That made him laugh.
“Have you seen Mandy imitating Mrs. Cunningham doing that?”
“I can’t wait. How much farther is this place?”
“Almost there. Am I still decent?” he asked, brushing maple leaves off the skirt of his waistcoat.
He’d dressed carefully for the occasion, in good breeches, a clean shirt, and a waistcoat with humble wooden buttons, these hastily substituted by Bree for the bronze ones it normally sported. In addition, Brianna had plaited his hair and Jamie—who had much more experience in such matters—had clubbed it for him, neatly folding up the plait and tying it firmly at the nape with Jamie’s own broad black grosgrain ribbon.
“Go with God, a charaid,” he’d told Roger, grinning. Go with God, forsooth …
“Perfect,” I assured him.
“Onward, then.”
I’d never been as far as the Cunninghams’ cabin. It was a new building, and far toward the southern end of the Ridge. We’d been walking for more than an hour, brushing off the leaves—and with them, gnats, wasps, and spiders—that fell in a gentle green rain from the deciduous trees. The air was very warm, though, and I was beginning to wish that I’d packed some form of liquid refreshment when Roger stopped, just short of a clearing.
Brianna had already told me about the whitewashed stones and the shining glass windows. There was also a large vegetable and herb garden laid out behind the house, but it was evident that Mrs. Cunningham hadn’t yet managed to contrive a fence that would keep deer and rabbits out of it. It gave me distress to see the trampled ground, the broken stems, and the stubby tops of turnips, gnawed and denuded of their greens—but on the bright side, it might make the items in my pocket more desirable.
I took off my hat and hastily tidied my hair, insofar as such a thing was possible after walking four miles on a hot day.
The door opened before I could put my hat back on.
Captain Cunningham started visibly at sight of us. If he’d been expecting anyone, it wasn’t us. My heart sped up a little as I rehearsed my opening lines of gratitude.
“Good afternoon, Captain!” Roger called, smiling. “I’ve brought my mother-in-law, Mrs. Fraser, to call on Mrs. Cunningham.”
The captain’s mouth opened slightly as his gaze shifted to me. He didn’t have a poker face, and I could see him trying to reconcile whatever his mother had been saying about me with my appearance—which was as respectable as I could make it.
“I—she—” he began. Roger had taken my arm and was ushering me quickly up the path, saying something cordial about the weather, but the captain wasn’t attending.
“I mean … good afternoon, mum.” He gave me a jerky bob of the head as I came to a stop and curtsied in front of him.
“I am afraid my mother’s not in,” he said, eyeing me warily. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, has she gone visiting?” I asked. “I’m so sorry; I wanted to thank her for her gift. And I’d brought a few things for her …” I gave Roger a sideways glance that said, Now what?
“No, she’s just gone foraging by the creek,” the captain said, with a vague wave of the hand toward the woods. “She, um …”
“Oh, in that case,” I said hastily, “I’ll just go and see if I can find her. Why don’t you and the captain have a nice visit, Roger, while I look round for her?”
Before he could say anything else, I picked up my skirts, stepped neatly over the line of white stones, and made for the woods, leaving Roger to his own devices.
“AH … PLEASE COME in.” Cunningham yielded to circumstance with some grace, opening the door wide and beckoning Roger inside.
“Thank you, sir.” The cabin was as orderly as it had been on his first visit, but it smelled different. He could swear the ghost of coffee hung invitingly in the air. My God, it is coffee …
“Do sit down, Mr. MacKenzie.”
Cunningham had recovered his composure, though he was still giving Roger sidelong glances. Roger had composed a few opening remarks, but those had been designed to deflect Mrs. Cunningham until Claire could get her oar in. Best just get it out, before either of them comes back …
“I recently had an interesting conversation with my cousin-by-marriage, Rachel Murray,” he said. Cunningham, who had been bending to get a coffeepot that was keeping warm in the hearth, shot up like a jack-in-the-box, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the chimney breast, and turned round.
“What?”
“Mrs. Ian Murray,” Roger said. “Young Quaker woman? Tallish, dark, very pretty? Baby with a loud voice?”
The captain’s face took on a somewhat flushed, congested appearance.
“I know whom you mean,” he said, rather coldly. “But I am surprised to hear that she should have repeated our conversation to you.” There was a slight emphasis on “you,” which Roger ignored.
“She didn’t,” he said easily. “But she told me that you had said something she thought I should know, and recommended that I come and talk to you about it.” He lifted a hand, acknowledging the surroundings.
“She told me that you preached on Sundays to your men in the navy—and that you had found it … ‘gratifying’ was the word she used. Is that in fact the case?”
The flush was receding a bit. Cunningham gave a short, unwilling nod.
“I cannot see that it’s any business of yours, sir, but yes, I did preach when we rigged church, on those occasions when we sailed without a chaplain.”
“Well, then. I have a proposition to put to you, sir. Might we sit down?”
Curiosity won out; Cunningham nodded toward a large wheel-backed chair that stood to one side of the hearth, and himself took a smaller one at the other side.
“As you know,” Roger said, leaning forward, “I am a Presbyterian, and by courtesy referred to as a minister. By that, I mean that I’m not yet ordained, though I have completed all of the necessary studies and examinations, and I have hopes of being ordained soon. You’ll also know that my father-in-law—and my wife, mother-in-law, and children, for that matter—are Catholics.”
“I do.” Cunningham had relaxed enough to show disapproval. “How can you possibly square such a situation with your conscience, sir?”
“One day at a time, for the most part,” Roger said, and shrugged, dismissing this. “But the point is that I am on good terms with my father-in-law, and when he had a cabin built to serve as a schoolhouse, he also invited me to use it for church services on Sunday. We had a small Lodge of Freemasons established at that time—this was more than three years ago—and Mr. Fraser also permitted the Lodge to use this structure in the evenings for their own purposes.”
To this point, he’d been looking earnestly into Cunningham’s face, but now he glanced down into the smoldering hearth as he mentioned Freemasons, to give the man a moment to make up his mind—if there was anything to make it up about.
Possibly there was. The captain’s earlier discomposure and disapproval had receded like a melting glacier—slowly, but surely. He didn’t speak, but his silence had a different quality now; he was eyeing Roger in an assessing sort of way.