Jamie arrived with his razor in time to hear this, and joined in the laughter. He poked a finger down the page, at another item.
“Aye, that’s good, but I think the ‘Poet’s Corner’ is maybe my favorite. Fergus couldna have done it, I dinna think; he’s no ear for rhyme at all—was it Marsali, d’ye think, or someone else?”
“Read it out loud,” Brianna said, reluctantly relinquishing the paper to Roger. “I’d better clip Jemmy before he gets away and spreads lice all over Fraser’s Ridge.”
Once resigned to the prospect, Brianna didn’t hesitate, but tied a dishcloth round Jemmy’s neck and set to with the scissors in a determined fashion that sent strands of red-gold and auburn falling to the floor like shimmering rain. Meanwhile, Roger read out, with dramatic flourishes,
“On the late Act against retailing
Spirituous Liquors, etc.—
Tell me—can it be understood,
This Act intends the Publick Good?
No truly; I deny it:
For if, as all allow, ’tis best,
Of Evils Two, to chose the least,
Then my Opinion’s right.
Suppose on Search—it should appear,
Ten Bunters dy’d in every year—
“—By drinking to Excess
Should thousands innocent be led
Into Despair, and lose their Bread,
Such folly to redress?
I’d not be thought t’encourage sin,
Or be an Advocate of Gin;
But humbly do conceive,
This scheme, tho’ drawn with nicest care
Don’t with Almighty Justice square
If Scriptures we believe
When Sodom’s Sin for Vengeance call’d
Ten righteous had its Doom forestall’d
And mov’d e’en God to Pity.
But now Ten bare-fac’d Debauchees
Some private Epicures displease,
And ruin half a City.”
“I’d not be thought t’encourage sin/Or be an Advocate of Gin,” Bree repeated, giggling. “You notice he—or she—doesn’t mention whisky. What’s a Bunter, though? Oops, hold still, baby!”
“A harlot,” Jamie said absently, stropping his razor while still reading over Roger’s shoulder.
“What’s a harlot?” Jemmy asked, his radar naturally picking up the single indelicate word in the conversation. “Is it Richie’s sister?”
Richard Woolam’s sister Charlotte was a most attractive young person; she was also a most devout Quaker. Jamie exchanged glances with Roger, and coughed.
“No, I shouldna think it, lad,” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t say so, either! Here, are ye ready to be shaved?” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the shaving brush and lathered Jemmy’s polled head, to the accompaniment of delighted squeals.
“Barber, barber, shave a pig,” Bree said, watching. “How many hairs to make a wig?”
“Lots,” I replied, sweeping up the drifts of fallen hair and throwing them into the fire, hopefully to the destruction of all resident lice. It was rather a pity; Jemmy’s hair was beautiful. Still, it would grow again—and the clipping showed off the lovely shape of his head, roundly pleasing as a cantaloupe.
Jamie hummed tunelessly under his breath, drawing the razor over the skin of his grandson’s head with as much delicacy as if he had been shaving a honeybee.
Jemmy turned his head slightly, and I caught my breath, struck by a fleeting memory—Jamie, his hair clipped short against his skull in Paris, readying himself to meet Jack Randall; readying himself to kill—or be killed. Then Jemmy turned again, squirming on his stool, and the vision vanished—to be replaced by something else.
“Whatever is that?” I leaned forward to look, as Jamie drew his razor down with a flourish and flicked away the last dollop of lather into the fire.
“What?” Bree leaned in beside me, and her eyes widened at sight of the small brown blotch. It was about the size of a farthing, quite round, just above the hairline toward the back of his head, behind the left ear.
“What is it?” she asked, frowning. She touched it gently, but Jemmy scarcely noticed; he was squirming even more, wanting to get down.
“I’m fairly sure it’s all right,” I assured her, after a quick inspection. “It looks like what’s called a nevus—it’s something like a flat mole, usually quite harmless.”
“But where did it come from? He wasn’t born with it, I know!” she protested.
“Babies very seldom have any sort of mole,” I explained, untying my dishcloth from round Jemmy’s neck. “All right, yes, you’re done! Go and be good now—we’ll have supper as soon as I can manage. No,” I added, turning back to Bree, “moles usually start to develop around three years of age—though of course people can get more as they grow older.”
Freed from restraint, Jemmy was rubbing his naked head with both hands, looking pleased and chanting, “Char-lotte the Har-lot, Char-lotte the Har-lot,” quietly under his breath.
“You’re sure it’s all right?” Brianna was still frowning, worried. “It isn’t dangerous?”
“Oh, aye, it’s nothing,” Roger assured her, glancing up from the newspaper. “I’ve had one just like that myself, ever since I was a kid. Just . . . here.” His face changed abruptly as he spoke, and his hand rose, very slowly, to rest on the back of his head—just above the hairline, behind the left ear.
He looked at me, and I saw his throat move as he swallowed, the jagged rope scar dark against the sudden paleness of his skin. The down hairs rose silently on my arms.
“Yes,” I said, answering the look, and hoping my voice didn’t shake too noticeably. “That sort of mark is . . . often hereditary.”
Jamie said nothing, but his hand closed on mine, squeezing tight.
Jemmy was on his hands and knees now, trying to coax Adso out from under the settle. His neck was small and fragile, and his shaven head looked unearthly white and shockingly naked, like a mushroom poking out of the earth. Roger’s eyes rested on it for a moment; then he turned to Bree.
“I do believe perhaps I’ve picked up a few lice myself,” he said, his voice just a tiny bit too loud. He reached up, pulled off the thong that bound his thick black hair, and scratched his head vigorously with both hands. Then he picked up the scissors, smiling, and held them out to her. “Like father, like son, I suppose. Give us a hand here, aye?”
PART TEN
Where’s Perry Mason
When You Need Him?
76
DANGEROUS
CORRESPONDENCE
From Mount Josiah Plantation in the Colony of Virginia,
Lord John Grey to Mr. James Fraser, Esq.,
Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina,
upon the Sixth of March, Anno Domini 1775
Dear Mr. Fraser—
What in the Name of God are you about? I have known you in the course of our long Acquaintance to be many Things—Intemperate and Stubborn being two of them—but have always known you for a Man of Intelligence and Honor.
Yet despite explicit Warnings, I find your Name upon more than one List of suspected Traitors and Seditionists, associated with illegal Assemblies, and thus subject to Arrest. The Fact that you are still at Liberty, my Friend, reflects nothing more than the Lack of Troops at present available in North Carolina—and that may change rapidly. Josiah Martin has implored London for Help, and it will be forthcoming, I assure you.
Was Gage not more than sufficiently occupied in Boston, and Lord Dunsmore’s Virginia troops still in process of Assembly, the Army would be upon you within a few Months. Do not delude yourself; the King may be misguided in his Actions, but the Government perceives—if belatedly—the Level of Turmoil in the Colonies, and is moving as rapidly as may be to suppress it, before greater Harm can ensue.
Whatever else you may be, you are no Fool, and so I must assume you realize the Consequences of your Actions. But I would be less than a Friend did I not put the Case to you bluntly: you expose your Family to the utmost Danger by your Actions, and you put your own Head in a Noose.
For the Sake of whatever Affection you may yet bear me, and for the Sake of those dear Connexions between your Family and myself—I beg you to renounce these most dangerous Associations while there is still Time.
John
I read the letter through, then looked up at Jamie. He was sitting at his desk, papers strewn in every direction, scattered with the small brown fragments of broken sealing wax. Bobby Higgins had brought a good many letters, newspapers, and packages—Jamie had put off reading Lord John’s letter ’til the last.
“He’s very much afraid for you,” I said, putting the single sheet of paper down on top of the rest.
Jamie nodded.
“For a man of his parts to refer to the King’s actions as possibly ‘misguided’ is verra close to treason, Sassenach,” he observed, though I thought he was joking.
“These lists he mentions—do you know anything about that?”
He shrugged at that, and poked through one of the untidy piles with a forefinger, pulling out a smeared sheet that had obviously been dropped in a puddle at some point.
“Like that, I suppose,” he said, handing it over. It was unsigned, and nearly illegible, a misspelt and vicious denunciation of various Outrages and Debached Persons—here listed—whose speech, action, and appearance was a threat to all who valued peace and prosperity. These, the writer felt, should be shown whats what, presumably by being beaten, skinned alive, rold in bolling Tar and plac’d on a Rail, or in particularly pernicious cases, Hanged outright from there own Rooftrees.
“Where did you pick that up?” I dropped it on the desk, using two fingers.
“In Campbelton. Someone sent it to Farquard, as Justice of the Peace. He gave it to me, because my name is on it.”
“It is?” I squinted at the straggling letters. “Oh, so it is. J. Frayzer. You’re sure it’s you? There are quite a few Frasers, after all, and not a few named John, James, Jacob, or Joseph.”
“Relatively few who could be described as a Red-haired dejenerate Pox-ridden Usuring Son of a Bitch who skulks in Brothels when not drunk and comitting Riot in the Street, I imagine.”
“Oh, I missed that part.”
“It’s in the exposition at the bottom.” He gave the paper a brief, indifferent glance. “I think Buchan the butcher wrote it, myself.”
“Always assuming that ‘usuring’ is a word, I don’t see where he gets that bit; you haven’t any money to lend.”
“I wouldna suppose a basis in truth is strictly required, under the circumstances, Sassenach,” he said very dryly. “And thanks to MacDonald and wee Bobby, there are a good many folk who think I do have money—and if I am not inclined to lend it to them, why then, plainly it’s a matter of my having put my fortune all in the hands of Jews and Whig speculators, as I am intent upon ruining trade for my own profit.”
“What?”
“That was a somewhat more literary effort,” he said, shuffling through the pile and pulling out an elegant parchment sheet, done in a copperplate hand. This one had been sent to a newspaper in Hillsboro, and was signed, A Friend to Justice; and while it didn’t name Jamie, it was clear who the subject of the denunciation was.