Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [101]
“Which is true enough,” Campbell put in ruefully. “It is a proverb amongst us—’Happiness is a son old enough to be factor.’ For when it’s a matter of money or slaves, ye cannot trust anyone save your kin.”
I drew a deep breath and glanced at Jamie, who nodded. At last we’d got to it.
“And that,” I said, “is where Jamie comes in. Am I right?”
Jocasta had already enlisted Farquard Campbell to deal with Lieutenant Wolff upon his next visit, intending that Campbell should keep Byrnes from committing folly with the contracts. When we had so opportunely arrived, though, Jocasta had hit upon a better plan.
“I sent word to Farquard that he should inform the Lieutenant that my nephew had come to take up the management of River Run. That would cause him to go cautiously,” she explained. “For he would not dare to press me, with a kinsman who had an interest standing by.”
“I see.” Despite himself, Jamie was beginning to look amused. “So the Lieutenant would think his attempt at a good down-setting here was usurped by my arrival. No wonder the man seemed to take such a mislike to me. I thought it was perhaps a general disgust of Scotsmen that he had, from what he said.”
“I should imagine that he has—now,” Campbell said, dabbing his lips circumspectly with his napkin.
Jocasta reached across the table, groping, and Jamie put out his hand instinctively to hers.
“You will forgive me, Nephew?” she said. With his hand to guide her, she could look toward his face; one would not have known her blind, by the expression of pleading in her beautiful blue eyes.
“I knew nothing of your character, d’ye see, before ye came. I could not risk that you would refuse a part in the deception, did I tell ye of it first. Do say that ye hold no grudge toward me, Jamie, if only for sweet Ellen’s sake.”
Jamie squeezed her hand gently, assuring her that he held no grudge. Indeed, he was pleased to have come in time to help, and his aunt might count upon his assistance, in any way she chose to call upon him.
Mr. Campbell beamed and rang the bell; Ulysses brought in the special whisky, with a tray of crystal goblets and a plate of savories, and we drank confusion to the British Navy.
Looking at that fine-boned face, so full of blind eloquence, though, I couldn’t help recalling the brief synopsis Jamie had once given me of the outstanding characteristics of the members of his family.
“Frasers are stubborn as rocks,” he’d said. “And MacKenzies are charming as larks in the field—but sly as foxes, with it.”
“And where have you been?” Jamie asked, giving Fergus a hard up-and-down. “I didna think ye’d money enough for what it looks as though ye’ve been doing.”
Fergus smoothed his disheveled hair, and sat down, radiating offended dignity.
“I met with a pair of French fur-traders in the town. They speaking little English, and myself being fluent, I could not but agree to assist them in their transactions. If they should then choose to invite me to share a small supper at their inn …” He lifted one shoulder in Gallic dismissal of the matter, and turned to more immediate concerns, reaching inside his shirt for a letter.
“This had arrived in Cross Creek for you,” he said, handing it to Jamie. “The postmaster asked me to bring it.”
It was a thick packet of paper, with a battered seal, and looked in little better condition than did Fergus. Jamie’s face lighted when he saw it, though he opened it with some trepidation. Three letters fell out; one in what I recognized as his sister’s writing, the other two plainly addressed by someone else.
Jamie picked up the letter from his sister, eyed it as though it might contain something explosive, and set it gently down by the fruit bowl on the table.
“I’ll start wi’ Ian,” he said, picking up the second letter with a grin. “I’m not sure I want to be reading Jenny’s without a glass of whisky in my hand.”
He prised off the seal with the tip of the silver fruit knife, and opened the letter, scanning the first page. “I wonder if he …” His voice faded