An Echo in the Bone (52 page)

In any Event, people in Thompson’s Ordinary heard the Stramash and rushed out,
whereupon the Villains fled, leaving Fergus somewhat bruised and most
indignant at the loss of his Hook, but otherwise unharmed, for which God and St.

Dismas (he being Fergus’s particular Patron) be thanked.

I questioned Mr. Hall as closely as I could, but there was little more to be
learned. He said that public Opinion was divided, with many saying that this was
an attempted Deportation and the Sons of Liberty were to blame for the attack,
while some members of the Sons of Liberty indignantly denied this Accusation,
claiming that it was the work of Loyalists incensed over Fergus’s printing of a
particularly inflammatory Speech by Patrick Henry, and the Abduction was a
Prelude to Tar and Feathers. Apparently Fergus has been so successful in
avoiding the Appearance of taking Sides in the Conflict that both Sides are
equally likely to have taken Offense and decided to eliminate his Influence.

This is, of course, possible. But with the Presence and Behavior of Monsieur
Beauchamp in Mind, I think a third Explanation is more likely. Fergus declined to
speak with him, but it would not have required a great deal of further Inquiry for
him to learn that despite his Name and Scottish Wife, Fergus is a Frenchman.

Surely most of the Inhabitants of New Bern know this, and someone could easily
have told him.

I confess myself to be at a Loss as to why Beauchamp should wish to abduct
Fergus, rather than simply come and confront him in Person to inquire whether
he might be the Person for whom the Gentleman claimed to be searching. I must
assume that he does not mean Fergus immediate Harm, for if he did, it would be a
fairly simple Matter to have arranged to have him killed; there are a great many
Men of no Attachment and mean Character drifting through the Colony these
Days.

The Occurrence is worrying, but there is little I can do about it in my present
abject Position. I have sent Fergus a Letter—ostensibly regarding the
Specifications of a printing Job—which lets him know that I have placed a Sum
with a Goldsmith in Wilmington, which he may draw upon in case of Need. I had
discussed with him the Dangers of his present Position, not knowing at the Time
how dangerous they might actually be, and he agreed that there might be some
Advantage to his Family’s Safety in his moving to a City where public Opinion is
more strongly aligned with his own Inclinations. This latest Incident may compel
his Decision, the more particularly as Proximity to ourselves is no longer a
Consideration.

He had to stop again, as pain was radiating through his hand and up his wrist. He stretched the fingers, stifling a groan; a hot wire seemed to stab from his fourth finger up his forearm in brief electric jolts.

He was more than worried for Fergus and his family. If Beauchamp had tried once, he would try again. But why?

Perhaps the fact of Fergus’s being French was not sufficient evidence that he was the Claudel Fraser that Beauchamp sought, and he proposed to satisfy himself upon this point in privacy, by whatever means came to hand? Possible, but that argued a coldness of purpose that disturbed Jamie more than he had wished to say in his letter.

And in fairness, he must admit that the notion of the attack having been executed by persons of inflamed political sensibility was a distinct possibility, and perhaps of a higher probability than the sinister designs of Monsieur Beauchamp, which were both romantical and theoretical to a high degree.

“But I havena lived this long without knowing the smell of a rat when I see one,” he muttered, still rubbing his hand.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” said his personal figurehead, appearing suddenly beside him with an expression of marked concern. “Your hand!”

“Aye?” He looked down at it, cross with discomfort. “What’s amiss? All my fingers are still attached to it.”

“That’s the most that could be said for it. It looks like the Gordian knot.” She knelt down beside him and took the hand into hers, massaging it in a forceful way that was doubtless helpful but so immediately painful that it made his eyes water. He closed them, breathing slowly through clenched teeth.

She was scolding him for writing too much at once. What was the hurry, after all?

“It will be days before we reach Connecticut, and then
months
on the way to Scotland. You could write one sentence per day and quote the whole Book of Psalms along the way.”

“I wanted to,” he said.

She said something derogatory under her breath, in which the words “Scot” and “pigheaded”

featured, but he chose to take no notice. He
had
wanted to; it clarified his thoughts to put them down in black and white, and it was to some degree a relief to express them on paper, rather than to have the worry clogged up in his head like mud in mangrove roots.

And beyond that—not that he required an excuse, he thought, narrowing his eyes at the top of his wife’s bent head—seeing the shore of North Carolina drop away had made him lonely for his daughter and Roger Mac, and he’d wanted the sense of connection that writing to them gave him.

“Do you think you will see them?”
Fergus had asked him that, soon before they took leave of each other.
“Perhaps you will go to France.” So
far as Fergus and Marsali and the folk on the Ridge were concerned, Brianna and Roger Mac had gone to France to escape the oncoming war.

“No,” he’d said, hoping the bleakness of his heart didn’t show in his voice. “I doubt we shall ever see them again.”

Fergus’s strong right hand had tightened on his forearm, then relaxed.

“Life is long,” he said quietly.

“Aye,” he’d answered, but thought,
No one’s life is that long
.

His hand was growing easier now; while she still massaged it, the motion no longer hurt so much.

“I miss them, too,” she said quietly, and kissed his knuckles. “Give me the letter; I’ll finish it.”

Your father’s hand won’t stand any more today. There is one notable thing about
this ship, beyond the captain’s name. I was down in the hold earlier in the day,
and saw a good number of boxes, all stenciled with the name “Arnold” and “New
Haven, Connecticut.” I said to the hand (whose name is a very pedestrian John
Smith, though no doubt to make up for this distressing lack of distinction he has
three gold earrings in one ear and two in the other. He told me that each one
represents his survival from the sinking of a ship. I am hoping that your father
doesn’t know this) that Mr. Arnold must be a very successful merchant. Mr. Smith
laughed and said that, in fact, Mr. Benedict Arnold is a colonel in the Continental
army, and a very gallant officer he is, too. The boxes are bound for delivery to his
sister, Miss Hannah Arnold, who minds both his three small sons and his
importing and dry-goods store in Connecticut, while he is about the business of
the war.

I must say that a goose walked across my grave when I heard that. I’ve met men
whose history I knew before—and at least one of those I knew to carry a doom
with him. You don’t get used to the feeling, though. I looked at those boxes and
wondered—ought I to write to Miss Hannah? Get off the ship in New Haven and
go to see her? And tell her what, exactly?

All our experience to date suggests that there is absolutely nothing I could do to
alter what’s going to happen. And looking at the situation objectively, I don’t see
any way … and yet. And yet!

And yet, I’ve come close to so many people whose actions have a noticeable
effect, whether or not they end up making history as such. How can it not be so?

your father says. Everyone’s actions have some effect upon the future. And plainly
he’s right. And yet, to brush so close to a name like Benedict Arnold gives one a
right turn, as Captain Roberts is fond of saying. (No doubt a situation that gave
one a left turn would be very shocking indeed.)

Well. Returning tangentially to the original subject of this letter, the mysterious
Monsieur Beauchamp. If your father’s—Frank’s, I mean—if you still have the
boxes of papers and books from his home office, and a free moment, you might go
through them and see if you find an old manila folder in there, with a coat of arms
drawn on it in colored pencil. I think that it’s azure and gold, and I recall that it
has martlets on it. With luck, it still contains the Beauchamp family genealogy
that my uncle Lamb wrote up for me, lo these many years ago.

You might just have a look and see whether the incumbent of the name in 1777

was perhaps a Percival. For the sake of curiosity.

The wind’s come up a bit, and the water’s getting rough. Your father has gone
rather pale and clammy, like fish bait; I’ll close and take him down below for a
nice quiet vomit and a nap, I think.

All my love,

Mama

STAG AT BAY

ROGER BLEW THOUGHTFULLY ACROSS the mouth of an empty stout bottle, making a low, throaty moan. Close. A little deeper, though … and of course it lacked that hungry sound, that growling note. But the pitch … He got up and rummaged in the refrigerator, finding what he was looking for behind a heel of cheese and six margarine tubs full of God knew what; he’d lay odds it wasn’t margarine.

There was no more than an inch or so of champagne left in the bottle—a remnant of their celebratory dinner the week before, in honor of Bree’s new job. Someone had thriftily covered the neck of the bottle with tinfoil, but the wine had of course gone flat. He went to pour it out in the sink, but a lifetime of Scottish thrift was not so easily dismissed. With no more than an instant’s hesitation, he drank the rest of the champagne, lowering the empty bottle to see Annie MacDonald holding Amanda by the hand and staring at him.

“Well, at least ye’re no puttin’ it on your cornflakes yet,” she said, edging past him. “Here, pet, up ye go.” She hoisted Mandy into her booster seat and went out, shaking her head over her employer’s low moral character.

“Gimme, Daddy!” Mandy reached for the bottle, attracted by the shiny label. With the statutory parental pause as he mentally ran through potential scenarios of destruction, he instead gave her his glass of milk and hooted across the champagne bottle’s fluted lip, producing a deep, melodious tone. Yes, that was it—something close to the F below middle C.

“Do again, Daddy!” Mandy was charmed. Feeling mildly self-conscious, he hooted again, making her fall about in a cascade of giggles. He picked up the stout bottle and blew across that one, then alternated, working up a two-note variation to the rhythm of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Attracted by the hooting and Mandy’s ecstatic shrieks, Brianna appeared in the doorway, a bright blue plastic hard hat in her hand.

“Planning to start your own jug band?” she asked.

“Already got one,” he replied, and having decided that the worst thing Mandy could do with the champagne bottle was drop it onto the rug, handed it to her and stepped out into the hall with Brianna, where he pulled her close and kissed her deeply, the baize door swinging shut with a cushioned
foosh
.

“Champagne for breakfast?” she broke the kiss long enough to ask, then returned for more, tasting him.

“Needed the bottle,” he mumbled, tasting back. She’d had porridge with butter and honey for breakfast, and her mouth was sweet, turning the champagne bitter on the edges of his tongue.

The hall was chilly, but she was warm as toast under her fleece jumper. His fingers lingered just under the edge of it, on the bare soft skin at the small of her back.

“Ye’ll have a good day, aye?” he whispered. He fought the urge to slide his fingers down the back of her jeans; not respectful to be fingering the arse of a brand-new inspector of the North of Scotland Hydro Electric Board. “You’re bringing the hat home, after?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Thought ye might wear it in bed.” He took it from her hand and set it gently on her head. It made her eyes go navy blue. “Wear it, and I’ll tell ye what I wanted with the champagne bottle.”

“Oh, now there’s an offer I can’t re—” The navy-blue eyes slid suddenly sideways, and Roger glanced in that direction, to see Annie at the end of the hall, broom and dustpan in hand and an expression of deep interest on her narrow face.

“Yeah. Ah… have a good day,” Roger said, letting go hastily.

“You, too.” Face twitching, Brianna took him firmly by the shoulders and kissed him, before striding down the hall and past a round-eyed Annie, whom she airily wished good day in the Gaelic.

A sudden crash came from the kitchen. He turned automatically toward the baize door, though less than half his attention was on the incipient disaster. The greater part was focused on the sudden realization that his wife appeared to have departed for work wearing no knickers.

MANDY HAD, God knew how, managed to throw the champagne bottle through the window and was standing on the table, reaching for the jagged edge of the pane, when Roger rushed in.

“Mandy!” He grabbed her, swung her off the table, and in the same motion smacked her bottom once. She emitted an ear-piercing howl, and he carried her out under his arm, passing Annie Mac, who stood in the doorway with mouth and eyes all round as “O”s.

“See to the glass, aye?” he said.

He felt guilty as hell; what had he been thinking, handing her the bottle? Let alone leaving her by herself with it!

He also felt a certain irritation with Annie Mac—after all, she was employed to watch the children—but fairness made him admit that he ought to have made sure she’d come back to watch Mandy before he left. The irritation extended to Bree, as well, prancing off to her new job, expecting him to mind the household.