Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (47 page)

WILLIAM WALKED PURPOSEFULLY
to the gate, and stopped. He wanted to be gone, go away and leave Lord John and his son to make what accommodations they might. The less he knew of their conversation, the better. But he hesitated, hand on the latch.

He couldn’t bring himself to abandon Cinnamon, not knowing what the outcome of that conversation might be. If things went awry…he had a vision of Cinnamon, rejected and distraught, blundering out of the house and away, God knew where, alone.

“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered to himself. “You know Papa wouldn’t…” “Papa” stuck like a thorn in his throat and he swallowed.

Still, he took his hand off the latch and turned back. He’d wait for a quarter of an hour, he decided. If anything terrible was going to happen, it would likely be quick. He couldn’t linger in the tiny front garden, though, let alone skulk about beneath the windows. He skirted the yard and went down the side of the house, toward the back.

The back garden was sizable, with a vegetable patch, dug over for the next planting, but still sporting a fringe of cabbages. A small cook shed stood at the end of the garden, and a grape arbor at one side, with a bench inside it. The bench was occupied by Amaranthus, who held little Trevor against her shoulder, patting his back in a business-like way.

“Oh, hullo,” she said, spotting William. “Where’s your friend?”

“Inside,” he said. “Talking to Lord John. I thought I’d just wait for him—but I don’t wish to disturb you.” He made to turn away, but she stopped him, raising her hand for a moment before resuming her patting.

“Sit down,” she said, eyeing him with interest. “So you’re the famous William. Or ought I to call you Ellesmere?”

“Indeed. And no, you oughtn’t.” He sat down cautiously beside her. “How’s the little fellow?”

“Extremely full,” she said, with a small grimace. “Any minute—whoops, there he goes.” Trevor had emitted a loud belch, this accompanied by a spew of watery milk that ran over his mother’s shoulder. Apparently such explosions were common; William saw that she had placed a napkin over her banyan to receive it, though the cloth seemed inadequate to the volume of Trevor’s production.

“Hand me that, will you?” Amaranthus shifted the child expertly from one shoulder to the other and nodded toward another wadded cloth that lay on the ground near her feet. William picked it up gingerly, but it proved to be clean—for the moment.

“Hasn’t he got a nurse?” he asked, handing the cloth over.

“He did have,” Amaranthus said, frowning slightly as she mopped the child’s face. “I sacked her.”

“Drunkenness?” he asked, recalling what Lord John had said about the cook.

“Among other things. Drunk on occasion—too many of them—and dirty in her ways.”

“Dirty as in filth, or…er…lacking fastidiousness in her relations with the opposite sex?”

She laughed, despite the subject.

“Both. Did I not already know you to be Lord John’s son, that question would have made it clear. Or, rather,” she amended, gathering the banyan more closely around her, “the phrasing of it, rather than the question itself. All of the Greys—all those I’ve met so far—talk like that.”

“I’m his lordship’s stepson,” he replied equably. “Any resemblance of speech must therefore be a matter of exposure, rather than inheritance.”

She made a small interested noise and looked at him, one fair brow raised. Her eyes were that changeable color between gray and blue, he saw. Just now, they matched the gray doves embroidered on her yellow banyan.

“That’s possible,” she said. “My father says that a kind of finch learns its songs from its parents; if you take an egg from one nest and put it into another some miles away, the nestling will learn the songs of the new parents, instead of the ones who laid the egg.”

Courteously repressing the desire to ask why anyone should be concerned with finches in any way, he merely nodded.

“Are you not cold, madam?” he asked. They were sitting in the sun, and the wooden bench was warm under his legs, but the breeze playing on the back of his neck was chilly, and he knew she wasn’t wearing anything but a shift under her banyan. The thought brought back a vivid recollection of his first sight of her, milky bosom and prominent nipples on display, and he looked away, trying to think instantly of something else.

“What is your father’s profession?” he asked at random.

“He’s a naturalist—when he can afford to be,” she replied. “And no, I’m not cold. It’s always much too hot in the house, and I don’t think the smoke from the hearth is good for Trevor; it makes him cough.”

“Perhaps the chimney isn’t drawing properly. You said, ‘when he can afford to be.’ What does your father do when he cannot afford to pursue his…er…particular interests?”

“He’s a bookseller,” she said, with a slight tone of defiance. “In Philadelphia. That’s where I met Benjamin,” she added, with a barely perceptible catch in her voice. “In my father’s shop.” She turned her head slightly, watching to see what he made of this. Would he disapprove of the connection, knowing her now for a tradesman’s daughter?
Not likely,
he thought wryly.
Under the circumstances.

“You have my deepest sympathies on the loss of your husband, madam,” he said. He wondered what she knew—had been told, rather—about Benjamin’s death, but it seemed indelicate to ask. And he’d best find out just what Papa and Uncle Hal knew about it now, before he went trampling into unknown territory.

“Thank you.” She looked away, her eyes lowered, but he saw her mouth—rather a nice mouth—compress in a way suggesting that her teeth were clenched.

“Bloody Continentals!” she said, with sudden violence. She lifted her head, and he saw that, far from being filled with tears, her eyes were sparking with rage. “Damn them and their nitwit republican philosophy! Of all the obstinate, muddle-headed, treasonous twaddle…I—” She broke off suddenly, perceiving his startlement.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I…was overcome by my emotions.”

“Very…suitable,” he said awkwardly. “I mean—quite understandable, given the…um…circumstances.” He glanced sideways at the house, but there was no sound of doors opening or voices raised in farewell. “Do call me William, though—we
are
cousins, are we not?”

She smiled fully at that. She had a lovely smile.

“So we are. You must call me Cousin Amaranthus, then—it’s a plant,” she added, with the slightly resigned air of one frequently obliged to make this explanation. “
Amaranthus retroflexus.
Of the family Amaranthaceae. Commonly known as pigweed.”

Trevor, who to this point had been perched on his mother’s knee, goggling stupidly at William, now made an urgent noise and reached out toward him. Fearing lest the child escape his mother’s clutches and pitch face-first onto the brick pathway, William grabbed him round the midsection and hoisted him onto his own knee, where the little boy stood, wobbling and crowing, beaming into William’s face. Despite himself, William smiled back. The boy was handsome, when not screeching, with soft dark hair and the pale-blue eyes common to the Greys.

“Wotcha, then, Trev?” he said, lowering his head and pretending to butt the child, who giggled and clutched at his hair.

“He looks quite like Benjamin,” he said, extracting his ears from Trevor’s grip. “And my uncle. I hope I don’t give you pain by saying so?” he added, suddenly unsure. She shook her head, though, and her smile turned rueful.

“No. It’s as well that he does. Your uncle was somewhat suspicious of me, I think. We married rather in haste,” she explained, in answer to William’s inquiring look, “and while Benjamin did write to tell his father of the marriage, his letter apparently didn’t reach England before His Grace left for the colonies. So when I discovered that His Grace was in Philadelphia, and wrote to him myself…” She lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug and glanced toward the house.

“Tell me about your friend,” she said. “Is he an Indian?”

William felt a sudden weight come back, one that he’d shed without noticing it over the last few minutes.

“Yes,” he said. “His mother was half Indian, half French, he says. Though I can’t say to what Indian nation she might have belonged. She died when he was an infant, and he was raised in a Catholic orphanage in Quebec.”

Amaranthus was interested. She leaned forward, looking toward the house.

“And his father?” she asked. “Or does he know anything of his father?”

William glanced involuntarily at the house again, but all was silent.

“As to that,” he said, groping for something to say that was not a lie, but still something short of the full truth, “it’s a long story—and it’s not my story to tell. All I can say is that his father was a British soldier.”

“I did notice his hair,” Amaranthus said, dimpling. “Most remarkable.” She glanced past him at the house, and reached to take the baby back. “Will you be staying with his lordship?”

“I don’t think so.” Still, the thought of being home—even if home was a place he’d never been before—swept through him with a sudden longing. Apparently Amaranthus perceived this, for she leaned toward him and put a gentle hand on his.

“Will you not stay—just for a bit? I know Uncle John would like it; he misses you very much. And I should like to know you better.”

The simple sincerity of this statement moved him.

“I—should like to,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t—that is, it may depend upon my friend. Upon his conversation with my father.”

“I see.” She petted Trevor, smoothing his soft hair and snuggling him into her shoulder. William had a sudden pang of envy, seeing it. Amaranthus, though, rose and stood swaying with the child in her arms, her own light hair lifting in the breeze as she looked at the house.

“I should like to go inside, but I don’t want to disturb them. I wonder what can be taking so long?”

J
OHN GREY STOOD FOR
a moment, blinking at the door through which his son had just vanished, and feeling just behind him the enormous quandary perched on a tiny gilt chair. Without the slightest notion what might happen next, he turned round and said the only thing possible in the circumstances.

“Would you like some brandy, Mr. Cinnamon?”

The young man sprang up at once, graceful in spite of his size and the look of profound anxiety stamped upon his broad features. The mixture of dread and hope in John Cinnamon’s eyes wrung Grey’s heart, and he put a hand gently on the young man’s arm, turning him toward the sturdiest piece of furniture available, a wide-armed chair with a solid oak frame.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to this object. “And let me get you something to drink. I daresay you need it.”
I certainly do,
he thought, heading for the door that led into the kitchen.
What in God’s name am I to say to him?

Neither the time consumed in finding brandy, nor the ceremonious pouring of it, provided him with any answers. He sat down in the green-striped wing chair and picked up his own brandy, feeling a most peculiar mix of dismay and exhilaration.

“I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance again, Mr. Cinnamon,” he said, smiling. “I last saw you at the age of six months or so, I believe. You’ve grown.”

Cinnamon flushed a little at this—an improvement over the pallor with which he’d entered the room—and bobbed his head awkwardly.

“I—thank you,” he blurted. “For seeing to my welfare all these years.”

Grey lifted a hand in brief dismissal, but asked curiously, “How many years has it been? How old are you?”

“Twenty, sir—or ought I to call you ‘my lord’ or ‘Excellency’?” he asked, anxiety still evident.

“ ‘Sir’ is quite all right,” Grey assured him. “May I ask how you fell into company with my—with William?”

Having a straightforward story to tell seemed to relax the young man somewhat, and by the time he’d got through it all, the brandy in his glass had sunk to amber dregs and his manner was substantially less anxious. With Cinnamon’s size in mind, Grey had poured with a lavish hand.

Manoke,
he thought, with mingled exasperation and amusement. No point in being angry; Manoke made his own rules, and always had. At the same time, though…Despite the intermittent and casual nature of their relationship, Grey trusted the Indian more than anyone, with the exception of his own brother or Jamie Fraser. Manoke wouldn’t put Cinnamon on his trail for the sake of mischief; either he’d thought Cinnamon likely
was
his son and therefore had a right to know it—or having met William as an adult, he’d thought that Grey might need another son.

Perhaps he did, he thought, with a small clench of the belly. If William chose to deal with the problem of his paternity by simply disappearing…or even if he didn’t…but no. It wouldn’t do, he concluded, with a surprising sense of regret.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Cinnamon,” he said, eyes on the brandy as he poured another glass for the young man. “I must begin by apologizing.”

“Oh, no!” Cinnamon burst out, sitting upright. “I would never expect you to—I mean, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, there is. I ought to have written down a brief account of your circumstances when I put you in the care of the Catholic brothers at Gareon, rather than simply leave you there with nothing but a name. It is difficult, though,” he added with a smile, “to look at a six-month-old child and envision the…er…ultimate result of passing time. Somehow, one never thinks that children will grow up.” He had a passing vision of Willie at the age of two and a half, small and fierce—and already beginning to resemble his real father.

Cinnamon looked down at his very broad hands, braced on his knees—and then, as though he couldn’t help it, stared at Grey’s slender hand, still wrapped around the brandy bottle. Then he looked up at Grey’s face, searching for kinship.

“You do resemble your father,” Grey said, meeting the young man’s eyes directly. “I wish that I were that man—both for your sake and for my own.”

There was a deep silence in the room. Cinnamon’s face went blank and stayed that way. He blinked once or twice, but gave away nothing of what he felt. Finally he nodded, and took a breath that went to the roots of his soul.

“Can you—will you—tell me of my father, sir?”

Well, that was it, Grey thought. He’d realized the choices instantly: claim the young man as his own, or tell him the truth. But how much of the truth?

The trouble was that Cinnamon’s existence wasn’t purely his own concern; there were other people involved; did Grey have the right to meddle with their affairs without consultation or permission? But he had to tell the boy
something,
he thought. And reached for his glass.

“He was a British soldier, as Manoke told you,” he said carefully. “Your mother was half French and half…I’m afraid I have no idea of the nation from which her other parent originated.”

“Assiniboine, I always thought,” Cinnamon said. “I mean—I knew some part of me must be Indian, and I’d look at the men who came through Gareon, to see if— There are a lot of Assiniboine in that part of the country. They’re often tall and…” His big hand lifted and gestured half consciously at the breadth of his shoulders.

Grey nodded, surprised, but pleased that the young man was taking the news calmly.

“I saw her, your mother,” he said, and took another swallow of the brandy. “Only the once—but she was in fact tall for a woman; perhaps an inch or so taller than I am. And very beautiful,” he added gently.

“Oh.” It was little more than a breath of acknowledgment, but Grey was startled—and moved—to see the boy’s face change. Just for an instant, Grey was reminded of the look on Jamie Fraser’s face when he had received Communion from the hand of an Irish priest, when the two of them had gone to Ireland in search of a criminal. A look of reverence, of grateful peace.

“She died of the smallpox, in an epidemic. I…er…purchased you from your grandmother for the sum of five guineas, two trade blankets, and a small cask of rum. She was a Frenchwoman,” he added, in apologetic explanation, and Cinnamon actually gave a brief twitch of the lips.

“And…my father?” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, intent. “Will you tell me his name? Please,” he added, some of the anxiety returning.

Grey hesitated, with the vivid images of what had happened when William had discovered
his
true parentage fresh in his mind—but the situations were quite different, he told himself, and in all conscience…

“His name is Malcolm Stubbs,” he said. “You, um, didn’t inherit your stature from him.”

Cinnamon stared at him for a bewildered instant, then, catching the allusion, gave a brief, shocked laugh. He put a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, but seeing that Grey was not discomposed, lowered it.

“You say
is,
sir. He is…alive, then?” All the hope—and all the fear—with which he had entered the house was back in his eyes.

“He was, the last time I had word of him, though that will be more than a year past. He lives in London, with his wife.”

“London,” Cinnamon whispered, and shook his head, as though London surely could not be a real place.

“As I said, he was wounded when we took Quebec. Badly wounded—he lost a foot and the lower part of his leg to a cannonball; I was amazed that he survived, but he had great resilience. I’m quite sure he managed to pass that trait on to you, Mr. Cinnamon.” He smiled warmly at the young Indian. He hadn’t drunk as much brandy as the young man, but quite enough.

Cinnamon nodded, swallowed, and then, lowering his head, stared at the pattern in the Turkey carpet for some moments. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked up, resolute.

“You say he is married, sir. I do not imagine that his wife—is aware of my existence.”

“A hundred to one against,” Grey assured him. He eyed the young man carefully. Might he actually set out for London? At the moment, upright and stalwart, he looked capable of anything. Grey tried—and failed—to imagine just what Malcolm’s wife would do, should John Cinnamon turn up on her doorstep one fine morning.

“Blame
me,
I expect,” he murmured under his breath, reaching for the decanter. “Another drop, Mr. Cinnamon? I should advise it, really.”

“I—yes. Please.” He inhaled the brandy and set the glass down with an air of finality. “Be assured, sir, I wish to do nothing that would cause my father or his wife the least discomfort.”

Grey took a cautious sip of his own fresh glass.

“That’s most considerate,” he said. “But also rather prudent. May I ask, had I actually proved to be your father—and let me repeat that I regret the fact that I am not—” He lifted his glass an inch and Cinnamon cast down his eyes, but gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “What did you intend to do? Or ought I to ask what you had hoped for?”

Cinnamon’s mouth opened, but then shut as he considered. Grey was beginning to be impressed by the young man’s manner. Deferential but not shy at all; straightforward but thoughtful.

“In truth, I scarcely know, sir,” Cinnamon said at last. He sat back a little, settling himself. “I did not expect, nor do I seek”—he added, with an inclination of his head—“any recognition or…or material assistance. I suppose it was in good part curiosity. But more, perhaps, a desire for some sense of…not of belonging; it would be foolish to expect that—but some knowledge of connection. Just to know that there is a person who shares my blood,” he ended simply. “And what he is like.

“Oh!” he said then, abashed. “And of course I wished to thank my father for taking thought for my welfare.” He cleared his throat again. “Might I ask, sir—a particular favor of you?”

“Certainly,” Grey replied. His mind had been stimulated by his own question—what
might
an abandoned child seek from an unknown parent? William certainly wanted nothing from Jamie Fraser, but that was quite a different circumstance; William had known Jamie since he was a child, though knowing him as a man was likely to prove a different kettle of fish….And then, too, William had a family, a proper family, people who shared not his blood, but his place in the world. Grey tried—and failed completely—to imagine what it must be like to feel oneself totally alone.

“—if I were to write such a letter,” Cinnamon was saying, and Grey returned to the present moment with a jerk.

“Send a letter,” he repeated. “To Malcolm. I—yes, I suppose I could do that. Er…saying what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Just to acknowledge his kindness in providing for my welfare, sir—and to assure him of my service, should he ever find himself in want of it.”

“Oh. His…yes, his kindness…” Cinnamon looked sharply at him, and Grey felt a flush rise in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the brandy. Damn it, he should have realized that Cinnamon thought Malcolm had provided the funds for his support all these years. Whereas, in reality…

“It was you,” Cinnamon said, surprise almost covering the disappointment in his face. “I mean—Mr. Stubbs didn’t…”

“He couldn’t have,” Grey said hurriedly. “As I said—he was badly wounded, very badly. He nearly died, and was sent back to England as soon as possible. Truly, he—he would have been unable…”

Unable to take thought for the son he’d made and left behind. Malcolm had never mentioned the boy to Grey, nor asked after him.

“I see,” Cinnamon said bleakly. He pressed his lips together and focused his gaze on the silver coffeepot sitting on the sideboard. Grey didn’t try to speak further; he could only make matters worse.

Finally, Cinnamon’s eyes cleared and he looked at Grey again, serious. The young man had very beautiful dark eyes, deep-set and slightly slanting. Those had come from his mother—Grey wished that he could tell him so, but this was not the moment for such details.

“Then I thank you, sir,” he said softly, and bowed, deeply, toward Grey. “It was most generous in you, to perform such a service for your friend.”

“I didn’t do it for Malcolm’s sake,” Grey blurted. His glass was empty—how had that happened?—and he set it down carefully on the little drum table.

They sat regarding each other, neither knowing quite what to say next. Grey could hear Moira the cook talking outside; she often talked to the faeries in the garden even when not drunk. The carriage clock on the mantel struck the half hour, and Cinnamon jerked in surprise, turning to look at it. It had musical chimes, and a mechanical butterfly under a glass dome, that raised and lowered its cloisonné wings.

The movement had broken the awkward silence, though, and when Cinnamon turned back, he spoke without hesitation.

“Father Charles said that you gave me a name, when you left me at the mission. You did not know what my mother called me, I suppose?”

“Why, no,” Grey said, disconcerted. “I didn’t.”

“So it was you who called me John?” A slight smile appeared on Cinnamon’s face. “You gave me your own name?”

Grey felt an answering smile on his own face, and lifted one shoulder in a deprecating way.