“They meant well,” I said comfortably. “How is William?”
The underlying delight in her face at being home didn’t ebb, but she shook her head with a small frown of sympathy.
“Poor William. He’s such a good guy, but my God! How does anyone that young manage to have such a complicated life?”
“Your life wasn’t that simple in your early twenties, as I recall …” I untied the ribbon of her shift and placed the flat bell of the Pinard against her chest. “Poor choice of parents, I expect. Deep breath, darling, and hold it.”
She obliged, and I listened. Listened again, moved the Pinard, listened … Lub-DUB, lub-DUB, lub-DUB … Regular as a metronome and a good, strong sound. I put a hand on her solar plexus, feeling the abdominal pulse, just in case, but that was just as strong, the firm flesh of her belly bouncing a little under my fingers with each beat.
“Everything sounds good,” I said, looking up—and thinking as I saw her face how very beautiful she was in this instant. Home. Safe. Alive.
“Are you all right, Mama?” she said, looking at me suspiciously, because my eyes had gone slightly moist.
“Certainly,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Have you had much trouble with the fibrillation?”
“No,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “It happened two or three times on the way to Charleston, and once or twice while we were there. Only twice in Savannah, at least bad enough that I noticed. But I don’t think it’s happened at all—or if it has, only for a few seconds—on the trip back.
“I kept taking the willow bark,” she assured me. “Only after a while, I started grinding the leaves up and making pills out of them with cheese, because the tea made me pee all the time, and I couldn’t stop painting every fifteen minutes to go find a chamber pot. I don’t think cheese would neutralize the willow bark, do you?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “Congratulations—you’ve invented the world’s first cheese-flavored aspirin. They didn’t upset your stomach?”
She shook her head and pulled up the neck of her shift.
“No, but I figured that the cheese might buffer the acid—don’t they tell people with ulcers to drink milk?”
“Yes, that or an antacid. Honey actually works quite well for—” I stopped abruptly.
She’d just tied the ribbon of her shift and I’d reached for the laces to hand them to her, but my left hand was still resting on her abdomen, a little lower down. And I was still feeling the heartbeat.
A faint, fast heartbeat. Tiny and busy and very strong.
LubdubLubdubLubdub …
“Mama? What’s wrong?” Bree had sat up, alarmed. All I could do was shake my head at her.
“Welcome home,” I managed to say to the newest resident of the Ridge. And then I burst into tears.
AMID THE UPROAR of general rejoicing over the news of Brianna’s pregnancy and the bustle of reassorting the population of the house—the Hardmans took over the half-finished third floor, tacking canvas over the windows to keep out the rain, and Roger and Brianna moved into their usual room; Fanny and Agnes, being now Women, were given their own part of the attic for privacy, but continued to sleep in carefree heaps with the younger children, as did the Hardman girls—it was some time before I remembered the note Brianna had given me.
I’d tucked it in the pocket of the apron I’d been wearing at the time and found the note several days later, when I decided that the apron was really too filthy to be sanitary and had to be washed.
The note emerged—a small, neat block of intricately folded paper, with a swan flying across a full moon stamped into the wax that sealed it. It was addressed on the outside to Mrs. James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina, but true to John’s description of Hal’s correspondence habits, had no salutation and a message consisting of slightly fewer words than were strictly necessary. He had signed it, though.
I don’t know what you and my brother did to each other, but evidently you’re a bit more than friends. If I don’t come back from what I’m about to do, please look after him.
PostScriptum: Can you recommend to me some herbal preparation of a lethal nature? For poisoning rats.
Harold, Duke of Pardloe
There was a large H under this, presumably in case I didn’t recognize him by his title. I set the paper gingerly on top of the pie safe, where I could stare at it while kneading bread.
I wanted to laugh, and did smile—but it was a nervous smile. For poisoning rats, forsooth … From what I knew of Hal’s personality, he might be planning murder, suicide—or the actual extirpation of rodents in his cellar. As for what he was about to do …
“The mind boggles,” I said, under my breath, and slapped the elastic dough onto the floury worktable, folding and punching it into a fresh ball. I put this back into the bowl and covered it with a damp cloth, then stood there like a stupefied chicken, blinking at it and wondering what on earth the brothers Grey were up to. I shook my head, put the bowl on the small shelf near the chimney, and left the bread to rise while I walked down the hall to Jamie’s study.
“Have you got a sheet of paper, and a decent quill?” I asked.
“Aye, here.” He’d been leaning back in his chair, brow furrowed in thought, but leaned forward to pluck a quill out of the jar on his desk and handed me a sheet of Bree’s plain rag paper.
I took these with a nod of thanks and, standing by his desk, wrote:
To Harold, Duke of Pardloe
Colonel, 46th Regiment of Foot
Savannah, Georgia
Dear Hal—
Yes.
Foxglove leaves. Mash them and make a strong tea, or just put them in the salad and invite the rats to dinner.
Your erstwhile sister-in-law,
C.
PostScriptum: It’s not a good way to die, even for a rat. Shooting is much more efficient.
Jamie had been watching me write, reading the message upside down without difficulty, and looked up with raised brows as I finished and waved the note in the air to dry it. I put it down and laid Hal’s note beside it, in front of him.
The eyebrows didn’t go down as he read. He looked up at me.
“It’s meant to be a joke,” I said. “The bit about the foxgloves, I mean.”
He made a restrained Scottish noise and pushed the notes back toward me.
“Maybe you’re jokin’, Sassenach—but he isn’t. Whatever he said to ye.”
124
The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
Savannah
May 5, 1780
From Captain M. A. Stubbs, His Majesty’s Army, Ret.
To Mr. John Cinnamon
My dear Mr. Cinnamon,
I cannot tell you with what Emotion I beheld your Portrait. Indeed, my Bosom is so animated with Feeling that I think my Heart must burst, between the Pressures of Guilt and Joy—yet I thank you from the Bottom of that squalid Heart for your gallant Action and the Courage which must lie behind it.
Let me first beg your Forgiveness, though I do not deserve it. I was badly wounded at Quebec and unable to attend to my own Affairs for some Months, by which Time I had been sent back to England. I should have made Inquiries after your Mother, and made some Provision for you both. I did not. I should prefer to think that it was solely Shock and Disability that kept me from this Duty, but the Truth is that I chose to forget, from Selfishness and Sloth. I am not a good Man. I am sorry for it.