“It’s all right,” she said, blinking fast to keep more tears from coming. “It’s all right. She’s—she’s safe now.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her back. “After—after it happened, William gave me to Mr. Fraser. Oh!” A thought struck her and she looked uncertainly at Bree. “Do you—know about William?”
For a moment, Bree’s mind was completely blank. William? But suddenly the penny dropped, and she looked at Fanny, startled.
“William. You mean … Mr. Fraser’s … Da’s … son?” Saying the word brought him to life; the tall young man, cat-eyed and long-nosed like her, but dark where she was fair, speaking to her on the quay in Wilmington.
“Yes,” Fanny said, still a little wary. “I think—does that mean he’s your brother?”
“Half brother, yes.” Brianna felt dazed, and bent to pick up the fallen fruit. “You said he gave you to Da?”
“Yes.” Fanny took another breath and bent to pick up the last apple. Standing, she looked Bree straight in the eye. “Do you mind?”
“No,” Bree said, softly, and touched Fanny’s tender cheek. “Oh, Fanny, no. Not at all.”
JAMIE COULD SEE at once that the younger man was indeed a soldier. He thought the older one was not. And while the younger man took care to defer to Granger, Jamie thought that Partland had some ascendancy over the older—and richer—man. Or at least he thinks he does, he thought, smiling pleasantly as he poured wine for the visitors in his study. He didn’t much like Partland and was inclined to think the feeling was mutual, though he didn’t know why. Yet.
“Ye’ll stay ’til the morning, Mr. Granger?” he asked, with a wary glance at the ceiling. “Night’s falling, and the storm has the feel of a settled rain about it. Ye’ll not want to be feeling your way about the woods in the dreich dark.” The rain had begun to patter above, and he felt the mingled pride of a man with a sound ceiling built by himself, and the lingering fear that it might be not quite as sound as he hoped.
“We will, General,” Partland answered, “and my uncle and I thank you for your kind hospitality.” He lifted his cup in salute.
Granger looked somewhat taken back by this usurpation of his seniority, but the men exchanged a look, and whatever intelligence passed between them, it was effective. Granger relaxed, murmuring his own thanks.
“Ye’re very welcome, gentlemen,” Jamie said, sitting down behind his desk with his own cup. He’d had to fetch a stool from the kitchen for Partland, having only a single cane-bottomed chair for a guest in his study. At least he’d got the room walled in, so there was a sense of snug privacy, separated from the kitchen, where Claire—decently clad again—was apparently beating a recalcitrant piece of tough venison into edibility with a mallet.
“I must invite ye to call me Mr. Fraser, though,” he added, smiling to avoid any sense of rebuke. “I resigned my commission following Monmouth, and have no present association wi’ the Continental army.”
“Do you not, indeed?” Granger sat up a little, straightening his coat to hide the tear. “That’s modest of you, sir. I have usually found that any man who’s held a military post of any pretension clings to his title for life.”
Partland kept his face carefully blank; Jamie thought it was hiding a smirk, and felt a flicker of annoyance, but dismissed it.
“I canna say but what many officers deserve to keep their titles, sir, as the result of retirement following long and honorable service. I’m sure that’s the case with your friend Captain Cunningham, is it not?”
“Well … yes.” Granger looked somewhat abashed. “I apologize, Mr. Fraser, I meant no offense regarding your own choice in the matter of title.”
“None taken, sir. Have ye kent the captain for some time, then?”
“Why, yes, I have,” Granger said, relaxing a bit. “The captain greatly obliged me some years ago, by rescuing one of my ships from a French corsair, off Martinique. I called upon him with my thanks, and in the course of conversation discovered that we held many opinions in common. We became friends, and have kept up a correspondence for … gracious me, it must be twenty years now, at least.”
“Ah. Ye’re a merchant, then?” That explained the yellow silk lining the man’s coat, which had probably cost as much as the wardrobe for Jamie’s entire household.
“Yes. In the rum trade, mostly. But the present war has caused considerable difficulties, I’m afraid.”
Jamie made a noncommittal noise meant to indicate polite regret and a disinclination to engage in political discourse. Mr. Granger appeared quite willing to leave it at that, but Partland sat forward, putting his cup down on the desk.
“I trust you’ll pardon my impertinence … Mr. Fraser.” He smiled, without showing his teeth. “It’s just my curiosity, to be sure. What was the cause of your leaving Washington’s army, if I may ask?”
Jamie wanted to tell him he mightn’t, but he wanted to know things about Partland, too, so answered equably.
“General Washington appointed me as an emergency measure, sir—General Henry Taylor having died only a few days before the battle, and Washington requiring someone with experience to lead General Taylor’s militia companies. However, most of those companies were enlisted for only three months, and their enlistment expired very shortly following Monmouth. There was no longer any need for my services.”
“Ah.” Partland was regarding him quizzically, trying to decide whether to say what he had in mind. He did say it, though, and Jamie was surprised to find that he had been keeping a mental checklist, on which he now made a mark next to the word “Reckless.” Right under “Greasy as Goose Fat.”
“But surely the Continental army could find continued use for a soldier of your experience. From what I hear, they are scouring the armies of Europe for officers, no matter what their experience or reputation.”
Jamie made the same noise, slightly louder. Granger made an English version of the same thing, but Partland ignored them both.
“I had heard some talk—mere ill-natured gossip, I’m sure”—he waved a hand dismissively—“to the effect that you had left the field of battle before being relieved of your duty? And that this … contretemps? had somehow resulted in your resignation.”
“Gossip is somewhat better informed in this case than it usually is,” Jamie answered evenly. “My wife was badly wounded on the field—she is a surgeon, and was caring for the casualties—and I resigned my commission in order to save her life.”
And that’s all ye’re going to hear about it, a gobaire.
Granger cleared his throat again and looked reprovingly at his nephew, who sat back and picked up his cup with a negligent air, though still with a sidelong look. The muffled, regular blows of Claire’s mallet were audible through the uninsulated wall, somewhat slower than Jamie’s heartbeat, which had sped up noticeably.
Taking a deep breath to slow it down, he picked up the wine bottle, weighing it. Half full; enough to keep them going ’til supper.
“Would ye tell me something of the rum trade, sir?” he said, freshening Granger’s cup. “I worked for a time in Paris, dealing mostly in wine, but with a small trade in spirits as well. That was thirty-five years ago, though—I imagine a few things have changed.”