LAST RITES
JAMIE CAME HOME just before dawn, white-faced and chilled to the bone. I wasn’t asleep. I hadn’t slept since he’d left with William, and when I heard his step on the creaking stairs, I scooped hot water from the ever-simmering cauldron into the wooden mug I had ready, half filled with cheap whisky and a spoonful of honey. I’d thought he’d need it, but I hadn’t had any idea how much.
“The lassie had cut her wrists wi’ a broken bottle,” he said, crouching on a stool by the fire, a quilt draped over his shoulders and the warm mug cupped between his big hands. He couldn’t stop shivering.
“God rest her soul and forgive her the sin of despair.” He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, as though to dispel his memory of what he’d seen in that candlelit room. “Oh, Jesus, my poor lad.”
I’d made him go to bed and crawled in to warm him with my body, but I hadn’t slept then, either. I didn’t feel the need of it. There were things that would need to be done when the day came; I could feel them waiting, a patient throng. William. The dead girl. And Jamie had said something about the girl’s young sister. . . . But for the moment, time was still, balanced on the cusp of night. I lay beside Jamie and listened to him breathe. For the moment, that was enough.
BUT THE SUN rose, as it always did.
I was stirring the breakfast porridge when William appeared, bringing with him a mud-smeared young girl who looked like a lightning-blasted tree. William didn’t look any better but seemed less likely to fall to bits.
“This is Frances,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice, putting a large paw on her shoulder. “These are Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, Fanny.” She was so fine-boned that I half-expected her to stagger under the weight of his hand, but she didn’t. After a stunned moment, she realized the introduction and gave a jerky nod.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” I said, smiling at her. “The porridge is almost ready, and there’s toasted bread with honey.”
She stared at me, blinking dully. Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair lank under a tattered cap. I thought she was so shocked that she was unable to comprehend anything. William looked as though someone had hit him on the head, stunning him like an ox bound for slaughter. I looked uncertainly at Jamie, not knowing what to do for either of them. He glanced from one to the other, then rose and quietly took the girl into his arms.
“There, a nighean,” he said quietly, patting her back. His eyes met Willie’s and I saw something pass between them—a question asked and answered. Jamie nodded. “I’ll care for her,” he said.
“Thank you. She . . . Jane,” William said with difficulty. “I want to—to bury her. Decently. But I think I can’t . . . claim her.”
“Aye,” Jamie said. “We’ll see to it. Go and do whatever ye need to do. Come back when ye can.”
William stood a moment longer, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the girl’s back, then gave me an abrupt bow and left. At the sound of his departing footsteps, Frances gave a small, despairing howl, like an orphaned puppy. Jamie wrapped her closer in his arms, holding her snug against his chest.
“It will be all right, a nighean,” he said softly, though his eyes were fixed on the door through which William had gone. “Ye’re at home now.”
I DIDN’T REALIZE that Fanny was tongue-tied, until I took her to see Colonel Campbell. She hadn’t spoken at all until that point, merely shaking her head yes or no, making small motions of refusal or gratitude.
“You kilt my thither!” she said loudly, when Campbell rose from his desk to greet us. He blinked and sat back down.
“I doubt it,” he said, eyeing her warily. She wasn’t crying, but her face was blotched and swollen, as if someone had slapped her repeatedly. She stood very straight, though, small fists clenched, and glared at him. He looked at me. I shrugged slightly.
“The’th dead,” Fanny said. “The wath your prithoner!”
Campbell steepled his hands and cleared his throat.
“May I ask who you are, child? And who your sister is?”
“Her name is Frances Pocock,” I put in hastily. “Her sister was Jane Pocock, who I understand . . . died last night, while in your custody. She would like to claim her sister’s body, for burial.”
Campbell gave me a bleak look.
“I see that news travels fast. And you are, madam?”
“A friend of the family,” I said, as firmly as possible. “My name is Mrs. James Fraser.”
His face shifted a little; he’d heard the name. That probably wasn’t a good thing.
“Mrs. Fraser,” he said slowly. “I’ve heard of you. You dispense pox cures to the city’s whores, do you not?”
“Among . . . other things, yes,” I said, rather taken aback by this description of my medical practice. Still, it seemed to offer him a logical connection between Fanny and me, for he glanced from one of us to the other, nodding to himself.
“Well,” he said slowly. “I don’t know where the—er—the body has been—”
“Don’t oo call my thither ‘the body’!” Fanny shouted. “Her name ith Jane!”
Commanders, as a rule, aren’t used to being shouted at, and Campbell appeared to be no exception. His square face flushed and he put his hands flat on the desk, preparing to rise. Before he got the seat of his breeches clear of his chair, though, his aide came in and coughed discreetly.
“I beg pardon, sir; Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey wishes to see you.”
“Does he, indeed.” This didn’t seem to be welcome news to Campbell, but it was to me.
“You’re clearly busy, sir,” I said quickly, seizing Fanny by the arm. “We’ll come back later.” And without waiting to be dismissed, I more or less dragged her out of the office.
Sure enough, John was standing in the anteroom, in full uniform. His face was calmly pleasant and I saw that he was in diplomatic mode, but his expression altered the instant he saw me.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted. “And”—glancing at Fanny—“who the devil is this?”
“Do you know about Jane?” I said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “What happened to her last night?”
“Yes, I—”
“We want to claim her body, for burial. Can you help?”
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.
“No.” I looked back at the distant bench. Fanny was still there, a small, desolate figure, head bent. I turned my gaze back to John; his brow was creased, thinking.
“One last thing. Hal’s daughter-in-law, the young woman with the odd name—”
“Amaranthus,” he interrupted, and smiled wryly. “Yes, what about her? Don’t tell me that Ezekiel Richardson invented her for his own purposes.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but probably not.” I told him what I’d learned from Mr. Jameson.
“I told William day before yesterday,” I said. “But what with everything”—I waved a hand, encompassing Fanny, Jane, Colonel Campbell, and a few other things—“I doubt he’s had time to go to Saperville to look for her. You don’t suppose that’s the errand he spoke of, do you?” I asked, struck by the thought.
“God knows.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then straightened. “I must go. I’ll have to tell Hal a few things. Not . . . that, I don’t think,” he said, seeing my face. “But obviously there are things he needs to know, and know quickly. God bless you, my dear. I’ll send word about tomorrow.” He took my hand, kissed it very gently, and let go.
I watched him walk away, his back very straight, the scarlet of his coat bright as blood against the grays and faded greens of the winter garden.