Shadowbrook Part 51

John must die. "And Shadowbrook?"

"Patent's doing fine. Miss Lorene's seen to that. No need to worry 'bout Shadowbrook"

You spill your brother's blood on this land it be poisoned, Master Quent. Mark o' Cain, that be.

They arrived at sunrise. A glorious golden light flooded the red-gold autumn landscape. Morris tossed a line over the bollard and made his boat fast to the Patent's wharf with practiced ease, then poked his head through the hatch to the cabin below. "We're here and it's a fine day above. You want me to go up to the house and get some help?"

"Please," Quent said, rubbing his reddened eyes and feeling his tiredness full on for the first time since they'd left Quebec. "Ask them to send for Sally Robin first thing. Say it's a matter of urgency."

Nicole had been sleeping more naturally for the past hour, but when he once more gathered her into his arms she felt featherlight, almost insubstantial. For a moment he feared she wasn't breathing, then he felt her heart beating against his own. "Stay alive," he murmured fiercely. "I haven't brought you all this way to be cheated by death now."

When Quent carried her up to the deck Sally Robin was waiting.

"I can't believe my luck, you being here at the big house."

"I been here some weeks now. Mistress be poorly."

"How bad?"

"Not too bad, Quentin," Lorene said, coming slowly onto the wharf from the big house path. She walked with a cane and leaned on the arm of Six-Finger Sam. "Sally Robin's been magicing me well with her potions, and now that you're here I'm sure to be better still. Am I correct in thinking that's Mademoiselle Crane bundled up in all those blankets?"

"Yes, it is. She took a shot meant for me in Quebec. The surgeon wanted to remove her leg, but she wouldn't let him do anything except take out the musket baU. Now she's burning with fever. Uncle Caleb saw her in New York and said gunshot poisons the blood and she must die. Even if he's right, I promised her Sally Robin and I meant to keep my word."

"Caleb doesn't know as much as he thinks he does. Besides, I always believed Mademoiselle to be of good, strong stock. The right sort for Shadowbrook. I'm glad you've brought her home, Quentin."

"Nothing's arranged," he said, taking her meaning. "I don't know if-"

Lorene held up her hand. "Time for all that later. Sam, you take-"

"Let me, mistress." Sally Robin took a step forward before Six-Finger Sam could and reached out her arms. "Don't look like she be very heavy, and I needs to hold her against my heart to tell what it is should be done. You give her to me, Master Quent. Sally Robin be looking after her now."

Quent relinquished his precious burden and Sally Robin hurried up to the house with Sam in her wake. Quent hung back, walking at his mother's pace and giving her his arm to lean on. "How long since you've needed a cane?" he asked.

Lorene shrugged. "A few months, maybe. I'm tired, Quent, nothing more. It's been a great deal of work."

"I hear you've done exceptionally well. I'm sorry I wasn't here to a.s.sist you."

"I quite enjoyed it, and yes, we've done well. You'll see."

"John?" he asked. It had to be faced. Now was better than later.

"He's not home. He seldom is, Quent. Your brother is ... less than he was. I know no other way to put it."

But Shadowbrook was more. He could tell as soon as they approached the front door. Sally Robin had already disappeared, but Kitchen Hannah and Runsabout and Corn Broom Hannah were all waiting by the open front door, their smues wide with pleasure. "Welcome home, Master Quent."

The morning sun poured into the s.p.a.cious hallway. Ever speck of wood displayed a recent coat of paint or polish and the pewter chandelier shone. From where he stood he could see into the great hall. The furnishings had fine new coverings, and Turkey carpets gleamed against the wide chestnut floorboards. Each of the three fireplaces in his line of vision was heaped high with logs and blazing. Since no one knew he was coming, clearly this was the usual state of things at the big house these days. Quent turned to his mother. "Well done, madam. Very well done indeed."

Kitchen Hannah rushed off to get food and Com Broom Hannah opened the door to the little room off the hall where Lorene had her writing desk. "I got everything ready for you in here, mistress."

Quent saw a bed against one wall. "Are you sleeping down here these days?"

"Sometimes, when I am late at my desk. Now enough about me. Tell me about Quebec and the battle. It must have been splendid."

"I didn't see it. I was at the hosp-"

His words were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Sally Robin, and she was smiling. "Come to tell you there ain't no black, Master Quent The leg, it be hot as the rest of her, but it don't be turning black."

"That matters?"

"It be a good sign, Master Quent. You remember what you told me when you went off to get Solomon back from those Indians took him away?"

"I said you should have hope but not certainty."

"Yes indeed. And that's how it be now. You got reason to hope, but we can't be no ways certain."

"Fair enough, Sally Robin. And whatever happens, thank you."

He was home and so was Nicole.

Lorene waited for Sally Robin to go before she spoke. "That time after we were nearly burned out, when you went off to get the Barrel Maker rather than stay and help, I was bitter, Quentin. I felt you had given the Patent and all of us into John's less-capable hands for nothing but your pride. But you were right. Solomon's been a rock to me these past two years. I could not have achieved half as much without him."

She reached for her ledgers, eager to show him the shape of those accomplishments. "We were prepared when they came, Quent Thanks to what you'd told me."

The wave of redcoats that engulfed Albany in 1758 and 1759 had slept in barracks built with lumber milled at Shadowbrook, the troops fed with grain grown at Shadowbrook, and it was the Patent's rum that went into a goodly portion of the grog required by the British Navy. "That does for the sauors," Lorene explained. "The Army's quartermasters are more interested in ale. Since we have never had much land in hops, I couldn't at first see how we could produce enough to make the trade worthwhile. Then I found the most extraordinary little man, Quentin. Stands no higher than my waist and not a hair on his head, but he has a fine brewery some ways south in Chappaqua. He grows more hops than he requires, and since our two enterprises are far enough apart to be no compet.i.tion to each other, we came to an arrangement."

"Is the sugarhouse big enough for so much enterprise?"

"It wouldn't have been. That's why I had Solomon buud a brew house out behind the stables. I made Taba the laundress and put Clemency full time to making ale. She's remarkably good at it, but Clemency's old and we must look to the future, so I've given Littie George into her keeping. She's been teaching him brewing for over a year now. We produce enough to sell our ale directly to the redcoats, as well as supply the official requests. They call at Do Good with some regularity."

Quent chuckled at the thought of Esther s...o...b..rry running a taproom, but Lorene said it wasn't Uke that. "It's but a small outlet to service travelers. They can't drink on the premises, only have their jugs filled, then take them away."

It seemed a Quakerly compromise. "If Little George is learning brewing, who's helping Jeremiah in the stables?"

"One of the Ashanti lads John bought same time as Taba. He has a most unp.r.o.nounceable name, so we call him Tall Boy. He's almost your height, Quentin. Quite the tallest nigra I've ever seen."

"Good with the horses?"

"As good as he needs to be." She became quite busy with closing up the ledgers and putting them back on the shelf above her desk. "I don't go about the place much. There's plenty to keep me occupied right here. And John's not at home all that often." Then, rushing on before he could comment: "So we're stabling mostly draft animals now, for plowing and cart work Tall Boy's plenty good enough with that level of horseflesh. And I've put a few more fields to hops. The dwarf is cooperative, but in the long term we don't wish to be dependent on any supplies but our own."

Three o'clock, dinnertime, and Groesbeck's taproom at the Sign of the Nag's Head was filled to overflowing. The smell of squirrel stew hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of yeasty ale and fiery rum and the sweat of hardworking men. Henry Morris wedged his way into the crowd and called for the punch bowl, downing two cups one right after the other when it came, and paying for them with a couple of shiny coppers picked from the handful of coins he'd been paid for ferrying Quentin Hale and the young woman upriver to Shadowbrook. Waste of good Hale money, that was, might as well o' buried her where she was as pay for her pa.s.sage. But rich folk had their own way o' goin' on. And these days the Hales were rich enough. h.e.l.l, everyone was richer than they'd been a few years back. Even himself, if the truth be told. Rich enough to buy a hot dinner here in the tavern, and not settle for a morsel from the pie-woman's wares out on the street.

He was hungry and there was no place to sit at the front. Morris worked his way through the throng until he found a vacant place at a long table hard by the rearmost fireplace, nearly out the door to the yard where the wh.o.r.es did their business. "A bowl of that good stew I smell," he yelled. "And an ale to wash it down." The serving woman signaled that she'd heard. Morris pulled out a few more coins in readiness, salivating at the thought of what good eating squirrels were just now. Chock-full of acorns, they were, and thick with the fat they'd stored to see them through the coming winter.

A log of applewood too green for proper burning crackled loudly when a pocket of sap caught, and rolled forward to the edge of the hearth. The man next to Morris stretched out a leg to kick it back but couldn't reach. The man slid out of his seat to do the job properly. Another slid instantly into his place. "Hey! I'm sitting there!"

"Not now, you're not."

The man by the fireplace knew John Hale's reputation for violence. Besides, he'd already finished his dinner, He reclaimed what was left of his mug of ale and went away muttering about them as felt they were better than the rest. John tumed to Morris. "I'm told you made a run up to my place last night."

"Aye, I did that."

"I'm also told it was my brother hired you."

"There's some around here with mouths bigger than they should be." Morris leaned back to let the serving woman put down a wooden bowl filled with steaming stew and a pewter tankard of ale. She scooped up the coins he'd left on the table and backed away. The tar picked up his spoon and began eating.

"Some as know who b.u.t.ters their bread," John said. His left arm hung by his side and he used his right to lift it onto the table. "What I want to know, who'd he have with him?"

"Can't say. Didn't get a good look."

"But he wasn't alone?"

"Folks pay for pa.s.sage, I don't ask questions. Just brings 'em where they want to go."

John took the knife from his belt and with his right hand began cleaning the fingernails of the useless left. "Plenty of compet.i.tion on the river these days, isn't there?"

The tar waited until he'd finished chewing a particularly succulent morsel of squirrel. "Aye, but enough work for all."

"Did you know we're to build an extra landing place on the Patent this year?"

"Hadn't heard."

"You have now. And with all the transport available, I can be as choosy as I like deciding who lades from my property and who does not."

Morris turned his head and spat two small bones onto the floor. "Near as I can tell, it's the mistress says who ferries for Shadowbrook and who don't." Then, before John could answer: "Your brother had a young woman with him. Never heard her name. Not worth learning it neither. Burning with fever, she was. Near as I can tell, Quent brought her to Shadowbrook so's he could bury her there."

John stared at nothing for a few moments, then got up and pushed his way through the mob to the front door.

Ten o'clock Quent climbed the stairs, feeling the heaviness in his legs and thinking that a night in his old bed under Shadowbrook's roof would make a world of difference. He started down the hall, then paused outside the room where they'd put Nicole. The door was ajar and he could see her small form in the bed. A black girl sat beside her, sponging her face. She must be the Ibo John had bought. She looked up and saw him, and left her patient and came to the open door. "You be wanting me, master?"

"Only to ask how she is."

"Sleeping. And the fever be not so fierce. Sally Robin put something in the water I be using to keep her cool."

"Where is Sally?"

"Down below, master, getting something for mistress. Some bedtime thing she be bringing her most nights."

"So you're in charge up here?"

"Only till Sally Robin comes back, master. But Sally Robin, she be learning me how to do things for sick folks and I be doin' everything she says."

"Good, that's fine. You're Taba, aren't you?"

"Yes, master."

Fourteen or fifteen, maybe. Not pretty, but there was intelligence behind her eyes. "I'm glad to meet you, Taba. My mother speaks highly of you. You take good care of mademoiselle and we'll be well pleased."

"Yes sir, master. I best be goin' back to her now."

The lure of his bed was irresistible. Quent walked toward it, heard a sound, and glanced over the banister to the floor below. Sally Robin was hurrying across the hall, carrying a steaming gla.s.s of liquid. He waited just until he saw her knock at Lorene's door, then stumbled into his room. The bed had been turned down and his dressing gown was spread beside it on the chair. Corn Broom Hannah, or Runsabout, doing for him as they always had. Reminding him he was supposed to be a gentleman, at least when he was at Shadowbrook. h.e.l.l with it, he was too tired to get undressed. Still in his buckskins he fell on the feather mattress and was instantly asleep.

Downstairs Lorene murmured, "Come," when she heard Sally's tap on the door.

"Hot drink for you, mistress."

"Thank you, Sally." Lorene was sitting up in her bed, covered with a lace and linen nightdress full enough to hide her unnatural thinness. She'd removed her mobcap, and her hair, more gray than brown these days, hung in a single plait. She took the gla.s.s and a first sip of hot milk and honey, and whatever other herbs Sally Robin put in the drink to make her sleep. "I don't know what I'd do without you and your potions. How is your new patient?"

"Some better. Taba be with her."

"Good. You've got to get her well, Sally Robin. For the sake of the Patent as well as for Master Quent. She'll be a fine mistress for you all."

"I like the mistress we got. So do everyone else."

Lorene smiled. "I look better to all of you now that you know I'm about to go, don't I?"

"Don't you talk that way, mistress. You got to think happy thoughts. That be doing as much for you as any brew."

Lorene glanced at the shelf above her desk There was a blue gla.s.s bottle beside the neat stacks of ledgers. It was tightly closed, with a coating of wax covering the wooden stopper. "I'm happier because of your brews, Sally Robin. Knowing that if the pain gets too bad I don't have to endure it is a comfort."

The black woman followed her mistress's glance. "Not yet," she said firmly. "There be plenty Sally Robin can do 'fore you open that there bottle."

"Not yet," Lorene promised. But maybe sooner rather than later. Particularly if Nicole can be made well and I can see the Patent in Quent's hands, with a wife who will look after him as well as Shadowbrook I'm coming, Ephraim. You shan't have to wait much longer.

Despite Sally Robin's potion, Lorene had not slept a night through for many weeks. The pain was bearable by day; at night it threatened to overwhelm her. She looked at the blue bottle with longing. But if she could hold on a few weeks more, just until she was certain that Nicole would live, or if she did not, that Quent would remain without her, then she might- She heard the front door open. There was only one person who would let himself into the big house by the front door in the dark of night. She got up to meet him. "Good evening, John."

John looked up the stairs to the faint light that showed beneath the door to the corner bedroom. "The Frenchwoman?"

"Mademoiselle Crane, yes."

"Why did he bring her here?"

"She was wounded in Quebec. Quent brought her home so Sally Robin could look after her."

"Not his home," John muttered. "Needs to ask me before he puts my slaves to his work."

She could smell the rum on him even though he remained standing near the door. Pity the horse hadn't thrown him before he arrived. A broken neck in the woods would have been a thousand times easier than what would happen now. John started for the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"Have to see my brother. Welcome home the prodigal son. Like it says in the Bible, madam. You know all about the Bible, so now you can kill the fatted calf. Or something like it. Make a great feast because my brother is home. Only right that I go upstairs and welcome him."

"He will kill you, John." Her eldest son had one foot on the steps. "You mean to kill Quent, I know that. But that is not how it will be. He will kill you." And for the rest of his life he will feel shame and bitterness over it.

John hesitated, his body sagging slightly. His back was to her and she could not see his face, but Lorene could smell the fear on him. Poor John, she wanted to weep for him. G.o.d knew how many times she had wept for him, many fruitless tears that had changed nothing. He was what he was. If it were her fault, G.o.d help her. She'd face justice soon enough. "Come sit with me for a bit. I am poorly, John. You and Quent have the rest of your lives to settle your differences."

He turned. "I am sorry you are unwell, madam."

"It will be over soon," Lorene said, gesturing to the open door of her room. "Meanwhile I've a good blaze going. And some fine brandy sent by your uncle Bede. You and I haven't had such a visit in a long time."

John looked once more up the stairs to the place where his brother slept. Fear and hatred mingled in him, making his gut roil and his mouth taste of ashes. "Uncle Bede's brandy sounds a fine thing," he muttered as he followed his mother into her room.