A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [379]
“Aye . . . aye, I will,” Jamie said reluctantly. “Ye’ve quite made up your mind as it’s Lizzie, then, have ye? Not Malva?”
Bobby was taken back by that.
“Well, to be honest, zur—I’m that fond of them both, I’m sure I should be happy with either one. But—well, truth to tell, I be mortal feared of Mr. Christie,” he confessed, blushing. “And I think he don’t like you, zur, while Mr. Wemyss does. If you could . . . speak for me, zur? Please?”
In the end, even Jamie was not proof against this guileless begging.
“I’ll try,” he conceded. “But I promise ye nothing, Bobby. How long will ye stay now, before ye go back to Lord John?”
“His Lordship’s given me a week for my wooing, zur,” Bobby said, looking much happier. “But I suppose ye’ll be going yourself tomorrow or next day?”
Jamie looked surprised.
“Going where?”
Bobby looked surprised in turn.
“Why . . . I don’t rightly know, zur. But I thought you must.”
After a bit more cross-talk, we succeeded in disentangling the tale. He had, it seemed, fallen in with a small group of travelers on the road, farmers driving a herd of pigs to market. Given the nature of pigs as traveling companions, he hadn’t stayed with them for more than one night, but over supper, in the course of casual talk, had heard them make reference to a meeting of sorts and speculate as to who might come to it.
“Your name was mentioned, zur—‘James Fraser,’ they said, and they mentioned the Ridge, too, so as I was sure ’twas you they meant.”
“What sort of meeting was it?” I asked curiously. “And where?”
He shrugged, helpless.
“Took no notice, ma’am. Only they said ’twas Monday next.”
Neither did he recall the names of his hosts, having been too much occupied in trying to eat without being overcome by the presence of the pigs. He was plainly too occupied at the moment with the results of his unsuccessful courtship to give much mind to the details, and after a few questions and confused answers, Jamie sent him off.
“Have you any idea—” I began, but then saw that his brows were furrowed; he obviously did.
“The meeting to choose delegates for a Continental Congress,” he said. “It must be that.”
He had had word after Flora MacDonald’s barbecue that the initial meeting place and time were to be abandoned, the organizers fearing interference. A new place and time would be established, John Ashe had told him—word would be sent.
But that was before the contretemps in downtown Cross Creek.
“I suppose a note might have gone astray,” I suggested, but the suggestion was a feeble one.
“One might,” he agreed. “Not six.”
“Six?”
“When I heard nothing, I wrote myself, to the six men I know personally within the Committee of Correspondence. No answer from any of them.” His stiff finger tapped once against his leg, but he noticed, and stilled it.
“They don’t trust you,” I said, after a moment’s silence, and he shook his head.
“Little wonder, I suppose, after I rescued Simms and tarred Neil Forbes in the public street.” Despite himself, a small smile flitted across his face at the memory. “And poor wee Bobby didna help, I expect; he would have told them he carried letters betwixt me and Lord John.”
That was probably true. Friendly and garrulous, Bobby was capable of keeping a confidence—but only if you told him explicitly which confidence to keep. Otherwise, anyone who shared a meal with him would know all his business by the time the pudding came.
“Can you do anything else to find out? Where the meeting is, I mean?”
He blew out his breath in mild frustration.
“Aye, maybe. But if I did, and went there—there’s a great chance they would put me out. If not worse. I think the risk of such a breach isna worth it.” He glanced at me, with a wry expression. “I suppose I should have let them roast the printer.”
I disregarded that, and came to stand beside him.
“You’ll think of something else,” I said, trying to be encouraging.
The big hour candle stood on his desk, half-burned, and he touched it. No one seemed ever to notice that the candle