“Here’s water and the saltcellar.” Amaranthus spoke behind him, breathless. “Moira’s gone for Dr. Erasmus. What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh, God, he must have drunk the brandy!” The pulse—if that’s what it was—was getting slower, and Wainwright’s body twisted, mouth gaping open, looking for air. “His heart, I think, maybe … Here, give me it!” He took the carafe from her hand and sloshed some over Wainwright’s face, making him open his eyes, then poured a little into his open mouth. It ran out at the side, and so did the next try.
“Salt?” Amaranthus said, very doubtfully.
“You give it to soldiers with heatstroke,” William said, and having no other possibility to hand, grabbed the saltcellar and spooned salt onto the back of Wainwright’s tongue, trying to wash it down with water.
That worked, to the point that it did make Wainwright come to himself sufficiently as to swallow, but within a few moments a new spasm seized him and he belched everything up in a spew of salt, water … and blood. Not a lot of blood, but the sight alarmed William beyond anything he’d seen so far.
“Brandy,” he said urgently, and sat back on his heels. It was the most popular remedy for almost anything, maybe … He spotted the bottle on the floor and grabbed it, hearing Amaranthus’s cry even as his fingers touched the round black glassy curve.
“Not that one!” she said, and bent to snatch it from his hand. It slipped and rolled across the rug, spilling the last of its aromatic reddish drops and displaying its label: Blut der Märtyrer.
Wainwright made a soft gurgling noise that faded into a sigh, echoed by the faint sputter of his loosened bowels.
There was a deep silence in the room, but beyond it, William heard the faint cries of distant gulls.
“Jesus,” he said softly. “The ship will have sailed by now.”
153
Special Delivery
I WAS IN THE garden, sowing turnips and talking to the bees, who were beginning to float through the air in ones and twos, following the elusive scents of early dogwood and redbud, when I heard the faint rumble of a wagon coming up the road to the dooryard. Then I heard an unmistakable yodeling hail, borne on the breeze.
“That’s John Quincy!” I said to the bees, and laying down my trowel I hurried to the house, rubbing dirt from my hands with my apron.
It was indeed John Quincy, beaming with delight.
“Brung you-all a special delivery, Missus,” he said, and pulled the canvas off the load in his wagon, revealing the excited faces of Germain, Joanie, and Félicité, where they had been hiding, packed in amongst his boxes and barrels like heads of cabbage.
“Grand-mère!” “Grannie!” “Grandma!” The children leapt out of the wagon and rushed to me, all talking at once. I was hugging everyone, overwhelmed by the gangly, long-legged bodies of the girls and the sweetly grubby scent of unwashed children. Germain stood back, smiling shyly, but then Jamie came round the corner of the house and shouted, “Germain!” and Germain broke into a run and leapt into his grandfather’s arms, nearly knocking him flat.
Jamie grunted from the impact, laughed and kissed him, then looked up at John Quincy, the question clear in his eyes. Where are the rest of them? What’s happened?
“Fergus and Marsali send ye their kind love,” John Quincy assured him, interpreting his look. “And they’re all well. They thought as how it might be healthier for the little’uns to have some mountain air, though, so when I passed through Wilmington, they asked would I bring ’em on. Fine company they’ve been, too!”
“Healthier,” Jamie repeated, eyes still fixed on John Quincy, who nodded. Germain’s arms were still locked around Jamie’s waist, his face buried in Jamie’s shirt. He patted the boy’s back. “Aye. I expect so. Come along in and hae a bite and a whet. There’s fresh buttermilk and the girls have made beer.”
GERMAIN HAD CHANGED. Children do, of course, and with astonishing rapidity, but he had taken that abrupt step across the chasm into puberty while he was away, and seeing the new edition was something of a shock. It wasn’t only that he was taller—though he was, by a good four inches—it was that the bones of his face now framed a man’s eyes, and those eyes kept careful watch on his sisters, and on any threat to them.
We’d made a fuss of everyone and brought them and John Quincy in to eat. The girls kissed me, then flung themselves on Jamie with cries of joy, questioning and exclaiming in horror at the bandage round his knee and the raw scar on his arm, the healed and half-healed ones on his chest …
“Grand-père will be fine,” I said firmly, luring them away with molasses cookies. “All he needs is rest.” I flicked my eyebrows upward, indicating that he might decamp to the bedroom, but he smiled and shook his head.
“I’ll do, a nighean. And surely ye dinna think I’d leave whilst ye have a bowlful of sweeties in your hand?”
Fanny poured milk for everyone, smiling—with a special smile for Germain, who went pink in the face and buried his nose in his cup—and I passed out cookies.
“I thank ye kindly, Missus,” John Quincy said, and nibbled his cookie like a mouse, his teeth not allowing for more robust eating. “Germain, did ye give your grandpa and grannie what you brought for ’em?”
“Oh!” Germain clapped a hand to the small leather bag he carried, with a strap across his chest. He gave Jamie a slightly guilty look, but reached into the bag and handed the letter to me, as I was closest. It was written on good rag paper and sealed with green wax.
“For you and Grand-père,” he said, frowning as his voice soared and broke in the middle of the last word. “Grand-père,” he repeated, in a voice as deep as he could make it. I kept my face as grave as possible, and broke the seal.
Milord, Milady—
There was an Event last Month, here in Wilmington, that disturbed us greatly. I will not describe this because while I trust all my Children entirely, it is not at all uncommon for the Seals of Letters to be broken by Accident. Leave it that two Men were killed, and in a way that caused us great Uneasiness. It is somewhat ironic that we left Richmond, feeling it Unsafe, and returned to the familiar Ground of North Carolina.
I wished Marsali and the Children all to return to you, and if Things become worse, she promises that she and the Twins will go to the Ridge. But for now, she says that she will not leave me—and I cannot leave undone the Work of Freedom to which I am called. You put the Sword into my Hand, milord, and I will not lay it down.
Votre fils et votre fille,
Fergus Claudel Fraser
Marsali Jane MacKimmie Fraser
“Oh,” I said softly. Germain’s lips were pressed tight and his eyes were shiny. “Germain,” I said, and kissed his forehead. “We’re so glad to see you. And what a wonderful job you’ve done, seeing your sisters safely all this way.”
“Mph,” he said, but looked somewhat happier.
TWO DAYS LATER, we were up in our bedroom in midafternoon, me attempting to read Manon Lescaut in French while preventing Jamie from executing a quiet sneak to avoid what he referred to as the third level of Purgatory.