“Contemplative … I’ll take your word for it. I don’t think you’ve ever met Denzell Hunter, have you?”
She shook her head. “No. Ian mentioned him once or twice, I think—a Quaker doctor? Isn’t he Rachel’s brother?”
“That’s him. To keep it to the essentials for the moment, he’s a wonderful doctor, a good friend of mine, and besides being Rachel’s brother, he’s married to the daughter of the Duke of Pardloe—who happens to be Lord John Grey’s elder brother.”
“Lord John?” Her face, already glowing with light, broke into a brilliant smile. “My favorite person—outside the family. Have you heard from him? How is he?”
“Fine, to the best of my knowledge. I saw him briefly in Savannah a few months ago—the British army is still there, so it’s likely he is, too.” I’d thought out what to say, in hopes of avoiding anything awkward, but a script is not a conversation. “I was thinking that you might write to him.”
“I suppose I might,” she said, tilting her head and looking at me sideways, one red brow raised. “Right this minute?”
“Well … soonish. The thing is, Jamie’s just had a letter from one of his aides—from the army—I’ll tell you about that later. Anyway, the gist of it is that Denzell Hunter was captured by the British army and is being held in a military prison camp at Stony Point.”
“Captured doing what?” She sat up straighter and set her lap desk aside. She hadn’t been drawing a sentimental portrait of her daughter, I saw—it looked like a floor plan of something, embellished with small marginal sketches of apes. “You said he’s a Quaker?”
I sighed. “Yes. He’s what they call a Fighting Quaker, but he doesn’t fight. He joined the Continental army as a surgeon, though, and was evidently scooped up off a battlefield somewhere.”
“Sounds like an interesting man,” she remarked, the brow still high. “What does he have to do with me writing to Lord John?”
I explained, as briefly as possible, the connections and possibilities, concluding, “So I—we—want to see that the duke knows where Denny is. Even if he can’t get him released directly—and knowing Hal, I wouldn’t bet against him doing exactly that—he can make sure that Denny’s well treated, and naturally he’d find Dottie and see she’s taken care of.”
Bree was watching me with a curiously analytic look on her face, as though she were estimating the shear forces on the girders of a bridge.
“What?” I said. “John was a good friend of yours. Before, I mean. I should think you’d want to write to him in any case.”
“Oh, I do,” she assured me. “I’m just wondering why you aren’t writing to him. Or for that matter, why aren’t you writing to ‘Hal’? Since you’re on first-name terms, I mean.”
Damn. I couldn’t outright lie; questions of honesty aside, she’d detect it instantly. Stick to the truth as much as possible, then …
“Well, it’s Jamie,” I said reluctantly. It was, but I felt some scruples about dropping him in it with Bree. “He had a falling-out with the Greys a little while ago. They’re not on speaking terms, and if I were to write to John or Hal, he’d … take it amiss,” I ended, rather weakly.
Being her father’s daughter, she instantly put her finger on the crux of the matter.
“What sort of falling-out?” she asked. The analytical look had gone, subsumed by curiosity.
Well, that was it. I could either say, “Ask your father,” and she bloody would, or I could bite the bullet and hope for the best. While I was still trying to make up my mind, though, she went on to the next thought.
“If Da would mind about your writing to Lord John, why wouldn’t he mind me doing it?” she asked reasonably. She’d laid the drawing on the counter, where I could see it clearly. The little apes all looked like Mandy.
“Because he theoretically wouldn’t know I’d told you there was a falling-out to begin with.” And with luck, he might not find out you’d written it. The room was warm with sunlight, but I was feeling uncomfortably hot, my clothes prickling and wilting on my skin.
“Okay,” she said, after a moment’s thought, and reached for a quill. “I’ll do it right now. But”—she said, pointing the quill at me—“unless you tell me what this is all about, I’m asking Lord John. He’ll tell me.” He bloody well might. He’d told Jamie, for God’s sake …
“Fine,” I said, and closed my eyes. “He married me, when we thought Jamie was dead.” Total silence. I opened my eyes to find Bree staring at me, both eyebrows raised, her face completely blank with incomprehension. And then I remembered my conversation with Fanny. I thought she would keep quiet about the conclusions she’d drawn. But if she didn’t …
“And I slept with him. But it’s not what you think …”
At this inauspicious moment, Jamie walked past the window with Sean McHugh. They were talking, both of them looking upward, Jamie pointing at something on the upper story. Brianna made a noise as though she’d tried to swallow a pawpaw whole, and Jamie glanced in at us, startled.
I felt as though I had swallowed a hand grenade, but I hastily pounded Brianna on the back, making an “It’s nothing” gesture at Jamie. He frowned, but McHugh said something and he glanced away, then back at me, still frowning. I waved him away more firmly, but he said, “A moment, a charaid,” over his shoulder to Sean and strode toward the window.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered under my breath, and thought I heard a strangled laugh from Brianna.
“Is the lass all right?” Jamie asked, thrusting his head through the window and lifting his chin at Bree, who was huddled on her stool, gasping a little.
“I—fine,” she croaked. “Swallowed s-something …” She waved feebly at the counter, where a mug of something sat among the scatter of dried herbs and crockery.
He lifted one eyebrow but didn’t pursue the matter, instead turning to me.
“Can ye come up? Geordie’s smashed his thumb wi’ a hammer. He says it’s naught, but it looks sideways to me.”
I felt as though I’d just run a mile on a full stomach.
“All right,” I said, wiping my sweaty palms on my apron. I glanced over my shoulder. “Bree—I’ll be right back.” The scarlet was fading from her face.
“Mm-hm.” She coughed and took a deep breath. “Don’t fall off the roof.”
BRIANNA PICKED UP the sketch of a potential schoolhouse and stared at it for a minute, but she wasn’t seeing windows and benches. She was—with a mixture of horror and profound curiosity—envisioning her mother in bed with Lord John Grey.
“How on earth did that happen?” she asked the sketch. She set it down again and turned to look out the window, now empty and tranquil, with its view of the long slope that fell away below the house, filled with flowering grass and clumps of dogwood. “And how in bloody hell am I ever going to be able to look John Grey in the eye next time I see him?”