“Go,” he said softly to me, not taking his eyes off Jamie. “If I can—then I’ll come.”
My hands and feet seemed not to belong to me; they moved smoothly, without my direction. I walked to my horse, put my foot in the stirrup, and was up.
When I looked back, even the light of the fire had disappeared. There was nothing behind us but the dark.
62
THREE-THIRDS OF A GHOST
River Run, April 1770
They have captured Stephen Bonnet.”
Brianna dropped the game box on the floor. Ivory counters exploded in every direction, and rolled off under the furniture. Speechless, she stood staring at Lord John, who set down his glass of brandy and came hastily to her side.
“Are you all right? Do you require to sit down? I apologize most profoundly. I should not have—”
“Yes, you should. No, not the sofa, I’ll never get out of it.” She waved away his offered hand, and made her way slowly toward a plain wooden chair near the windows. Once solidly on it, she gave him a long, level look.
“Where?” she said. “How?”
He didn’t trouble asking whether he ought to send for wine or burnt feathers; she plainly wasn’t going to swoon.
He drew up a stool beside her, but then thought better, and went to the parlor door. He glanced out into the dark hallway; sure enough, one of the maids was dozing on a stool in the curve of the staircase, available in case they should want anything. The woman’s head snapped up at his step, eyes showing white in the dimness.
“Go to bed,” he said. “We shall not require anything further this evening.”
The slave nodded and shuffled off, relief in the droop of her shoulders; she would have been awake since dawn, and it was near midnight now. He was desperately tired himself, after the long ride from Edenton, but it wasn’t news that could wait. He had arrived in the early evening, but this had been his first opportunity to make an excuse to see Brianna alone.
He closed the double doors and placed a footstool in front of them, to prevent any interruptions.
“He was taken here, in Cross Creek,” he said without preamble, sitting down beside her. “As to how, I could not say. The charge brought was smuggling. Once they discovered his identity, of course, there were others added.”
“Smuggling what?”
“Tea and brandy. At least this time.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve the stiffness caused by hours in the saddle. “I heard of it in Edenton; evidently the man is notorious. His reputation extends from Charleston to Jamestown.”
He looked closely at her; she was pale, but not ghastly.
“He is condemned,” he said quietly. “He will hang next week, in Wilmington. I thought you would wish to know.”
She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, but said nothing. He stole a closer look at her, not wanting to stare, but amazed at the sheer size of her. By God, she was immense! In the two months since their engagement, she had doubled in size, at least.
One side of her enormous abdomen bulged suddenly out, startling him. He was having second thoughts about the wisdom of having told her; if the shock of his news brought on her confinement prematurely, he would never forgive himself. Jamie wouldn’t forgive him, either.
She was staring off into space, her brow wrinkled in concentration. He’d seen broodmares in foal look that way; thoroughly absorbed in inward matters. It had been a mistake to send the slave away. He got his feet under him, meaning to go and fetch assistance, but the movement brought her out of her trance.
“Thank you,” she said. The frown was still there, but her eyes had lost that distant look; they were fixed on him with a disconcerting blue directness—the more disconcerting for being so familiar.
“When will they hang him?” She leaned forward a little, hand pressed against her side. Another swell rippled across her belly in apparent response to the pressure.
He sat back, eyeing her stomach uneasily.
“Friday week.”
“Is he in Wilmington now?”
Slightly reassured by her calm demeanor, he reached for his abandoned glass. He took a sip and shook his head, feeling the comfort of the warm liquor spread through his chest.
“No. He is still here; there was no need for trial, as he had been previously convicted.”
“So they’ll move him to Wilmington for the execution? When?”
“I have no idea.” The distant look was back; with deep misgiving, he recognized it this time—not motherly abstraction; calculation.
“I want to see him.”
Very deliberately, he swallowed the rest of the brandy.
“No,” he said definitely, setting down the glass. “Even if your state allowed of travel to Wilmington—which it assuredly does not,” he added, glancing sidelong at her dangerous-looking abdomen—“attendance at an execution could not but have the worst effects upon your child. Now, I am in complete sympathy with your feelings, my dear, but—”
“No you aren’t. You don’t know what my feelings are.” She spoke without heat, but with complete conviction. He stared at her for a moment, then got up and went to fetch the decanter.
She watched the amber liquid purl up in the glass and waited for him to pick it up before she went on.
“I don’t want to watch him die,” she said.
“Thank God for that,” he muttered, and took a mouthful of brandy.
“I want to talk to him.”
The mouthful went down the wrong way and he choked, spluttering brandy over the frills of his shirt.
“Maybe you should sit down,” she said, squinting at him. “You don’t look so good.”
“I can’t think why.” Nonetheless, he sat down, and groped for a kerchief to wipe his face.
“Now, I know what you’re going to say,” she said firmly, “so don’t bother. Can you arrange for me to see him, before they take him to Wilmington? And before you say no, certainly not, ask yourself what I’ll do if you do say that.”
Having opened his mouth to say “No, certainly not,” Lord John shut it and contemplated her in silence for a moment.
“I don’t suppose you are intending to threaten me again, are you?” he asked conversationally. “Because if you are…”
“Of course not.” She had the grace to blush slightly at that.
“Well, then, I confess I do not see quite what you—”
“I’ll tell my aunt that Stephen Bonnet fathered my baby. And I’ll tell Farquard Campbell. And Gerald Forbes. And Judge Alderdyce. And then I’ll go down to the garrison headquarters—that must be where he is—and I’ll tell Sergeant Murchison. If he won’t let me in, I’ll go to Mr. Campbell for a writ to make him admit me. I have a right to see him.”
He looked at her narrowly, but he could see it was no idle threat. She sat there, solid and immobile as a piece of marble statuary, and just as susceptible of persuasion.
“You do not shrink from creating a monstrous scandal?” It was a rhetorical question; he sought only to buy himself a moment to think.
“No,” she said calmly. “What have I got to lose?” She lifted one eyebrow in a half-humorous quirk.