They hit the big bend in the road and shot round it to make the turn. Lucille swerved suddenly, shouldering Phineas with a thump that nearly unseated Jamie, and he caught a glimpse of a wagon in the middle of the road, but no time to look, occupied as he was in staying in the saddle and getting Phin back under control.
There were shouts behind them, thundering hooves and two or three gunshots—the whole militia had let exuberance boil over and joined the race, God damn them. Phin was curvetting and jerking, and while it took no more than seconds to bring him in mind of his duty, the whole boiling of men and horses was down upon them, shouting and laughing. He stood in his stirrups to call out, furious—and then saw the wagon that had startled Lucille, its mules twitching and stamping in their traces, but not so spooked that they meant to run.
The rampage had come to a swirling, mud-churning halt round the wagon, and there was a moment’s silence in the shouting. Bree was holding the mules and doing a fine job of it, he saw. Beside her, Roger raised both hands high.
“Don’t shoot,” he said gravely. “We surrender.”
JAMIE POURED THE last of the JF Special whisky into Roger’s cup, picked up his own, and raised it to the company round the dinner table—and scattered over the kitchen, to boot—this including Young Ian’s family as well as his own, Silvia and her lassies, plus Cyrus Crombie, Murdo Lindsay, and Bobby Higgins, the unwed and widowed men who’d come back with him after the militia’s drilling.
“Thanks to God for the safe return of our travelers,” he said. “And”—bowing to Roger Mac—“for the guidance and blessing of our new Minister of Word and Sacrament. Slàinte mhath!”
Roger Mac didn’t blush easily, but the warmth he felt showed in his face as well as his eyes. He opened his mouth—probably to say modestly that he wouldn’t be truly ordained ’til the summer, when the elder ministers could come from the coast—but Bree put a hand on his knee and squeezed to stop him, so the lad just smiled and lifted his cup in response.
“To family,” he said, “and good friends!”
Jamie sat down amid the resultant shouts and poundings on the table that made the dishes dance, smiling too, and warm with it, forbye. The whole room flickered with firelight and the changing faces, lively with talk and food and drink.
He wished that Fergus and Marsali and their bairns were here, too, but Roger had said they’d left Charles Town with the MacKenzies, but then turned north, meaning to have a look at Richmond as a possible place to resume their printing. He said a brief, silent prayer for their safety.
Claire was sat beside him on the bench, wee Mandy sound asleep on her lap, half draped over her arm like a sack of grain and just as heavy. He reached over and lifted the bairn, croodling her against his chest, and Claire bent toward him and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, in gratitude. He saw her hair and Mandy’s for a moment, their mad curls swirled together, and felt such love that he kent if he died just then, it would be fine.
Claire straightened and he looked up then to see Roger Mac, with something of the same look on his own face. Their eyes met with a perfect understanding. And both of them looked down at the tabletop, smiling amid the scattered crusts and bones.
123
And the Beat Goes on …
THE SOJOURNERS—THE ADULT sojourners—slept rather late in the morning. The children, naturally, popped out of their beds at dawn and ran down to infest the kitchen. Children being what they are, Jem and Mandy had made instant friends with Agnes and the Hardman girls. Mandy was enchanted with Chastity, and insisted upon feeding her breakfast in tiny bites, cheeping at her in a motherly tone, as though Chastity were a baby bird, which made Chastity giggle and snort milk through her nose.
Going out to get a fresh pail of milk from the springhouse, I met Brianna drifting downstairs, dressed but obviously not completely awake yet.
“How are you, sweetheart?” I looked her over carefully; she was paler and thinner than she had been when they’d left for Savannah, but a wagon trip of three hundred miles, through God knew what conditions of weather, warfare, and unpredictable food supplies, managing two horses, a husband, and two children whilst sitting on a load of contraband guns disguised as bat guano, would naturally take it out of one. She looked happy, though.
“I can’t believe the house! It’s …” She flung out a hand and looked round, then laughed. “But Da still hasn’t put a door on your surgery.”
“He’ll get around to it.” I glanced at the kitchen, but the buzzing and giggling was peaceful, and I took her arm, towing her toward the doorless surgery. “Let me listen to your heart. Hop up on the table and lie down.”
She looked as though she wanted to roll her eyes, but hopped, nonetheless, athletic as a grasshopper, and eased herself down, closing her eyes and sighing with pleasure at the feel of the newly padded surface.
“Oh, God. I haven’t had a bed this soft since we left Savannah. Certainly not this clean.” She stretched luxuriously, and I could hear the soft pop of her vertebrae. “Lord John sends his love, by the way.”
“Is that what he said?” I said, smiling as I reached for my Pinard.
“No, he said something much more elegant, but that’s what he meant.” She opened one eye, regarding me shrewdly. “And His Grace the Duke of Pardloe begs me to convey his deepest regards. He wrote sort of a note for you.”
“Sort of?” I’d seen one or two missives from Hal, in the course of my brief marriage to John—and I’d heard a lot more about them from John. “Did he sign it with his whole name?”
“Yes, but he was pretty upset. But you know, stiff upper lip and all that.”
I stared at her.
“Upset? Hal? About what? Undo your laces.”
“That,” she said, squinting down her long nose at her fingers on the laces, “is kind of a long story.” She flicked a glance at me. “I take it Da knew that William was in Savannah when he suggested I go?”
“Lord John mentioned that, yes—in the letter he wrote inviting you to come and paint that society woman’s portrait. How did that work out, by the way?”
She laughed.
“I’ll tell you all about Angelina Brumby and her husband later,” she said. She closed one eye, fixing me with the other. “Don’t try and change the subject. William.”
“You met him?” I couldn’t keep the hope out of my voice, and she opened both eyes.
“I did,” she said, and looked down while she pulled the last lace from its loop. “It was … really good,” she said softly. “He came to the Brumbys’ house—Lord John just sent him to see ‘the Lady Painter’; he hadn’t told him about me, either. What is it with those two?” she demanded suddenly, looking up. “Da and Lord John. Why would they do that? Not tell us about each other being in Savannah, I mean.”
“Shyness,” I said, and smiled a little ruefully. “And they both have a sort of delicacy—though you might not think it. They didn’t want to put any burden of expectation on either you or William.” And Jamie, at least, had been very much afraid that his children might not like each other, and his wish that they would was too important to speak of, even to me.