“My apologies,” Richardson said, politely. “No doubt you’ll need a bit of water with that.” There was a pitcher of water on the desk; he picked that up and poured it over Grey’s head.
This was actually helpful in washing the stinging brandy mostly out of his eyes, though it did nothing for the coughing and wheezing, which went on for some minutes. When this at last eased, he sat back and wiped his eyes on the backs of his tied hands, then shook his head, sending droplets across the desk. Some of them struck Richardson, who inhaled strongly through his nose, but then apparently regained control of himself.
“As I was saying,” he said, giving Grey a glare, “it’s the Revolution in America that will allow slavery to flourish unchecked here—and then lead, in part, at least, to another bloody war and more cruelty …”
“Yes. Fine.” Grey held up both hands, perforce, palms out. “And you propose to do something about this by moving through time. I understand perfectly.”
“I doubt that,” Richardson said dryly. “But you will, in time. It’s very simple: if the patriots don’t succeed, the American colonies remain under British law. They won’t engage in slave trading, and their existing slaves will all be freed in the next fifty years. They won’t become a slaveholding nation, and the Civil War—that’s going to happen in roughly a hundred years from now, if we don’t manage to put a stop to the present war—won’t happen, thus saving hundreds of thousands of lives, and the long-term consequences of slavery will not … Are you trying to feign sleep again, Lord John? I might be obliged to slap you awake, as the pitcher is empty.”
“No.” Grey shook his head and straightened up a little. “Just thinking. I gather that you’re telling me that you mean to cause the current rebellion to fail so that the Americans remain British subjects, is that right? Yes. All right. How do you mean to do that?” Plainly the man wasn’t going to shut up until he’d got his entire theory laid out—such people never did. He groaned inwardly—his head was aching again, from the coughing—but did his best to look attentive.
Richardson looked at him narrowly, but then nodded.
“As I said—if you remember—my associates and I have pinpointed several key persons whose actions will affect the trajectory of this war. Your brother is one of them. If we do not prevent him, he’ll go to England and deliver a speech to the House of Lords, describing his own experience and observation of the American war, and insisting that while the war might eventually be won, the expense of doing so will be disproportionate to any benefit from retaining the colonies.”
Jesus. If Hal does do that, he’d be doing it for Ben. If the war stops and the Americans are allowed to win, Ben won’t be captured and hanged as a traitor. He won’t be a traitor, as long as he stays in America. Oh, God, Hal … His eyes were watering again, but not from brandy fumes.
“He’s not the only person in a public position to hold that opinion,” Richardson added, “but he’ll be one of the people who, by virtue of chance or destiny, is in the right place at the right time. He’ll give Lord North the excuse he’s been looking for to abandon the war and devote England’s resources to more important ventures. It won’t be only Pardloe, of course—we have a list—”
“Yes, you said that.” Grey was beginning to have an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You said ‘we.’ How the devil many of you are there?”
“You don’t need to know that,” Richardson snapped, and Grey felt a small pulse of satisfaction. The answer was likely either “very few” or “no one but me,” he thought.
Richardson leveled a finger at him.
“All you need to know, my lord, is that your brother must not give that speech. With luck, his concern for your health will be sufficient to stop him. If not, we will be compelled to reveal your character and activities in the most public manner and make the scandal as sensational as possible by having you executed for the crime of sodomy. That should be enough to discredit your brother and anything he says.” He paused dramatically, but Grey said nothing. Richardson stared at him, then gave a short laugh.
“But you will have the comfort of knowing that your death will mean something. You will have saved millions of lives—and, incidentally, prevented the British empire from making the greatest economic blunder in history by abandoning America. That’s more than most soldiers get, isn’t it?”
139
Dreams of Glory
Fraser’s Ridge
September 4, 1780
I WAS HAVING THE delightful sort of dream where you realize that you’re asleep and are enjoying it extremely. I was warm, bonelessly relaxed, and my mind was an exquisite blank. I was just beginning to sink down through this cloudy layer of bliss to the deeper realms of unconsciousness when a violent movement of the mattress under me jerked me into instant alertness.
By reflex, I rolled onto my side and reached for Jamie. I hadn’t achieved the stage of conscious thought yet, but my synapses had already drawn their own conclusions. He was still in bed, so we weren’t under attack and the house wasn’t afire. I heard nothing but his rapid breathing; the children were all right and no one had broken in. Ergo … it was his own dream that had awakened him.
This thought penetrated into the conscious part of my mind just as my hand touched his shoulder. He drew back, but not with the violent recoil he usually showed if I touched him too suddenly after a bad dream. He was awake, then; he knew it was me. Thank God for that, I thought, and drew a deep breath of my own.
“Jamie?” I said softly. My eyes were dark-adapted already; I could see him, half curled beside me, tense, facing me.
“Dinna touch me, Sassenach,” he said, just as softly. “Not yet. Let it pass.” He’d gone to bed in a nightshirt; the room was still chilly. But he was naked now. When had he taken it off? And why?
He didn’t move, but his body seemed to flow, the faint glow of the smoored fire shifting on his skin as he relaxed, hair by hair, his breathing slowing.
I relaxed a little, too, in response, though I still watched him warily. It wasn’t a Wentworth dream—he wasn’t sweating; I could almost literally smell fear and blood on him when he woke from those. They came rarely—but were terrible when they did come.
Battlefield? Perhaps; I hoped so. Some of those were worse than others, but he usually came back from a dream of battle fairly quickly and would let me cradle him in my arms and gentle him back toward sleep. I longed to do it now. An ember cracked on the hearth behind me, and the tiny spurt of sparks lit his face for an instant, surprising me. He looked … peaceful, his eyes dark-wide and fixed on something he could still see.
“What is it?” I whispered, after a few moments. “What do you see, Jamie?”
He shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed. Very slowly, though, the focus came back into them, and he saw me. He sighed once, deeply, and his shoulders went loose. He reached for me and I all but lunged into his arms, holding him tight.
“It’s all right, Sassenach,” he said into my hair. “I’m not … It’s all right.”
His voice sounded odd, almost puzzled. But he meant it; he was all right. He rubbed my back gently between the shoulder blades and I gingerly relaxed a little. He was very warm, despite the chill, and the clinical part of my mind checked him quickly—no shivering, no flinching … his breathing was quite normal and so was his heart rate, easily perceptible against my breast.