Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (28 page)

I FOUND A SHALLOW,
gravelly spot in the creek and hastily wriggled out of my apron and dress, trying not to breathe. Bar gangrenous limbs and long-dead corpses, nothing smells worse than pig shit.
Nothing.

Still holding my breath, I wadded the smeared garments into a loose ball and dropped it into the shallows. I kicked off my shoes and waded in after it, holding a couple of large rocks I had snatched up. The dress had already begun to unwrap itself, spreading faded indigo swaths out over the gravel like the shadow of a passing manta ray. I dropped a rock on it, and, spreading out the canvas apron with my bare foot, weighted that down as well.

Crisis managed for the moment, I waded out a little farther and stood calf-deep in the cold, rushing water, breathing gratefully.

Animal husbandry was not really my specialty—unless you wanted to count Jamie and the children—but necessity makes veterinarians of us all. I had been visiting young Elmo Cairns’s cabin to check on the progress of his broken arm when his also-young and immensely pregnant pig began to show signs of difficulty with her first farrowing. This was noticeable, as the pig had been sprawled, her enormous sides heaving sporadically, on the floor at Elmo’s feet, she being—as he explained—“summat of a pet.”

Elmo being incapacitated by his broken arm, I had done the necessary, and while the result was gratifying—a 100 percent survival rate, and a healthy litter of eight, six of them female (one of them mine, Elmo had assured me, “if the sow doesna eat ’em all”)—I hadn’t thought I could make it all the way home wearing the by-products.

It was a hot day, with that heavy stillness in the air that portends thunder, and standing in cold water with cool air rising through my undergarments was pleasant. I decided that removing my sweaty stays would make it pleasanter still, and was in the act of pulling these off over my head when I heard a loud cough from the creek bank behind me.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, jerking the stays off and whirling round. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

There were two of them: gentlemen, by their rather inappropriate dress. Not that I was in any position to put on airs about appropriate attire, but they did have foxtails stuck in their silk stockings, mud clogged in the buckles of their shoes, and smears of pine pitch on their broadcloth—and one had a large rent in his coat that showed the yellow silk lining.

Both of them looked me over from (disheveled) head to (bare) foot, their mouths slightly open and their gazes lingering on my breasts, which were rather on display, the damp muslin of my shift having stuck to them and the cool air off the water having stiffened my nipples. Inappropriate, forsooth…

I delicately plucked the muslin loose from my skin and dropped it, giving them stare for stare.

The one with the rent in his coat recovered first, and nodded to me, a cautious interest in his eyes.

“My name is Mr. Adam Granger and this”—nodding at his younger companion—“is my nephew, Mr. Nicodemus Partland. Can you tell us the way to Captain Cunningham’s house, my good woman?”

“Certainly,” I said, resisting the impulse to try to tidy my hair. “It’s that way”—I pointed toward the northeast—“but it’s a good three miles. I’m afraid you’ll be caught by the storm.”

They would be, too. A rising breath of air fluttered the leaves of the willows along the creek, and a boil of dark-gray clouds was rising in the west. You could see a mountain storm coming from quite a distance, but they moved quickly.

Moved in part by the requirements of hospitality and in larger part by curiosity, I waded ashore, scooping up my wet clothes.

“You’d better come down to the house,” I said to Mr. Granger as I wrung out my clothes and folded them up in my stays. “It’s quite nearby and you can shelter there until the storm passes. One of the boys can guide you to Captain Cunningham’s place once the rain goes by; his cabin is rather remote.”

They glanced at each other, up at the darkening sky, and then nodded as one and prepared to follow me. I hadn’t liked the way Mr. Partland had eyed my breasts and didn’t want him ogling my bottom while I walked, so I gestured them firmly before me onto the trail, pushed my wet feet into my shoes, and set out for home, dripping.

I estimated Mr. Granger’s age at perhaps fifty, Partland younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Neither was fat, but Nicodemus Partland was tall and rangy, with the sort of eyes that looked past you even as they looked at you. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as though to be sure I was still there.

We reached the house within twenty minutes, but the air had already begun to smell of ozone and I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Welcome to New House, gentlemen,” I said, nodding toward the front door. Jamie appeared on the threshold, holding Adso the cat, who leapt out of his arms and hared past me, pursued by Bluebell, barking happily. She skidded to a halt, seeing the strangers, and started barking at them, with raised hackles and serious intent.

Jamie came down off the porch and took hold of the dog by the scruff of her neck.

“That’ll do, lass,” he said to her, and with a gentle shake let her go. “Your pardon, gentlemen.”

Mr. Partland had drawn back when Bluebell menaced them, and had a hand on his pocket in a way suggesting that he might have a small pistol therein. He didn’t take his eyes off the dog, even when Fanny came out, summoned by Jamie, and coaxed her back into the house.

Mr. Granger, though, had no eyes for dogs. He was staring at Jamie. Jamie noticed this, and offered his hand with a slight bow.

“James Fraser, your servant, sir.”

“I—that is—” Mr. Granger shook his head rapidly and took Jamie’s hand. “Mr. Adam Granger, sir. Are you—are you not
General
Fraser?”

“I was,” Jamie said briefly. “And you, sir?” He turned to Partland, who was now also examining him as he might a horse he meant to buy.

“Nicodemus Partland, your most obedient, sir,” Partland said, smiling, but with a tone that suggested obedience was the last thing he intended. Or respect, for that matter.

“Your, um”—Mr. Granger, belatedly recalling my presence, turned to look at me—“woman suggested that we might find shelter from the storm here. But if our presence is inconvenient…”

“Not at all.” Jamie’s mouth twitched slightly as he looked me over. “Allow me to introduce my wife, sir—
Mrs.
General Fraser.”

FANNY APPEARED IN
the doorway, coming to see what Bluebell was barking about now, with Brianna behind her. Jamie made the introductions, then motioned the visitors into the house and raised a brow at Bree, who nodded obligingly.

“My daughter will see to your needs, gentlemen. I’ll join ye shortly.”

He waited just long enough for them to go inside before turning to me.

“What the devil have ye been doing, Sassenach?” he hissed.

“Delivering pigs,” I said succinctly, and handed him the bundle of wet clothing, from which the unmistakable scent of porcine excrement still oozed, bearing witness to my story.

“Christ,” he said, holding the bundle out at arm’s length. “Frances, lass, take this, will ye? Soak it in something—or must it be burnt?” he asked, turning back to me.

“Soak them in cold water with soft soap and vinegar,” I said. “We’ll boil them later. And thank you, Fanny.”

She nodded and took the bundle, nose wrinkled.

“Who are these men?” Jamie asked, jerking his chin toward the door where Partland and Granger had disappeared. “And how the devil did ye come to be in their company in nothing but your shift?”

“I was washing in the creek when they turned up,” I said, rather irritated. “I didn’t invite them to join me.”

“No, of course not.” He took a breath and began to calm down. “I just didna like the way the younger one was looking at ye.”

“Neither did I. As for who they are—” I began, but was interrupted by Fanny, who was headed for the side yard and the laundry tub with Bluebell, but turned round at this.

“The young one is an officer,” she said, and nodded in affirmation of her observations. “They always think they can do anything they want.”

I stared after her, nonplussed, as she vanished.

“They don’t look like soldiers,” I said, with a shrug. “The older one called me ‘my good woman,’ though. They probably thought I was your skivvy.”

“My what?” He looked startled, and then offended.

“Oh—it just means a cleaning woman,” I said, realizing that he’d leapt to a not-unreasonable eighteenth-century interpretation of the meaning of “skivvy.” “Anyway, they said they were looking for Captain Cunningham. And as it was about to rain…”

It was. The wind was moving through the grass and through leaves and needles and twigs; the whole forest was breathing and the clouds had covered more than half the sky, big, black, and dangerous with flickering lightning.

Brianna came out, holding a towel, and offered it to me.

“I put those men in your study, Da,” she said. “Is that all right?”

“Aye, fine,” he assured her.

“Wait, Bree,” I said, emerging from the towel as she turned to go. “Would you and Fanny go down to the root cellar and fetch up some vegetables and maybe…I don’t know, something sweet—jam, raisins…We’ll have to feed them, whoever they are.”

“Sure,” she said. “You don’t know who they are?”

“Fanny says the young one is an officer,” Jamie said. “Beyond that—we’ll see. Come along in, Sassenach,” he said, putting an arm about me to shepherd me inside. “Ye need to get dry—”

“And clothed.”

“Aye, that, too.”

THE ROOT CELLAR
wasn’t a long walk from the smoke shed, but it was on the other side of the big clearing, and the wind, unobstructed by trees or buildings, rushed them from behind, blowing their skirts out before them and whipping Fanny’s cap off her head.

Brianna got a hand up and snatched the scrap of muslin as it whirled past. Her own hair, unbound, was flailing round her face, and so was Fanny’s. They looked at each other, half-blinded, and laughed. Then the first drops of rain began to fall, and they ran, gasping and shrieking for the shelter of the root cellar.

It was dug into the side of a hill, a rough wooden door framed in with stacked stone on either side. The door stuck in its jamb, but Bree freed it with a mighty jerk and they fell inside, damp-spotted but safe from the downpour that now commenced outside.

“Here.” Still breathless, Brianna gave the cap to Fanny. “I don’t think it’ll keep the rain out, though.”

Fanny shook her head, sneezed, giggled, and sneezed again.

“Where’s yours?” she asked, sniffing as she tucked her windblown curls back under the cap.

“I don’t like caps much,” Bree said, and smiled when Fanny blinked. “But I might wear one for cooking or doing something splashy. I wear a slouch hat for hunting, sometimes, but otherwise I just tie my hair back.”

“Oh,” Fanny said uncertainly. “I gueth—
guess
that’s why Mrs. Fraser—your mother, I mean—why she doesn’t wear them, either?”

“Well, it’s a little different with Mama,” Bree said, running her fingers through her own long red hair to untangle it. “It’s part of her war with”—she paused for a moment, wondering how much to say, but after all, if Fanny was now part of the family, she’d learn such things sooner or later—“with people who think they have a right to tell her how to do things.”