Gabriel was pale with anger, but had himself under control. He wanted his daughters.
“I apologize for what I said,” he said, between clenched teeth. “I spoke out of shock. How can thee blame me for speaking wildly?”
“Thee was not speaking wildly when thee said thee would take Prudence and Patience from me,” she replied.
“I am their father, and I will keep them!”
“No, thee will not,” she said evenly, and turned toward Ian’s tree. “Will he?”
Ian stepped out from behind the tree.
“No,” he said mildly. “He won’t.”
Gabriel licked his lips and huffed out a great white sigh.
“What are we to do, then, Silvia?” he said, plainly struggling for calm. “Thee knows the girls want to be with me as much as I wish to be with them. Whatever thee thinks of me at present—how can thee be so heartless as to take them from me?”
“As for thee, I expect thy other children will comfort thee,” Silvia said, in as nasty a tone as Ian had ever heard from her. She rubbed a hand over her face, hard, also striving for calm. “No. Thee is right in that, at least. I do know how much they love thee and I will never say anything to them that would blacken thee in their eyes. I think thee should tell them, though, about thy children here. They will understand that, but they will not understand why thee would keep the truth from them—and they are bound to find out sooner or later, though not from me.”
Gabriel had moved into the light as well, shuffling his lame foot. He had assumed an odd, mottled appearance, like an old birch tree whose bark is peeling off.
“I will not go and leave them here,” Silvia said, having regained some control of her emotions. “But I will write to thee when we have found a home, and thee may come to visit them. I will help them to write to thee, and perhaps they may come here to see thee again, if it seems safe.” She straightened her back and smoothed her pinafore.
“I forgive thee, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “But I will never be wife to thee again.”
89
The Filature
Savannah
September 30, 1779
ALFRED BRUMBY DIDN’T LOOK like a smuggler, or at least not like Brianna’s notion of one. On the other hand, she was forced to admit that the only people she knew who were or had been professional smugglers were her father and Fergus. Mr. Brumby was a comfortably solid and beautifully dressed gentleman of medium height who, upon meeting her, had tilted his head back, shading his eyes as he looked up at her, and then laughed and bowed to her.
“I see that Lord John knows the value of a good artist,” he said, smiling. “Do you scale your commission by the inch, madam? Because if so, I may be obliged to sell my carriage in order to afford you.”
“I do indeed charge by the inch, sir,” she’d told him politely, and nodded at his diminutive wife. “But the basis would be the size of the painting, rather than the artist.”
He’d laughed heartily, and so had his very young wife—My God, Brianna thought, she’s barely eighteen, if that!—and then had turned to Roger, shaking hands and engaging him in lively conversation, while his wife, Angelina, knelt on the floor, careless of her fine dress, and talked to Mandy and Jem, then scrambled to her feet and invited them to come along and see their mother’s studio.
The arrangement offered by the hospitable Mr. Brumby was that the MacKenzies would live in his household during the length of Brianna’s commission and be treated as members of the family. By suppertime, everyone had been seamlessly absorbed into the Brumby household, which was a large and cheerful one, with many servants, an excellent cook, and Henrike, a large and very capable German maidservant who had been Angelina’s nurse and had insisted upon coming with her upon her marriage to Mr. Brumby.
“And how do you propose to pass your time, Mr. MacKenzie, while your wife is employed in painting?” Mr. Brumby asked over a delicious pork roast with brandied applesauce.
“I have various commissions to fulfill, sir,” Roger said. “On behalf of the Presbytery of Charles Town, who have entrusted me with various letters to deliver—and also a few small errands to perform on behalf of my father-in-law, Colonel Fraser.”
“Oh, indeed.” Mr. Brumby’s eyes grew bright through his spectacles. “I’ve heard of Colonel Fraser—as who has not? I was unaware that he makes whisky of such quality, though.” He nodded at the bottle Roger had presented to him before dinner; he’d brought it along to the table and continued to take small sips from a silver cup that the butler replenished—frequently—in the course of the meal. “Should he be interested in selling it to a wider market …”