“You’re sure, lass?” Jamie touched one of the slips with a forefinger. “I’ve gold enough. It’s just—”
“Just that wee bit more difficult to use,” Roger said, smiling. “Don’t fash yourself; we’re honored to help finance the Revolution.”
39
I Have Returned
To Lord John Grey, in care of the commander of His Majesty’s Forces in Savannah, Royal Colony of Georgia
Dear Lord John—
I’m back. Though I suppose I should say “I have returned!”—more dramatic, you know? I’m smiling as I write this, imagining you saying something about how lack of drama is not one of my failings. Yours either, my friend.
We—my husband, Roger, and our two children, Jeremiah (Jem) and Amanda (Mandy)—have taken up residence on Fraser’s Ridge. (Though it’s more like the residence is taking up existence around us; my father is building his own fortress.) We’ll be here for the foreseeable future, though I know better than most people just how little one can foresee of the future. We’ll leave the details until I see you again.
I would have written to you in any case, but am doing it today because my father received a letter three days ago from a young man named Judah Bixby, who was his aide-de-camp during the Battle of Monmouth (were you involved with that one? If so, I hope you weren’t hurt). Mr. Bixby wrote to tell Da that a friend of his, Dr. Denzell Hunter, had been captured in New York and is presently being held in the military prison at Stony Point.
Mama says you will know perfectly well why I’m writing to you about Denzell Hunter, rather than she doing it. Da says no one needs to write to you, as Dr. Hunter’s wife will surely have written to her father (your brother, if I have things straight?) already, but I agree with Mama that it’s better to write, just in case Mrs. Hunter doesn’t know where her husband is, or can’t write to you for some other reason.
All my best to you and your family—and do please give my best to your son William. I look forward to meeting him—and you, of course!—again.
(Does one sign a letter “Your most obedient, humble, etc.” if one is a woman? Surely not …)
Yours truly,
Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie (Mrs.)
P.S. Enclosed are a few sketches that I made of New House (as my father calls it) in its present state of construction, as well as a brief look at the members of my family, in their present states. (How long has it been since you’ve seen either of my parents?) I’m pretty sure you can tell who is who (should that be “who is whom”? If so, please make the grammatical adjustment for me).
40
Black Brandy
Savannah
M, THE DUKE OF Pardloe wrote, and then stopped. Dipping his quill again, he carefully inserted the word “Dear,” though he was obliged to angle it upward in order to squeeze it onto the page, having begun his writing too far to the left. He stared at the blank page for a moment, then looked up to find his younger brother staring at him, one eyebrow raised.
“What the devil do you want?” he snapped.
“Brandy,” John answered mildly. “And so do you, from the look of it. What the devil are you doing?” Crossing the room, he went down on one knee to rummage in his campaign chest, emerging with a round-bellied black bottle that sloshed in a reassuringly weighty fashion.
“That’s brandy? Are you sure?” Hal nevertheless reached round the small table on which he’d perched his writing desk, and dipped into his own chest for a pair of dented pewter cups.
“Stephan von Namtzen said it was.” John shrugged and, coming to the table, picked up Hal’s penknife and started removing the wax seal from the bottle. “You recall our friend the Graf von Erdberg? He says it’s black brandy, to be exact.”
“Is it really black?” Hal asked, interested.
“Well, the bottle is, though I gather from his letter that it’s called that colloquially because it’s made by a small group of monks who live on the edge of the Black Forest. Its real name is something German …” Discarding the last shreds of wax, he held the bottle up close to his eyes and squinted at the handwritten label. “Blut der Märtyrer. Blood of Martyrs.”
“How jolly.” Hal held out his cup, and the rich aroma of what was plainly good brandy, if perhaps a little more red than usual—he squinted into his cup—filled his nose. “You’ve kept up your German, then?”
John glanced up from his own cup, raising the other eyebrow.
“I’ve scarcely had time to forget it,” he said. “It’s barely a year since Monmouth and bloody Hessians coming out of every crack in the earth. Though I suppose,” he added casually, glancing away, “that you mean have I seen our friend the graf lately. I haven’t. This came with a brief note saying that Stephan was in Trier, God knows why.”
“Ah.” Hal took a sip of the brandy and closed his eyes, both to enhance the taste and to avoid looking at John.
The brandy began to settle in John’s limbs, the warmth of it softening his thoughts. And, just possibly, his judgment.
“Have you decided to write to Minnie, then?” John’s voice was casual, but the question wasn’t.
“I haven’t.”
“But you—oh. I see, you mean you haven’t quite decided, which is why you were hovering over that sheet of paper like a vulture waiting for something to die.”
Hal opened his eyes and sat up straight, fixing John with the sort of look meant to shut him up like a portmanteau. John, though, picked up the bottle and refilled Hal’s cup.
“I know,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t want to, either. But you think Ben’s really dead, then? Or are you writing to her about Dottie and her husband?”
“No, I bloody don’t.” The cup tilted in Hal’s hand. He saved it with no more than a splash of brandy landing on his waistcoat, which he ignored. “I don’t believe it, and I think Mrs. MacKenzie is likely right about Dottie writing to me. I want to wait until we hear from her before I alarm Minnie.”
John watched this, his own expression deliberately blank.
“It’s only that I’ve never seen you begin any letter, to anyone, with the salutation ‘Dear.’”
“I don’t need to,” Hal said irritably. “Beasley does all that nonsense when it’s official, and if it’s not, whoever I’m writing to already knows who they are and what I think of them, for God’s sake. Pointless affectation. I do sign them,” he added, after a brief pause.
John made a noncommittal hm noise and took a swig of brandy, holding it meditatively in his mouth. The quill had made an inky spot on the table where his brother had dropped it. Seeing it, Hal stuffed the quill back into its jar and rubbed at the mark with the side of his hand.
“It was just—I couldn’t think how to begin, dammit.”
“Don’t blame you.”
Hal glanced at the sheet of paper, with its accusatory salutation.
“So I … wrote … ‘M.’ Just to get started, you know, and then I had to decide whether to go on and write out her name, or leave it at ‘M.’ … So while I was thinking …” His voice died away, and he took a quick, convulsive swallow of the Blood of Martyrs.