“Why, yes, I have,” Granger said, relaxing a bit. “The captain greatly obliged me some years ago, by rescuing one of my ships from a French corsair, off Martinique. I called upon him with my thanks, and in the course of conversation discovered that we held many opinions in common. We became friends, and have kept up a correspondence for … gracious me, it must be twenty years now, at least.”
“Ah. Ye’re a merchant, then?” That explained the yellow silk lining the man’s coat, which had probably cost as much as the wardrobe for Jamie’s entire household.
“Yes. In the rum trade, mostly. But the present war has caused considerable difficulties, I’m afraid.”
Jamie made a noncommittal noise meant to indicate polite regret and a disinclination to engage in political discourse. Mr. Granger appeared quite willing to leave it at that, but Partland sat forward, putting his cup down on the desk.
“I trust you’ll pardon my impertinence … Mr. Fraser.” He smiled, without showing his teeth. “It’s just my curiosity, to be sure. What was the cause of your leaving Washington’s army, if I may ask?”
Jamie wanted to tell him he mightn’t, but he wanted to know things about Partland, too, so answered equably.
“General Washington appointed me as an emergency measure, sir—General Henry Taylor having died only a few days before the battle, and Washington requiring someone with experience to lead General Taylor’s militia companies. However, most of those companies were enlisted for only three months, and their enlistment expired very shortly following Monmouth. There was no longer any need for my services.”
“Ah.” Partland was regarding him quizzically, trying to decide whether to say what he had in mind. He did say it, though, and Jamie was surprised to find that he had been keeping a mental checklist, on which he now made a mark next to the word “Reckless.” Right under “Greasy as Goose Fat.”
“But surely the Continental army could find continued use for a soldier of your experience. From what I hear, they are scouring the armies of Europe for officers, no matter what their experience or reputation.”
Jamie made the same noise, slightly louder. Granger made an English version of the same thing, but Partland ignored them both.
“I had heard some talk—mere ill-natured gossip, I’m sure”—he waved a hand dismissively—“to the effect that you had left the field of battle before being relieved of your duty? And that this … contretemps? had somehow resulted in your resignation.”
“Gossip is somewhat better informed in this case than it usually is,” Jamie answered evenly. “My wife was badly wounded on the field—she is a surgeon, and was caring for the casualties—and I resigned my commission in order to save her life.”
And that’s all ye’re going to hear about it, a gobaire.
Granger cleared his throat again and looked reprovingly at his nephew, who sat back and picked up his cup with a negligent air, though still with a sidelong look. The muffled, regular blows of Claire’s mallet were audible through the uninsulated wall, somewhat slower than Jamie’s heartbeat, which had sped up noticeably.
Taking a deep breath to slow it down, he picked up the wine bottle, weighing it. Half full; enough to keep them going ’til supper.
“Would ye tell me something of the rum trade, sir?” he said, freshening Granger’s cup. “I worked for a time in Paris, dealing mostly in wine, but with a small trade in spirits as well. That was thirty-five years ago, though—I imagine a few things have changed.”
The atmosphere in the study eased, and the mallet blows stopped. Conversation became general and amiable. The roof wasn’t leaking. Jamie relaxed for the moment, sipping wine. He was going to have to talk to Bobby and Roger Mac about Captain Cunningham. Tomorrow.
BOBBY HIGGINS TURNED up on the doorstep just after noon the next day. He was dressed in a clean shirt and breeches, with his good waistcoat and a lace-trimmed neckcloth, which rather alarmed Jamie. This degree of fastidiousness meant Bobby was worried about something and hoped to placate the fury of the gods by means of plaited hair and starched cloth.
“Amy said Mrs. Goodwin told her that your sister said you wanted to speak with me, sir,” he said at once. He bobbed his head anxiously, eyes fixed on Jamie for any clue as to what might be coming.
“Och, that’s all right, Bobby,” Jamie said, stepping back and gesturing him in. “I only wanted to ask what ye might know about Captain Cunningham. A couple of fellows came by yesterday on their way to visit him.”