The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (361 page)

“Farquard, where are you?”

Mr. Campbell moved to her and put her hand through his arm, patting it briefly.

“There’s no great harm done, my dear,” he assured her. “No one hurt, and only the one barrel of tar destroyed.”

“Good,” she said, the tension in her tall figure relaxing slightly. “But where is Byrnes?” she inquired. “I do not hear his voice.”

“The overseer?” Lieutenant Wolff mopped several smuts from his sweating face with a large linen kerchief. “I had wondered that myself. We found no one here to greet us this morning. Fortunately, Mr. Campbell arrived soon thereafter.”

Farquard Campbell made a small noise in his throat, deprecating his own involvement.

“Byrnes will be at the mill, I expect,” he said. “One of the slaves here told me there had been some trouble wi’ the main blade of the saw. Doubtless he will be attending to that.”

Wolff looked puff-faced, as though he considered defective saw blades a poor excuse for not having been appropriately received. From the tight line of Jocasta’s lips, so did she.

Jamie coughed, reached over and plucked a small clump of grass out of my hair.

“I do believe that I saw a basket of luncheon packed, did I not, Aunt? Perhaps ye might help the Lieutenant to a wee bit of refreshment, whilst I tidy up matters here?”

It was the right suggestion. Jocasta’s lips eased a bit, and Wolff looked distinctly happier at the mention of lunch.

“Indeed, Nephew.” She drew herself upright, her air of command restored, and nodded in the general direction of Wolff’s voice. “Lieutenant, will ye be so kind as to join me?”

Over lunch, I gathered that the Lieutenant’s visit to the turpentine works was a quarterly affair, during which a contract was drawn up for the purchase and delivery of assorted naval stores. It was the Lieutenant’s business to make and review similar arrangements with plantation owners from Cross Creek to the Virginia border, and Lieutenant Wolff made it plain which end of the colony he preferred.

“If there is one area of endeavor at which I will admit the Scotch excel,” the Lieutenant proclaimed rather pompously, taking a good-sized swallow of his third cup of whisky, “it is in the production of drink.”

Farquard Campbell, who had been taking appreciative sips from his own pewter cup, gave a small, dry smile and said nothing. Jocasta sat beside him on a rickety bench. Her fingers rested lightly on his arm, sensitive as a seismograph, feeling for subterranean clues.

Wolff made an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a belch, and belatedly turned what he appeared to consider his charm on me.

“In most other respects,” he went on, leaning toward me confidentially, “they are as a race both lazy and stubborn, a pair of traits which renders them unfit for—” At this point, the youngest ensign, red with embarrassment, knocked over a bowl of apples, creating enough of a diversion to prevent the completion of the Lieutenant’s thought—though not, unfortunately, sufficient to deflect its train altogether.

The Lieutenant dabbed at the sweat leaking from under his wig, and peered at me through bloodshot eyes.

“But I collect that you are not Scotch, ma’am? Your voice is most melodious and well-bred, and I may say so. You have no trace of a barbarous accent, in spite of your associations.”

“Ah … thank you,” I murmured, wondering what trick of administrative incompetence had sent the Lieutenant to conduct the Navy’s business in the Cape Fear River Valley, possibly the single largest collection of Scottish Highlanders to be found in the New World. I began to see what Josh had meant by “Och, the bluidy Navy!”

Jocasta’s smile might have been stitched on. Mr. Campbell, beside her, gave me the barest flick of gray eyebrow, and looked austere. Evidently, stabbing the Lieutenant through the heart with a fruit knife wasn’t on—at least not until he had signed the requisition order—so I did the next best thing I could think of; I picked up the whisky bottle and refilled his cup to the brim.

“It’s terribly good, isn’t it? Won’t you have a bit more, Lieutenant?”

It
was
good; smooth and warm. Also very expensive. I turned to the youngest ensign, smiled warmly at him, and left the Lieutenant to find his own way to the bottom of the bottle.

Conversation proceeded jerkily but without further incident, though the two ensigns kept a wary eye on the Drunkard’s Progress going on across the table. No wonder; it would be their responsibility to get the Lieutenant on a horse and back to Cross Creek in one piece. I began to see why there were two of them.

“Mr. Fraser seems to be managing most creditably,” the older ensign murmured, nodding outside in a feeble attempt to restart the stalled conversation. “Do you not think, sir?”

“Oh? Ah. No doubt.” Wolff had lost interest in anything much beyond the bottom of his cup, but it was true enough. While the rest of us sat over our lunch, Jamie—with Ian’s aid—had managed to restore order to the clearing, set the pitch boilers and sap gatherers back to work, and collect the debris of the explosion. At present he was on the far side of the clearing, stripped to shirt and breeches, helping to heave half-burned logs back into the tar pit. I rather envied him; it looked to be much more pleasant work than lunching with Lieutenant Wolff.

“Aye, he’s done well.” Farquard Campbell’s quick eyes flicked over the clearing, then returned to the table. He assessed the Lieutenant’s condition, and gave Jocasta’s hand a brief squeeze. Without turning her head, she spoke to Josh, who had been lurking quietly in the corner.

“Do ye put that second bottle into the Lieutenant’s saddlebag, laddie,” she said. “I should not want it to be going to waste.” She gave the Lieutenant a charming smile, rendered the more convincing as he couldn’t see her eyes.

Mr. Campbell cleared his throat.

“Since ye will so soon be leaving us, sir, perhaps we might settle the matter of your requisitions now?”

Wolff seemed vaguely surprised to hear that he had been about to leave, but his ensigns sprang to their feet with alacrity, and began to gather up papers and saddlebags. One snatched out a traveling inkwell and a sharpened quill and set them down in front of the Lieutenant; Mr. Campbell whipped out a folded quire of paper from his coat and laid it down, ready for signature.

Wolff frowned at the paper, and swayed a little.

“Just there, sir,” murmured the elder ensign, putting the quill into his senior’s slack hand and pointing at the paper.

Wolff picked up his cup, tilted back his head, and drained the last drops. Setting the cup down with a bang, he smiled vacantly around, his eyes unfocused. The youngest ensign closed his eyes in resignation.

“Oh, why not?” the Lieutenant said recklessly, and dipped his quill.

“Will ye not wish to wash and change your clothes at once, Nephew?” Jocasta’s nostrils flared delicately. “Ye stink most dreadfully of tar and charcoal.”

I thought it just as well she couldn’t see him. It went a long way beyond stinking; his hands were black, his new shirt reduced to a filthy rag, and his face so begrimed that he looked as though he had been cleaning chimneys. Such portions of him as weren’t black, were red. He had left off his hat while working in the midday sun, and the bridge of his nose was the color of cooked lobster. I didn’t think the color was due entirely to the sun, though.

“My ablutions can wait,” he said. “First, I wish to know the meaning of yon wee charade.” He fixed Mr. Campbell with a dark blue look.

“I am lured to the forest upon the pretext of smelling turpentine, and before I ken where I am, I’m sitting wi’ the British Navy, saying aye and nay to matters I ken nothing of, wi’ yon wee mannie kickin’ my shins under the table like a trained monkey!”

Jocasta smiled at that.

Campbell sighed. In spite of the exertions of the day, his neat coat showed no signs of dust, and his old-fashioned peruke sat squarely on his head.

“You have my apologies, Mr. Fraser, for what must seem a monstrous imposition upon your good nature. As it is, your arrival was fortuitous in the extreme, but did not allow sufficient time for communications to be made. I was in Averasboro until last evening, and by the time I received word of your arrival, it was much too late for me to ride here to acquaint you with the circumstances.”

“Indeed? Well, as I perceive we have a bit of time at present, I invite ye to do so now,” Jamie said, with a slight click as his teeth closed on the “now.”

“Will ye not sit down first, Nephew?” Jocasta put in, with a graceful wave of her hand. “It will take a bit of talk to explain, and ye’ve had a tiring day of it, no?” Ulysses had materialized out of the ether with a linen sheet over his arm; he spread this over a chair with a flourish, and gestured to Jamie to sit down.

Jamie eyed the butler narrowly, but it
had
been a tiring day; I could see blisters amid the soot on his hands, and sweat had made clear runnels in the filth on face and neck. He sank slowly into the proffered chair, and allowed a silver cup to be put into his hand.

A similar cup appeared as if by magic in my own hand, and I smiled in gratitude at the butler; I hadn’t been hoiking logs about, but the long, hot ride had worn
me
out. I took a deep, appreciative sip; a lovely cool rough cider, that bit the tongue and slaked the thirst at once.

Jamie took a deep draught, and looked a little calmer.

“Well, then, Mr. Campbell?”

“It is a matter of the Navy,” Campbell began, and Jocasta snorted.

“A matter of Lieutenant Wolff, ye mean,” she corrected.

“For your purposes the same, Jo, and well ye know it,” Mr. Campbell said, a little sharply. He turned back to Jamie to explain.

The majority of River Run’s revenues were, as Jocasta had told us, derived from the sale of its timber and turpentine products, the largest and most profitable customer being the British Navy.

“But the Navy’s not what it was,” Mr. Campbell said, shaking his head regretfully. “During the war wi’ the French, they could scarce keep the fleet supplied, and any man with a working sawmill was rich. But for the last ten years, it’s been peaceful, and the ships left to rot—the Admiralty’s not laid a new keel in five years.” He sighed at the unfortunate economic consequences of peace.

The Navy did still require such stores as pitch and turpentine and spars—with a leaky fleet to keep afloat, tar would always find a market. However, the market had shrunk severely, and the Navy now could pick and choose those landowners with whom they did business.

The Navy requiring dependability above all things, their covetable contracts were renewed quarterly, upon inspection and approval by a senior naval officer—in this case, Wolff. Always difficult to deal with, Wolff had nonetheless been adroitly managed by Hector Cameron, until the latter’s death.

“Hector drank with him,” Jocasta put in bluntly. “And when he left, there’d be a bottle in his saddlebag, and a bit besides.” The death of Hector Cameron, though, had severely affected the business of the estate.

“And not only because there’s less for bribes,” Campbell said, with a sidelong glance at Jocasta. He cleared his throat primly.

Lieutenant Wolff, it seemed, had come to give his condolences to the widow Cameron upon the death of her husband, properly uniformed, attended by his ensigns. He had come back again the next day, alone—with a proposal of marriage.

Jamie, caught mid-swallow, choked on his drink.

“It wasna my person the man was interested in,” Jocasta said, sharply, hearing this. “It was my land.”

Jamie wisely decided not to comment, merely eyeing his aunt with new interest.

Having heard the background, I thought she was likely right—Wolff’s interest was in acquiring a profitable plantation, which could be rendered still more profitable by means of the naval contracts his influence could assure. At the same time, the person of Jocasta Cameron was no small added inducement.

Blind or not, she was a striking woman. Beyond the simple beauty of flesh and bone, though, she exuded a sensual vitality that caused even such a dry stick as Farquard Campbell to ignite when she was near.

“I suppose that explains the Lieutenant’s offensive behavior at lunch,” I said, interested. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but the blokes don’t like it, either.”

Jocasta turned her head toward me, startled—I think she had forgotten I was there—but Farquard Campbell laughed.

“Indeed they don’t, Mrs. Fraser,” he assured me, eyes twinkling. “We’re fragile things, we poor men; ye trifle with our affections at your peril.”

Jocasta gave an unladylike snort at this.

“Affections, forbye!” she said. “The man has nay affection for anything that doesna come in a bottle.”

Jamie was eyeing Mr. Campbell with a certain amount of interest.

“Since ye raise the matter of affections, Aunt,” he said, with a small edge, “might I inquire as to the interests of your particular friend?”

Mr. Campbell returned the stare.

“I’ve a wife at home, sir,” he said dryly, “and eight weans, the eldest of whom is perhaps a few years older than yourself. But I kent Hector Cameron for more than thirty years, and I’ll do my best by his wife for the sake of his friendship—and hers.”

Jocasta laid a hand on his arm, and turned her head toward him. If she could no longer use her eyes for impression, she still knew the effect of downswept lashes.

“Farquard has been a great help to me, Jamie,” she said, with a touch of reproof. “I couldna have managed, without his assistance, after poor Hector died.”

“Oh, aye,” Jamie said, with no more than a hint of skepticism. “And I’m sure I must be as grateful to ye as is my aunt, sir. But I am still wondering just a bit where I come into this tale?”

Campbell coughed discreetly and went on with his story.

Jocasta had put off the Lieutenant, feigning collapse from the stress of bereavement and had herself carried to her bedroom, from which she did not emerge until he had concluded his business in Cross Creek and left for Wilmington.

“Byrnes managed the contracts that time, and a fine mess he made of them,” Jocasta put in.

“Ah, Mr. Byrnes, the invisible overseer. And where was he this morning?”