“And if the Wemysses were still indentured, Bobby’s proposal would likely have some appeal,” Jamie agreed. “But they’re not.” He had given Joseph Wemyss his papers of indenture some years earlier, and Brianna had hastily freed Lizzie from her own bond nearly as soon as it was made. That was not a matter of public knowledge, though, since Joseph’s presumed status as a bondsman protected him from service in the militia. Likewise, as a bondmaid, Lizzie benefited from Jamie’s overt protection, as she was considered his property; no one would dare to trouble her or treat her with open disrespect.
“Perhaps he’d be willing to engage them as paid servants,” I suggested. “Their combined salary would likely be a good deal less than the price of two indentures.” We paid Joseph, but his salary was only three pounds a year, though with room, board, and clothing supplied.
“I will suggest as much,” Jamie said, but with an air of dubiousness. “But I’ll have to speak with Joseph.” He glanced upward once more, and shook his head.
“Speaking of Malva …” I said, glancing across the hall and lowering my voice. She was in the surgery, straining liquid from the bowls of mold that provided our supply of penicillin. I had promised to send more to Mrs. Sylvie, with a syringe; I hoped she would use it.
“Do you think Tom Christie would be receptive, if Joseph isn’t? I think both girls are rather partial to Bobby.”
Jamie made a mildly derisive noise at the thought.
“Tom Christie marry his daughter to a murderer, and a penniless murderer at that? John Grey doesna ken the man at all, or he wouldna be suggesting such a thing. Christie’s proud as Nebuchadnezzar, if not more so.”
“Oh, as proud as all that, is he?” I said, amused despite myself. “Who do you think he would find suitable, here in the wilderness?”
Jamie lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
“He hasna honored me with his confidences in the matter,” he said dryly. “Though he doesna let his daughter walk out wi’ any of the young lads hereabouts; I imagine none seems worthy to him. I shouldna be surprised at all, if he were to contrive some means of sending her to Edenton or New Bern to make a match, and he can contrive a way to do it. Roger Mac says he’s mentioned such a course.”
“Really? He’s getting quite thick with Roger these days, isn’t he?”
A reluctant smile crossed his face at that.
“Aye, well. Roger Mac takes the welfare of his flock to heart—with an eye to his own, nay doubt.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
He eyed me for a moment, evidently judging my capacity for keeping secrets.
“Mmphm. Well, ye mustna mention it to Brianna, but Roger Mac has it in mind to make a match between Tom Christie and Amy McCallum.”
I blinked, but then considered. It wasn’t really a bad idea, though not one that would have occurred to me. Granted, Tom was likely more than twenty-five years older than Amy McCallum, but he was still healthy and strong enough to provide for her and her sons. And she plainly needed a provider. Whether she and Malva could share a house was another question; Malva had had the running of her father’s house since she could manage it. She was amiable, certainly, but I rather thought she had as much pride as her father, and wouldn’t take kindly to being supplanted.
“Mmm,” I said dubiously. “Perhaps. What do you mean about Roger’s own welfare, though?”
Jamie raised one thick eyebrow.
“Have ye not seen the way the widow McCallum looks at him?”
“No,” I said, taken aback. “Have you?”
He nodded.
“I have, and so has Brianna. She bides her time for the moment—but mark my words, Sassenach: if wee Roger doesna see the widow safely marrit soon, he’ll find hell nay hotter than his own hearth.”
“Oh, now. Roger isn’t looking back at Mrs. McCallum, is he?” I demanded.
“No, he is not,” Jamie said judiciously, “and that’s why he’s still in possession of his balls. But if ye think my daughter is one to stand—”
We had been speaking in low voices and, at the sound of the surgery door opening, stopped abruptly. Malva poked her head into the study, her cheeks flushed and wispy tendrils of dark hair floating round her face. She looked like a Dresden figurine, despite the stains on her apron, and I saw Jamie smile at her look of eager freshness.
“Please, Mrs. Fraser, I’ve strained off all the liquid and bottled it—ye did say that we must feed the slops left over to the pig at once … did ye mean the big white sow that lives under the house?” She looked rather doubtful at the prospect, and no wonder.
“I’ll come and do it,” I said, rising. “Thank you, dear. You go along to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Bug for a bit of bread and honey before you go home, why don’t you?”
She curtsied and went off toward the kitchen; I could hear Young Ian’s voice, teasing Mrs. Bug, and saw Malva stop for an instant to pat her cap, twirl a wisp of hair around her finger to make it curl against her cheek, and straighten her slender back before going in.
“Well, Tom Christie may propose all he likes,” I murmured to Jamie, who had come out into the hall with me and seen her go, “but yours isn’t the only daughter with a mind of her own and strong opinions.”
He gave a small, dismissive grunt and went back to his study, while I continued across the hall, to find a large basin of soggy garbage, the remnants of the latest batch of penicillin-making, neatly collected and standing on the counter.
Opening the window at the side of the house, I peered out and down. Four feet below was the mound of dirt that marked the white sow’s den beneath the foundation.
“Pig?” I said, leaning out. “Are you at home?” The chestnuts were ripe and falling from the trees; she might well be out in the wood, gorging herself on chestnut mast. But no; there were hoofmarks in the soft soil, leading in, and the sound of stertorous breathing was audible below.
“Pig!” I said, louder and more peremptorily. Hearing the stirring and scraping of an enormous bulk beneath the floorboards, I leaned out and dropped the wooden basin neatly into the soft dirt, spilling only a little of its contents.
The thump of its landing was followed at once by the protrusion of an immense white-bristled head, equipped with a large and snuffling pink nose, and followed by shoulders the width of a hogshead of tobacco. With eager grunts, the rest of the sow’s great body followed, and she fell upon the treat at once, curly tail coiled tightly with delight.
“Yes, well, just you remember who’s the source from whom all blessing flows,” I told her, and withdrew, taking pains to shut the window. The sill showed considerable splintering and gouging—the result of leaving the slop basin too long on the counter; the sow was an impatient sort, who was quite willing to try to come into the house and claim her due, if it wasn’t forthcoming promptly enough to suit.
While partly occupied with the pig, my mind had not yet left the question of Bobby Higgins’s proposal, with all its potential complications. To say nothing of Malva. Granted, she was undoubtedly sensible of Bobby’s blue eyes; he was a very handsome young man. But she wasn’t insensible to Young Ian’s charms, either, less striking as they might be.
And what would Tom Christie’s opinion of Ian as a son-in-law be, I wondered. He wasn’t quite penniless; he had ten acres of mostly uncleared land, though no income to speak of. Were tribal tattoos more socially acceptable than a murderer’s brand? Probably—but then, Bobby was a Protestant, while Ian was at least nominally Catholic.
Still, he was Jamie’s nephew—a fact that might cut both ways. Christie was intensely jealous of Jamie; I knew that. Would he see an alliance between his family and ours as a benefit, or as something to be avoided at all costs?
Of course, if Roger succeeded in getting him to marry Amy McCallum, that might distract his mind a bit. Brianna hadn’t said anything to me about the widow—but now that I thought back, I realized that the fact that she hadn’t said anything might be an indication of suppressed feeling.
His thoughts weren’t with his daughter, I thought, with a small, queer pang—but with his son.
I came into the study and put my arm round his back, leaning my head against his shoulder.
“Have you thought, perhaps, of trying to convince Lord John?” I said, a little hesitantly. “That the Americans may possibly have a point, I mean—convert him to your way of thinking.” Lord John himself would not be fighting in the coming conflict; Willie well might, and on the wrong side. Granted, fighting on either side was likely to be as dangerous—but the fact remained that the Americans would win, and the only conceivable way of swaying Willie was through his putative father, whose opinions he respected.
Jamie snorted, but put an arm around me.
“John? D’ye recall what I told ye about Highlanders, when Arch Bug came to me wi’ his wee ax?”
“They live by their oath; they will die by it, too.”
I shivered a little, and pressed closer, finding some comfort in his solidness. He was right; I had seen it myself, that brutal tribal fealty—and yet it was so hard to grasp, even when I saw it right under my nose.
“I remember,” I said.
He nodded at the letter, his eyes still fixed on it.
“He is the same. Not all Englishmen are—but he is.” He looked down at me, ruefulness tinged with begrudging respect. “He is the King’s man. It wouldna matter if the Angel Gabriel appeared before him and told him what will pass; he wouldna abandon his oath.”
“Do you think so?” I said, emboldened. “I’m not so sure.”
His brows went up in surprise, and I went on, hesitating as I groped for words.
“It’s—I do know what you mean; he’s an honorable man. But that’s just it. I don’t think he is sworn to the King—not in the same way Colum’s men swore to him, nor the way your men from Lallybroch swore to you. What matters to him—what he’d sell his life for—it’s honor.”
“Well, aye—it is,” he said slowly, brows knit in concentration. “But for a soldier, such as he is, honor lies in his duty, no? And that comes from his fealty to the King, surely?”
I straightened and rubbed a finger beneath my nose, trying to put into words what I thought.
“Yes, but that’s not quite what I mean. It’s the idea that matters to him. He follows an ideal, not a man. Of all the people you know, he may be the only one who would understand—this will be a war fought about ideals; maybe the first.”
He closed one eye and regarded me quizzically out of the other.
“Ye’ve been talking to Roger Mac. Ye’ll never have thought that on your own, Sassenach.”
“I gather you have, too,” I said, not bothering to refute the implied insult. Besides, he was right. “So you understand?”
He made a small Scottish noise, indicating dubious agreement.
“I did ask him what about the Crusades, did he not think that was fought for an ideal? And he was obliged to admit that ideals were involved, at least—though even there he said it was money and politics, and I said it always was, and surely it would be now, as well. But, aye, I understand,” he added hastily, seeing my nostrils flare. “But with regard to John Grey—”
“With regard to John Grey,” I said, “you do have a chance of convincing him, because he’s both rational and idealistic. You’d have to convince him that honor doesn’t lie in following the King—but in the ideal of freedom. But it’s possible.”
He made another Scottish noise, this one deep-chested and filled with uneasy doubt. And finally, I realized.
“You aren’t doing it for the sake of ideals, are you? Not for the sake of—of liberty. Freedom, self-determination, all that.”
He shook his head.
“No,” he said softly. “Nor yet for the sake of being on the winning side—for once. Though I expect that will be a novel experience.” He gave me a sudden rueful smile, and, caught by surprise, I laughed.
“Why, then?” I asked, more gently.
“For you,” he said without hesitation. “For Brianna and the wee lad. For my family. For the future. And if that is not an ideal, I’ve never heard of one.”
Jamie did his best in the office of ambassador, but the effect of Bobby’s brand proved insuperable. While admitting that Bobby was a nice young man, Mr. Wemyss was unable to countenance the notion of marrying his daughter to a murderer, no matter what the circumstances that had led to his conviction.
“Folk would take against him, sir, ye ken that fine,” he said, shaking his head in response to Jamie’s arguments. “They dinna stop to ask the why and wherefore, if a man’s condemned. His eye—he did nothing, I am sure, to provoke such a savage attack. How could I expose my dear Elizabeth to the possibility of such reprisals? Even if she should escape herself, what of her fate—and that of her children—if he is knocked over in the street one day?” He wrung his hands at the thought.
“And if he should one day lose his Lordship’s patronage, he could not look for decent employment elsewhere, not with yon mark of shame upon his face. They would be beggared. I have been left in such straits myself, sir—and would not for the world risk my daughter’s sharing such a fate again.”
Jamie rubbed a hand over his face.
“Aye. I understand, Joseph. A pity, but I canna say as ye’re wrong. For what the observation be worth, I dinna believe that Lord John would cast him off, though.”
Mr. Wemyss merely shook his head, looking pale and unhappy.
“Well, then.” Jamie pushed himself back from his desk. “I’ll have him in, and ye can give him your decision.” I rose, as well, and Mr. Wemyss sprang up in panic.
“Oh, sir! Ye will not leave me alone with him!”
“Well, I scarcely think he’ll try to knock ye down or pull your nose, Joseph,” Jamie said mildly.
“No,” Mr. Wemyss said dubiously. “Nooo … I suppose not. But still, I should take it very kindly if you would—would remain while I speak with him? And you, Mrs. Fraser?” He turned pleading eyes upon me. I looked at Jamie, who nodded in resignation.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go and fetch him, then.”
“I am sorry, sir.” Joseph Wemyss was nearly as unhappy as Bobby Higgins. Small in stature and shy in manner, he was unaccustomed to conducting interviews, and kept glancing at Jamie for moral support, before returning his attention to his daughter’s importunate suitor.
“I am sorry,” he repeated, meeting Bobby’s eyes with a sort of helpless sincerity. “I like ye, young man, and so does Elizabeth, I am sure. But her welfare, her happiness, is my responsibility. And I cannot think … I really do not suppose …”
“I should be kind to her,” Bobby said anxiously. “You know I should, zur. She should have a new gown once a year, and I should sell anything I have to keep her in shoes!” He, too, glanced at Jamie, presumably in hopes of reinforcement.
“I’m sure Mr. Wemyss has the highest regard for your intentions, Bobby,” Jamie said as gently as possible. “But he’s right, aye? It is his duty to make the best match he can for wee Lizzie. And perhaps …”
Bobby swallowed hard. He had groomed himself to the nines for this interview, and wore a starched neckcloth that threatened to choke him, with his livery coat, a pair of clean woolen breeches, and a pair of carefully preserved silk stockings, neatly darned in only a few places.
“I know I ha’n’t got a great deal of money,” he said. “Nor property. But I have got a good situation, zur! Lord John pays me ten pound a year, and has been so kind as to say I may build a small cottage on his grounds, and ’til it is ready, we might have quarters in his house.”
“Aye, so ye said.” Mr. Wemyss looked increasingly wretched. He kept looking away from Bobby, perh
aps in part from natural shyness and unwillingness to refuse him eye-to-eye—but also, I was sure, to avoid seeming to look at the brand upon his cheek.
The discussion went on for a bit, but to no effect, as Mr. Wemyss could not bring himself to tell Bobby the real reason for his refusal.
“I—I—well, I will think further.” Mr. Wemyss, unable to bear the tension any longer, got abruptly to his feet and nearly ran out of the room—forcing himself to a stop at the door, though, to turn and say, “Mind, I do not think I shall change my mind!” before disappearing.
Bobby looked after him, nonplused, then turned to Jamie.
“Have I hopes, zur? I know you will be honest.”
It was a pathetic plea, and Jamie himself glanced away from those large blue eyes.
“I do not think so,” he said. It was said kindly, but definitely, and Bobby sagged a little. He had slicked down his wavy hair with water; now dried, tiny curls were popping up from the thick mass, and he looked absurdly like a newborn lamb that has just had its tail docked, shocked and dismayed.
“Does she—do ye know, zur, or ma’am”—turning to me—“are Miss Elizabeth’s affections given elsewhere? For if that was to be the case, sure I would bide. But if not …” He hesitated, glancing toward the door where Joseph had so abruptly disappeared.
“D’ye think I might have some chance of overcoming her father’s objections? Perhaps—perhaps if I was to find some way of coming by a bit o’ money … or if it was to be a question of religion …” He looked a little pale at this, but squared his shoulders resolutely. “I—I think I should be willing to be baptized Romish and he required it. I meant to tell him so, but forgot. Would ye maybe say so to him, zur?”
“Aye … aye, I will,” Jamie said reluctantly. “Ye’ve quite made up your mind as it’s Lizzie, then, have ye? Not Malva?”
Bobby was taken back by that.
“Well, to be honest, zur—I’m that fond of them both, I’m sure I should be happy with either one. But—well, truth to tell, I be mortal feared of Mr. Christie,” he confessed, blushing. “And I think he don’t like you, zur, while Mr. Wemyss does. If you could … speak for me, zur? Please?”
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