“Blue Light?” she said, and followed, poking hastily at her broad-brimmed straw hat, worn sedately over a cap. God forbid the preacher’s wife should give scandal to the faithful …
The door swung open before Roger could set foot on the step, and a small, bristly man with shaggy gray eyebrows stood eyeing them with no particular look of welcome. He was neatly dressed in butternut homespun breeches and waistcoat, and his linen shirt, while slightly yellowed with age, had been recently ironed.
“Good day to ye, sir.” Roger bowed, and Brianna made a brief bob of respect. “My name is Roger MacKenzie, and this is my wife, Brianna. We’ve come just lately to the Ridge, and—”
“I’d heard.” The man gave them a narrow look, but apparently they passed muster, for the man stepped back, gesturing them in. “I am Captain Charles Cunningham, late of His Majesty’s navy. Come in.”
Brianna felt Roger draw a deep breath. She smiled at Captain Cunningham, who blinked and looked sharply at Roger to see if he approved of this.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, as charmingly as possible, and stepped past Roger and over the threshold. “You have a most remarkable house—so beautiful!”
“I—why—” the captain began, flustered. Before he could rearrange his thoughts, though, a dark Presence manifested itself before the hearth. Now it was Brianna’s turn to blink.
“The preacher, are ye?” said the woman, looking past Bree. Yes, it was certainly a woman, though one nearly as tall as Brianna herself and dressed entirely in black, save for a starched white cap, one of the severe kind, with ear lappets. She was old, but no telling how old; her face was bony and sharp-eyed, and Brianna thought at once of the she-wolf who had suckled Romulus and Remus.
“I am a minister,” Roger said, making her a deep bow. “Your servant, madam.”
“Mmphm. And what sect might ye be, sir?” the woman demanded.
“I am a Presbyterian, ma’am,” Roger said, “but—”
“And you?” the woman demanded, fixing Bree with a sharp blue eye. “D’ye share your husband’s beliefs?”
“I’m Roman Catholic,” Brianna said, as mildly as possible. It wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, but they’d decided early on how to handle such questions. “Like my father—Jamie Fraser.”
That reply normally took the questioner aback and provided enough space for Roger to take control. The non-Catholic tenants’ respect for her father—whether based on personal esteem or merely the fact that he was their landlord—usually made them at least amenable to polite conversation, regardless of their general opinion of Catholics.
The woman—Mrs. Cunningham?—snorted and looked Bree up and down in a way indicating that she’d seen any number of disreputable women in her day and was comparing Brianna unfavorably to the lot of them.
“Phut,” she said. “Popery! We’ve nay truck wi’ such things in this house!”
“Mother,” said the captain, moving toward her. “I think that—”
“Ma’am,” said Roger, stepping in front of Bree in order to intercept the eye of the basilisk being aimed in her direction. “I assure ye, we’ve come neither to proselytize nor to convert ye. I—”
“Presbyterian, ye say?” The eye fixed on him, coldly accusing. “And a minister? How is it, then, that you cannot keep your own wife in order? What sort of minister can ye be, if you let your woman be a disciple of the Pope and roam about sowing and watering the seeds of wickedness and disorder amongst your neighbors?”
“Mother!” Captain Cunningham said sharply. She didn’t flinch, but turned her stern face toward her son.
“You know it’s true,” she informed him. “This lass”—she nodded at Brianna—“says that Jamie Fraser is her sire. That will mean”—she looked directly at Bree—“that your mother is Claire Fraser, aye?”
Bree took a deep breath of her own; the cabin was neat as a pin but quite small, and the supply of air in it seemed to be shrinking by the second.
“She is,” she said evenly. “And she asked me to convey her regards to you, and to say that should any member of your family be ill or have an injury, she would be happy to come and attend them. She’s a healer, and—”
“Phut!” repeated Mrs. Cunningham. “Aye, I daresay she would, but she’ll not get the chance, I assure ye, girl. The instant I heard about the woman, I planted chamomile and holly round the door. Nay witch will set foot in our house, I can tell you!”
Bree felt Roger’s hand on her arm and gave him a cold side-eye. She wasn’t about to lose her temper with this woman. His mouth twitched briefly and he let go, turning not to Mrs. Cunningham but to the captain.
“As I said,” he said, pleasantly, “I’ve not come to proselytize. I’m a respecter of sincere belief. I am curious, though—one of my neighbors mentioned the term ‘Blue Light,’ in reference to you and your family, Captain. I wonder if ye’d be willing to tell me the meaning?”
“Ah,” said the captain, sounding cautiously pleased to be asked something that his mother couldn’t take issue with. “Well, sir, as you ask—it’s the term by which such naval captains as promote the theology of evangelization upon their ships are known. ‘Blue Lights,’ they call us.” He spoke modestly, but his head was proudly raised, as was his chin. His eyes—a paler version of his mother’s—were wary, wondering how Roger might take this.
Roger smiled. “Are ye a theologian of sorts yourself, then, sir?”
“Oh,” said the captain, preening slightly. “I wouldn’t put it so high, but I have written the occasional piece—just my own thoughts on the matter, d’ye see …”
“Are any of them published, sir? I should be most interested to read your views.”
“Oh, well … two or three … just small things … of no great merit, I daresay … were published by Bell and Coxham, in Edinburgh. I’m afraid I’ve no copies with me here”—he glanced at a small, rough table in the corner that bore a small stack of paper along with an inkwell, sander, and jar of quills—“but I am at work upon an endeavor of somewhat larger scale …”
“A book, then?”
Roger sounded honestly interested—probably he actually was, Bree thought—but Mrs. Cunningham was plainly growing impatient with this amiability and meant to nip the conversation in the bud before Roger could seduce the captain into blasphemy or worse.
“The fact remains, Captain, that this gentleman’s good-mother is widely kent to be a witch, and likely his wife is one as well. Send them on their way. We’ve nay interest in their pretensions.”
Roger swung round to face her and drew himself up to his full height, which meant his head nearly brushed the rooftree.
“Mrs. Cunningham,” he said, still polite but letting a bit of steel show through. “I beg ye’ll consider that I am a minister of God. My wife’s beliefs—and her parents’—are as virtuous and moral as those of any good Christian, and I’ll swear to as much with my hand on your own Bible, if ye like.” He nodded at the tiny shelf over the desk, where a Bible took pride of place in a row of smaller books.