Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [344]
“Meet my Da? What do you—Lizzie, have you heard something?” A flare of hope shot up inside her, a sudden bright puff like the lighting of a gas stove.
Lizzie looked smug.
“I have that. And ‘twas all because of the washin’, too—my Da did always say as how virtue brings its reward.”
“I’m sure it does,” Brianna said dryly. “What did you find out, and how?”
“Well, I was just after hanging out your petticoat—the nice one, aye, wi’ the lace about the hem—”
Brianna picked up a small jug of milk, and held it menacingly over her maid’s head. Lizzie squeaked and ducked away, giggling.
“All right! I’m telling! I’m telling!”
In the middle of her washing, one of the tavern’s patrons had come out into the yard to smoke a pipe, the day being fine. He had admired Lizzie’s domestic skills and taken up a pleasant conversation, in the course of which it was revealed that this gentleman—one Andrew MacNeill by name—had not only heard of James Fraser but was well acquainted with him.
“He is? What did he say? Is this MacNeill still here?”
Lizzie put out a hand and made small quelling motions.
“I’m sayin’ it as quick as I can. No, he’s not here; I did try to make him stay, but he was bound for New Bern by the packet boat, and couldna bide.” She was nearly as excited as Brianna; her cheeks were still pale and sallow, but the tip of her nose had gone pink.
“Mr. MacNeill knows your Da, and your great-auntie Cameron as well—she’s a great lady, he says, verra rich, with a tremendous great house, and lots of slaves, and—”
“Never mind about that now, what did he say about my father? Did he mention my mother?”
“Claire,” Lizzie said triumphantly. “Ye did say that was your Mam’s name? I asked, and he said yes, Mrs. Fraser’s name was Claire. And he said she was a most amazing healer—did ye not say as your mother was a fine physician? He said as he had seen her do a desperate operation on a man, laid him smack in the middle of the dinner table and cut off his ballocks and then stitched them back on, right there on the spot, wi’ all the dinner party lookin’ on!”
“That’s my mother, all right.” There were tears of what might have been laughter in the corners of her eyes. “Are they well? Had he seen them lately?”
“Och, that’s the best of it!” Lizzie leaned forward, eyes big with the importance of her news. “He’s in Cross Creek—your Da, Mr. Fraser! A man he knows is on trial there for assault, and your Da’s come down to be witness for him.” She patted her handkerchief against her temple, mopping up tiny beads of sweat.
“Mr. MacNeill says the court willna sit again till Monday week because the judge fell ill, and another is coming from Edenton, and the trial canna go on until he arrives.”
Brianna brushed back a lock of hair and blew out her breath, hardly daring to believe their luck.
“A week from Monday … and it’s Saturday now. God, I wonder how long it will take to get upriver?”
Lizzie crossed herself hastily in atonement for her mistress’s casual blasphemy, but shared in her excitement.
“I dinna ken, but Mrs. Smoots did say as her son’s made the trip once before—we could ask him.”
Brianna swung round on her bench, looking over the room. Men and boys had begun coming in as darkness fell, stopping for a drink or a supper on their way from work to bed, and now there were fifteen or twenty people crammed into the small space.
“Which one is Junior Smoots?” Brianna asked, craning her neck to see through the press of bodies.
“Yonder—the laddie wi’ the sweet brown eyes. I’ll fetch him to ye, shall I?” Emboldened by excitement, Lizzie slipped out of her seat and pushed her way into the throng.
Brianna was still holding the jug of milk, but made no move to pour it into her cup. Her throat was too choked with excitement to swallow. Little more than a week!
Wilmington was a small town, Roger thought. How many places could she be? If she was here at all. He thought there was a good chance of it; inquiries in the dockside taverns in New Bern had given him