He poked up the remaining embers, stuffed a couple of chunks of fat pine and a longer-burning hickory log in among them with a bit of fresh kindling, and stood there in his shirt, arms folded tight against the chill of the room, waiting to be sure the fresh wood had caught. Still snug in bed, I blinked drowsily, appreciating the sight of him. The rising light of the new fire glowed behind him and flickered on the stones of the mantel, making the shadow of his long body visible through the linen. The touch of that body was still vividly imprinted on my skin, and I began to feel somewhat less sleepy.
When he was sure the new fire was well underway, he nodded and muttered something—whether to himself or the fire, I couldn’t tell; there were Highland fire charms, and he undoubtedly knew a few. Satisfied, he turned, crawled back into bed, wrapped his long cold limbs around me, sighing as he relaxed into my warmth, farted, and went blissfully back to sleep.
By the time I woke up again, he was gone, and the room was warm and smelled pleasantly of the ghosts of turpentine and fire. I could hear the wind whining round the corners of the house, though, and the creak of the new timbers and lath of the third-floor walls just above us. Another storm was coming; I could smell the sharp scent of ozone in the air.
Fanny and Agnes were up; I could hear the muffled sound of their voices down in the kitchen, amid heartening sounds of breakfast being made. Agnes had agreed, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, to go to Charles Town with the Cunninghams, and then to London, by which time she would theoretically have made up her mind as to which of the two lieutenants would be her husband. The captain had survived, but had had a setback that delayed their departure. He had rallied but was still in fragile health, and Jamie had told him that he was welcome to stay until the roads were safer. There was no chance of his riding; his legs were still paralyzed, though he did have sensation in his feet and I thought I’d seen a faint twitch of his left toe.
Silvia and the girls were up, too, though only a faint murmur of voices reached me from the heights of the third floor. Jamie had considered giving them one of the Loyalists’ forfeited cabins, but he, Jenny, and Ian had all thought it might be bad luck for Quakers to inherit the spoils of war, as it were. He and Ian and Roger would build them a new cabin, before the winter came. As for me, I was more than happy to have three more females able to cook on the premises, though the Hardmans’ expertise didn’t extend to much beyond roasting potatoes and making stews.
I wasn’t picky. I was still reveling in the novelty of having several someone elses who would deal with the constant juggling act of turning food into meals, to say nothing of helping with things like soap and candle making. And laundry …
Roger and Bree had gone to Salem with the wagon, to trade for pottery and woven cloth—Bree hadn’t yet had time or space to begin building a loom—but there were plenty of willing hands available for the domestic chores.
I splashed my face with cold water, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, feeling more alert as I started planning the day. Jamie hadn’t gone hunting this morning; I could hear his voice downstairs, exchanging pleasantries with the girls. If he meant to spend the day at home, perhaps I could induce him to retire with me for a short rest after lunch …
How did he do that? I wondered. How could just the sound of his voice, no words, just a soft rumble, make me recall the warm dark of our predawn bed?
I was still thinking about it, in a vague sort of way, when I reached the kitchen, to find him licking the last drops of milk off his spoon.
“How dissipated of you,” I said, sitting down opposite him with a small pot of honey and half a loaf from the pie safe. “Milk on your parritch?” Most Highland Scots turned up their long noses at such indulgence, preferring the stern virtue of oatmeal unadorned by anything more than a pinch of salt. “Jenny would disown you.”
“Likely,” he said, undaunted at the prospect. “But wi’ Ban and Ruaidh both in calf, we’ve milk to spare and it wouldna be right to let it go to waste, now, aye? Is that honey?” His eyes had focused on the honey pot as soon as I set it down.
I broke off a small chunk of bread, carefully spread a dab of the pale honey onto it, and handed it to him.
“Taste that. Not like that!” I said, seeing him about to engulf the bite. He froze, the bread halfway to his mouth.
“How am I meant to taste it, if I’m not to put it in my mouth?” he asked warily. “Have ye thought of some novel method of ingestion?” Fanny giggled behind me. Agnes, setting a platter of fried bacon at his elbow, squinted at “ingestion,” but didn’t say anything. He lifted the morsel to his nose and sniffed it cautiously.
“Slowly. You’re meant to savor it,” I added reprovingly. “It’s special.”
“Oh.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Well, it’s got a fine, light nose.” He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “And a nice bouquet, to be sure … lily o’ the valley, burnt sugar, something a wee bit bitter, maybe …” He frowned, concentrating, then opened his eyes and looked at me. “Bee dung?”
I made a grab for the bread, but he snatched it away, stuffed it in his mouth, closed his eyes again, and assumed an expression of rapture as he chewed.
“See if I ever give you any more sourwood honey!” I said. “I’ve been saving that!”
He swallowed, blinked, and licked his lips thoughtfully.
“Sourwood. Is that no what ye gave Bobby Higgins last week to make him shit?”
“That’s the leaves.” I waved at a tall jar on top of the simples cabinet. “Sarah Ferguson says that sourwood honey is monstrously good and monstrously rare, and that the folk in Salem and Cross Creek will give you a small ham for a jar of it. I sent some with Bree.”
“Will they, so?” He eyed the honey pot with more respect. “And it’s from your own wee stingards, is it?”
“Yes, but the sourwood trees only bloom for about six weeks, and I’ve only the two hives set near them, so far. I took this as soon as the trees stopped blooming. That’s why it’s so—”
A thunder of feet coming onto the porch and in the front door drowned me out, and the air was filled with excited boys’ voices shouting, “Grandpa!” “A Mhaighister!” “Mr. Fraser!”
Jamie stuck his head out into the corridor.
“What?” he said, and the running feet stumbled to a ragged halt in a storm of exclamations and pantings, in the midst of which I picked out one word: “Redcoats!”
JAMIE DIDN’T WAIT to hear more. He got up, pushed the boys out of the way, and headed for the front door.
I ran into the surgery, snatched a big, curved amputation knife from the cupboard, and rushed after Jamie and the boys. Jem, Aidan, and two friends were still panting and explaining, in a confused gabble. “There’s two of ’em!” “No, there’s three!” “But t’other one, he’s not a soldier—he—” “He’s a black man, a Mhaighister!”
A black man? That would be nothing notable anywhere in the Carolinas—save in the high mountains. There were a few free blacks in Brownsville, and small settlements that included people of mixed blood, but—a black man in a red coat?