“Were he fiercely committed to one extreme or the other, he would be difficult to…influence. While I don’t know His Grace well, everything I know of him indicates that he values his sense of honor—”
“He does.”
“—almost as much as he values his family,” Richardson finished. He looked directly at me, and for the first time I felt a flicker of real fear.
“I have for some time been working to acquire influence—whether direct or otherwise—over such members of the duke’s family as are within my reach. With, say, a son—a nephew?—perhaps even his brother in my control, it would then be possible to affect His Grace’s public position, in whatever way seemed most advantageous to us.”
“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, then I suggest you leave my sight this instant,” I said, in what I hoped was a tone of calm menace. Though I spoiled whatever effect there might have been by adding, “Besides, I have absolutely no connection with any of Pardloe’s family now.”
He smiled faintly, with no sense of pleasantry at all.
“His nephew, William, is in the city, ma’am, and you were seen speaking with him nine days ago. Perhaps you are unaware, though, that both Pardloe and his brother are here, as well?”
“Here?” My mouth hung open for an instant and I closed it sharply. “With the army?”
He nodded.
“I gather that in spite of your recent…marital rearrangement?…you remain on good terms with Lord John Grey.”
“Sufficiently good that I would do nothing whatever to deliver him into your bloody hands, if that’s what you had in mind.”
“Nothing so crude, ma’am,” he assured me, with a brief flash of teeth. “I had in mind only the transmission of information—in both directions. I intend no damage at all to the duke or his family; I only wish to—”
Whatever his intentions, they were interrupted by a tentative knock on the door, which then opened to admit Mrs. Bradshaw’s head. She looked apprehensively at me and suspiciously at Richardson, who cleared his throat, stood up, and bowed to her.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he said. “I was just taking my leave of Mrs. Fraser. Good day to you.” He turned and bowed to me, more elaborately. “Your most humble servant, Mrs. Fraser. I look forward to seeing you again. Soon.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” I said, but far enough under my breath that I doubted he heard me.
A BRIEF, DECISIVE battle has ended with the British—as expected—in control of the city. While billeting arrangements are made, though, the army, under Lieutenant Colonel Archibald Campbell, is camped over several acres outside the city. William, headed for Saperville, where the elusive Amaranthus Cowden is said to be living, debates the wisdom of walking through the camp but, with a mental shrug, decides that the risk of being recognized is low—and even if someone he knows should pop up, what of it? He’s no longer a soldier.
He would have passed right by her, thinking she was a part of the bog, for she was curled over in a tight ball and the hood of her sad-colored cloak covered her head. But she made a tiny sound, a heartbroken whimper that stopped him in his tracks, and he saw her then, crouched in the mud at the foot of a sweet gum.
“Ma’am?” he said tentatively. She hadn’t been aware of him; she uncurled suddenly, her white face staring up at him, shocked and tear-streaked. Then she gulped air and leapt to her feet, throwing herself at him.
“Wiyum! Wiyum!” It was Fanny, Jane’s sister, alone, daubed with mud, and in a state of complete hysteria. She’d catapulted into his arms; he gripped her firmly, holding her lest she fly to pieces, which she looked very like doing.
“Frances. Frances! It’s all right; I’m here. What’s happened? Where’s Jane?”
At her sister’s name, she gave a wail that made his blood go cold and buried her face in his chest. He patted her back and, this failing to help, then shook her a little.
“Frances! Pull yourself together. Sweetheart,” he added more gently, seeing her swimming, red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. She’d been weeping for a long time. “Tell me what’s happened, so I can help you.”
“You can’t,” she blubbered, and thumped her forehead hard against his chest, several times. “You can’t, you can’t, nobody can, you can’t!”
In fact, Fanny is very likely right. The girls, growing restive at the Quaker settlement and feeling that Harkness’s death is safely distant, have taken up with the army again—after all, the only profitable occupation Jane has is as a whore. But she has been recognized and arrested, and Fanny fears that Jane is about to be hanged.
William tells Fanny to take refuge with her friends, while he goes to find his stepfather and uncle. This he does, but Hal is on bad terms with Colonel Campbell, and Jane has already confessed to Harkness’s murder; even Lord John’s famous diplomatic skills are futile.
William, having no idea where else to go for help, goes to Jamie. Leaving Fanny in Claire’s care, the two men set out to rescue Jane from the house where she’s being held.
“Is the young woman’s life worth yours?” Fraser asked. “Because I think that consideration is likely what lies behind your—your other kinsmen’s”—the corner of his mouth twitched, though William couldn’t tell whether with humor or distaste—“failure to help ye.”
William felt hot blood rise in his face, anger supplanting desperation.
“They didn’t fail me. They couldn’t help. Are you saying that you will not help me, either, sir? Or can’t? Are you afraid of the venture?”
Fraser gave him a quelling look; William registered this but didn’t care. He was on his feet, fists clenched.
“Don’t bother, then. I’ll do it myself.”
“If ye thought ye could, ye’d never have come to me, lad,” Fraser said evenly.
They succeed in disabling the sentry, breaking into the house and into the room where Jane is being held—but too late.
The candle was standing on a small bureau, its flame flickering wildly in the draft from the open door. There was a strong smell of beer; a broken bottle lay on the floor, brown glass a-glitter in the wavering light. The bed was rumpled, bedclothes hanging half off the mattress…Where was Jane? He whirled, expecting to see her cowering in the corner, frightened by his entrance.
He saw her hand first. She was lying on the floor by the bed, beside the broken bottle, her hand flung out, white and half open as though in supplication.
“A Dhia,” Fraser whispered behind him, and now he could smell the cut-steel reek of blood, mingled with beer.
He didn’t remember falling on his knees or lifting her up in his arms. She was heavy, limp and awkward, all the grace and heat of her gone and her cheek cold to his hand. Only her hair was still Jane, shining in the candlelight, soft against his mouth.
“Here, a bhalaich.” A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned without thought.
Fraser had pulled the mask down around his neck, and his face was serious, intent. “We havena much time,” he said softly.
Lord John manages the claiming of Jane’s body on behalf of her sister and arranges a private funeral.
We buried Jane on the morning of a dull, cold day. The sky was sodden with low gray clouds, and a raw wind blew in from the sea. It was a small private burying ground, belonging to a large house that stood outside the city.
All of us came with Fanny: Rachel and Ian, Jenny, Fergus and Marsali—even the girls and Germain. I worried a bit; they couldn’t help but feel the echoes of Henri-Christian’s death. But death was a fact of life and a common one, and while they stood solemn and pale amongst the adults, they were composed. Fanny was not so much composed as completely numb, I thought; she’d wept all the tears her small body could hold and was white and stiff as a bleached stick.
John came, dressed in his uniform (in case anyone became inquisitive and tried to disturb us, he explained to me in an undertone). The coffin-maker had had only adult coffins to hand; Jane’s shrouded body looked so like a chr
ysalis, I half-expected to hear a dry rattling sound when the men picked it up. Fanny had declined to look upon her sister’s face one last time, and I thought that was as well.
There was no priest or minister; she was a suicide, and this was ground hallowed only by respect. When the last of the dirt had been shoveled in, we stood quiet, waiting, the harsh wind flurrying hair and our garments.
Jamie took a deep breath and a step to the head of the grave. He spoke the Gaelic prayer called the Death Dirge, but in English, for the sake of Fanny and Lord John.
Thou goest home this night to thy home of winter,
To thy home of autumn, of spring, and of summer;
Thou goest home this night to thy perpetual home,
To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber.
Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep, thou beloved, in the Rock of the fold.
The shade of death lies upon thy face, beloved,
But the Jesus of grace has His hand round about thee;
In nearness to the Trinity farewell to thy pains,
Christ stands before thee and peace is in His mind.
Jenny, Ian, Fergus, and Marsali joined in, murmuring the final verse with him.
Sleep, O sleep in the calm of all calm,
Sleep, O sleep in the guidance of guidance,
Sleep, O sleep in the love of all loves,
Sleep, O beloved, in the Lord of life,
Sleep, O beloved, in the God of life!
It wasn’t until we turned to go that I saw William. He was standing just outside the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the burying ground, tall and somber in a dark cloak, the wind stirring the dark tail of his hair. He was holding the reins of a very large mare with a back as broad as a barn door. As I came out of the burying ground, holding Fanny’s hand, he came toward us, the horse obligingly following him.
“This is Miranda,” he said to Fanny. His face was white and carved with grief, but his voice was steady. “She’s yours now. You’ll need her.” He took Fanny’s limp hand, put the reins into it, and closed her fingers over them. Then he looked at me, wisps of hair blowing across his face. “Will you look after her, Mother Claire?”
“Of course we will,” I said, my throat tight. “Where are you going, William?”
He smiled then, very faintly.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and walked away.
In the aftermath of Jane’s death, some things are decided. Claire has told Lord John about Richardson the turncoat and the threat he poses to the Grey family—and to Lord John himself. With the city occupied for the foreseeable future, there’s no chance of re-establishing the printing business; the family will go north, with Fergus and Marsali taking up residence in Charleston, and Jamie and Claire, with Ian, Rachel, Jenny, Fanny, and Germain (at Marsali’s request, she fearing lest he be caught up in war) proceeding on to Wilmington, where they can equip themselves for the final journey up into the mountains—home.
With the city safely occupied, Lord John and Hal can turn their attention once more to personal matters, and they pay a call on the house in Saperville where William has told them the mysterious Amaranthus lives.
It was a good, solid door; Hal flung himself at it shoulder-first and rebounded as though made of India rubber. Barely pausing, he raised his foot and slammed the flat of his boot sole against the panel, which obligingly splintered but didn’t break inward.
Wiping his face on his sleeve, he eyed the door and, catching the flicker of movement through the splintered paneling, called out, “Young woman! We have come to rescue you! Stand well away from the door!
“Pistol, please,” he said, turning to John with his hand out.
“I’ll do it,” John said, resigned. “You haven’t any practice with doorknobs.”
Whereupon, with an air of assumed casualness, he drew the pistol from his belt, aimed carefully, and shot the doorknob to pieces. The boom of the gun evidently startled the room’s inhabitants, for a dead silence fell. He gently pushed the stem of the shattered knob through the door; the remnants of the knob thunked to the floor on the other side, and he pushed the door cautiously open.
Hal, nodding his thanks, stepped forward through the wisps of smoke.
It was a small room, rather grimy, and furnished with no more than a bedstead, stool, and washstand. The stool was particularly noticeable, as it was being brandished by a wild-eyed young woman, clutching a baby to her breast with her other hand.
An ammoniac reek came from a basket in the corner, piled with dirty clouts; a folded quilt in a pulled-out drawer showed where the baby had been sleeping, and the young woman was less kempt than her mother would have liked to see, her cap askew and her pinny stained. Hal disregarded all matters of circumstance and bowed to her.
“Do I address Miss Amaranthus Cowden?” he said politely. “Or is it Mrs. Grey?”
John gave his brother a disparaging look and turned a cordial smile on the young woman.
“Viscountess Grey,” he said, and made a leg in courtly style. “Your most humble servant, Lady Grey.”
The young woman looked wildly from one man to the other, stool still raised, clearly unable to make head or tail of this invasion, and finally settled on John as the best—if still dubious—source of information.
“Who are you?” she asked, pressing her back against the wall. “Hush, darling.” For the baby, recovered from shock, had decided to grizzle.
John cleared his throat.
“Well…this is Harold, Duke of Pardloe, and I am his brother, Lord John Grey. If our information is correct, I believe we are, respectively, your father-in-law and your uncle by marriage. And, after all,” he remarked, turning to Hal, “how many people in the colonies do you think there could possibly be named Amaranthus Cowden?”
“She hasn’t yet said she is Amaranthus Cowden,” Hal pointed out. He did, however, smile at the young woman, who reacted as most women did, staring at him with her mouth slightly open.
“May I?” John reached forward and took the stool gently from her unresisting hand, setting it on the floor and gesturing her to take a seat. “What sort of name is Amaranthus, may I ask?”
She swallowed, blinked, and sat down, clutching the baby.
“It’s a flower,” she said, sounding rather dazed. “My grandfather’s a botanist. It could have been worse,” she added more sharply, seeing John smile. “It might have been Ampelopsis or Petunia.”
“Amaranthus is a very beautiful name, my dear—if I may call you so?” Hal said, with grave courtesy. He wiggled a forefinger at the baby, who had stopped grizzling and was staring at him warily. Hal pulled his officer’s gorget off over his head and dangled the shiny object, close enough for the child to grab—which he did.
“It’s too large to choke him,” Hal assured Amaranthus. “His father—and his father’s brothers—all teethed on it. So did I, come to that.” He smiled at her again. She was still white-faced but gave him a wary nod in response.
“What is the little fellow’s name, my dear?” John asked.
“Trevor,” she said, taking a firmer hold on the child, now completely engrossed in trying to get the demilune gorget—half the size of his head—into his mouth. “Trevor Grey.” She looked back and forth between the Grey brothers, a frown puckering her brows. Then she lifted her chin and said, enunciating clearly, “Trevor…Wattiswade…Grey. Your Grace.”
“So you are Ben’s wife.” A little of the tension left Hal’s shoulders. “Do you know where Ben is, my dear?”
Her face went stiff, and she clutched the baby tighter.
“Benjamin is dead, Your Grace,” she said. “But this is his son, and if you don’t mind…we should quite like to come with you.”
WILLIAM IS FINISHED. With the army, with women, with his family—with one exception. There is one small item of business to be ac
complished before he leaves Savannah. He comes to the warehouse where James Fraser is at work, to take his leave—and ask one question.
“I want to know what happened,” William said. “When you lay with my mother. What happened that night? If it was night,” he added, and then felt foolish for doing so.
Fraser eyed him for a moment.
“Ye want to tell me what it was like, the first time ye lay with a woman?”
Jamie declines entirely to tell William the details of his conception but does tell him what he really wants to know.
“…But that’s not what ye want to know, in any case,” he said. “Ye want to know, did I force your mother. I did not. Ye want to know, did I love your mother. I did not.”
William let that lie there for a moment, controlling his breathing ’til he was sure his voice would be steady.
“Did she love you?” It would have been easy to love him. The thought came to him unbidden—and unwelcome—but with it, his own memories of Mac the groom. Something he shared with his mother.
Fraser’s eyes were cast down, watching a trail of tiny ants running along the scuffed floorboards.
“She was verra young,” he said softly. “I was twice her age. It was my fault.”
And in the course of the conversation, they reach the bottom line:
“Are you sorry?” he said, and made no effort to keep his voice from shaking. “Are you sorry for it, damn you?”
Fraser had turned away; now he turned sharply to face William but didn’t speak at once. When he did, his voice was low and firm.
“She died because of it, and I shall sorrow for her death and do penance for my part in it until my own dying day. But—” He compressed his lips for an instant, and then, too fast for William to back away, came round the table and, raising his hand, cupped William’s cheek, the touch light and fierce.
“No,” he whispered. “No! I am not sorry.” Then he whirled on his heel, threw open the door, and was gone, kilt flying.
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 Page 36