Absurd as it was, the thought jarred loose the memory that had been niggling at him since he’d seen the vestigial letter, and he glanced at it, and then at his brother’s face.
Hal had called Esmé that—“Em.” His first wife, dead in childbirth—and Hal’s first child dead with her. He’d been accustomed to write notes to her beginning that way—just an “M,” with no other salutation; John had seen a few. Perhaps seeing the single letter, black and bold against the white paper, had brought it all back with the unexpected suddenness of a bullet in the heart.
Hal cleared his throat explosively and gulped brandy, which made him cough, sputtering amber-red droplets all over the paper. He grabbed it and crumpled it up, then tossed it into the fire, where it caught and blazed up with a blue-tinged flame.
“I can’t,” he said definitely. “I won’t! I mean—I don’t know that Ben’s dead. Not for sure.”
John rubbed a hand over his face, then nodded. He himself had a very cold feeling round the heart when he thought of his eldest nephew.
“All right. Is anyone else likely to tell Minnie? Adam or Henry? Or, you know—Dottie?” he added diffidently.
The blood drained from Hal’s face. To the best of John’s knowledge, neither of Ben’s brothers was a very good correspondent. But his sister, Dottie, was accustomed to write regularly to her mother—had, in fact, even written to inform her parents that she was eloping with a Quaker doctor. And becoming a rebel, in the bargain. She wouldn’t scruple to tell Minnie anything she thought her mother ought to know.
“Dottie doesn’t know, either,” Hal said, trying to convince himself. “All I told her was that he was missing.”
“Missing, presumed dead,” John pointed out. “And William said—”
“And where’s William, speaking of writing?” Hal demanded, seeking refuge in hostility. “Unless you know something I don’t know, he’s just run off without a word.”
John exhaled strongly, but kept his temper.
“William found good evidence that Ben didn’t die at that prison camp in New Jersey,” he pointed out. “And he discovered Ben’s wife and child for us.”
“He found a body in a grave with Ben’s name on it, and it wasn’t Ben—but for all we know, Ben is in a grave with that fellow’s name on it, and whoever buried them simply muddled the bodies.” Hal wanted urgently to believe that someone had buried a stranger under Ben’s name—but why should anyone have done that?
John picked up the thought as neatly as if Hal had stenciled it on his forehead.
“They might have. But they might also have done it deliberately—buried a stranger under Ben’s name. And there are any number of reasons why someone might have done that. Ben managing it to cover his escape is the best one.”
“I know,” Hal said shortly. “No. You’re right, I don’t know for sure that he’s dead. I wasn’t going to tell Minnie that I thought he was—though I do think there’s a good chance of it.” He firmed his jaw as he said it. “But I have to tell her something. If I don’t write fairly soon, she’ll know something’s wrong—she’s bloody good at knowing things one doesn’t want her to know.”
That made John laugh, and Hal huffed a little, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“Well,” John suggested, “you told her that Ben had married and had a son, didn’t you? Why not write and tell her you’ve met the girl—Amaranthus, I mean—and your presumed grandson and invited her to take up residence here while Ben is … absent? That’s surely news enough for one letter.”
And if Ben is dead, the knowledge that he’s left a son will be some consolation. John didn’t say that out loud, but the words hovered in the air between them.
Hal nodded, exhaling.
“I’ll do that.” His mind, released from immediate dread, took flight. “Do you think that fellow Penobscot or whatever he’s called—you know, Campbell’s mapmaker—do you think he might be able to draw a passing likeness of young Trevor? I should like Minnie to see him.”
And if anything should happen to the boy, at least we’d have that …
“Alexander Penfold, you mean,” John said. “I’ve never seen him draw anything more complex than a compass rose, but let me ask round a bit. I might just know of a decent portrait painter.” He smiled then, and lifted his newly filled cup. “To your grandson, then. Prosit!”