I could see quite a few similarities between John Quincy Myers and a bee, in terms of gathering news, and smiled at the thought. I wondered if he’d be offended at finding out that someone had kept a juicy piece of gossip from him, but on the whole, I doubted that anyone did. He had a gentleness that invited confidence, and I was sure that he kept many people’s secrets.
“Well, then.” The sun was coming down fast now; the damp scent of the plants was strong and rays of light knifed between the palisades, vivid amid the rustling shadows of the garden. “Best get on with it, I suppose.”
Given the disparate examples offered by John Quincy, I was fairly sure I could roll my own with regard to the blessing. We filled the four dishes with water and put them under the legs of the stool, to keep ants from climbing up to the hive, drawn by the scent of honey. A few of these voracious insects were already making their way up the stool’s legs and I brushed them away with a fold of my skirt—my first gesture of protection toward my new bees.
John Quincy smiled and nodded at me as I straightened up, and I nodded back, reached out a tentative hand through the veil of bees coming in to the hive, and touched the smooth twisted straw of the skep. It might have been imagination, but I thought I could feel a vibration through my skin, just below the threshold of hearing, a strong and certain hum.
“Oh, Lord,” I said—and wished I knew the name of the patron saint of bees, for surely there must be one—“please make these bees feel welcome in their new home. Help me to protect and care for them, and may they always find flowers. Er … and quiet rest at the end of each day. Amen.”
“That’ll do just fine, Mrs. Claire,” John Quincy said, and his voice was low and warm as the hum of the bees.
We left, closing and fastening the gate carefully behind us, and made our way down, out of the shadow of the towering chimney and along the eastern wall of the house. It was getting dark fast now, and the cooking fire leapt up as we came into the kitchen, shedding light on my waiting family. Home.
“Speaking of news,” I said casually to Myers, “you said you’d brought letters. If one is for Jamie, who are the others for?”
“Why, one for the boy,” he said, skillfully skirting the hole Jamie had dug for the new privy. “Mr. Fergus Fraser’s boy, Germain, I mean. And t’other for some’un called Frances Pocock. You got somebody here by that name?”
14
Mon Cher Petit Ami
I WAS NO LONGER amazed by the quantity of food required to feed eight people at a time, but seeing vast, steaming mounds of rabbit, quail, trout, ham, beans, succotash, onions, potatoes, and cress vanish within minutes into the bellies of twenty-two gave me a fresh qualm of apprehension about the coming winter.
Granted, it was still summer, and with luck, we would have good weather through the autumn … but that was only three or four months, at most. We had almost no livestock, other than the horses, Clarence the mule, and a couple of goats for milk and cheese.
Jamie and Bree spent half their time hunting, and we had a good supply of venison and pork hanging in the smoke shed at the moment, but even with hunting, trapping, and fishing by all hands, we’d likely need to trade for meat (oh, and butter!) before snowfall—and someone would have to go down to Salem or Cross Creek and bring back oatmeal—lots of oatmeal—rice, beans, parched corn, flour, salt, sugar … Meanwhile, I’d need to plant, pick, dig, and preserve like a mad thing in order to have enough to keep us from scurvy: turnips, carrots, and potatoes in the root cellar, along with garlic, apples, onions, mushrooms, and grapes hung to dry, tomatoes to be preserved by sun-drying or immersion in oil, if the bloody hornworms didn’t get them … oh, Christ, I couldn’t miss a day of the sunflower season; I needed all the seeds I could get, both for oil and for protein … and the medicinal herbs …
My mental list was interrupted by Brianna’s announcement that supper was ready, and I plumped down at the table next to Jamie, suddenly realizing all at once how hungry I was, how tired I was, and grateful for respite as well as food.
The Higginses had all come up for supper in order to hear John Quincy’s news, and with Ian, Rachel, Jenny, and the baby, the kitchen was a solid mass of people and talk. Luckily Rachel’s basket was a generous one and Amy Higgins had provided two enormous game pies made of doves and turkey, as well as the bread, and the pervasive scent of food acted like a sedative. Within moments, the only words heard were muffled requests to pass the corn relish, more pie, or the rabbit hash, and the kitchen worked its everyday magic, providing peace and nourishment.
Gradually, as people became full, conversation began again, but in a subdued fashion. Finally, John Quincy pushed away his empty tin plate with a deep sigh of repletion and gazed benignly round the table.
“Missus Fraser, Missus MacKenzie, Missus Murray, Missus Higgins … y’all done us right well tonight. I ain’t et that much at one sittin’ since last Christmas.”
“It was our pleasure,” I assured him. “I haven’t seen anyone eat that much since last Christmas.”
I thought I heard a muffled snigger behind me, but I ignored it.
“So long as we’ve a crust in the house, ye’ll always eat with us, man,” Jamie told him. “And drink, I hope?” he added, producing a full bottle of something undoubtedly alcoholic from under his bench.
“I wouldn’t say no, Mr. Fraser.” John Quincy belched slightly and beamed benevolently at Jamie. “I cain’t insult your hospitality, now, can I?”
Ten adults. I reckoned quickly through the available drinkware and, rising, managed to sort out four teacups, two horn cups, three pewter cups, and one wineglass, which I set in proud array on the table in front of Jamie.
While I was so occupied, though, John Quincy had opened the ball, so to speak, by producing a handful of letters from somewhere inside his tattered vest. He squinted thoughtfully at them and handed one across the table to Jamie.
“That ’un’s yours,” he said, nodding at it, “and this one here’s for a Captain Cunningham—don’t know him, but it says Fraser’s Ridge on it. He one o’ your tenants?”
“Aye. I’ll see he gets it.” Jamie reached across and took both covers.
“Thank ye kindly. And this’n here is for Miss Frances Pocock.” He waved the remaining letter gently, looking round for its recipient.
“Fanny!” Mandy shouted. “Fanny, you gots a letter!” She was red in the face with excitement, standing on the bench next to Roger, who was clutching her round the middle. Everyone turned, murmuring in curiosity, looking for Fanny.
Fanny herself rose slowly off the barrel of salt fish she’d been sitting on in the corner. She looked about, confused, but Jamie beckoned to her and she reluctantly came forward.
“Oh, so you’re Miss Frances! Why, ain’t you a comely lass, now.” John Quincy unfolded himself from the bench, gave her a low, courtly bow, and put the letter in her unresisting hand.
Fanny clutched the letter to her bosom with both hands. Her eyes were huge and had a look in them like those of a panicked horse on the verge of bolting.
“Hasn’t anybody ever written you a letter before, Fanny?” Jem asked, curious. “Open it and find out who sent it!”