“Told who what?” I said, picking up a water bucket and sloshing it over the muddy turnips. “Get another bucket, will you?”
She did, heaved the water into the tub, then set down the bucket, looked up at me, and said seriously, “I know what ‘swived’ means.”
I felt as though she’d just kicked me sharply in the shin.
“Do you, indeed?” I managed, picking up my working knife. “I, um … suppose you would.” She’d spent half her short life in a brothel in Philadelphia; she probably knew a lot of other words not in the vocabulary of the average twelve-year-old.
“It’s too bad,” she said, turning to fetch another bucket; the boys had filled all of them this morning; there were six left. “I like his lordship a lot. He wath—was so good to me and—and Jane. I like Mr. Fraser, too,” she added, though with a certain reserve.
“I’m sure he appreciates your good opinion,” I said gravely, wondering, What the hell? “And yes, his lordship is a very fine man. He’s always been a good friend to us.” I put a bit of emphasis on the “us,” and saw that register.
“Oh.” A small frown disturbed the perfect skin of her forehead. “I thup-suppose that makes it worse. That you went to bed with him,” she explained, lest I have missed her point. “Men don’t like to share a woman. Unless it’s an ambsace.”
“An ambsace?” I was beginning to wonder how I might extricate myself from this conversation with any sort of dignity. I was also beginning to feel rather alarmed.
“That’s what Mrs. Abbott called it. When two men want to do things to a girl at the same time. It costs more than it would to have two girls, because they often damage her. Mostly just bruises,” she added fairly. “But still.”
“Ah.” I paused for a moment, then picked up the last bucket and finished filling the tub. The smaller turnips bobbed on the surface of the water, hairy roots shedding swirls of dirt. I looked down at Fanny, who met my eyes with an expression of calm interest. I’d really rather she didn’t share her interesting thoughts with anyone else on the Ridge, and I was reasonably sure that Jamie would feel the same.
“Come sit down with me inside for a moment, will you, Fanny?” Not waiting for acquiescence, I beckoned her to follow me back to the house. I pushed aside the canvas sheet that was substituting for the front door of our emergent house and led the way into the cavernous space of the kitchen. The canvas covering the door stirred gently with the sound of sails, and the space had a soothing dimness, broken only by light from the open back door and the two windows that looked out onto the well and the garden path.
We had a table and benches, but in addition there were two serviceable three-legged stools, one rather decrepit wooden chair that Maggie MacAllan had given me in payment for midwifing the birth of her granddaughter, two small kegs of salt fish, and several packing cases that hadn’t yet been broken down for their lumber, whose presence increased the ambient illusion of being in the hold of a ship under sail. I motioned Fanny to one stool and took the other, sighing with the pleasure of taking the weight off my feet.
Fanny sat, too, looking mildly apprehensive, and I smiled, in hopes of reassuring her.
“You really needn’t worry about William,” I said. “He’s a very resourceful young man. He’s just … a bit confused, I think. And maybe angry, but I’m sure he’ll get over that soon.”
“Oh,” Fanny said slowly, “you mean nobody told him that Mr. Fraser is his father, but then he found out?” She frowned at her clasped hands, then looked up at me. “I think I’d be angry, too. But why is Mr. Fraser angry? Did he give William away?”
“Ah … not exactly.” I looked at Fanny in some concern. Within a very few minutes, without knowing it, she’d managed to touch on a good many of the family secrets, including the very hot potato of my relations with Lord John.
“Mr. Fraser was a Jacobite—do you know what that means?”
She nodded uncertainly.
“The Jacobites were supporters of James Stuart, and fought against the King of England,” I explained. “They lost that war.” A hollow place opened under my ribs as I spoke. So few words for such a shattering of so very many lives.
“Mr. Fraser went to prison afterward; he wasn’t able to take care of William. Lord John was his friend, and he raised William as his son, because neither of them thought that Mr. Fraser would ever be released, and Lord John thought that he would never have children of his own.” I caught the distant echo of Frank’s advice, like a spider’s whisper behind the empty hearth: Always stick to the truth, as far as possible …
“Was Lord John wounded?” Fanny asked. “In the war?”
“Wounded—oh, because he couldn’t have children, you mean? I don’t know—he was certainly wounded, though.” I’d seen his scars. I cleared my throat. “Let me tell you something, Fanny. About myself.”
Her eyes widened in curiosity. They were a soft light brown gone almost black as her pupils went large in the shadows of the kitchen.
“I fought in a war, too,” I said. “Not the same war; another one, in a different country—before I met either Mr. Fraser or Lord John. I was a—healer; I took care of wounded men, and I spent a lot of time among soldiers, and in bad places.” I took a breath, fragments of those times and places coming back. I knew the memories must show on my face, and I let them.
“I’ve seen very bad things,” I said simply. “I know you have, too.”
Her chin trembled slightly and she looked away, her soft mouth drawing in on itself. I reached out slowly and touched her shoulder.
“You can say anything to me,” I said, with slight emphasis on “anything.” “You don’t ever have to tell me—or Mr. Fraser—anything that you don’t want to. But if there are things that you want to talk about—your sister, maybe, or anything else—you can. Anyone in the family—me, Mr. Fraser, Brianna, or Mr. MacKenzie … You can tell any of us anything you need to. We won’t be shocked—” Actually, we probably would be, I thought, but no matter. “And perhaps we can help, if you’re troubled about anything. But—”
She looked up at that, instantly alert, unsettling me a little. This child had had a lot of experience in detecting and interpreting tones of voice, probably as a matter of survival.
“But,” I repeated firmly, “not everyone who lives on the Ridge has had such experiences, and many of them have never met anyone who has. Most of them have lived in small villages in Scotland, many of them aren’t educated. They would be shocked, perhaps, if you told them very much about … where you lived. How you and your sister—”
“They’ve never met whores?” she said, and blinked. “I think some of the men must have.”
“Doubtless you’re right,” I said, trying to keep my grip on the conversation. “But it’s the women who talk.”
She nodded soberly. I could see a thought come to her; she looked away for an instant, blinked, then looked back at me, a thoughtful squint to her eyes.
“What?” I said.