“Does Bobby ken who Odysseus was?”
“He didn’t, but I told him a bit of the story and explained that the captain had been speaking metaphorically. The captain made Bobby rather nervous, I think,” she added delicately. “But there was no good reason to deny him—and he paid five years’ rent in advance. In cash.”
Any figure of government authority would make Bobby nervous, with the murderer’s brand on his face, this inflicted after a skirmish in Boston, where he was a soldier, had left a citizen dead.
“Seems that people tell ye a great many things, Rachel,” he said. She looked up at him, hazel-eyed and open-faced, and nodded.
“I listen,” she said simply.
She knew a number of small things regarding the Cunninghams, for she stopped now and then at their cabin when she’d been foraging in their vicinity—it was no more than a mile and a half—to share, if she had extra of something. None of the things she knew seemed unusual, though, save that Cunningham had confided to her a desire to preach.
“To preach?” Jamie nearly stopped churning, but a certain resistance reminded him that the butter was coming, and he continued. “Did he say why? Or how?”
“He did, evidently, when he was a sea captain. Preach to his men, I mean, on Sundays aboard his ship. I gather that he found it gratifying, and had a notion, when he retired, of becoming a lay preacher. He has no real idea of how that might be accomplished, but his mother assured him that God would find a way.”
The news of the captain’s desire to preach was surprising, but also something of a comfort. Still, he reminded himself, there were a good many preachers who would call down hellfire in the service of an army, and having a vocation to preach didn’t limit a man’s beliefs in other directions. It wasn’t likely that a retired sea captain of the British navy would have strong tendencies toward independency for the American colonies. And he didn’t think wee Frances’s observations regarding Mr. Partland were in any way mistaken.
“Did ye ken that Roger and Brianna called on them, and were shown the door for their trouble?” he asked. “I think the butter’s come.”
She rose, smoothing her dark hair back under her cap, and came to look. She took the churn handle, worked it a few times, and nodded.
“Yes. Brianna told me. I think,” she added delicately, “that perhaps Roger should try to speak with Friend Cunningham in the absence of his mother.”
“Perhaps he should.” He pulled off the top of the churn and they looked in, to see the flakes and clumps of pale-gold butter swimming in the cream.
19
Daylight Haunting
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL day, and I had persuaded Jamie—with some difficulty—that the world would not end if he didn’t hang the door for the kitchen today. Instead, we collected the children and walked up through the woods toward Ian’s cabin, bearing small presents for Rachel, Jenny, and Oggy.
“What will ye wager me, Sassenach, that they’ve settled on a name for yon wee man?”
“What odds?” I said, diverted. “And are you betting that they have, or that they haven’t?”
“Five to two against. As to stakes …” He glanced round to see that our companions weren’t within hearing distance and lowered his voice. “Your drawers.”
My “drawers” were in fact the lower half of a planned pair of flannel pajamas, made with an oncoming winter in mind.
“And what on earth would you do with my drawers?”
“Burn them.”
“No bet. Besides, I don’t think they’ve chosen a name yet, either. The last suggestions I heard were Shadrach, Gilbert, and whatever the Mohawk might be for ‘Farts Like a Goat.’”
“Let me guess. It was Jenny suggested that last one?”
“Who would know goats better?”
Bluebell snuffled energetically through the layers of crackling leaves, tail moving to and fro like a metronome.
“Can you train that sort of dog to hunt for specific things?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s called a coonhound, but plainly she isn’t looking for raccoons right now.”
“She’s no a coonhound, though I suppose she wouldna pass one up. What did ye want her to hunt for, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, smiling. “Truffles?”
“You need a pig for that, don’t you? And speaking of pigs … Jemmy! Germain! Keep an eye out for pigs, and watch Mandy!” The boys were squatting by a pine tree, picking bits of bark shaped like puzzle pieces off it, but at my call they looked vaguely round.
“Where is Mandy?” I shouted.
“Up there!” Germain called, pointing upslope. “With Fanny.”
“Germain, Germain, look, I got a thousand-legger! A big one!”
At Jem’s call, Germain instantly lost interest in the girls and squatted beside Jem, scrabbling dried leaves out of the way.
“Had I better go look, do you think?” I asked. “Millipedes aren’t venomous, but the big centipedes can have a nasty bite.”
“The lad can count,” Jamie assured me. “If he says it’s got a thousand legs, I’m sure it does—give or take a few.” He gave a short whistle and the dog looked up, instantly alert.
“Go find Frances, a nighean.” He flung out an arm, pointing uphill, and the dog barked once, agreeably, and bounded up the rocky slope, yellow leaves exploding under her eager feet.
“Do you think she—” I began, but before I could finish, I heard the girls’ voices above, mingled with Bluey’s excited yaps of greeting. “Oh. She does know who Frances is, then.”
“Of course she does. She kens all of us now—but she likes Frances best.” He smiled a little at the thought. It was true; Fanny adored the dog and spent hours combing her fur, taking ticks out of her ears, or curled up by the fire with a book, Bluebell comfortably snoring on her feet.
“Why do you always call her Frances?” I asked curiously. “Everybody else calls her Fanny—she calls herself that, for that matter.”
“Fanny is a whore’s name,” he replied tersely. Seeing my look of astonishment, though, his expression relaxed a bit. “Aye, I ken there are respectable women wi’ that name. But Roger Mac tells me Cleland’s novel is still in print in your time.”
“Cleland’s … oh, John Cleland, you mean—Fanny Hill?” My voice rose slightly, less in surprise that the famously pornographic Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure was still going strong 250 years on—some things never go out of style, after all—than at the fact that he’d been discussing it with Roger.
“And he tells me the word is a … vulgarism … for a woman’s privates,” he added, frowning.
“Well, it will be,” I admitted. “Or for someone’s bottom, depending whether you come from Britain or America. But it hasn’t got that meaning now, does it?”
“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “But still—Lord John told me once that ‘Fanny Laycock’ is a cant term for whore.” His brow furrowed. “I did wonder—her sister gave her name as Jane Eleanora Pocock. I thought it maybe wasna her real last name, but more a—a—”