Nothing to lose …
“We met on the level,” Roger said quietly.
Cunningham drew a visible breath and nodded, very slightly. “And we parted on the square,” he said, just as quietly.
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
“Allow me to pour you some coffee.” Cunningham got up, fetched cups from a sideboard that looked as though it had been abducted from its London home, and handed one to Roger.
It was actually coffee. Freshly ground. Roger closed his eyes in momentary ecstasy, and recalled what Rachel had said about being served tea. Evidently the captain had kept his seagoing connections. Was that who the two mysterious visitors had been? No more than smugglers?
They sipped in a guardedly companionable silence for a minute or two. Roger took a last, luxurious mouthful and swallowed.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “the cabin was struck by lightning a year ago, and burned to the ground.”
“So Mrs. Murray told me.” The captain drained his own cup, set it down, and raised a brow at Roger, nodding at the coffeepot.
“If you please.” Roger handed over his cup. “Had Jamie Fraser been living on the Ridge at the time, I’m sure he would have rebuilt it—but owing to the … erm, fortunes of war … he and his family were unable to return immediately. But I suppose you know that.”
“Yes. Robert Higgins informed me of that when I made application to settle here.” The shadow of disapproval fell across his face once more. “Mr. Fraser seems a gentleman of unusually flexible principles. Appointing a convicted murderer as the factor of his property, I mean.”
“Well, he thinks I’m a heretic, and he puts up with me. Or perhaps that’s what you meant by ‘flexible principles’?” He smiled at Cunningham, who had choked on his coffee at the word “heretic.” Better take it easy; Masonic brotherhood might have limits …
Roger coughed, giving Cunningham time to finish doing so.
“Now, the proposition I mentioned to you. Mr. Fraser is willing that the cabin be rebuilt on its original location, and used for all of its previous purposes. He’s also willing to supply the raw timber for the building. As I’m sure you know, though, he’s in the process of building his own house, and can’t spare the time or money to complete the cabin until next year.
“So what I should like to propose, sir, is that we—you and I, and Mr. Fraser—should pool our resources in order to accomplish the rebuilding as soon as possible. And once the building is habitable, I propose that you and I take it in turns to preach there, on alternate Sundays.”
Cunningham had frozen, cup in hand, but the outer crust of coldness and reserve had melted. Thoughts were darting behind his eyes like minnows, too fast to catch.
Roger put down his half-finished cup and got to his feet.
“Would you like to go and look at the site with me?”
THE CREEK WAS easy to find. There was no well near the house yet, so the Cunninghams must be carrying water, and that being so … yes, there was a trail going off into a scrim of dogwood bushes, and within moments the sound of burbling water reached my ears.
Finding Mrs. Cunningham might be a little harder. Would she have gone upstream, or down? I tossed a mental coin and turned downstream. A good guess; there was a slight bend in the creek and a muddy spot on the near shore, showing the marks of many feet—or rather, the marks of one or two pairs of feet making frequent visits—and a series of circular marks and scuffs showing where a bucket had been set down.
There had been rain lately and the creek was high; there was thick growth right down to the water on the far side of the creek, and I thought she wouldn’t have tried to cross here; there were stones in the creek bed that one might use as stepping-stones, but most of them were submerged. I made my way down beside the creek, walking slowly and listening carefully. I wasn’t expecting Mrs. Cunningham to be singing hymns as she foraged, but she might be making enough noise that the birds near her would either shriek or fall silent.
In fact, I found her because she had attracted the notice of a kingfisher who took issue with her presence. I followed the long, chittering calls of the bird and saw it, a long-beaked blob of rust, white, and gray-blue riding the breeze on a long branch that reached out over a small pool formed by an eddy. Then I saw Mrs. Cunningham. In the pool. Naked.
Luckily she hadn’t seen me, and I squatted hastily behind a buttonbush, snatching off my hat.
The kingfisher had seen me and was having a fit, its vivid little body swelling with indignation as it shrilled at me, but Mrs. Cunningham ignored it. She was washing in a relaxed, leisurely fashion, her eyes half closed with pleasure and her long gray hair streaming wet down her back. A trickle of sweat ran down my back and another dripped from my chin; I wiped it with the back of my hand, envying her.
For an instant, I had the absurd impulse to disrobe and join her, but quelled it instantly. I ought to have left instantly, too—but I didn’t.
Part of it was just the common interest that makes people look at other people when they’re laughing, angry, naked, or engaged in sexual acts. The rest was simple curiosity. There’s quite a thin line, sometimes, between a scientist and a voyeur, and I was aware that I was walking it, but Mrs. Cunningham was undeniably a mystery.
Her body was still powerful, broad-shouldered and erect, and while the skin of arms and breasts had loosened, she still had visible musculature. The skin of her belly sagged and the marks of multiple births showed plainly. So the captain was not her only child.
Her eyes were closed in simple pleasure, and without the forbidding expression, she was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, and deeply marked by years, experience, and anger, but there was still a strong, symmetrical appeal to her features. I wondered how old she might be—the captain had seemed about forty-five, but I had no idea whether he might be her eldest child or her youngest. Somewhere between sixty and seventy, then?
She squeezed water from her straggling hair and put it back behind her ears. There was a half-submerged log at the far side of the pool, and she leaned her back carefully against this, closed her eyes again, and reached a hand down into the water between her legs. I blinked, and then duck-walked backward as quietly as I could, skirts kirtled up and hat in hand. The line had definitely been crossed.
My heel caught against a protruding tree root and I nearly fell, but managed to save myself, though dropping both skirts and hat in the process. The heavy pocket thumped against my hip, reminding me of my original intent.
I couldn’t very well hang about until she finished what she was doing, came out of the water, and dressed. I’d just go back to the cabin, tell the captain I hadn’t been able to find his mother, and leave the ginger and herbs, with my thanks.
I was putting my own dress back in order when I realized that I’d made very visible footmarks in the damp clay where I’d been lurking. Cursing under my breath, I scrabbled under the bushes behind me, raking out handfuls of dead leaves, twigs and pebbles, and scattered these hastily over my telltale traces. I was rubbing a handful of damp leaves between my hands to clean them when I realized that there was a pebble among the leaves.
I tossed it away, but caught a glimpse of vivid color as it flew through the air, and grabbed it up again.
It was a raw emerald, a long rectangular crystal of cloudy green in a matrix of rough rock.