Written in My Own Heart's Blood (15 page)

“Oh, good,” he said dryly. “How long will it take to go away?”

That made the Quaker grimace and shake his head.

“The blood will take a week to a month to clear; it’s essentially the same as mere bruising—the bursting of small blood vessels under the skin. What worries me is thy inability to move the eye. I think thee has a fracture of the bony orbit, which is somehow trapping the orbicularis muscle. I do wish thy wife was here; she has a much greater—”

“My wife,” Grey said blankly. “Oh!” Memory and realization collided, and he felt a sudden leap of spirit. “She isn’t my wife! Not anymore,” he added, and found himself grinning. He leaned forward to whisper into Hunter’s astonished ear, “Jamie Fraser isn’t dead!”

Hunter stared at him, blinked, put his spectacles back on, and resumed staring, obviously rethinking his appraisal of Grey’s brain.

“He’s the one who hit me,” Grey said helpfully. “It’s all right,” he added at Hunter’s frown. “I was asking for it.”

“God be praised,” Hunter whispered, breaking into a huge smile—apparently at the news of Fraser’s survival rather than Grey’s assurance of the morality of his actions. “Ian will be—” He broke off with a gesture indicating his inability to describe Ian Murray’s probable emotions.

“And Friend Claire!” he exclaimed, eyes huge behind his spectacles. “Does she know?”

“Yes, but—” Approaching footsteps made Grey hurl himself back onto the
cot, with a completely authentic exclamation of pain. He shut his eyes and rolled his head to one side, groaning.

“The mountain seems to be with General Washington,” Smith said, plainly disedified. Grey felt him come to a stop by the cot, bumping it with his legs. “Do what you can to see that he’s capable of travel by tomorrow, Doctor—we’ll load him into one of the wagons, if necessary.”

Number 17 Chestnut Street

HIS GRACE WOKE
up in the morning red-eyed as a ferret and in roughly the same temper as a rabid badger. Had I a tranquilizing dart, I would have shot him with it without an instant’s hesitation. As it was, I prescribed a large slug of brandy to be added to his breakfast coffee and—after a brief struggle with my Hippocratic conscience—added a very small amount of laudanum to it.

I couldn’t give him much; it depressed the respiration, among other things. Still, I reasoned, counting the aromatic reddish-brown drops as they plinked into the brandy, it was a more humane way of dealing with him than crowning him with the chamber pot or calling Mrs. Figg to sit on him whilst I tied him to the bedstead and gagged him.

And I did require him to be both immobile and quiet for a short period. Mr. Figg, a preacher of the Methodist Society, was bringing round two young men of the society who were carpenters, to rehang the front door and nail boards over the shutters of the downstairs windows, in case of roving mobs. I’d told Mrs. Figg that of course she might confide our circumstances to her husband—I couldn’t very well stop her—but that perhaps he might be persuaded not to mention His Grace’s presence, in the interests of protecting Lord John’s safety and property—to say nothing of His Grace, who was, after all, Lord John’s presumably beloved brother.

Mrs. Figg would cheerfully have handed the duke over to be tarred and feathered, but an appeal on Lord John’s behalf would always carry weight with her, and she nodded in sober agreement. So long as His Grace didn’t draw attention to himself by shouting out of the upstairs window or hurling things at the workmen, she thought his presence could be concealed.

“What you mean to do with him, though, Lady John?” she asked, glancing warily toward the ceiling. We were standing in the back parlor, conferring in lowered voices while Jenny administered Hal’s breakfast and made sure all the brandy-laced coffee was drunk. “And what if the army sends someone round to ask after him?”

I made a helpless gesture.

“I have no idea,” I confessed. “I just need to keep him here until either Lord John or my—er, Mr. Fraser—comes. They’ll know what to do with him. As for the army, if anyone comes asking after His Grace, I’ll . . . um . . . speak to them.”

She gave me a look indicating that she’d heard better plans, but nodded reluctantly and went off to fetch her marketing basket. The first thing that
happens in a newly occupied city is a shortage of food, and with the Continental army poised to descend on Philadelphia like a plague of locusts, the wagons that normally brought in produce from the countryside would likely be sparse. If either army
was
on the road already, they’d be seizing anything that came along.

At the door, though, Mrs. Figg paused and turned around.

“What about William?” she demanded. “If he comes back . . .” She was obviously torn between hope that he
would
come back—she was worried for him—and consternation at what might happen if he encountered his uncle in captivity.

“I’ll speak to him,” I repeated firmly, and waved a hand toward the door.

Running upstairs, I found Hal yawning over a nearly empty breakfast tray and Jenny fastidiously wiping egg yolk off the corner of his mouth. She’d spent the night at the printshop but had come back to help, bringing with her a battered portmanteau filled with possibly useful items.

“His Grace made a good breakfast,” she reported, stepping back to examine her work critically. “And he’s moved his bowels. I made him do that afore he drank his coffee, just in case. Wasna sure how quick it might be.”

Hal frowned at her, though whether in puzzlement or offense, I couldn’t tell. His pupils were already noticeably constricted, which gave him a slightly staring look. He blinked at me and shook his head, as though trying to clear it.

“Let me have a quick check of your vital signs, Your Grace,” I said, smiling and feeling like Judas. He was my patient—but Jamie was my husband, and I hardened my resolve.

His pulse was slow and quite regular, which reassured me. I took out my stethoscope, unbuttoned his nightshirt, and had a listen: a nice, steady heartbeat, no palpitations, but the lungs were gurgling like a leaky cistern, and his breathing was interrupted by small gasps.

“He’d best have some of the
Ephedra
tincture,” I said, straightening up. It was a stimulant and would antagonize the opiate in his system, but I couldn’t risk his stopping breathing while asleep. “I’ll stay with him; will you go down and get a cup—don’t bother heating it, cold will do.” I wasn’t sure he’d stay conscious long enough to have a cup heated.

“I really must go to see General Clinton this morning,” Pardloe said, with surprising firmness, considering his foggy mental state. He cleared his throat and coughed. “There are arrangements to make. . . . My regiment . . .”

“Ah. Er . . . where
is
your regiment just now?” I asked cautiously. If they were in Philadelphia, Hal’s adjutant would be starting to look for him in earnest at any minute. He might reasonably have spent the night with a son or daughter, but by now . . . and I didn’t know precisely how much distraction value my forged notes might have had.

“New York,” he replied. “Or at least I sincerely hope so.” He closed his eyes, swayed slightly, then straightened his back with a jerk. “Landed there. I came down to Philadelphia . . . to see Henry . . . Dottie.” His face twisted with pain. “Mean . . . to go back with Clinton.”

“Of course,” I said soothingly, trying to think.
When
, exactly, would Clinton and his troops leave? Assuming Pardloe to be sufficiently recovered that he wouldn’t actually die without my attendance, I could give him back as soon as the exodus was under way. At that point, he’d have no way of starting a major search for John and endangering Jamie. But surely Jamie—with or without John—would come back at any moment?

Who did come back was Jenny, with the
Ephedra
tincture—and a hammer in the pocket of her apron and three stout laths under her arm. She handed me the cup without comment and proceeded to nail the laths over the window, in a surprisingly brisk and competent manner.

Hal sipped his
Ephedra
slowly, watching Jenny with bemusement.

“Why is she doing that?” he asked, though not as if he cared particularly what the answer was.

“Hurricanes, Your Grace,” she said with a straight face, and zipped out to return the hammer to the carpenters, whose cheerful banging sounded like a battalion of woodpeckers attacking the house.

“Oh,” Hal said. He was glancing vaguely round the room, possibly in search of his breeches, which Mrs. Figg had thoughtfully taken away and hidden in the cookhouse. His eye rested on the small pile of Willie’s books I had moved to the top of the dressing table. Evidently he recognized one or more, because he said, “Oh. William. Where
is
William?”

“I’m sure Willie’s very busy today,” I said, and picked up his wrist again. “Perhaps we’ll see him later.” His heartbeat was slow but still strong. Just as his grip loosened, I caught the empty cup and set it on the table. His head drooped, and I eased him carefully back on the pillow, propped for easier breathing.

“If he comes back . . .”
Mrs. Figg had said of Willie, with the obvious implication,
“what then?”

What indeed?

Colenso had not returned, so presumably he had found William; that was reassuring. But what William was doing—or thinking . . .

INCIPIENT THUNDER

“A
N ASSIGNMENT BEFITTING
your peculiar situation,”
Major Findlay had said. Findlay didn’t know the half of it, William reflected bitterly. Not that his situation wasn’t “peculiar,” even without his recent discoveries.

He had surrendered at Saratoga, with the rest of Burgoyne’s army, in October
of ’77. The British soldiers and their German allies had been obliged to yield their weapons but were not to be held prisoner; the Convention of Saratoga, signed by Burgoyne and by the Continental general, Gates, had stated that all troops would be allowed to return to Europe, once they had given their parole not to take up arms again in the American conflict.

But ships could not sail during the winter storms, and something had to be done with the captured soldiers. Referred to as the Convention army, they had been marched en masse to Cambridge, Massachusetts, there to await spring and repatriation. All but William and a few like him, who had either connections in America with influence, or connections with Sir Henry, who had succeeded Howe as commander in chief of the American campaign.

William, fortunate fellow, had both; he had served on Howe’s personal staff, his uncle was the colonel of a regiment, and his father was an influential diplomat, presently in Philadelphia. He had been released under an exceptional personal parole, as a favor to General Lord Howe, and sent to Lord John. He was, however, still part of the British army, merely precluded from actual fighting. And the army had any number of obnoxious chores that did not involve fighting; General Clinton had been delighted to make use of him.

Deeply galled by his situation, William had begged his father to try to have him exchanged; that would remove the conditions of his parole and allow him to resume full military duties. Lord John had been quite willing to do this, but in January of 1778 there had been a falling-out between General Burgoyne and the Continental Congress over the former’s refusal to provide a list of the surrendered
soldiers
. The Convention of Saratoga had been repudiated by the Congress, which then declared that it would detain the entire Convention army until the convention and the required list were ratified by King George—the Congress knowing damned well that the King would do no such thing, as such an act would be tantamount to acknowledging the independence of the colonies. The upshot of this was that there was at present no mechanism at all for the exchange of prisoners. Any prisoners.

Which left William in a deeply ambiguous position. Technically, he was an escaped prisoner, and in the highly unlikely event that he was recaptured by the Americans and discovered to be one of the Saratoga officers, he would promptly be marched off to Massachusetts to languish for the rest of the war. At the same time, no one was quite sure whether it was appropriate for him to take up arms again, since even though the convention had been repudiated, William had been given a personal parole.

Which had led to William’s present invidious situation, in charge of troops assisting the evacuation of Philadelphia’s richest Loyalists. The only thing he could think of that might be worse was driving a herd of swine through the eye of a needle.

While the poorer citizens who felt endangered by the proximity of General Washington’s militias were obliged to brave the dangers of the road, making their exodus by wagon, handcart, and foot, the wealthier Loyalists were allowed a safer and theoretically more luxurious removal by ship. And not one of them could be brought to understand that there was but
one
ship presently available—General Howe’s own ship—and very limited room aboard it.

“No, madam, I’m very sorry, but it’s quite impossible to accommodate—”

“Nonsense, young man, my husband’s grandfather purchased that tall clock in the Netherlands in 1670. It displays not only the time but also the phases of the moon and a complete table of tides for the Bay of Napoli! Surely you do not expect me to allow such an instrument to fall into the clutches of the Rebels?”

“Yes, madam, I’m afraid I do. No, sir, no servants; only the members of your immediate family and a very small amount of baggage. I’m sure that your bond servants will be perfectly safe following by—”

“But they’ll starve!” exclaimed a cadaverous-looking gentleman who was loath to part with his talented cook and a plumply voluptuous housemaid, who, if not talented at sweeping, obviously had other desirable abilities, these clearly on display. “Or be abducted! They are my responsibility! Surely you cannot—”

“I can,” said William firmly, with an appreciative sideways glance at the housemaid, “and I must. Corporal Higgins, please see Mr. Hennings’s bond servants safely off the quay. No, madam. I agree that the matched armchairs are quite valuable, but so are the lives of the people who will drown if the ship sinks. You may take your carriage clock, yes.” He raised his voice and bellowed, “Lieutenant Rendill!”

Rendill, face red and streaming, fought his way through the crowd of pushing, cursing, heaving, shrieking evacuees. Arriving in front of William, who was perched on a box in order to avoid being trampled or pushed into the water by the crowd, the lieutenant saluted but was rudely jostled by several people attempting to gain William’s attention and ended with his wig pushed over his eyes.

“Yes, sir?” he said gamely, pushing it back and elbowing a gentleman out of the way as politely as possible.

“Here’s a list of General Howe’s particular acquaintances, Rendill. Go on board and see if they’ve all made it—if they haven’t . . .” He cast an eloquent glance over the surging throng on the dock, surrounded by mountains of semi-abandoned possessions and trampled baggage, and thrust the list unceremoniously into the lieutenant’s hand. “Find them.”

“Oh, God,” said Rendill. “I mean . . . yes, sir. At once, sir.” And, with a hopeless air, he turned and began to swim through the crowd, doing a modified but vigorous form of breaststroke.

“Rendill!”

Rendill obediently turned and made his way resignedly back into earshot, a stout red porpoise surging his way through shoals of hysterical herring.

“Sir?”

William leaned down and lowered his voice to a level inaudible to the press of people around them, then nodded at the piles of furniture and baggage heaped unsteadily all over the dock—many of them dangerously close to the edge.

“As you pass, tell the fellows on the dock that they should take no great pains to preserve those heaps of things from falling into the river, would you?”

Rendill’s perspiring face brightened amazingly.

“Yes, sir!” He saluted and swam off again, radiating renewed enthusiasm, and William, his soul slightly soothed, turned courteously to attend to the
complaint of a harried German father with six daughters, all of them carrying what appeared to be their entire lavish wardrobes, anxious round faces peering out between the brims of their wide straw hats and the piles of silk and lace in their arms.

Paradoxically, the heat and incipient thunder in the air suited his mood, and the sheer impossibility of his task relaxed him. Once he’d realized the ultimate futility of satisfying all these people—or even one in ten of them—he stopped worrying about it, took what steps he could to preserve order, and let his mind go elsewhere while he bowed courteously and made noises of reassurance to the phalanx of faces pressing in upon him.

Had he been in a mood for irony, he reflected, there was plenty of it to go round. He was neither fish nor fowl nor good red beef, as the country folk said of an ambiguous cut of meat. Not a full soldier, not a free civilian. And, evidently, neither an Englishman nor an earl . . . and yet . . . how could he possibly not be an Englishman, for God’s sake?

Once he had regained enough of his temper to think, he had realized that he was still
legally
the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere, regardless of his paternity. His parents—his real parents—his
theoretically
real parents—had undeniably been married at the time of his birth. At the moment, though, that seemed to make matters worse: how could he go about letting people think and act as though he were the heir of Ellesmere’s ancient blood when he knew damned well that he was really the son of—

He choked that thought off, shoving it violently to the back of his mind. “Son of” had brought Lord John vividly to mind, though. He breathed deep of the hot, murky, fish-smelling air, trying to quell the sudden pang that came to him at thought of Papa.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but he’d been looking through the crowd all day, scanning the faces in search of his fa—yes, dammit, his father! John Grey was as much his father now as he ever had been.
Goddamned liar or not
. And William was growing worried about him. Colenso had reported that morning that Lord John had not returned to his house—and Lord John
should
have returned by now. And if he had, he would have come to find William, he was sure of that. Unless Fraser had killed him.

He swallowed bile at the thought. Why would he? The men had once been friends, good friends.

True, war severed such bonds. But even so—

On account of Mother Claire? He recoiled from that thought, too, but made himself come back to it. He could still see her face, glowing in spite of the uproar, fierce as flame with the joy of seeing Jamie Fraser, and felt a prick of jealousy on behalf of his father. If Fraser felt similarly impassioned, might he . . . but that was nonsense! Surely he must realize that Lord John had only taken her under his protection—and done that for the sake of his good friend!

But, then, they
were
married . . . and his father had always been quite open regarding matters of sex. . . . His face grew even hotter, with embarrassment at the vision of his father enthusiastically bedding the not-quite-ex-Mrs. Fraser. And if Fraser had discovered that—

“No, sir!” he said sharply to the importunate merchant who—he realized belatedly—had just tried to bribe him to admit the merchant’s family to
Howe’s ship. “How dare you? Begone, and think yourself fortunate that I have no time to deal with you as I ought!”

The man shuffled disconsolately away, and William felt a small pang of regret, but there was in fact little he could do. Even had he felt able to stretch a point in the merchant’s favor, once a bribe was offered, he had no choice.

Even if it were true, how would Fraser have discovered it? Surely Lord John wouldn’t have been foolish enough to tell him. No, it must be something else that was delaying Papa’s return—doubtless the muddle of people leaving Philadelphia; the roads must be choked. . . .

“Yes, madam. I think we have room for you and your daughter,” he said to a young mother, very frightened-looking, with a baby clutched against her shoulder. He reached out and touched the infant’s cheek; she was awake, but not troubled by the crowd, and regarded him with soft brown long-lashed eyes. “Hallo, sweetheart. Want to go on a boat with your mummy?”

The mother gave a stifled sob of relief.

“Oh, thank you, Lord—it is Lord Ellesmere, is it not?”

“It is,” he said automatically, and then felt as though someone had punched him in the belly. He swallowed and his face burned.

“My husband is Lieutenant Beaman Gardner,” she said, offering the name in anxious justification of his mercy, and bobbed a short curtsy. “We’ve met. At the Mischianza?”

“Yes, of course!” he said, bowing, though he didn’t recall Mrs. Lieutenant Gardner at all. “Honored to be of service to a brother officer’s wife, ma’am. If you will be so good as to go on board directly, please? Corporal Anderson? Escort Mrs. Gardner and Miss Gardner on board.”

He bowed again and turned away, feeling as though his insides had been scooped out.
Brother officer. My lord
. And what would Mrs. Lieutenant Gardner have thought if she’d known? What would the lieutenant himself think?

He sighed deeply, closing his eyes for an instant’s escape. And when he opened them, found himself face-to-face with Captain Ezekiel Richardson.

“Stercus!”
he exclaimed, startled into his uncle Hal’s habit of Latin denunciation in moments of extreme stress.

“Indeed,” Richardson remarked politely. “May I have a word with you? Yes, just so—Lieutenant!” He beckoned to the nearby Rendill, who was eyeball-to-eyeball with an elderly woman in black bombazine with no fewer than four small dogs yapping at her heels, these held by a long-suffering small black boy. Rendill made a quelling motion to her and turned to Richardson.

“Sir?”

“Relieve Captain Lord Ellesmere, please. I require a moment of his time.”

Before William could decide whether to object or not, Richardson had him by the elbow and was towing him out of the scrum and into the lee of a neat little sky-blue boathouse that stood on the riverbank.

William breathed deep with relief as the shade fell upon him but had by then gathered his wits. His first impulse had been to speak sharply to Richardson—followed perhaps by knocking him into the river—but wisdom spoke in his ear, advising otherwise.

It was at Richardson’s instigation that William had become for a short time an intelligencer for the army, collecting information in the context of
various journeys and delivering this to Richardson. On the last of these missions, though, a journey into the Great Dismal Swamp of Virginia, William had had the misfortune to become lost, be wounded, and suffer a fever that would certainly have killed him had Ian Murray not found and rescued him—in the course of the rescue informing William that he had almost certainly been gulled and sent not into the bosom of British allies but into a nest of Rebels, who would hang him should they discover who he was.