“Your daughter-in-law, my son, my presumed son, your son, and, you know, minor bits of regimental business.” He turned round to face Hal, dropping the chain of his gorget over his head. Hal had the grace to look slightly abashed, though he snorted.
“You need a valet. I’ll find you one. Come on.”
Prévost’s headquarters were in a large mansion on the edge of St. James Square, no more than a ten-minute walk, and the day was fine. It was warm and sunny, with a light breeze blowing toward the sea, and it was also Market Day. The brothers Grey made their way along Bay Street toward the City Market, through a throng of people and the bracing smells of vegetables and fresh fish.
“Here’s a question for you,” John said, dodging a woman with a tray of dripping oysters suspended from her neck and a bucket of beer in each hand. “You know Jamie Fraser. Do you think he’d be susceptible to money?”
Hal frowned.
“In what way? Everyone’s susceptible to money, under the right circumstances. I assume you don’t mean bribery.”
“No. In fact, I’m concerned that what I’m proposing to him shouldn’t strike him as bribery.”
Hal’s brows went up in surprise. “What the devil do you want him to do?”
“Give his assent—and encouragement—to the idea of his daughter coming to Savannah in order to paint a portrait. I’ve said I’d make sure she’s decently paid for it, but I—”
“A portrait of you?” Hal gave him an amused glance. “I’d like to see it. A present for Mother, or are you courting?”
“I hadn’t had either of those prospects in mind. The portrait isn’t to be of me, in any case; Alfred Brumby wants a picture made of his new wife.”
Hal grinned. “The fair Angelina?”
John smiled, too. Young Mrs. Brumby was good-looking, but there was something about her that simply made people want to laugh.
“If anyone is capable of capturing Mrs. Brumby’s ineffable nature on canvas, it might be Brianna MacKenzie.”
“But that’s not why you want to lure the young woman out of her aerie, is it? There must be other portrait painters in the colony of Georgia, surely?”
They were approaching Prévost’s headquarters; the shouts and measured thuds of drilling came faintly through the morning mist from the open ground at the end of Jones Street. Redcoats were beginning to thicken in the crowd of people thronging up Montgomery Street.
“You mistake my purpose,” John said, turning sideways to allow a hurrying lady with wide panniers, a parasol, two servants, and a small dog to pass him. “Your pardon, madam … And I hope Jamie Fraser does as well.”
Hal glanced sharply at him but was prevented from speaking by the passage of two tanner’s lads, scarves wrapped round their faces and carrying an enormous basket between them, from which the eye-watering reek of dog ordure emerged like an evil djinn.
Hal apparently had got a lungful of the stuff, and coughed until his eyes watered. John eyed him; his brother was prone to attacks of wheezing and shortness of breath. In this instance, though, he got control of himself, spat several times, pounded his chest with a fist, and shook himself, breathing heavily.
“What … purpose?” he said.
“I mentioned my son? Brianna Fraser is William’s half sister.”
“Oh. So she would be. I hadn’t thought of that.” Hal adjusted his hat, disarranged by the coughing fit. “He’s not met her?”
“Briefly, a few years ago—but he had no notion who she was. I know the young woman quite well, however, and while she is quite as obstinate as either one of her parents, she has a kind heart. She would be curious about her brother—and if there’s anyone who could talk sensibly to him about his … difficulties … it would likely be her.”
“Hmph.” Hal considered that for a few steps. “Are you sure that’s wise? If she’s Fraser’s daughter—wait, you said ‘both her parents.’ Is she also Claire Fraser’s daughter?”
“She is,” John said, in a tone indicating that this was probably all his brother required to know about Brianna. Apparently it was, for Hal laughed.
“She may persuade him to turn his coat and fight for the rebels, might she not?”
“If there is one trait that Jamie Fraser has succeeded in passing to all his offspring,” John said dryly, “it’s stubbornness. Forceful as she is, I doubt she could persuade William of anything whatever.”
“Then—”
“I want him to stay,” John blurted. “Here. At least until he’s made up his mind. About everything.” “Everything” encompassing William’s paternity, his career with the army, his title, and the estates to whose control he had just ascended, having reached his majority.
“Oh.” Hal stopped dead, looking at his brother, then glanced down the street. Prévost’s headquarters stood at the far corner, a large gray house with the normal trickle of officers and civilians going in and out under the eyes of the two soldiers guarding the door.
Hal took John’s arm and pulled him into the side street, less crowded.
John’s heart was thumping. He hadn’t articulated his fears, even to himself, but the letter to Jamie had brought them clearly to the surface of his mind.
Hal looked at him, one dark brow arched.
John closed his eyes and took a breath deep enough to keep his voice level.
“I have dreams,” he said. “Not every night. Often, though.”
“Of William.” It wasn’t a question, but John nodded and opened his eyes. Hal’s face was attentive, his eyes direct and bloodshot. “Dead?” Hal asked. “Lost?”
John nodded again, wordless. He cleared his throat, though, and found a few.
“Isobel told me that he was lost once, at Helwater, when he was three or so—wandering alone in a fog on the fells. Sometimes I see that. Sometimes … other things.”
William had always told him stories, written him letters. Of being trapped in Quebec during a long, cold winter. Hunting, lost overnight, feet freezing, the eerie light of the Arctic sky thrumming overhead, falling through ice into dark water … To William, this was mere adventure, and John enjoyed hearing about it—but in the dark of his dreams, such things came back twisted, cold as ghosts and filled with foreboding.
“And battle,” Hal said, almost under his breath. He was leaning back against the brick wall of a tavern, his eyes on the polished toes of his boots. “Yes. You see those things when you’re a father. Even when you’re not asleep.”
John nodded but didn’t say anything. He felt a bit better, to have spoken. Of course Hal thought such things. Henry badly wounded in battle, and Benjamin … He thought of William, digging up a grave in the dark, expecting to find his cousin’s body …. He’d dreamed of digging up a grave himself, and finding William in it.
Hal heaved a sigh and straightened up.
“Tell Fraser that William is here,” he said quietly. “Just mention it, casually. Nothing more. He’ll send the girl.”
“You think so?”
Hal glanced at him and took his elbow, steering him out of the alley.