“Mrs. Ian Murray,” Roger said. “Young Quaker woman? Tallish, dark, very pretty? Baby with a loud voice?”
The captain’s face took on a somewhat flushed, congested appearance.
“I know whom you mean,” he said, rather coldly. “But I am surprised to hear that she should have repeated our conversation to you.” There was a slight emphasis on “you,” which Roger ignored.
“She didn’t,” he said easily. “But she told me that you had said something she thought I should know, and recommended that I come and talk to you about it.” He lifted a hand, acknowledging the surroundings.
“She told me that you preached on Sundays to your men in the navy—and that you had found it … ‘gratifying’ was the word she used. Is that in fact the case?”
The flush was receding a bit. Cunningham gave a short, unwilling nod.
“I cannot see that it’s any business of yours, sir, but yes, I did preach when we rigged church, on those occasions when we sailed without a chaplain.”
“Well, then. I have a proposition to put to you, sir. Might we sit down?”
Curiosity won out; Cunningham nodded toward a large wheel-backed chair that stood to one side of the hearth, and himself took a smaller one at the other side.
“As you know,” Roger said, leaning forward, “I am a Presbyterian, and by courtesy referred to as a minister. By that, I mean that I’m not yet ordained, though I have completed all of the necessary studies and examinations, and I have hopes of being ordained soon. You’ll also know that my father-in-law—and my wife, mother-in-law, and children, for that matter—are Catholics.”
“I do.” Cunningham had relaxed enough to show disapproval. “How can you possibly square such a situation with your conscience, sir?”
“One day at a time, for the most part,” Roger said, and shrugged, dismissing this. “But the point is that I am on good terms with my father-in-law, and when he had a cabin built to serve as a schoolhouse, he also invited me to use it for church services on Sunday. We had a small Lodge of Freemasons established at that time—this was more than three years ago—and Mr. Fraser also permitted the Lodge to use this structure in the evenings for their own purposes.”
To this point, he’d been looking earnestly into Cunningham’s face, but now he glanced down into the smoldering hearth as he mentioned Freemasons, to give the man a moment to make up his mind—if there was anything to make it up about.
Possibly there was. The captain’s earlier discomposure and disapproval had receded like a melting glacier—slowly, but surely. He didn’t speak, but his silence had a different quality now; he was eyeing Roger in an assessing sort of way.
Nothing to lose …
“We met on the level,” Roger said quietly.
Cunningham drew a visible breath and nodded, very slightly. “And we parted on the square,” he said, just as quietly.
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
“Allow me to pour you some coffee.” Cunningham got up, fetched cups from a sideboard that looked as though it had been abducted from its London home, and handed one to Roger.
It was actually coffee. Freshly ground. Roger closed his eyes in momentary ecstasy, and recalled what Rachel had said about being served tea. Evidently the captain had kept his seagoing connections. Was that who the two mysterious visitors had been? No more than smugglers?
They sipped in a guardedly companionable silence for a minute or two. Roger took a last, luxurious mouthful and swallowed.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “the cabin was struck by lightning a year ago, and burned to the ground.”
“So Mrs. Murray told me.” The captain drained his own cup, set it down, and raised a brow at Roger, nodding at the coffeepot.
“If you please.” Roger handed over his cup. “Had Jamie Fraser been living on the Ridge at the time, I’m sure he would have rebuilt it—but owing to the … erm, fortunes of war … he and his family were unable to return immediately. But I suppose you know that.”
“Yes. Robert Higgins informed me of that when I made application to settle here.” The shadow of disapproval fell across his face once more. “Mr. Fraser seems a gentleman of unusually flexible principles. Appointing a convicted murderer as the factor of his property, I mean.”
“Well, he thinks I’m a heretic, and he puts up with me. Or perhaps that’s what you meant by ‘flexible principles’？” He smiled at Cunningham, who had choked on his coffee at the word “heretic.” Better take it easy; Masonic brotherhood might have limits …