He looked away and put a hand on the table, touching the wood only with his fingertips. She felt the solid door against her shoulder blades and understood the need of physical support.
“Mine?” he said softly, looking down at the scatter of papers and brushes on the table.
“I should probably say something polite about ‘only if you want us,’” she said. “But it’s—”
“A bit late for that,” he finished, and looked up at her, his eyes wary but direct. “To lie about the truth, I mean.” His mouth turned up a little at one side, but she wasn’t sure it was a smile. “Particularly when it’s as plain as the nose on your face. And mine.”
She touched her own nose by reflex, and laughed, a little nervously. His nose was hers, and the eyes, too. He was tanned, though, with dark-chestnut hair clubbed in a queue, and while his face was very like her—their—father’s, his mouth had come from somewhere else.
“Well. I do apologize, though. For not telling you.”
He looked at her, expressionless, for the space of four heartbeats; she felt each small thud distinctly.
“I accept your apology,” he said dryly. “Though in all honesty, I’m glad you didn’t tell me.” He paused, then, apparently thinking this might sound ungracious, added, “I wouldn’t have known how to respond to such a revelation. At the time.”
“And you do now?”
“No, I bloody don’t,” he said frankly. “But as my uncle recently pointed out, at least I haven’t blown my brains out. When I was seventeen, I might have.”
A hot flush rose in her cheeks. He wasn’t joking.
“How flattering,” she said, and to avoid looking at him she turned and resumed the ordering of her sketchbox. She heard him snort a little, under his breath, and then his footsteps, close behind her.
“I apologize,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean that with any derogatory reference to—to you, or your family …”
“Your family, you mean,” she said, not turning round. The silverpoint pencil? No, charcoal and graphite; silverpoint was too delicate for this.
He cleared his throat. “I meant it solely with regard to my own situation,” he said formally. “Which has nothing whatever to do with—”
He stopped abruptly. She swung round to look at him and found him staring at the portrait of Jane, propped against the wall, as though he had quite literally seen a ghost. He’d gone pale under his tan and his hands were half clenched.
“Where did you get that?” he said. His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat violently. “That picture. That … girl.”
“I made it,” she said simply. “For Fanny.”
He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them, still fixed on the painting. He turned away, though, and she caught the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, hard.
“Fanny,” he said. “Frances. You know her, then. Where is she? How is she?”
“She’s fine,” Bree said firmly, and, crossing the few feet of floor between them, laid a hand on his arm. “She’s with my parents, in North Carolina.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes, of course—though actually, I haven’t seen her since early September. We stopped for a bit in Charleston—Charles Town,” she corrected, “to visit my … well, I suppose he’s my stepbrother, and Marsali, well, she’s sort of my stepsister, but they’re not exactly …”
The wariness had come back into William’s eyes. He didn’t pull away from her, though, and she felt the warmth of his arm through the cloth of his coat.
“Are these people also my relations?” he asked, as though fearing the answer might be yes.
“I suppose so. Da adopted Fergus—he’s French, but … well, that doesn’t matter. He was an orphan, in Paris. Then later Da married … well, that doesn’t matter, either, but Marsali—she’s Fergus’s wife—and her sister, Joan, they’re Da’s stepdaughters, so … um. And Fergus and Marsali’s children—they have five now, so they’d be …”
William took a step back, detaching himself, and put up a hand.
“Enough,” he said firmly. He pointed a long forefinger at her. “You, I can deal with. Nothing else. Not today.”
She laughed and picked up the ratty shawl she kept in the studio for work during the chilly hours of the morning.
“Not today,” she agreed. “I have to go, William. Shall we—”
“Your commission,” he said, and shook his head as though to settle his wits. “What is it?”
“Well, if you must know, I’m going to the American siege camp to draw pictures of a dead cavalry commander.”
He blinked—and then she saw his eyes lift, his gaze going to the portrait of Jane. The sun had moved, and the picture stood in shadow. She stopped, shawl halfway around her shoulders, startled by the look on his face. It lasted no more than a moment, though, and then he turned and picked up her sketchbox, tucking it under his arm.
“Are portraits of the dead a specialty of yours?” he asked, with a slight edge.
“Not yet,” she replied, with an equal edge. “Give me my sketchbox.”
“I’ll carry it,” he said, and reached to open the door for her. “I’m coming with you.”
94
Outriders
THE FOG OFF THE river had finally lifted, and the sun was warm.
To her relief, the mule Lieutenant Hanson had brought for her was tall and rangy; rawboned and rabbit-eared, but of a friendly disposition. She’d had visions of herself riding a wizened donkey, her feet dragging in the dust, surrounded by large men on big horses, towering above her. As it was, William and John Cinnamon both possessed sound but unremarkable geldings, and the lieutenant himself rode another, smaller mule. The lieutenant wasn’t happy.
“I am not allowing my sister to go unaccompanied into an army camp,” William had said firmly, untethering his own horse outside the Brumbys’ house.
“Mais oui,” Mr. Cinnamon said, and bent to give Brianna a foot up into her saddle.
“But—I will be escorting her! General Lincoln is expecting me to bring him Mrs. MacKenzie!”
“And Mrs. MacKenzie he will get,” she assured the lieutenant, settling her skirts and taking up the reins. “Though apparently with outriders.”
Lieutenant Hanson had given William a look of deep suspicion, and no wonder, she thought. William sat tall and easy in the saddle, and wore a shabby, travel-stained suit that hadn’t been fashionable to start with, but someone with much less experience than Lieutenant Hanson would have recognized him at a glance as a soldier—and not only a soldier. An officer accustomed to command. The fact that William’s accent and bearing were at odds with his very commonplace dress was probably even more upsetting.
The lieutenant’s thoughts were clear to her—and, she thought, probably to William, too, though his face was politely impassive. Was he a British soldier in mufti? A spy? Was he a British soldier looking to turn his coat and take up a commission with the Continentals? She saw Mr. Hanson’s gaze dart to the bulk of John Cinnamon, and away. And what about him?