He detached my hand, courteously, and brushed his sleeve.
“I can, yes. I’m here upon the same errand. I’ll send word—”
“We’ll wait for you,” I said hastily, seeing the aide frown in my direction. “Outside. Come, Fanny!”
Outside, we found a place to wait on an ornamental bench set in the formal front garden. Even in winter, it was a pleasant spot, with several palmetto trees popping out of the shrubbery like so many Japanese parasols, and even the presence of a number of soldiers coming and going didn’t much impair the sense of gracious peace. Fanny, though, was in no mood for peace.
“Who wath that?” she demanded, twisting to look back at the house. “What doth he want wif Jane?”
“Ah . . . that’s William’s father,” I said carefully. “Lord John Grey is his name. I imagine William asked him to come.”
Fanny blinked for a moment, then turned a remarkably penetrating pair of brown eyes on me, red-rimmed and bloodshot but decidedly intelligent.
“He doethn’t wook wike Wiyum,” she said. “Mither Fwather wooks a wot wike Wiyum.”
I looked back at her for a moment.
“Really?” I said. “I hadn’t noticed that. Do you mind not talking for a bit, Fanny? I need to think.”
JOHN CAME OUT about ten minutes later. He paused on the steps, looking around, and I waved. He came down to where we sat and at once bowed very formally to Fanny.
“Your servant, Miss Frances,” he said. “I understand from Colonel Campbell that you are the sister of Miss Pocock; please allow me to offer my deepest condolences.”
He spoke very simply and honestly, and Fanny’s eyes welled up with tears.
“Can I have huh?” she said softly. “Pwease?”
Heedless of his immaculate breeches, he knelt on the ground in front of her and took her hand in his.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, just as softly. “Of course you can.” He patted her hand. “Will you wait here, just for a moment, while I speak with Mrs. Fraser?” He stood and, as an afterthought, pulled a large snowy handkerchief out of his sleeve and handed it to her with another small bow.
“Poor child,” he said, taking my hand and tucking it into the curve of his elbow. “Or children—the other girl can’t have been more than seventeen.” We walked for a few paces, down a small brick walk between empty flower beds, until we were safely out of earshot of both street and house. “I take it that William sought Jamie’s help. I thought he might, though I hoped he wouldn’t, for both their sakes.”
His face was shadowed, and there were blue smudges under his eyes; evidently he’d had a disturbed night, too.
“Where is William, do you know?” I asked.
“I don’t. He said he had an errand outside the city but would return tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the house. “I’ve arranged for . . . Jane . . . to be appropriately tended. She cannot be buried in a churchyard, of course—”
“Of course,” I murmured, angry at the thought. He noticed but cleared his throat and went on.
“I know a family with a small private cemetery. I believe I can make arrangement for a quiet burial. Quickly, of course; tomorrow, very early?”
I nodded, getting a grip on myself. It wasn’t his fault.
“You’ve been very good,” I said. Worry and the lack of sleep were catching up with me; things seemed oddly non-dimensional, as though trees and people and garden furniture were merely pasted onto a painted backdrop. I shook my head to clear it, though; there were important things to be said.
“I have to tell you something,” I said. “I wish I didn’t, but there it is. Ezekiel Richardson came to my surgery the other day.”
“The devil he did.” John had stiffened at the name. “He’s not with the army here, surely? I would have—”
“Yes, but not with your army.” I told him, as briefly as I could, what Richardson now was—or, rather, was revealed to be; God only knew how long he’d been a Rebel spy—and what his intentions were toward Hal and the Grey family in general.
John listened, his face quietly intent, though the corner of his mouth twitched when I described Richardson’s plan to influence Hal’s political actions.
“Yes, I know,” I said dryly, seeing that. “I don’t suppose he’s ever actually met Hal. But the important thing . . .” I hesitated, but he had to know.
“He knows about you,” I said. “What you . . . are. I mean that you—”
“What I am,” he repeated, expressionless. His eyes had been fastened on my face to this point; now he looked away. “I see.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
John was a distinguished soldier and an honorable gentleman, member of an ancient noble family. He was also a homosexual, in a time when that particular attribute was a capital offense. For that knowledge to be in the hands of a man who meant ill to him and his family . . . I wasn’t under any illusions about what I’d just done—with three words, I’d shown him that he was standing on a very narrow tightrope over a very deep pit, with Richardson holding the end of the rope.
“I’m sorry, John,” I said, very softly. I touched his arm, and he laid his hand briefly over mine, squeezed it gently, and smiled.
“Thank you.” He stared at the brick paving under his feet for a moment, then looked up. “Do you know how he came by the—information?” He spoke calmly, but a nerve was jumping just under his injured eye, a tiny twitch. I wanted to put my finger on it, still it. But there was nothing I could do.