Colonel, 46th Regiment of Foot
Savannah, Georgia
Dear Hal—
Yes.
Foxglove leaves. Mash them and make a strong tea, or just put them in the salad and invite the rats to dinner.
Your erstwhile sister-in-law,
C.
PostScriptum: It’s not a good way to die, even for a rat. Shooting is much more efficient.
Jamie had been watching me write, reading the message upside down without difficulty, and looked up with raised brows as I finished and waved the note in the air to dry it. I put it down and laid Hal’s note beside it, in front of him.
The eyebrows didn’t go down as he read. He looked up at me.
“It’s meant to be a joke,” I said. “The bit about the foxgloves, I mean.”
He made a restrained Scottish noise and pushed the notes back toward me.
“Maybe you’re jokin’， Sassenach—but he isn’t. Whatever he said to ye.”
124
The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
Savannah
May 5, 1780
From Captain M. A. Stubbs, His Majesty’s Army, Ret.
To Mr. John Cinnamon
My dear Mr. Cinnamon,
I cannot tell you with what Emotion I beheld your Portrait. Indeed, my Bosom is so animated with Feeling that I think my Heart must burst, between the Pressures of Guilt and Joy—yet I thank you from the Bottom of that squalid Heart for your gallant Action and the Courage which must lie behind it.
Let me first beg your Forgiveness, though I do not deserve it. I was badly wounded at Quebec and unable to attend to my own Affairs for some Months, by which Time I had been sent back to England. I should have made Inquiries after your Mother, and made some Provision for you both. I did not. I should prefer to think that it was solely Shock and Disability that kept me from this Duty, but the Truth is that I chose to forget, from Selfishness and Sloth. I am not a good Man. I am sorry for it.
And let me next—assuming that your Forgiveness be granted—beg that you will come to me. I am astonished by the Strength of Feeling caused me by the Sight of your Face, captured in Paint and Canvas, and even more by the Need that has grown in me to see your Face truly before me. I can but hope that you would also like to see mine.
If you will so far forgive me as to come, I have sent Instructions to Lord John Grey, who will arrange your Passage to London and provide Funds for your Travel.
I am, sir, your most Humble and Obedient Servant—
and your Father,
Malcolm Armistead Stubbs, Esq.
PostScriptum: Your name is Michel. Your mother had a Medallion, given her by her French Grandmother, with the image upon it of Michael, Archangel, and she wished you to have his Protection.
May 10, 1780
Savannah
IT WAS A STORMY day, and cold on the quay, with a strong wind whipping up whitecaps on the river and bent on whipping off their hats, as well. The tender had almost finished loading—its last load, bound for the cargo holds of the army transport Hermione, waiting at anchor.
“Have you ever been on a ship?” William asked suddenly.
“No. Just canoes.” Cinnamon was twitching like a nervous horse, ready to bolt. “What’s it like?”
“Exciting, sometimes,” William said, in what he hoped was a tone of reassurance. “Mostly boring, though. Here, I brought you a going-away present.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small jar of murky liquid and a smaller vial with a dropper.
“Just in case,” he told Cinnamon, handing these over. “Dilled cucumber pickles and ether. In case of seasickness.”
Cinnamon eyed the gifts dubiously, but nodded.
“You suck a pickle if you feel queasy,” William explained. “If that doesn’t work, take six drops of the ether. You can put it in beer if you like,” he added helpfully.
“Thank you.” The wind had restored Cinnamon’s usual ruddy glow. “Thank you,” he said again, and seized William’s hand in a grasp of crushing earnestness. “And tell your sister—how much … how much …” The tide of rising emotion choked him, and he shook his head and wrung William’s hand harder.
“You told her,” William said, easing the hand free and repressing an urge to count his fingers. “She was happy to do it. She’s happy for you. So am I,” he added, patting Cinnamon affectionately on the forearm, as much to avoid being seized again as from the very real affection he felt. “I’ll miss you, you know,” he added diffidently.
He would, and the realization struck him like a blow behind the ear. He felt suddenly hollow, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.