’m telling! I’m telling!”
In the middle of her washing, one of the tavern’s patrons had come out into the yard to smoke a pipe, the day being fine. He had admired Lizzie’s domestic skills and taken up a pleasant conversation, in the course of which it was revealed that this gentleman—one Andrew MacNeill by name—had not only heard of James Fraser but was well acquainted with him.
“He is? What did he say? Is this MacNeill still here?”
Lizzie put out a hand and made small quelling motions.
“I’m sayin’ it as quick as I can. No, he’s not here; I did try to make him stay, but he was bound for New Bern by the packet boat, and couldna bide.” She was nearly as excited as Brianna; her cheeks were still pale and sallow, but the tip of her nose had gone pink.
“Mr. MacNeill knows your Da, and your great-auntie Cameron as well—she’s a great lady, he says, verra rich, with a tremendous great house, and lots of slaves, and—”
“Never mind about that now, what did he say about my father? Did he mention my mother?”
“Claire,” Lizzie said triumphantly. “Ye did say that was your Mam’s name? I asked, and he said yes, Mrs. Fraser’s name was Claire. And he said she was a most amazing healer—did ye not say as your mother was a fine physician? He said as he had seen her do a desperate operation on a man, laid him smack in the middle of the dinner table and cut off his ballocks and then stitched them back on, right there on the spot, wi’ all the dinner party lookin’ on!”
“That’s my mother, all right.” There were tears of what might have been laughter in the corners of her eyes. “Are they well? Had he seen them lately?”
“Och, that’s the best of it!” Lizzie leaned forward, eyes big with the importance of her news. “He’s in Cross Creek—your Da, Mr. Fraser! A man he knows is on trial there for assault, and your Da’s come down to be witness for him.” She patted her handkerchief against her temple, mopping up tiny beads of sweat.
“Mr. MacNeill says the court willna sit again till Monday week because the judge fell ill, and another is coming from Edenton, and the trial canna go on until he arrives.”
Brianna brushed back a lock of hair and blew out her breath, hardly daring to believe their luck.
“A week from Monday … and it’s Saturday now. God, I wonder how long it will take to get upriver?”
Lizzie crossed herself hastily in atonement for her mistress’s casual blasphemy, but shared in her excitement.
“I dinna ken, but Mrs. Smoots did say as her son’s made the trip once before—we could ask him.”
Brianna swung round on her bench, looking over the room. Men and boys had begun coming in as darkness fell, stopping for a drink or a supper on their way from work to bed, and now there were fifteen or twenty people crammed into the small space.
“Which one is Junior Smoots?” Brianna asked, craning her neck to see through the press of bodies.
“Yonder—the laddie wi’ the sweet brown eyes. I’ll fetch him to ye, shall I?” Emboldened by excitement, Lizzie slipped out of her seat and pushed her way into the throng.
Brianna was still holding the jug of milk, but made no move to pour it into her cup. Her throat was too choked with excitement to swallow. Little more than a week!
* * *
Wilmington was a small town, Roger thought. How many places could she be? If she was here at all. He thought there was a good chance of it; inquiries in the dockside taverns in New Bern had given him the valuable information that the Phillip Alonzo had reached Charleston safely—and only ten days before the G
loriana had docked in Edenton.
It might have taken Brianna anything from two days to two weeks to make her way from Charleston to Wilmington—assuming that she was indeed headed there.
“She’s here,” he muttered. “Damn it, I know she’s here!” Whether this conviction was the result of deduction, intuition, hope, or merely stubbornness, he clung to it like a drowning sailor to a spar.
He had managed the journey from Edenton to Wilmington with a fair amount of ease, himself. Put to work unloading cargo from the Gloriana’s hold, he had carried a chest of tea into a warehouse, set it down, walked back to the door, and busied himself in retying the sweat-soaked kerchief round his head. As soon as the next man had passed him, he stepped out onto the dock, turned right instead of left, and within seconds was headed up the narrow cobbled lane that led from docks to town. By the next morning he’d found a berth as loader on a small cargo boat, transporting naval stores from Edenton to the main depot at Wilmington, there to be transferred to a larger ship for transport to England.
He jumped ship again in Wilmington, without a moment’s compunction. He hadn’t time to waste; there was Brianna to be found.
He knew she was here. Fraser’s Ridge was in the mountains; she’d need a guide, and Wilmington was the most likely port in which to find one. And if she was here, someone would have noticed her; he’d bet money on that. He could only hope the wrong sort of person hadn’t noticed her already.
A quick reconnoiter of the main street and the harbor gave him a count of twenty-three taverns. Christ, these people drank like fish! There was the chance she’d taken a room in a private house, but the taverns were the place to start.
By evening he’d covered ten of the taverns, slowed by the necessity of avoiding any of his erstwhile shipmates. Being in the presence of so much drink, and he without an extra penny to spend, had given him a raging thirst. He hadn’t eaten all day, either, which didn’t help matters.
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