Текст книги "An echo in the bone"
Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 38 (всего у книги 75 страниц)
“Thee is sure?” she asked. “It seems shame, Friend William. Such a striking color!”
“I should think you’d consider it unseemly, Miss Hunter,” William said, smiling. “I had always heard that Quakers think bright colors to be worldly.” The only color in her own dress was a small bronzy-colored brooch that held her kerchief together. Everything else was shades of cream and butternut—though he thought these suited her.
She looked reprovingly at him.
“Immodest ornament in dress is hardly the same as grateful acceptance of the gifts God hath given. Do bluebirds pluck out their feathers, or roses fling away their petals?”
“I doubt that roses itch,” he said, scratching at his chin. The notion of his beard as a gift of God was novel, but not sufficiently persuasive as to convince him to go about as a whiskeranto. Beyond its unfortunate color, it grew with vigor, but sparsely. He looked disapprovingly at the modest square of looking glass in his hand. He could do nothing about the peeling sunburn that patched his nose and cheeks, or the scabbed scrapes and scratches left by his adventures in the swamp—but the hideous copper curls that sprouted jauntily from his chin and plastered themselves like a disfiguring moss along his jaw—that, at least, could be amended at once.
“If you please?”
Her lips twitched, and she knelt down beside his stool, turning his head with a hand beneath his chin so as to take best advantage of the light from the window.
“Well, then,” she said, and laid the scissors cool against his face. “I’ll ask Denny to come and shave thee. I daresay I can cut thy beard without wounding thee, but”—her eyes narrowed and she leaned closer, snipping delicately round the curve of his chin—“I’ve not shaved anything more lively than a dead pig, myself.”
“Barber, barber,” he murmured, trying not to move his lips, “shave a pig. How ma—”
Her fingers pressed up under his chin, firmly shutting his mouth, but she made the small snorting sound that passed with her for laughter. Snip, snip, snip. The blades tickled pleasantly against his face, and the wiry hairs brushed his hands as they fell into the worn linen towel she’d placed across his lap.
He’d had no opportunity to study her face at such close range and took full advantage of the brief opportunity. Her eyes were almost brown and not quite green. He wished suddenly to kiss the end of her nose. He shut his eyes, instead, and breathed. She’d been milking a goat, he could tell.
“I can shave myself,” he said, when she lowered the scissors.
She raised her brows and glanced downward at his arm. “I should be surprised if thee can feed thyself yet, let alone shave.”
In all truth, he could barely lift his right arm, and she had been feeding him for the last two days. That being so, he thought better of telling her that he was in fact left-handed.
“It’s healing well,” he said, instead, and turned his arm so the light shone upon it. Dr. Hunter had removed the dressing only that morning, expressing gratification at the results. The wound was still red and puckered, the skin around it unpleasantly white and moist. It was, however, undoubtedly healing; the arm was no longer swollen, and the ominous red streaks had disappeared.
“Well,” she said consideringly, “it’s a fine scar, I think. Well knit, and rather pretty.”
“Pretty?” William echoed, looking skeptically at his arm. He’d heard men now and then describe a scar as “pretty,” but most commonly they meant one that had healed straight and clean and did not disfigure the bearer by passing through some significant feature. This one was jagged and sprawling, with a long tail leading toward his wrist. He had—he was told sometime after the fact—narrowly escaped loss of the arm: Dr. Hunter had grasped it and placed his amputation saw just above the wound, only to have the abscess that had formed below it burst in his hand. Seeing this, the doctor had hastily drained the wound, packed it with garlic and comfrey, and prayed—to good effect.
“It looks like an enormous star,” Rachel Hunter said approvingly. “One of significance. A great comet, perhaps. Or the Star of Bethlehem, which led the Wise Men to the manger of Christ.”
William turned his arm, considering. He thought it looked rather more like a bursting mortar shell, himself, but said merely, “Hmm!” in an encouraging manner. He wished to continue the conversation—she seldom lingered when she fed him, having much other work to do—and so lifted his newly shorn chin and gestured at the brooch she wore.
“That’s pretty,” he said. “Not too worldly?”
“No,” she said tartly, putting a hand to the brooch. “It’s made of my mother’s hair. She died when I was born.”
“Ah. I’m sorry,” he said, and with a moment’s hesitation added, “So did mine.”
She stopped then and looked at him, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of something in her eyes that was more than the matter-of-fact attention she would give to a cow in calf or a dog that had eaten something that disagreed with it.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said softly, then turned with decision. “I’ll fetch my brother.”
Her footsteps went down the narrow stair, quick and light. He picked up the ends of the towel and shook it out the window, scattering the ruddy hair clippings to the four winds, and good riddance. He might have grown a beard as a rudimentary disguise, had it been a decently sober brown. As it was, a full beard of that garish color would rivet the eye of everyone who saw him.
What to do now? he wondered. Surely he would be fit to leave by tomorrow.
His clothes were still wearable, if worse for wear; Miss Hunter had patched the tears in his breeches and coat. But he had no horse, no money save two sixpences that had been in his pocket, and had lost the book with the list of his contacts and their messages. He might recall a few of their names, but without the proper code words and signs…
He thought quite suddenly of Henry Washington, and that hazy half-remembered conversation with Ian Murray by the fire, before they had begun to speak of death songs. Washington, Cartwright, Harrington, and Carver. The chanted list returned to him, together with Murray’s puzzled reply to his mention of Washington and Dismal Town.
He could not think of any reason why Murray should seek to mislead him on the matter. But if he was correct—was Captain Richardson grossly mistaken in his intelligence? That was possible, certainly. Even in as short a time as he had been in the Colonies, he had learned just how quickly loyalties could shift, with changing news of threat or opportunity.
But… said the small, cold voice of reason, and he felt its chilly touch on his neck. If Captain Richardson was not mistaken… then he meant to send you to death or imprisonment.
The sheer enormity of the idea dried his mouth, and he reached for the cup of herbal tea that Miss Hunter had brought him earlier. It tasted foul, but he scarcely noticed, clutching it as though it might be a talisman against the prospect he imagined.
No, he assured himself. It wasn’t possible. His father knew Richardson. Surely if the captain were a traitor—what was he thinking? He gulped the tea, grimacing as he swallowed.
“No,” he said aloud, “not possible. Or not likely,” he added fairly. “Occam’s razor.”
The thought calmed him a little. He had learned the basic principles of logic at an early age and had found William of Occam a sound guide before. Was it more likely that Captain Richardson was a hidden traitor who had deliberately sent William into danger—or that the captain had been misinformed or had simply made a mistake?
Come to that—what would be the point of it? William was under no delusions concerning his own importance in the scheme of things. Where would be the benefit to Richardson—or anyone else—in destroying a junior officer engaged in minor intelligencing?
Well, then. He relaxed a bit, and taking an unwary mouthful of the ghastly tea, choked on it and coughed, spraying tea everywhere. He was still wiping up the residue with his towel when Dr. Hunter came trotting briskly up the stair. Denzell Hunter was perhaps ten years his sister’s senior, somewhere in his late twenties, small-boned and cheerful as a cock sparrow. He beamed at sight of William, plainly so delighted at his patient’s recovery that William smiled warmly back.
“Sissy tells me thee requires to shave,” the doctor said, setting down the shaving mug and brush he had brought. “Plainly, thee must be feeling well enough to contemplate a return to society—for the first thing any man does when free of social constraint is to let his beard grow. Has thee moved thy bowels as yet?”
“No, but I propose to do so almost at once,” William assured him. “I am not, however, of a mind to venture out in public looking like a bandit—not even to the privy. I shouldn’t wish to scandalize your neighbors.”
Dr. Hunter laughed, and withdrawing a razor from one pocket and his silver-rimmed spectacles from another, set the latter firmly on his nose and picked up the shaving brush.
“Oh, Sissy and I are already a hissing and a byword,” he assured William, leaning close to apply the lather. “Seeing banditti emerging from our privy would merely confirm the neighbors in their opinions.”
“Really?” William spoke carefully, twisting his mouth so as to avoid having it inadvertently filled with soap. “Why?” He was surprised to hear this; once regaining his senses, he had asked where he was and learned that Oak Grove was a small Quaker settlement. He had thought Quakers in general to be most united in their religious sentiments—but then, he did not really know any Quakers.
Hunter heaved a deep sigh, and laying down the shaving brush, took up the razor in its stead.
“Oh, politics,” he said, in an offhand tone, as of one wishing to dismiss a tiresome but trivial subject. “Tell me, Friend Ransom, is there someone to whom I might send, to tell them of thy mishap and delivery?” He paused in the shaving, to allow William to reply.
“No, I thank you, sir—I shall tell them myself,” William said, smiling. “I am sure I will be able to leave by tomorrow—though I assure you that I will not forget your kindness and hospitality when I reach my… friends.”
Denzell Hunter’s brow furrowed a little, and his mouth compressed as he resumed the shaving, but he made no argument.
“I trust thee will forgive my inquisitiveness,” he said after a moment, “but where does thee intend to go from here?”
William hesitated, not sure what to reply. He had in fact not decided exactly where to go, given the lamentable state of his finances. The best notion that had occurred to him was that he might head for Mount Josiah, his own plantation. He was not positive but thought he must be within forty or fifty miles of it—if the Hunters might give him a little food, he thought he could reach it within a few days, a week at most. And once there, he could reequip himself with clothes, a decent horse, arms, and money, and thus resume his journey.
It was a tempting prospect. To do that, though, was to reveal his presence in Virginia—and to cause considerable comment, as everyone in the county not only knew him but knew that he was a soldier. To turn up in the neighborhood dressed as he was…
“There are a few Catholics at Rosemount,” Dr. Hunter observed with diffidence, wiping the razor on the much-abused towel. William glanced at him in surprise.
“Oh?” he said warily. Why the devil was Hunter telling him about Catholics?
“I beg pardon, Friend,” the doctor apologized, seeing his reaction. “Thee had mentioned thy friends—I thought…”
“You thought I was—” Puzzlement was succeeded by a jolt of realization, and William slapped a hand in reflex against his chest, naturally finding nothing but the much-worn nightshirt he was wearing.
“Here it is.” The doctor bent swiftly to open the blanket box at the foot of the bed and stood up, the wooden rosary swinging from one hand. “We had to remove it, of course, when we undressed thee, but Sissy put it safe away to keep for thee.”
“We?” William said, seizing on this as a means of delaying inquiry. “You—and Miss Hunter—undressed me?”
“Well, there was no one else,” the doctor said apologetically. “We were obliged to lay thee naked in the creek, in hopes of quelling thy fever—thee does not recall?”
He did—vaguely—but had assumed the memory of overwhelming cold and a sense of drowning to be more remnants of his fever dreams. Miss Hunter’s presence had fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—not formed part of those memories.
“I could not carry thee alone,” the doctor was explaining earnestly. “And the neighbors—I did provide a towel for the preservation of thy modesty,” he assured William hastily.
“What quarrel do your neighbors have with you?” William inquired curiously, reaching out to take the rosary from Hunter’s hand. “I am not a Papist myself,” he added offhandedly. “It is a… memento, given me by a friend.”
“Oh.” The doctor rubbed a finger across his lip, plainly disconcerted. “I see. I had thought—”
“The neighbors… ?” William asked, and suppressing his embarrassment, hung the rosary once more around his neck. Perhaps the mistake over his religion was the basis of the neighbors’ animus?
“Well, I daresay they would have helped to carry thee,” Dr. Hunter admitted, “had there been time to go and fetch someone. The matter was urgent, though, and the nearest house is a goodly distance.”
This left the question of the neighbors’ attitude toward the Hunters unanswered, but it seemed unmannerly to press further. William merely nodded and stood up.
The floor tilted abruptly under him and white light flickered at the edge of his vision. He grabbed at the windowsill to keep from falling and came to his senses a moment later, bathed in sweat, with Dr. Hunter’s surprisingly strong grip of his arm preventing his tumbling headfirst into the yard below.
“Not quite so fast, Friend Ransom,” the doctor said gently, and, hauling him in, turned him back toward the bed. “Another day, perhaps, before thee stands alone. Thee has more phlegm than is useful to thee, I fear.”
Mildly nauseated, William sat on the bed and allowed Dr. Hunter to wipe his face with the towel. Evidently he had a bit more time in which to decide where to go.
“How long, do you think, before I can walk a full day?”
Denzell Hunter gave him a considering look.
“Five days, perhaps—four, at the least,” he said. “Thee is robust and full-blooded, else I would say a week.”
William, feeling puny and pallid, nodded and lay down. The doctor stood frowning at him for a moment, though it did not seem that the frown was directed at him; it seemed rather an expression of some inner concern.
“How… far will thy travels take thee?” the doctor asked, choosing his words with apparent care.
“Quite some distance,” William replied, with equal wariness. “I am headed… toward Canada,” he said, suddenly realizing that to say more might imply more than he wished to give away regarding his reasons for travel. True, a man might have business in Canada without necessarily having dealings with the British army who occupied Quebec, but as the doctor had mentioned politics … best to be politic about the matter. And certainly he would not mention Mount Josiah. Whatever the Hunters’ strained relations with their neighbors, news concerning their visitor might easily spread.
“Canada,” the doctor repeated, as though to himself. Then his gaze returned to William. “Yes, that is some considerable distance. Luckily, I have killed a goat this morning; we will have meat. That will help to restore thy strength. I will bleed thee tomorrow, to restore some balance to thy humors, and then we shall see. For the moment…” He smiled and extended a hand. “Come. I’ll see thee safe to the privy.”
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE
THERE WAS A STORM coming; William could feel it in the shifting of the air, see it in the racing cloud shadows that scudded across the worn floorboards. The heat and damp oppression of the summer day had lifted, and the restlessness of the air seemed to stir him, as well. Though still weak, he could not remain abed, and managed to get up, clinging to the washstand until the initial giddiness left him.
Left to himself, he then passed some time in walking from one side of the room to the other—a distance of ten feet or so—one hand pressed against the wall for balance. The effort drained and dizzied him, and now and then he was obliged to sit down on the floor, head hung between his knees, until the spots ceased to dance before his eyes.
It was on one of these occasions, while seated beneath the window, that he heard voices from the yard below. Miss Rachel Hunter’s voice, surprised and questioning—a man’s reply, low-voiced and husky. A familiar voice—Ian Murray!
He shot to his feet and just as quickly subsided back onto the floor, vision black and head swimming. He clenched his fists and panted, trying to will the blood to return to his head.
“He will live, then?” The voices were distant, half buried in the murmur of the chestnut trees near the house, but he caught that. He struggled up onto his knees and caught hold of the sill, blinking into the cloud-shattered brightness of the day.
Murray’s tall figure was visible at the edge of the dooryard, gaunt in buckskins, the huge dog at his side. There was no sign of Glutton or the other Indians, but two horses were cropping grass in the lane behind Murray, reins dangling. Rachel Hunter was gesturing to the house, plainly inviting Murray to come in, but he shook his head. He reached into the bag at his waist and withdrew a small package of some sort, which he handed to the girl.
“Hoy!” William shouted—or tried to shout; he hadn’t much breath—and waved his arms. The wind was rising with a shivering rush through the chestnut leaves, but the motion must have caught Murray’s eye, for he glanced up, and seeing William in the window, smiled and lifted his own hand in greeting.
He made no move to enter the house, though. Instead, he picked up the reins of one horse and put them into Rachel Hunter’s hand. Then, with a wave of farewell toward William’s window, he swung himself up onto the other horse with an economical grace and rode away.
William’s hands tightened on the sill, disappointment surging through him at seeing Murray vanish into the trees. Wait, though—Murray had left a horse. Rachel Hunter was leading it around the house, her apron and petticoats aswirl in the rising wind, one hand on her cap to keep it in place.
It must be for him, surely! Did Murray mean to come back for him, then? Or was he to follow? Heart thumping in his ears, William pulled on his patched breeches and the new stockings Rachel had knitted for him, and after a short struggle got his water-stiffened boots on over them. The effort left him trembling, but he stubbornly made his way downstairs, lurching, sweating, and slipping but arriving in the kitchen at the bottom in one piece.
The back door opened with a blast of wind and light, then slammed abruptly, jerked out of Rachel’s hand. She turned, saw him, and yelped in startlement.
“Lord save us! What is thee doing down here?” She was panting with exertion and fright, and glared at him, tucking wisps of dark hair back under her cap.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” William said in apology. “I wanted—I saw Mr. Murray leaving. I thought I might catch him up. Did he say where I was to meet him?”
“He did not. Sit, for heaven’s sake, before thee falls down.”
He didn’t want to. The desire to be out, to go, was overwhelming. But his knees were shaking, and if he didn’t sit down shortly… Reluctantly, he sat.
“What did he say?” he asked, and realizing suddenly that he was sitting in a lady’s presence, gestured at the other stool. “Sit, please. Tell me what he said.”
Rachel eyed him but sat, smoothing her windblown clothing back into place. The storm was rising; cloud shadows raced across the floor, across her face, and the air seemed to waver, as though the room were underwater.
“He asked after thy health, and when I told him thee was mending, he gave me the horse, saying it was for thee.” She hesitated for an instant, and William pushed.
“He gave you something else, did he not? I saw him give you a package of some kind.”
Her lips pressed together for an instant, but she nodded, and reaching into her pocket, handed him a small bundle, loosely wrapped in cloth.
He was eager to see what the packet contained—but not so eager that he did not notice the marks in the cloth, deep lines where string had once been tied round it. And tied very recently. He glanced up at Rachel Hunter, who looked away, chin high, but with color rising in her cheeks. He cocked an eyebrow at her, then bent his attention to the packet.
Opened, it contained a small sheaf of paper continentals; a worn pouch containing the sum of one guinea, three shillings, and tuppence in coin; a much-folded—and refolded, if he was any judge—letter; and another, smaller, bundle, this one still tied. Setting aside this and the money, he opened the letter.Cousin,
I hope to find you in better health than when last seen. If so, I will leave a horse and some funds to assist your travels. If not, I will leave the money, to pay either for medicine or your burial. The other thing isa gift from a friend whom the Indians call Bear-Killer. He hopes that you will wear it in good health. I wish you luck in your ventures.Your ob’t. serv.,
Ian Murray
“Hmm!” William was baffled by this. Evidently Murray had business of his own and could not or did not wish to stay until William was able to travel. Though somewhat disappointed—he would have liked to talk further with Murray, now that his mind was clear again—he could see that it might be better that Murray did not mean them to travel together.
It dawned upon him that his immediate problem was solved; he now had the means to resume his mission—or as much of it as he could. He could at least reach General Howe’s headquarters, make a report, and get new instructions.
It was remarkably generous of Murray; the horse had looked sound, and the money was more than enough to see him comfortably fed and lodged all the way to New York. He wondered where on earth Murray had got it; by his looks, the man hadn’t a pot to piss in—though he had a good rifle, William reminded himself—and he was plainly educated, for he made a decent fist of writing. What could have caused the odd Scottish Indian to take such interest in him, though?
Bemused, he reached for the smaller bundle and untied the string. Unwrapped, the contents proved to be the claw of a large bear, pierced and strung on a leather thong. It was old; the edges were worn, and the knot in the leather had hardened so far that it would plainly never be untied again.
He stroked the claw with a thumb, tested the point. Well, the bear spirit had stood him in good stead so far. Smiling to himself, he put the thong over his head, leaving the claw to hang outside his shirt. Rachel Hunter stared at it, her face unreadable.
“You read my letter, Miss Hunter,” William said reprovingly. “Very naughty of you!”
The flush rose higher in her cheeks, but she met his eye with a directness he was unaccustomed to find in a woman—with the marked exception of his paternal grandmother.
“Thy speech is far superior to thy clothes, Friend William—even were they new. And while thee has been in thy right mind for some days now, thee has not chosen to say what brought thee to the Great Dismal. It is not a place frequented by gentlemen.”
“Oh, indeed it is, Miss Hunter. Many gentlemen of my acquaintance go there for the hunting, which is unexcelled. But naturally, one does not hunt wild boar or catamounts in one’s best linen.”
“Neither does one go hunting armed only with a frying pan, Friend William,” she riposted. “And if thee is a gentleman in truth—where is thy home, pray?”
He fumbled for an instant, unable to recall at once his alter ego’s particulars, and seized instead on the first city to come to his mind.
“Ah—Savannah. In the Carolinas,” he added helpfully.
“I know where it is,” she snapped. “And have heard men speak who come from there. Thee doesn’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he said, amazed.
“I am.”
“Oh.” They sat gazing at each other in the half light of the gathering storm, each calculating. For an instant, he had the illusion that he was playing chess with his grandmother Benedicta.
“I am sorry for reading thy letter,” she said abruptly. “It was not vulgar curiosity, I assure thee.”
“What, then?” He smiled a little, to indicate that he bore no animus for her trespass. She didn’t smile back, but looked at him narrowly—not in suspicion, but as though gauging him in some way. At last she sighed, though, and her shoulders slumped.
“I wished to know a little of thee, and of thy character. The companions who brought thee to us seem dangerous men. And thy cousin? If thee is one like them, then—” Her teeth fixed briefly in her upper lip, but she shook her head, as though to herself, and continued more firmly.
“We must leave here within a few days—my brother and myself. Thee told Denny that thee travels north; I wish that we may travel with thee, at least for a time.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. He blinked and said the first thing that came to his mind.
“Leave here? Why? The… er… the neighbors?”
She looked surprised at that.
“What?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Your brother seemed to indicate that relations between your family and those who dwell nearby were… somewhat strained?”
“Oh.” One corner of her mouth tucked back; he could not tell if this betokened distress or amusement—but rather thought it was the latter.
“I see,” she said, and drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Yes, that’s true, though it was not what I—well, and yet it has to do with the matter. I see I must tell thee everything, then. What does thee know about the Society of Friends?”
He knew only one family of Quakers, the Unwins. Mr. Unwin was a wealthy merchant who knew his father, and he had met the two daughters at a musicale once, but the conversation had not touched upon philosophy or religion.
“They—er, you—dislike conflict, I believe?” he answered cautiously.
That surprisingly made her laugh, and he felt pleasure at having removed the tiny furrow between her brows, if only temporarily.
“Violence,” she corrected. “We thrive upon conflict, if it be verbal. And given the form of our worship—Denny says thee is not a Papist after all, yet I venture to suppose that thee have never attended a Quaker meeting?”
“The opportunity has not so far occurred, no.”
“I thought not. Well, then.” She eyed him consideringly. “We have preachers who will come to speak at meeting—but anyone may speak at meeting, upon any subject, if the spirit moves him or her to do so.”
“Her? Women speak in public, too?”
She gave him a withering look.
“I have a tongue, just as thee does.”
“I’d noticed,” he said, and smiled at her. “Continue, please.”
She leaned forward a little to do so but was interrupted by the crash of a shutter swinging back against the house, this followed by a spatter of rain, dashed hard across the window. Rachel sprang to her feet with a brief exclamation.
“I must get the chickens in! Close the shutters,” she ordered him, and dashed out.
Taken aback but amused, he did so, moving slowly. Going upstairs to fasten the upper shutters made him dizzy again, and he paused on the threshold of the bedroom, holding the doorjamb until his balance returned. There were two rooms upstairs: the bedroom at the front of the house, where they had put him, and a smaller room in the rear. The Hunters now shared this room; there was a truckle bed, a washstand with a silver candlestick upon it, and little else, save a row of pegs upon which hung the doctor’s spare shirt and breeches, a woolen shawl, and what must be Rachel Hunter’s go-to-meeting gown, a sober-looking garment dyed with indigo.
With rain and wind muffled by the shutters, the dim room seemed still now, and peaceful, a harbor from the storm. His heart had slowed from the exertion of climbing the stair, and he stood for a moment, enjoying the slightly illicit sense of trespass. No sound from below; Rachel must be still in pursuit of the chickens.
There was something faintly odd about the room, and it took him only a moment to decide what it was. The shabbiness and sparsity of the Hunters’ personal possessions argued poverty—yet these contrasted with the small signs of prosperity evident in the furnishings: the candlestick was silver, not plate or pewter, and the ewer and basin were not earthenware but good china, painted with sprawling blue chrysanthemums.
He lifted the skirt of the blue dress hanging on the peg, examining it curiously. Modesty was one thing; threadbareness was another. The hem was worn nearly white, the indigo faded so that the folds of the skirt showed a fanshaped pattern of light and dark. The Misses Unwin had dressed quietly, but their clothes were of the highest quality.
On sudden impulse, he brought the cloth to his face, breathing in. It smelled faintly still of indigo, and of grass and live things—and very perceptibly of a woman’s body. The musk of it ran through him like the pleasure of good wine.
The sound of the door closing below made him drop the dress as though it had burst into flame, and he made for the stairs, heart hammering.
Rachel Hunter was shaking herself on the hearth, shedding drops of water from her apron, her cap wilted and soggy on her head. Not seeing him, she took this off, wrung it out with a mutter of impatience, and hung it on a nail hammered into the chimney breast.
Her hair fell down her back, wet-tailed and shining, dark against the pale cloth of her jacket.
“The chickens are all safe, I trust?” He spoke, because to watch her unawares with her hair down, the smell of her still vivid in his nose, seemed suddenly to be an unwarrantable intimacy.
She turned round, eyes wary, but made no immediate move to cover her hair.
“All but the one my brother calls the Great Whore of Babylon. No chicken possesses anything resembling intelligence, but that one is perverse beyond the usual.”
