An Echo in the Bone (50 page)

Arthur bowed and went out, leaving Grey wondering whether he was the footman who went to Nessie’s house on Thursdays. He turned back to find Hal helping himself liberally to Grey’s kidneys.

“Aren’t you meant to be eating your slop?” Grey inquired.

“Don’t tell me
you’re
determined to hasten me into my grave, too,” Hal said, closing his eyes in brief rapture as he chewed. “How the devil anyone expects me to recover, fed on things like rusks and gruel …” Huffing, he speared another kidney.

“Is it really your heart, do you think?” Grey asked.

Hal shook his head.

“I really don’t think so,” he said, his tone detached. “I listened to it, you know, after the first attack. Whanging away just as usual.” He paused to prod himself experimentally in the chest, fork suspended in the air. “It doesn’t hurt there. Surely it would, wouldn’t it?”

Grey shrugged.

“What sort of attack was it, then?”

Hal swallowed the last of the kidney and reached for a slice of buttered toast, taking up the marmalade knife in his other hand.

“Couldn’t breathe,” he said casually. “Turned blue, that kind of thing.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

“I feel quite well, just now,” Hal said, sounding mildly surprised.

“Do you?” Grey said, smiling. He had a moment’s reservation, but after all … he was going abroad, and unexpected things not only could happen but often did. Best not leave the matter hanging, just in case something un toward befell either one of them before they met again.

“Well, then … if you’re sure that a minor shock will not shuffle off your mortal coil, allow me to tell you something.”

His news regarding the
tendresse
existing between Dottie and William made Hal blink and stop eating momentarily, but after a moment’s contemplation he nodded and resumed chewing.

“All right,” he said.

“All
right
?” Grey echoed. “You have no objections?”

“Hardly sit well with you if I did, would it?”

“If you expect me to believe that a concern for my feelings would in any way affect your own actions, your illness
has
severely damaged you.”

Hal grinned briefly, and drank tea.

“No,” he said, setting down the empty cup. “Not that. It’s just—” He leaned back, hands clasped over his—very slightly—protruding belly, and gave Grey a straight look. “I
could
die. Don’t mean to; don’t think I will. But I could. I’d die easier if I knew she was settled with someone who’d protect her and look after her properly.”

“I’m flattered that you think William would,” Grey said dryly, though he was in fact immensely pleased.

“Of course he would,” Hal said, matter-of-fact. “He’s your son, isn’t he?”

A church bell began to ring, somewhere in the distance, reminding Grey.

“Oh!” he said. “Happy Christmas!”

Hal looked equally surprised, but then smiled.

“The same to you.”

GREY WAS STILL FILLED with Christmas feeling when he set off for Dover—literally, as the pockets of his greatcoat were jammed with sweetmeats and small gifts and he carried under his arm a wrapped parcel containing the infamous carpet slippers, these lavishly embellished with lily pads and green frogs done in crewelwork. He had hugged Dottie when she gave them to him, managing to whisper in her ear that her job was done. She had kissed him with such vigor that he could still feel it on his cheek and rubbed absently at the spot.

He must write to William at once—though in fact there was no particular hurry, as a letter could not be carried any faster than he would go himself. He’d meant what he’d told Hal; as soon as a ship could set sail in the spring, he’d be on it. He only hoped he’d be in time.

And not only for Henry.

The roads were quite as bad as he’d expected, and the Calais ferry was worse, but he was oblivious to the cold and discomfort of the journey. With his anxiety for Hal somewhat allayed, he was free to think about what Nessie had told him—a bit of information he’d thought of mentioning to Hal but hadn’t, not wanting to burden his brother’s mind, in case it might hamper his recovery.

“Your Frenchman didn’t come
here
,” Nessie had told him, licking sugar off her fingers. “But he went to Jackson’s regular, when he was in town. He’s gone off now, though; back to France, they say.”

“Jackson’s,” he’d said slowly, wondering. He didn’t patronize bawdy houses himself—bar Nessie’s establishment—but he certainly knew about Jackson’s and had been there once or twice with friends. A flash house, offering music on the ground floor, gaming on the first floor, and more private diversions higher up. Very popular with mid-echelon army officers. But not, he was certain, a place catering to Percy Beauchamp’s particular tastes.

“I see,” he’d said, calmly drinking tea, feeling his heart beat in his ears. “And have you ever come across an officer named Randall-Isaacs?” That was the part of his letter he hadn’t told Hal; Denys Randall-Isaacs was an army officer known to frequent Beauchamp’s company, both in France and in London, his informant had said—and the name had gone straight through Grey’s heart like an icicle.

It
might
be no more than coincidence that a man known to associate with Percy Beauchamp had taken William on an intelligencing expedition to Quebec—but damned if he thought it was.

Nessie had lifted her head abruptly at the name “Randall-Isaacs,” like a dog hearing the rustle of something in the brush.

“Aye, I have,” she said slowly. There was a blob of fine sugar on her lower lip; he wished to wipe it off for her, and in other circumstances would have. “Or heard of him. He’s a Jew, they say.”

“A Jew?” That startled him. “Surely not.” A Jew would never be allowed to take a commission in the army or navy, no more than a Catholic.

Nessie arched a dark brow at him.

“Perhaps he doesna want anyone to know,” she said, and, licking her lips like a cat, tidied away the blob of sugar. “But if not, he ought to stay awa’ from kittle-hoosies, that’s all I can say!” She laughed heartily, then sobered, hunching her bed-sacque over her shoulders and staring at him, dark-eyed in the firelight.

“He’s got summat to do wi’ your wee lad, the Frenchie, too,” she said. “For it was a girl from Jackson’s told me about the Jewish cove and what a shock it was to her when he took his breeches off. She said she wouldn’t’ve, only his friend the Frenchie was there, too, wanting to watch, and when he—the Frenchie, I mean—saw she was put off, he offered her double, so she did it. She said when ye came right down to it”—and here she grinned lewdly at him, the tip of her tongue resting against the front teeth she still had—“it was nicer than some.”

“Nicer than some,” he muttered distractedly to himself, only half-noticing the wary glance cast toward him by the only other ferry passenger hardy enough to stay abovedecks. “Bloody
hell
!”

The snow was falling thickly over the Channel, and now swept nearly horizontal as the howling wind changed direction and the ship gave a sickening lurch. The other man shook himself and went below, leaving Grey to eat brandied peaches with his fingers from a jar in his pocket and stare bleakly at the oncoming coast of France, visible only in glimpses through low-lying clouds.

December 24, 1776

Quebec City

Dear Papa—

I write you from a Convent. Not, I hasten to explain, one of the Covent Garden
variety, but a real Roman Convent, run by Ursuline Nuns.

Captain Randall-Isaacs and I arrived at the Citadel in late October, intending to
call upon Sir Guy and discover his Opinion of the local Sympathies regarding the
American Insurrection, only to be told that Sir Guy had marched to Fort Saint-Jean, to deal personally with an Outbreak of said Insurrection, this being a Sea
Battle (or so I suppose I must call it), which took place upon Lake Champlain,
this a narrow Body connecting with Lake George, which perhaps you will know
from your own Time here.

I was much in favor of going to join Sir Guy, but Captain Randall-Isaacs was
reluctant in consideration of the Distance involved and the Time of Year. In Fact
his Judgment was proved sound, as the next Day brought freezing Rain, this
giving way shortly to a howling Blizzard, so fierce as to darken the Sky so that
you could not tell Day from Night, and which buried the World in Snow and Ice
within Hours. Seeing this Spectacle of Nature, I will admit that my
Disappointment at missing an Opportunity to join Sir Guy was substantially
allayed.

As it was, I should have been too late in any Case, as the Engagement had
already taken place, upon the 1st October. We did not learn the Particulars until
mid-November, when some Hessian Officers from Baron von Riedesel’s Regiment
arrived at the Citadel with News of it. Most likely you will have heard more
official and direct Descriptions of the Engagement by the Time you receive this
Letter, but there may be some Details of interest omitted from the official
Versions—and to be frank, the Composition of such an Account is the only
Employment available to me at present, as I have declined a kind Invitation from
the Mother Superior to attend the Mass they hold at midnight tonight in
observance of Christmas. (The Bells of the city’s Churches ring every quarter
Hour, marking time through the Day and Night. The convent’s Chapel lies
directly beyond the Wall of the Guesthouse in which I am lodged upon the highest
Floor, and the Bell is perhaps twenty Feet from my Head when I lie in Bed. I can
thus inform you faithfully that it is now 9:15 p.m.)

To particulars, then: Sir Guy was alarmed by the attempted Invasion of Quebec
last Year, even though it ended in abject Failure, and had thus determined to
increase his Hold upon the upper Hudson, this being the only possible Avenue by
which further Trouble could come, the Difficulties of land Travel being so exigent
as to prevent any but the most determined (I have a small Jar of spirits of Wine
with which to present you, this containing a Deerfly measuring nearly two Inches
in Length, as well as a Quantity of very large Ticks, these removed from my
Person with the assistance of Honey, which smothers them if applied liberally,
causing them to loose their Grip).

While the Invasion of last Winter did not succeed, Colonel Arnold’s Men
determined to deny Sir Guy Access to the Lakes, and thus sank or burned all the
Ships at Fort Saint-Jean as they withdrew, as well as burning the Sawmill and the
Fort itself.

Sir Guy had therefore requisitioned collapsible Ships to be sent to him from
England (I wish I had seen these!) and, ten of them arriving, went down to St.

John to oversee their assembly upon the upper Richelieu River. Meanwhile,
Colonel Arnold (who seems an amazing, industrious Fellow, if half what I hear of
him is true) had been madly building his own Fleet of ramshackle Galleys and
hog-beamed Sloops.

Not content with his Prodigies of collapsibility, Sir Guy also had the
Indefatigable, a Frigate of some 180 tonnes (some Argument between my
informants as to the number of Guns she carries; after a second Bottle of the
convent’s Claret [the Nuns make it themselves, and from the Shade of the priest’s
Nose, no little of it gets consumed here, too], Consensus was reached, with “a
bloody Lot, mate,” always allowing for Errors of Translation, being the final
Number), taken apart, hauled to the River, and there reassembled.

Colonel Arnold apparently decided that to wait any longer was to lose what
Advantage of Initiative he might possess, and sallied out from his Hiding place at
Valcour Island on 30 September. By Report, he had fifteen Craft, to Sir Guy’s
twenty-five, these former all hastily built, unseaworthy, and manned by Landsmen
who did not know a Binnacle from a Bunion—the American Navy, in all its glory!

Still, I must not laugh too much. The more I hear of Colonel Arnold (and I hear a
great Deal about him, here in Quebec), the more I think he must be a Gentleman
of Gall and Kidney, as Grandpapa Sir George is wont to say; I should like to meet
him one day.

There is Singing outside; the habitants are coming to the Cathedral nearby. I
don’t know the Music, and it’s too far to make out the Words, but I can see the
Glow of Torches from my Eyrie. The Bells say it is ten o’clock.

(The Mother Superior says that she knows you, by the way—Soeur Immaculata is
her Name. I should scarcely have been startled by this; told her that you know the
Archbishop of Canterbury and the Pope, by which she professed to be much
impressed, and begs you will convey her most humble Obeisance to His Holiness
when next you see him. She kindly asked me to Dinner, and told me Stories of the
taking of the Citadel in ’59, and how you quartered a number of Highlanders
upon the Convent. How shocked the Sisters all were by their bare Legs, and
sought a Requisition of Canvas that they might make the men Trousers. My
Uniform has suffered noticeably through the last few Weeks of Travel, but I am
still decently covered below the Waist, I am relieved to say. So was Mother
Superior, no doubt!)

I return to my Account of the Battle: Sir Guy’s Fleet sailed south, intending to
reach and recapture Crown Point, then Ticonderoga. As they passed Valcour
Island, though, two of Arnold’s Ships sprang out upon them, firing in challenge.

These then attempted to withdraw, but one (Royal Savage, they said) could not
make Way against the Headwinds, and ran aground. Several British Gunboats
swarmed her and captured a few Men, but were forced to withdraw under heavy
Fire from the Americans—though not omitting to set Fire to the Royal Savage as
they did so.