“Are you all right, Mama?” she said, looking at me suspiciously, because my eyes had gone slightly moist.
“Certainly,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Have you had much trouble with the fibrillation?”
“No,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “It happened two or three times on the way to Charleston, and once or twice while we were there. Only twice in Savannah, at least bad enough that I noticed. But I don’t think it’s happened at all—or if it has, only for a few seconds—on the trip back.
“I kept taking the willow bark,” she assured me. “Only after a while, I started grinding the leaves up and making pills out of them with cheese, because the tea made me pee all the time, and I couldn’t stop painting every fifteen minutes to go find a chamber pot. I don’t think cheese would neutralize the willow bark, do you?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “Congratulations—you’ve invented the world’s first cheese-flavored aspirin. They didn’t upset your stomach?”
She shook her head and pulled up the neck of her shift.
“No, but I figured that the cheese might buffer the acid—don’t they tell people with ulcers to drink milk?”
“Yes, that or an antacid. Honey actually works quite well for—” I stopped abruptly.
She’d just tied the ribbon of her shift and I’d reached for the laces to hand them to her, but my left hand was still resting on her abdomen, a little lower down. And I was still feeling the heartbeat.
A faint, fast heartbeat. Tiny and busy and very strong.
LubdubLubdubLubdub …
“Mama? What’s wrong?” Bree had sat up, alarmed. All I could do was shake my head at her.
“Welcome home,” I managed to say to the newest resident of the Ridge. And then I burst into tears.
AMID THE UPROAR of general rejoicing over the news of Brianna’s pregnancy and the bustle of reassorting the population of the house—the Hardmans took over the half-finished third floor, tacking canvas over the windows to keep out the rain, and Roger and Brianna moved into their usual room; Fanny and Agnes, being now Women, were given their own part of the attic for privacy, but continued to sleep in carefree heaps with the younger children, as did the Hardman girls—it was some time before I remembered the note Brianna had given me.
I’d tucked it in the pocket of the apron I’d been wearing at the time and found the note several days later, when I decided that the apron was really too filthy to be sanitary and had to be washed.
The note emerged—a small, neat block of intricately folded paper, with a swan flying across a full moon stamped into the wax that sealed it. It was addressed on the outside to Mrs. James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina, but true to John’s description of Hal’s correspondence habits, had no salutation and a message consisting of slightly fewer words than were strictly necessary. He had signed it, though.
I don’t know what you and my brother did to each other, but evidently you’re a bit more than friends. If I don’t come back from what I’m about to do, please look after him.
PostScriptum: Can you recommend to me some herbal preparation of a lethal nature? For poisoning rats.
Harold, Duke of Pardloe
There was a large H under this, presumably in case I didn’t recognize him by his title. I set the paper gingerly on top of the pie safe, where I could stare at it while kneading bread.
I wanted to laugh, and did smile—but it was a nervous smile. For poisoning rats, forsooth … From what I knew of Hal’s personality, he might be planning murder, suicide—or the actual extirpation of rodents in his cellar. As for what he was about to do …
“The mind boggles,” I said, under my breath, and slapped the elastic dough onto the floury worktable, folding and punching it into a fresh ball. I put this back into the bowl and covered it with a damp cloth, then stood there like a stupefied chicken, blinking at it and wondering what on earth the brothers Grey were up to. I shook my head, put the bowl on the small shelf near the chimney, and left the bread to rise while I walked down the hall to Jamie’s study.
“Have you got a sheet of paper, and a decent quill?” I asked.
“Aye, here.” He’d been leaning back in his chair, brow furrowed in thought, but leaned forward to pluck a quill out of the jar on his desk and handed me a sheet of Bree’s plain rag paper.
I took these with a nod of thanks and, standing by his desk, wrote:
To Harold, Duke of Pardloe