Roger and Bree exchanged a look, and he nodded.
“Let us help with that, Da,” she said, and reaching into her pocket drew out three small, flat strips of what could only be gold, glowing dully in the candlelight.
“Where on earth did you get those?” I picked one up, fingering it gingerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size; definitely gold.
“A jeweler on Newbury Street in 1980,” she said. “I had fifty of these made; I sewed some into the hems of our clothes, and hid others in the heels of our shoes. It only took ten to provision us for the trip and buy passage on the ship from Scotland. There’s plenty left, I mean, if you need to buy powder or anything.”
“You’re sure, lass?” Jamie touched one of the slips with a forefinger. “I’ve gold enough. It’s just—”
“Just that wee bit more difficult to use,” Roger said, smiling. “Don’t fash yourself; we’re honored to help finance the Revolution.”
39
I Have Returned
To Lord John Grey, in care of the commander of His Majesty’s Forces in Savannah, Royal Colony of Georgia
Dear Lord John—
I’m back. Though I suppose I should say “I have returned!”—more dramatic, you know? I’m smiling as I write this, imagining you saying something about how lack of drama is not one of my failings. Yours either, my friend.
We—my husband, Roger, and our two children, Jeremiah （Jem） and Amanda （Mandy）—have taken up residence on Fraser’s Ridge. （Though it’s more like the residence is taking up existence around us; my father is building his own fortress.） We’ll be here for the foreseeable future, though I know better than most people just how little one can foresee of the future. We’ll leave the details until I see you again.
I would have written to you in any case, but am doing it today because my father received a letter three days ago from a young man named Judah Bixby, who was his aide-de-camp during the Battle of Monmouth （were you involved with that one? If so, I hope you weren’t hurt）。 Mr. Bixby wrote to tell Da that a friend of his, Dr. Denzell Hunter, had been captured in New York and is presently being held in the military prison at Stony Point.
Mama says you will know perfectly well why I’m writing to you about Denzell Hunter, rather than she doing it. Da says no one needs to write to you, as Dr. Hunter’s wife will surely have written to her father （your brother, if I have things straight?） already, but I agree with Mama that it’s better to write, just in case Mrs. Hunter doesn’t know where her husband is, or can’t write to you for some other reason.
All my best to you and your family—and do please give my best to your son William. I look forward to meeting him—and you, of course!—again.
（Does one sign a letter “Your most obedient, humble, etc.” if one is a woman? Surely not …）
Yours truly,
Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie （Mrs.）
P.S. Enclosed are a few sketches that I made of New House （as my father calls it） in its present state of construction, as well as a brief look at the members of my family, in their present states. （How long has it been since you’ve seen either of my parents?） I’m pretty sure you can tell who is who （should that be “who is whom”？ If so, please make the grammatical adjustment for me）。
40
Black Brandy
Savannah
M, THE DUKE OF Pardloe wrote, and then stopped. Dipping his quill again, he carefully inserted the word “Dear,” though he was obliged to angle it upward in order to squeeze it onto the page, having begun his writing too far to the left. He stared at the blank page for a moment, then looked up to find his younger brother staring at him, one eyebrow raised.
“What the devil do you want?” he snapped.
“Brandy,” John answered mildly. “And so do you, from the look of it. What the devil are you doing?” Crossing the room, he went down on one knee to rummage in his campaign chest, emerging with a round-bellied black bottle that sloshed in a reassuringly weighty fashion.
“That’s brandy? Are you sure?” Hal nevertheless reached round the small table on which he’d perched his writing desk, and dipped into his own chest for a pair of dented pewter cups.
“Stephan von Namtzen said it was.” John shrugged and, coming to the table, picked up Hal’s penknife and started removing the wax seal from the bottle. “You recall our friend the Graf von Erdberg? He says it’s black brandy, to be exact.”
“Is it really black?” Hal asked, interested.