Jamie was tied down as securely as a barrel of tobacco in a ship’s hold, but Brianna took hold of his leg and steadied it, just to be sure. I nodded at her, turned to my work, and spread the skin over Jamie’s kneecap as taut as I could.
I picked up a pledget, and the sharp sting of alcohol joined the musky ether, drowning the smell of the pines and chestnut mast from the window.
“Smells like a proper hospital, doesn’t it?” I said, and tied my own mask tight over my face.
I SAW JAMIE safely awake, his knee bandaged and splinted, and a solid dose of laudanum administered for pain. Leaving him asleep in the surgery for now, I wandered down the hall toward the kitchen, feeling somewhat sharp-set, though with a deep feeling of satisfaction. The surgery had gone beautifully; he had good, dense bones that would knit well, and while recovery would undoubtedly be painful, I was sure that he would walk easily again, in time.
The house was quiet; my assistants had all scattered: Fanny was walking out somewhere with Cyrus, and the rest of them had all gone up to the Murrays’ cabin to drink apple cider and milk the goats. I was therefore somewhat surprised to see Jenny in the kitchen, sitting alone on the settle, gazing contemplatively at the big cauldron, steaming gently on the fire.
“Your brother’s doing well,” I said casually, and opened the pie safe to see what was available.
“Good,” she said, absently, but then sharpened into attention. “I mean—aye, that’s very good. Will he walk easy, d’ye think?”
“Not for some weeks, probably,” I said. “But he’ll certainly walk, and it will get easier, the more he does it.” I found three-quarters of a dried-peach pie and brought it back to the table. “Will you have a bit of this with me?”
“No,” she said automatically, but then noticed what it was. “Och. I will, thanks.”
I sliced the pie, fetched milk from the cooling cistern Bree had built in the corner of the kitchen floor, and set out the food. She rose slowly and came to sit opposite me.
“The Sachem came to my house this morning, to say it’s time for him to be away back north,” she said.
“Oh?” I took a forkful of the pie—delicious. Probably Fanny had made it; she was the best of the family bakers. Jenny said nothing, and while she had a fork in her hand, she hadn’t yet stuck it into the pie.
“And?” I said.
No answer. I took another bite and waited.
“Well,” she said at last. “He kissed me.”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Did you kiss him back?”
“Aye, I did,” she said, sounding astonished. She sat for a moment, contemplating, then looked at me sideways. “I didna mean to,” she said, and I smiled.
“Did you like it?”
“Well, I’ll no lie to ye, Claire. I did.” She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “Now what?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, I’m askin’ me,” she said, adding a small Scottish snort for emphasis. “He’s goin’ north, back to his nephew. To tell him what-all he’s learnt about the war, so he can decide whether to stick wi’ the British or …” Her voice trailed off. “He’ll need to go before the weather turns.”
“Did he ask you to go with him?” I asked, gently.
She shook her head. “He didna need to ask and I didna need to answer. He wants me, and I … well, if it was only him and me, that would be one thing, but it’s not, and so it’s the other thing. I canna go and leave my family here, especially when I ken all the things that might happen to all of ye. And then there’s Ian …”
The softness in her voice told me that it was Ian Mòr she meant; her husband, rather than her son.
“I ken he wouldna mind,” she said, “and no just because the Sachem told me so,” she added, giving me a direct blue look. “But he sees Ian with me, and I didna need to hear it; I know he’s with me. He always will be,” she said, more softly. “One day, it may be different. Not that Ian will leave me, but … it may be different. I said so, and the Sachem says he’ll come back. When the war is over.”
When the war is over. I felt a huge lump in my throat. I’d heard that before, long ago, caught in the jaws of another war. Spoken in that same tone of longing, of anticipation, of resignation. Knowledge that if the war should ever end—it never truly would end. Things would be different.
“I’m sure he will,” I said.