“Yes, you have got the measles,” I said. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
“I felt somewhat light-headed when I retired last night,” he said, and coughed again. “I woke with a bad headache, sometime in the night, but I thought it only the result of Jamie’s so-called whisky.” He smiled faintly at Jamie. “Then this morning…” He sneezed, and I hastily groped for a fresh handkerchief.
“Yes, quite. Well, try to rest a bit. I’ve put some willow bark to steep; that will help the headache.” I stood up and raised a brow at Jamie, who followed me outside.
“We can’t let Willie be near him,” I said, low-voiced so as not to be overheard; Willie and Ian were by the penfold, forking hay into the horses’ manger. “Or Ian. He’s very infectious.”
Jamie frowned.
“Aye. What ye said, though, about incubation—”
“Yes. Ian might have been exposed through the dead man, Willie might have been exposed to the same source as Lord John. Either one of them might have it now, but show no sign yet.” I turned to look at the two boys, both of them outwardly as healthy as the horses they were feeding.
“I think,” I said, hesitating as I formed a vague plan, “that perhaps you had better camp outside with the boys tonight—you could sleep in the herb shed, or camp in the grove. Wait a day or so; if Willie’s infected—if he got it from the same source as Lord John—he’ll likely be showing signs by then. If not, then he’s likely all right. If he is all right, then you and he could go to Anna Ooka to tell Nacognaweto about the dead man. That would keep Willie safely out of danger.”
“And Ian could stay here to take care of you?” He frowned, considering, then nodded. “Aye, I expect that will do.”
He turned to glance at Willie. Impassive as he could be when he wanted to, I knew him well enough to detect the flicker of emotion across his face.
There was worry in the tilt of his brows—concern for John Grey, and perhaps for me or Ian. But beyond that was something quite different—interest tinged with apprehension, I thought, at the prospect of spending several days alone with the boy.
“If he hasn’t noticed it yet, he isn’t going to,” I said softly, putting my hand on his arm.
“No,” he muttered, turning his back on the boy. “I suppose it’s safe enough.”
“They do say it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” I said. “You’ll be able to talk to him without it seeming odd.” I paused. “There’s just the one thing, before you go.”
He put his hand over mine where it lay on his arm, and smiled down at me.
“Aye, and what’s that?”
“Do get that pig out of the pantry, please.”
27
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA
The journey began inauspiciously. It was raining, for one thing. For another, he disliked leaving Claire, especially in such difficult circumstances. For a third, he was badly worried for John; he hadn’t liked the look of the man at all when he took leave of him, barely half conscious and wheezing like a grampus, his features so blotched with rash as to be unrecognizable.
And for a fourth, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere had just punched him in the jaw. He took a firm hold on the youngster’s scruff and shook him, hard enough to make his teeth clack painfully together.
“Now, then,” he said, letting go. The boy staggered, and sat down suddenly as he lost his balance. He glared down at the lad, sitting in the mud by the penfold. They had been having this argument, on and off, for the last twenty-four hours, and he had had enough of it.
“I ken well enough what ye said. But what I said is that ye’re coming with me. I’ve told ye why, and that’s all about it.”
The boy’s face drew down in a ferocious scowl. He wasn’t easily cowed, but then Jamie supposed that earls weren’t used to folk trying, either.
“I am not leaving!” the boy repeated. “You can’t make me!” He got to his feet, jaw clenched, and turned back toward the cabin.
Jamie snaked out an arm, grabbed the lad’s collar, and hauled him back. Seeing the boy draw back his foot for a kick, he closed his fist and punched the boy neatly in the pit of the stomach. William’s eyes bulged and he doubled over, holding his middle.
“Don’t kick,” Jamie said mildly. “It’s ill-mannered. And as for makin’ you, of course I can.”
The Earl’s face was bright red and his mouth was opening and closing like a startled goldfish’s. His hat had fallen off, and the rain was pasting strands of dark hair to his head.
“It’s verra loyal of ye to want to stay by your stepfather,” Jamie went on, wiping the water out of his own face, “but ye canna help him, and you may do yourself damage by staying. So ye’re not.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement as the oiled hide over the cabin’s window moved aside, then fell. Claire, no doubt wondering why they were not already long gone.
Jamie took the Earl by an unresisting arm, and led him to one of the saddled horses.
“Up,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing the boy stick a reluctant foot in the stirrup and swing aboard. Jamie tossed the boy’s hat up to him, donned his own, and mounted himself. As a precaution, though, he kept hold of both sets of reins as they set off.
“You, sir,” said a breathless, enraged voice behind him, “are a lout!”
He was torn between irritation and an urge to laugh, but gave way to neither. He cast a look back over his shoulder, to see William also turned, and leaning perilously to the side, half off his saddle.
“Don’t try it,” he advised the boy, who straightened up abruptly and glared at him. “I wouldna like to tie your feet in your stirrups, but I’ll do it, make no mistake.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed into bright blue triangles, but he evidently took Jamie at his word. His jaw stayed clenched, but his shoulders slumped a little in temporary defeat.
They rode in silence for most of the morning, rain drizzling down their necks and weighting the shoulders of their cloaks. Willie might have accepted defeat, but not graciously. He was still sullen when they dismounted to eat, but did at least fetch water without protest, and pack up the remains of their meal while Jamie watered the horses.
Jamie eyed him covertly, but there was no sign of measles. The Earl’s face was frowning but rashless, and while the tip of his nose was dripping, this appeared to be due solely to the effects of the weather.
“How far is it?” It was midafternoon before William’s curiosity overcame his stubbornness. Jamie had long since relinquished the boy’s reins to him—there was no danger of the lad’s trying to make his way back alone now.
“Two days, perhaps.” In such mountainous terrain as lay between the Ridge and Anna Ooka, they would make little better speed on horseback than on foot. Having horses, though, allowed them to bring a few small conveniences, such as a kettle, extra food, and a pair of carved fishing rods. And a number of small gifts for the Indians, including a keg of home-brewed whisky to help cushion the bad news they bore.
There was no reason to hurry, and some to delay—Claire had told him firmly not to bring Willie back for at least six days. By then, John would no longer be infectious. He would be well on the way to recovery—or dead.