“But they would talk it over for hours—whilst we labored the next day, they would wonder why Ensign Northerton had done as he had with regard to Miss Western, and argue whether they themselves would or would not have behaved so.” His face lightened a little, recalling something. “And invariably, a man would shake his head and say, ‘At least I’ve never been treated in that manner!’ He might be starved, cold, covered in sores, permanently separated from his family and customary circumstances—and yet he could take comfort in never having suffered such vicissitudes as had befallen these imaginary beings!”
He actually smiled, shaking his head at the thought, and I thought the smile much improved him.
I’d finished the job, and laid his hand on the table.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He looked startled.
“What? Why?”
“I’m assuming that that injury was perhaps the result of b-battle done on my behalf,” I said. I touched his hand lightly. “I, er . . . well.” I took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” He looked thoroughly taken aback at this, and quite embarrassed.
“I . . . erm . . . hmm!” He pushed back the stool and rose, looking flustered.
I rose, as well.
“You’ll need to have fresh salve put on every day,” I said, resuming a businesslike tone. “I’ll make up some more; you can come, or send Malva to fetch it.”
He nodded, but said nothing, having evidently exhausted his supply of sociability for the day. I saw his eye linger on the cover of the book, though, and on impulse offered it to him.
“Would you like to borrow it? You should really read it for yourself; I’m sure Jamie can’t have recalled all the details.”
“Oh!” He looked startled, and pursed his lips, frowning, as though suspecting it was a trap of some sort. When I insisted, though, he took the book, picking it up with an expression of guarded avidity that made me wonder how long it had been since he had had any book other than the Bible to read.
He nodded thanks to me, and donned his hat, turning to go. Upon a moment’s impulse, I asked, “Did you ever have the chance to apologize to your wife?”
That was a mistake. His face tightened into coldness and his eyes went flat as a snake’s.
“No,” he said shortly. I thought for a moment that he would put the book down and refuse to take it. But instead, he tightened his lips, tucked the volume more securely under his arm, and left, without further farewell.
31
AND SO TO BED
NO ONE ELSE CAME. By the time night fell, I was beginning to feel rather edgy, starting at noises, searching the deepening shadows under the chestnut trees for lurking men—or worse. I thought I should cook something; surely Jamie and Ian intended coming home for supper? Or perhaps I should go down to the cabin, join Roger and Bree.
But I flinched from the notion of being exposed to any kind of solicitude, no matter how well meant, and while I hadn’t yet got up the nerve to look in a mirror, was reasonably sure that the sight of me would frighten Jemmy—or at least lead to a lot of questions. I didn’t want to have to try to explain to him what had happened to me. I was fairly sure that Jamie had told Brianna to stay away for a bit, and that was good. I really was in no shape to pretend to be all right. Not quite yet.
Dithering round the kitchen, I picked things up and put them down pointlessly. I opened the drawers of the sideboard and closed them—then opened the second one again, the one where Jamie kept his pistols.
Most of the pistols were gone. Only the gilt-trimmed one that didn’t shoot straight was left, with a few loads and a tiny powder horn, the sort made for fancy dueling pistols.
Hands shaking only a little, I loaded it, and poured a bit of powder into the firing pan.
When the back door opened, quite some time later, I was sitting at the table, a copy of Don Quixote lying in front of me, pointing the pistol with both hands at the door.
Ian froze momentarily.
“Ye’d never hit anyone wi’ that gun at this distance, Auntie,” he said mildly, coming in.
“They wouldn’t know that, would they?” I set the pistol down, gingerly. My palms were damp, and my fingers ached.
He nodded, taking the point, and sat down.
“Where’s Jamie?” I asked.
“Washing. Are ye well, Auntie?” His soft hazel eyes took a casual but careful estimation of my state.
“No, but I’ll do.” I hesitated. “And . . . Mr. Brown? Did he—tell you anything?”
Ian made a derogatory noise.
“Pissed himself when Uncle Jamie took the dirk from his belt to clean his fingernails. We didna touch him, Auntie, dinna fash yourself.”
Jamie came in then, clean-shaven, his skin cold and fresh from the well water, hair damp at his temples. Despite that, he looked tired to death, the lines of his face cut deep and his eyes shadowed. The shadows lifted a bit, though, when he saw me and the pistol.
“It’s all right, a nighean,” he said softly, touching my shoulder as he sat down beside me. “I’ve men set to watch the house—just in case. Though I dinna expect any trouble for some days yet.”
My breath went out in a long sigh.
“You could have told me that.”
He glanced at me, surprised.
“I thought ye’d know. Surely ye wouldna think I’d leave ye unprotected, Sassenach?”
I shook my head, momentarily unable to speak. Had I been in any condition to think logically, of course I wouldn’t. As it was, I had spent most of the afternoon in a state of quiet—and unnecessary—terror, imagining, remembering. . . .
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said softly, and put a large, cold hand on mine. “I shouldna have left ye alone. I thought—”
I shook my head, but put my other hand over his, pressing tight.
“No, you were right. I couldn’t have borne any company, beyond Sancho Panza.”
He glanced at Don Quixote, then at me, brows raised. The book was in Spanish, which I didn’t happen to speak.
“Well, some of it was close to French, and I did know the story,” I said. I took a deep breath, taking what comfort I could in the warmth of the fire, the flicker of the candle, and the proximity of the two of them, large, solid, pragmatic, and—outwardly, at least—imperturbable.
“Is there any food, Auntie?” Ian inquired, getting up to look. Lacking any appetite myself, and too jittery to focus on anything, I hadn’t eaten dinner nor made anything for supper—but there was always food in that house, and without any particular fuss, Jamie and Ian had equipped themselves in short order with the remains of a cold partridge pie, several hard-cooked eggs, a dish of piccalilli, and half a loaf of bread, which they sliced up and toasted over the fire on a fork, buttering the slices and cramming them into me in a manner brooking no argument.
Hot, buttered toast is immensely comforting, even nibbled tentatively with a sore jaw. With food in my stomach, I began to feel much calmer, and capable of inquiring what they had learned from Lionel Brown.
“He put it all on Hodgepile,” Jamie told me, loading piccalilli onto a slice of pie. “He would, of course.”
“You didn’t meet Arvin Hodgepile,” I said, with a small shiver. “Er . . . to talk to, I mean.”
He shot me a sharp look, but didn’t address that matter any further, instead leaving it to Ian to explain Lionel Brown’s version of events.
It had started with him and his brother, Richard, establishing their Committee of Safety. This, he had insisted, was intended as public service, pure and simple. Jamie snorted at that, but didn’t interrupt.
Most of the male inhabitants of Brownsville had joined the committee—most of the homesteaders and small farmers nearby had not. Still, so far, so good. The committee had dealt with a number of small matters, meting out justice in cases of assault, theft, and the like, and if they had appropriated the odd hog or deer carcass by way of payment for their trouble, there hadn’t been too much complaint.
“There’s a great deal of feeling still, about the Regulation,” Ian explained, frowning as he sliced another piece of bread. “The Browns didna join the Regulation; they’d no need to, as their cousin was sheriff, and half the courthouse ring are Browns, or marrit to Browns.” Corruption, in other words, had been on their side.
Regulator sentiment still ran high in the backcountry, even though the main leaders of the movement, such as Hermon Husband and James Hunter, had left the colony. In the aftermath of Alamance, most Regulators had grown more cautious of expressing themselves—but several Regulator families who lived near Brownsville had become vocal in their criticism of the Browns’ influence on local politics and business.
“Tige O’Brian was one of those?” I asked, feeling the buttered toast coalesce into a small, hard lump in my stomach. Jamie had told me what had happened to the O’Brians—and I’d seen Roger’s face when he’d come back.
Jamie nodded, not looking up from his pie.
“Enter Arvin Hodgepile,” he said, and took a ferocious bite. Hodgepile, having neatly escaped the constraints of the British army by pretending to die in the warehouse fire at Cross Creek, had set about making a living in various unsavory ways. And, water having a strong tendency to seek its own level, had ended up with a small gang of like-minded thugs.
This gang had begun simply enough, by robbing anyone they came across, holding up taverns, and the like. This sort of behavior tends to attract attention, though, and with various constables, sheriffs, Committees of Safety, and the like on their trail, the gang had retired from the piedmont where they began, and moved up into the mountains, where they could find isolated settlements and homesteads. They had also begun killing their victims, to avoid the nuisance of identification and pursuit.
“Or most of them,” Ian murmured. He regarded the half-eaten egg in his hand for a moment, then put it down.
In his career with the army in Cross Creek, Hodgepile had made various contacts with a number of river traders and coastal smugglers. Some dealt in furs, others in anything that would bring a profit.
“And it occurred to them,” Jamie said, drawing a deep breath, “that girls and women and young boys are more profitable than almost anything—save whisky, maybe.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile.
“Our Mr. Brown insists he’d nothing to do wi’ this,” Ian added, a cynical note in his voice. “Nor had his brother or their committee.”
“But how did the Browns get involved with Hodgepile’s gang?” I asked. “And what did they do with the people they kidnapped?”
The answer to the first question was that it had been the happy outcome of a botched robbery.
“Ye recall Aaron Beardsley’s auld place, aye?”
“I do,” I said, wrinkling my nose in reflex at the memory of that wretched sty, then emitting a small cry and clapping both hands over my abused appendage.
Jamie glanced at me, and put another bit of bread on his toasting fork.
“Well, so,” he went on, ignoring my protest that I was full, “the Browns took it over, of course, when they adopted the wee lass. They cleaned it out, stocked it fresh, and went on using it as a trading post.”