An Echo in the Bone, Page 97

  “Oh, no, Auntie; I’m as sure of what’s between us as I am of… of…” He looked about in search of some symbol of solidity on the heaving deck, but then gave up. “Well, I’m surer of how I feel than I am that the sun will come up tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure she knows that.”

  “Aye, she does,” he said, in a softer voice. “I know she does.”

  We sat for a bit in silence. Then I stood up and said, “Well, in that case—perhaps you ought to say a prayer for your father and then go and sit near the bow.”

  I HAD BEEN in Philadelphia once or twice in the twentieth century, for medical conferences. I hadn’t liked the place then, finding it grubby and unwelcoming. It was different now, but not much more attractive. The roads that weren’t cobbled were seas of mud, and streets that would eventually be lined with run-down row houses with yards full of rubbish, broken plastic toys, and motorcycle parts were now edged with ramshackle shanties with yards full of rubbish, discarded oyster shells, and tethered goats. Granted, there were no black-suited feral policemen visible, but the petty criminals were still the same, and still visible, despite the very obvious presence of the British army; red coats swarmed near the taverns, and marching columns went past the wagon, muskets on their shoulders.

  It was spring. I’d give it that much. There were trees everywhere, thanks to William Penn’s dictum that one acre in five should be left in trees—even the avaricious politicians of the twentieth century hadn’t quite succeeded in deforesting the place, though probably only because they couldn’t figure out how to make a profit at it without being caught—and many of the trees were in bloom, a confetti of white petals drifting over the horses’ backs as the wagon turned into the city proper.

  An army patrol was set up on the main road into the city; they had stopped us, demanding passes from the driver and his two male passengers. I had put on a proper cap, didn’t meet anyone’s eye, and murmured that I was coming in from the country to tend my daughter, who was about to give birth. The soldiers glanced briefly into the large basket of food I had on my lap, but didn’t even look at my face before waving the wagon on. Respectability had its uses. I wondered idly how many spymasters had thought of using elderly ladies? You didn’t hear about old women as spies—but then again, that might merely indicate how good they were at it.

  Fergus’s printshop was not in the most fashionable district but not far off, and I was pleased to see that it was a substantial red-brick building, standing in a row of solid, pleasant-looking houses like it. We had not written ahead to say I was coming; I would have arrived as soon as the letter. With a rising heart, I opened the door.

  Marsali was standing at the counter, sorting stacks of paper. She glanced up as the bell above the door rang, blinked, then gaped at me.

  “How are you, dear?” I said, and, putting down the basket, hurried to put up the flap of the counter and take her in my arms.

  She looked like death warmed over, though her eyes lit with a passionate relief upon seeing me. She nearly fell into my arms and burst into uncharacteristic sobs. I patted her back, making soothing sounds and feeling somewhat alarmed. Her clothes hung limp on her bones, and she smelled stale, her hair unwashed for too long.

  “It will be all right,” I repeated firmly for the dozenth time, and she stopped sobbing and stood back a bit, groping in her pocket for a grubby handkerchief. To my shock, I saw that she was pregnant again.

  “Where’s Fergus?” I asked.

  “I dinna ken.”

  “He’s left you?!” I blurted, horrified. “Why, that wretched little—”

  “No, no,” she said hurriedly, almost laughing through her tears. “He’s not left me, not at all. It’s only he’s in hiding—he changes his place every few days, and I dinna ken just which one he’s in right now. The weans will find him.”

  “Why is he in hiding? Not that I need to ask, I suppose,” I said, with a glance at the squat black printing press that stood behind the counter. “Anything specific, though?”

  “Aye, a wee pamphlet for Mr. Paine. He’s got a series of them going, ken, called ‘The American Crisis.’ ”

  “Mr. Paine—the Common Sense fellow?”

  “Aye, that’s him,” she said, sniffing and dabbing. “He’s a nice man, but ye dinna want to drink with him, Fergus says. Ken how some men are sweet and loving when they’re drunk, but some get fou’ and it’s up wi’ the bonnets o’ bonnie Dundee and them not even Scots for an excuse?”

  “Oh, that sort. Yes, I know it well. How far along are you?” I asked, changing the subject back to one of general interest. “Shouldn’t you sit down? You oughtn’t to be on your feet for a long time.”

  “How far… ?” She looked surprised and put a hand involuntarily where I was looking, to her slightly swollen stomach. Then she laughed. “Oh, that.” She burrowed under her apron and removed a bulging leather sack she had tied around her waist.

  “For escaping,” she explained. “In case they fire the house and I have to make a run for it wi’ the weans.”

  The sack was surprisingly heavy when I took it from her, and I heard a muffled clicking down at the bottom, beneath the layer of papers and children’s small toys.

  “The Caslon Italic 24?” I asked, and she smiled, shedding at least ten years on the spot.

  “All except ‘X.’ I had to hammer that one back into a lump and trade it to a goldsmith for enough money for food, after Fergus left. There’s still an ‘X’ in there, mind,” she said, taking back the bag, “but that one’s real lead.”

  “Did you have to use the Goudy Bold 10?” Jamie and Fergus had cast two full sets of type from gold, these rubbed in soot and covered with ink until they were indistinguishable from the many sets of genuine lead type in the type case that stood demurely against the wall behind the press.

  She shook her head and reached to take the bag back again.

  “Fergus took that wi’ him. He meant to bury it somewhere safe, just in case. Ye look fair fashed wi’ travel, Mother Claire,” she went on, leaning forward to peer at me. “Will I send Joanie down to the ordinary for a jug o’ cider?”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said, still reeling a little from the revelations of the last few minutes. “Henri-Christian, though—how is he? Is he here?”

  “Out back wi’ his friend, I think,” she said, rising. “I’ll call him in. He’s that wee bit tired, poor mite, from not sleepin’ well, and he’s got such a throat he sounds like a costive bullfrog. Doesna dampen him much, though, I’ll tell ye that.” She smiled, despite her tiredness, and went through the door into the living quarters, calling “Henri-Christian!” as she went.

  “In case they fire the house.” Who? I wondered, feeling a chill. The British army? Loyalists? And however was she managing, running a business and a family alone, with a husband in hiding and a sick child who couldn’t be left alone while he slept? The horror of our situation, she’d said in her letter to Laoghaire. And that had been months ago, when Fergus was still at home.

  Well, she wasn’t alone now. For the first time since I’d left Jamie in Scotland, I felt something more than the pull of grim necessity in my situation. I’d write to him this evening, I decided. He might—I hoped he would—leave Lallybroch before my letter reached him there, but if so, Jenny and the rest of the family would be glad to know what was going on here. And if by chance Ian was still alive… but I didn’t want to think of that; knowing that his death meant Jamie’s release to come to me made me feel like a ghoul, as though I wished for his death to come sooner. Though in all honesty, I thought Ian himself might wish it to be sooner rather than later.

  These morbid thoughts were interrupted by Marsali’s return, Henri-Christian scampering beside her.

  “Grandmère!” he shouted, seeing me, and leapt into my arms, nearly knocking me over. He was a very solid little boy.

  He nuzzled me affectionately, and I felt a remarkable rush of warm joy at seeing him. I kissed and hugged him fiercely, feel
ing the hole left in my heart by Mandy and Jem’s departure fill up a bit. Isolated from Marsali’s family in Scotland, I had nearly forgotten that I still had four lovely grandchildren left and was grateful to be reminded of it.

  “Want to see a trick, Grandmère?” Henri-Christian croaked eagerly. Marsali was right; he did sound like a constipated bullfrog. I nodded, though, and, hopping off my lap, he pulled three small leather bags stuffed with bran out of his pocket and began at once to juggle them with amazing dexterity.

  “His da taught him,” Marsali said, with a certain amount of pride.

  “When I’m big like Germain, Da will teach me to pick pockets, too!”

  Marsali gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Henri-Christian, we dinna ever speak o’ that,” she said sternly. “Not to anybody. D’ye hear?”

  He glanced at me, bewildered, but nodded obediently.

  The chill I had felt earlier returned. Was Germain picking pockets professionally, so to speak? I looked at Marsali, but she shook her head slightly; we’d talk about it later.

  “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue, sweetheart,” I suggested to Henri-Christian. “Let Grannie see your sore throat—it sounds very ouchy.”

  “Owg-owg-owg,” he said, grinning widely, but obligingly opened up. A faint putrid smell wafted out of his wide-open mouth, and even lacking a lighted scope, I could see that the swollen tonsils nearly obstructed his throat altogether.

  “Goodness gracious,” I said, turning his head to and fro to get a better view. “I’m amazed that he can eat, let alone sleep.”

  “Sometimes he can’t,” Marsali said, and I heard the strain in her voice. “Often enough, he canna manage to swallow anything but a bit o’ milk, and even that’s like knives in his throat, poor bairn.” She crouched beside me, smoothing the fine dark hair off Henri-Christian’s flushed face. “Can ye help, d’ye think, Mother Claire?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, with much more confidence than I actually felt. “Absolutely.”

  I felt the tension drain out of her like water, and, as though it were a literal draining, tears began to run quietly down her face. She pulled Henri-Christian’s head into her bosom so he couldn’t see her cry, and I reached out to embrace both of them, laying my cheek against her capped head, smelling the stale musky tang of her terror and exhaustion.

  “It’s all right now,” I said softly, rubbing her thin back. “I’m here. You can sleep.”

  MARSALI SLEPT the rest of the day and all through the night. I was tired from the journey but managed to doze in the big chair by the kitchen fire, Henri-Christian cradled in my lap, snoring heavily. He did stop breathing twice during the night, and while I got him started again with no difficulty, I could see that something had to be done at once. Consequently, I had a brief nap in the morning and, having washed my face and eaten a bit, went out in search of what I’d need.

  I had the most rudimentary of medical instruments with me, but the fact was, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy didn’t really require anything complex in that line.

  I wished that Ian had come into the city with me; I could have used his help, and so could Marsali. But it was dangerous for a man of his age; he couldn’t enter the city openly without being stopped and questioned by British patrols, likely arrested as a suspicious character—which he most assuredly was. Beyond that… he’d been afire to look for Rachel Hunter.

  The task of finding two people—and a dog—who might be almost anywhere between Canada and Charleston, with no means of communication other than the foot and the spoken word, would have daunted anyone less stubborn than a person of Fraser blood. Agreeable as he might be, though, Ian was as capable as Jamie of pursuing a chosen course, come hell, high water, or reasonable suggestions.

  He did, as he’d pointed out, have one advantage. Denny Hunter was presumably still an army surgeon. If so, he was obviously with the Continental army—some part of the Continental army. So Ian’s notion was to discover where the closest part of the army might be just now and begin his inquiries there. To which end he proposed to skulk round the edges of Philadelphia, creeping into taverns and shebeens on the outskirts, and, by means of local gossip, discover where some part of the army presently was.

  The most I had been able to persuade him to do was to send word to Fergus’s printshop telling us where he was bound, once he’d discovered anything that gave him a possible destination.

  In the meantime, all I could do was say a quick prayer to his guardian angel—a most overworked being—then have a word with my own (whom I envisioned as a sort of grandmotherly shape with an anxious expression) and set about doing what I’d come to do.

  I now walked through the muddy streets, pondering the procedure. I had done a tonsillectomy only once—well, twice, if you counted the Beardsley twins separately—in the last ten years. It was normally a straightforward, quick procedure, but then again, it wasn’t normally performed in a gloomy printshop on a dwarf with a constricted airway, a sinus infection, and a peritonsillar abscess.

  Still… I needn’t do it in the printshop, if I could find a better-lighted place. Where would that be? I wondered. A rich person’s house, most likely; one where candle wax was squandered profligately. I’d been in many such houses, particularly during our time in Paris, but knew no one even moderately well-to-do in Philadelphia. Neither did Marsali; I’d asked.

  Well, one thing at a time. Before I worried any more about an operating theater, I needed to find a blacksmith capable of fine work, to make the wire-loop instrument I required. I could, in a pinch, cut the tonsils with a scalpel, but it would be more than difficult to remove the adenoids, located above the soft palate, that way. And the last thing I wanted was to be slicing and poking round in Henri-Christian’s severely inflamed throat in the dark with a sharp instrument. The wire loop would be sharp enough but was unlikely to damage anything it bumped into; only the edge surrounding the tissue to be removed would cut, and then only when I made the forceful scooping motion that would sever a tonsil or adenoid neatly.

  I wondered uneasily whether he had a strep infection. His throat was bright red, but other infections could cause that.

  No, we’d have to take our chances with the strep, I thought. I had set some penicillin bowls to brew, almost the moment I arrived. There was no way of telling whether the extract I might get from them in a few days was active or not—nor, if it was, just how active. But it was better than nothing, and so was I.

  I did have one undeniably useful thing—or would, if this afternoon’s quest was successful. Nearly five years ago, Lord John Grey had sent me a glass bottle of vitriol and the pelican glassware necessary to distill ether using it. He’d procured those items from an apothecary in Philadelphia, I thought, though I couldn’t recall the name. But there couldn’t be many apothecaries in Phila delphia, and I proposed to visit all of them until I found what I was looking for.

  Marsali had said there were two large apothecary’s shops in town, and only a large one would have what I needed to make ether. What was the name of the gentleman from whom Lord John Grey had acquired my pelican apparatus? Was he in Philadelphia at all? My mind was a blank, either from fatigue or from simple forgetfulness; the time when I had made ether in my surgery on Fraser’s Ridge seemed as distant and mythical as Noah’s Flood.

  I found the first apothecary and got from him some useful items, including a jar of leeches—though I boggled a little at the thought of putting one inside Henri-Christian’s mouth; what if he managed to swallow the thing?

  On the other hand, I reflected, he was a four-year-old boy with a very imaginative elder brother. He’d probably swallowed much worse things than a leech. With luck, though, I wouldn’t need them. I had also got two cautery irons, very small ones. It was a primitive and painful way of stopping bleeding—but, in fact, very effective.

  The apothecary had not had any vitriol, though. He had apologized for the lack, saying that such things must be imported from England, and
with the war… I thanked him and went on to the second place. Where I was informed that they had had some vitriol but had sold it some time previous, to an English lord, though what he wanted with such a thing, the man behind the counter couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “An English lord?” I said, surprised. Surely it couldn’t be Lord John. Though, come to that, it wasn’t as though the English aristocracy was flocking to Philadelphia these days, save those members who were soldiers. And the man had said “a lord,” not a major or a captain.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained; I asked and was obligingly told that it was a Lord John Grey, and that he had requested the vitriol be delivered to his house on Chestnut Street.

  Feeling a little like Alice down the rabbit hole—I was still a bit lightheaded from lack of sleep and the fatigues of the journey from Scotland—I asked the way to Chestnut Street.

  The door to the house was opened by an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, dressed in a fashion that made it clear she was no servant. We blinked at each other in surprise; she plainly hadn’t been expecting me, either, but when I inquired for Lord John, saying I was an old acquaintance, she readily invited me in, saying that her uncle would be back directly, he had only taken a horse to be shod.

  “You would think he’d send the boy,” the young woman—who gave her name as Lady Dorothea Grey—said apologetically. “Or my cousin. But Uncle John is most particular about his horses.”

  “Your cousin?” I asked, my slow mind tracing the possible family connections. “You don’t mean William Ransom, do you?”

  “Ellesmere, yes,” she said, looking surprised but pleased. “Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met once or twice,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking—how does he come to be in Philadelphia? I… er… had understood that he was paroled with the rest of Burgoyne’s army and had gone to Boston in order to sail home to England.”

  “Oh, he is!” she said. “Paroled, I mean. He came here, though, first, to see his father—that’s Uncle John—and my brother.” Her large blue eyes clouded a little at the mention. “Henry’s very ill, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear it,” I said, sincerely but briefly. I was much more interested in William’s presence here, but before I could ask anything further, there was a quick, light step on the porch and the front door opened.

  “Dottie?” said a familiar voice. “Have you any idea where—oh, I beg your pardon.” Lord John Grey had come into the parlor and stopped, seeing me. Then he actually saw me, and his jaw dropped.

  “How nice to see you again,” I said pleasantly. “But I’m sorry to hear that your nephew is ill.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and, eyeing me rather warily, bowed low over my hand, kissing it gracefully. “I am delighted to see you again, Mrs. Fraser,” he added, sounding as though he actually meant it. He hesitated for a moment, but of course couldn’t help asking, “Your husband… ?”

  “He’s in Scotland,” I said, feeling rather mean at disappointing him. It flickered across his face but was promptly erased—he was a gentleman, and a soldier. In fact, he was wearing an army uniform, which rather surprised me.

  “You’ve returned to active duty, then?” I asked, raising my brows at him.

  “Not exactly. Dottie, have you not called for Mrs. Figg yet? I’m sure Mrs. Fraser would like some refreshment.”

  “I’d only just come,” I said hastily, as Dottie leapt up and went out.

  “Indeed,” he said, courteously repressing the why? that showed plainly on his face. He motioned me to a chair and sat down himself, wearing a rather odd expression, as though trying to think how to say something awkward.

  “I am delighted to see you,” he said again, slowly. “Did you—I do not wish to sound in any way ungracious, Mrs. Fraser, you must excuse me—but… did you come to bring me a message from your husband, perhaps?”

  He couldn’t help the small light that sprang up in his eyes, and I felt almost apologetic as I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and was surprised to find that I meant it. “I’ve come to beg a favor. Not on my own behalf—for my grandson.”

  He blinked at that.

  “Your grandson,” he repeated blankly. “I thought that your daughter … oh! Of course, I was forgetting that your husband’s foster son—his family is here? It is one of his children?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Without more ado, I explained the situation, describing Henri-Christian’s state and reminding him of his generosity in sending me the vitriol and glass apparatus more than four years before.

  “Mr. Sholto—the apothecary on Walnut Street?—told me that he had sold you a large bottle of vitriol some months ago. I wondered—do you by any chance still have it?” I made no effort to keep the eagerness out of my voice, and his expression softened.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, and, to my surprise, smiled like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I bought it for you, Mrs. Fraser.”

  A BARGAIN WAS struck at once. He would not only give me the vitriol but also purchase any other medical supplies I might require, if I would consent to perform surgery on his nephew.

  “Dr. Hunter removed one of the balls at Christmas,” he said, “and that improved Henry’s condition somewhat. The other remains embedded, though, and—”

  “Dr. Hunter?” I interrupted him. “Not Denzell Hunter, you don’t mean?”

  “I do mean that,” he said, surprised and frowning a little. “You do not mean to say you know him?”

  “I do indeed mean that,” I said, smiling. “We worked together often, both at Ticonderoga and at Saratoga with Gates’s army. But what is he doing in Philadelphia?”

  “He—” he began, but was interrupted by the sound of light footsteps coming down the stair. I had been vaguely conscious of footsteps overhead as we talked but had paid no attention. I looked toward the doorway now, though, and my heart leapt at the sight of Rachel Hunter, who was standing in it, staring at me with her mouth in a perfect “O” of astonishment.

  The next moment she was in my arms, hugging me fit to break my ribs.

  “Friend Claire!” she said, letting go at last. “I never thought to see—that is, I am so pleased—oh, Claire! Ian. Has he come back with thee?” Her face was alive with eagerness and fear, hope and wariness chasing each other like racing clouds across her features.

  “He has,” I assured her. “He’s not here, though.” Her face fell.

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Where—”

  “He’s gone to look for you,” I said gently, taking her hands.

  Joy blazed up in her eyes like a forest fire.

  “Oh!” she said, in a completely different voice. “Oh!”