Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

M ercy woke in a panic when the sun crept over the windowsill and onto her eyelids. She sat up quickly and broke out in a cold sweat. Damp tobacco leaves fluttered to the ground as she swung her legs over the side of her bed. The pit in her stomach deepened. When had she last slept during the day?

It must have been back when Granny was alive. She could remember one time, when she’d fallen asleep in the upper garden behind the cabin. She’d been sent up there to harvest catmint for a neighbor’s stomachache, and she’d laid down for just a minute in the sun. She’d been up all hours the night before with a birthing goat, and she’d just meant to rest her eyes a moment. Granny had found her and whipped her bloody with a blackberry switch: her client had come and gone. When her father had found out, he’d slapped her hard across the face. Money out of Granny’s pocket was whiskey out of his bottle.

Now that Gran was dead and her father was in the cups in town, she shouldn’t have such a violent reaction to her own idleness, but still she had to temper her breathing. When she was calm once again, she touched her eye gently. The swelling in her face had already gone down, and her arms were looking much, much better. Mr. Macleod—Rory—was to thank. Him and Amity. God! Cailean! At this, Mercy hurried through the cabin and out the door, weaving through goats on her way to the barn. When she saw the two older brothers at the cooking fire, she froze.

She smelled eggs and cheese. And then she saw carrots covered in earth, newly harvested, in a pile by the cabin steps. The chicken feed was out, too. They had finished her chores for her. Rabbie Macleod glanced at her and nodded, drinking deeply from a tin cup.

“How long was I asleep?” Mercy asked.

“Almost sixteen hours,” Amity answered as she hoisted the bucket of milk from the barn.

“Sixteen hours,” Mercy repeated in disbelief.

“You needed it. You look better,” Amity added.

“I thank you,” Mercy said, turning to each of them, and when Rory Macleod didn’t turn to acknowledge her, she gritted her teeth. She felt guilty enough, and he was the one who’d tried to get her to rest in the first place. She already felt bad enough—she wouldn’t go around feeling sorry on his account.

“How’s the eye,” she heard him ask finally, still turned away, but she was already far past the point of responding politely. Instead, she went into the barn to check on Cailean, who seemed very pleased to see her.

“Good morning, Miss Barnett, ye angel,” Cailean rasped when he saw her enter the barn. He smiled weakly from his grass bed.

“Oh, Cailean,” Mercy said, so full of relief that she could feel tears behind her eyes. Seeing as she hadn’t cried in years, she figured she was safe to sit down by him and hold his hand.

“Ye’ve saved my life, ye have,” Cailean murmured once she got close. “Now I am indebted to you, as Friday was to Robinson Crusoe,” he added playfully with a lopsided grin that Mercy was sure had broken more than a few hearts.

“I don’t know any Robinson Crusoe,” Mercy said as she laughed softly, “and I am certain that today is a Tuesday, but my sister and your brothers, they are the ones who saved your life.” She put the back of her hand to his cheeks and his chest and was pleased to feel that he seemed far less hot than before. She wouldn’t unpack the honey dressing for a few days, but from what she could see, his forehead wasn’t quite as red as it was before, either.

“They said the same thing about you, Miss Barnett, that ye saved me.” Cailean said. “Yer eye,” he said softly, and Mercy was reminded that it was still swollen.

“It’s not as bad as it was,” she said, shaking her head as she picked up another cup of willow bark tea. Now that it was cold, it would be even worse tasting, but she’d force it down Cailean’s throat if she had to.

“I heard that ye can thank God and Rory for that,” Cailean said, accepting the cup. “I heard Rory would have torn down the whole barn and knocked heads together until ye’d agreed to let him use the tobacco leaves.”

Mercy shifted uncomfortably in the hay. She wasn’t used to someone, anyone, feeling such an obligation to her. Normally, a few shillings were exchanged or a promise was made. But were his actions only in payment? Though her memory of the day before was slightly clouded by frenzy and then sleep, she did remember how gentle he’d been with her. She sighed and rose.

“Please finish that tea,” she said. “I’m so very glad you’re doing better, Cailean. May I call you that?” she asked. “It seems right that we use our Christian names, after what we’ve been through.”

“More than right,” he said. “And I’m so very glad ye’re spellbinding my brother, Mercy,” he responded. Mercy could feel the blush overtaking her face. “Don’t worry, my angel,” Cailean whispered, “I won’t tell anyone. Especially not Rory. Not yet,” he added, managing a wink.

“Your fever must be back,” she said uncomfortably, though she knew it was not. Perhaps she didn’t know him well enough, or know him enough when he was well. He was teasing her, of that she was certain, but she wasn’t used to being teased so good-naturedly, as all of the men she’d met through her father’s acquaintance were absolute dogs. No , she thought suddenly. The comparison was too cruel to the canine species. They are rats . “Rest, Cailean,” Mercy commanded finally, not having the energy to wonder any further about his words. She frowned imperiously at him until he brought the cup to his lips, then left the barn, just a little less certain that she was one of Rory Macleod’s least favorite people, at least on this side of the Atlantic, than she was before.

When Mercy got back to the cooking fire, the egg fry was ready, and Rory was nowhere to be found.

“Thank you, Mr. Macleod,” she said. “Or may I call you Rabbie?” He looked up at her questioningly. “Only, there are so many Mr. Macleods here, and it seems we’ve dispensed with propriety after yesterday…”

“Rabbie is fine,” he said, handing her the wooden spoon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but sharp winds picked up dry earth every now and then as she ladled out portions. Rabbie stayed silent as Mercy and Amity discussed what needed doing, then sauntered away to check on Cailean. When he returned, he fell back onto the log by the fire with a thump.

“Is there anything else we can help ye with, Miss Bar..Mercy?” Rabbie asked finally, stumbling over her name.

“No. There will be enough supper for all of us tonight, but I need to go to town soon. I’ll need to take one of them to slaughter,” she said, pointing the spoon at her herd, “and hopefully get some flour, if there’s been a delivery. There’s a farmer there who will trade me beef for tobacco.” She pushed the eggs around in her bowl. “If Cailean is able, however, I’d like to take him to the medicinal springs in a few days.”

“Medicinal springs?” Rabbie asked.

“Yes,” she said, and when she saw his questioning look, tried to explain: “The water comes up from the rocks below in little pools. It’s warm year-round, and has proven to heal many ailments. The tribes in these parts have relied on these waters for as long as they can remember.”

“Indians,” Amity said softly, attempting an ominous tone. “They’re like ghosts.” Her sister leaned forward. Mercy rolled her eyes. “They move through the woods so silently you’d swear they were nothing but spirits.”

“Oh, Amity,” Mercy sighed.

“Ye’ve had no problems with these tribes?” Rabbie asked seriously.

“All this land, even the land right under you, belongs to Lord Fairfax,” Mercy responded. “We say it’s ours, because Lord Fairfax has encouraged his people to settle in the backcountry region, and allows us on his land. I assume the tribes feel the same way—that they are only temporarily allowing us to stay. But they haven’t bothered us, and we try not to bother them.”

“The Shawnee live mostly outside Frederick Town, but these mountains are their hunting grounds,” Amity added.

“Lord Fairfax? Thomas Fairfax?” Rabbie asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Do you know him?” Mercy asked, puzzled.

“Certainly no’, he is a loyalist.” Rabbie surprised her with a loud laugh, a delightful rumbling that made Amity grin.

“And what is so very funny, Mr. Macleod?” Mercy asked, lifting a brow. She felt perpetually out of the loop when it came to shared experiences.

“No offense meant, Miss Ba…Mercy,” Rabbie managed. “It’s just that I never thought we’d find refuge on a Scotsman’s land. Especially a loyalist’s.”

Mercy turned when she heard Rory’s laugh from the trees. “Ye’re eating Scottish eggs,” he said, and Rabbie chuckled quietly. “Tell me about these medicinal springs,” Rory said carefully as he sat by his brother and accepted a bowl of eggs from Amity. “Won’t we be seen?”

Mercy studied him. He was looking at her with no guile, no anger. He was trying, she realized.

“There are springs in town,” Mercy acknowledged after a long moment, “but not many know about the ones on the hillside above it. We won’t go down the carriage road, in the off chance that my father’s coming home at the same time. But if I had to guess, I’d say he’ll come staggering back in three days.”

“Here,” Rory said, ladling more eggs into her bowl.

“I thank you, Mr. Macleod,” Mercy said.

“Ye’ve dispersed with your pleasantries with my brothers. Will ye no’ do the same for me?” he asked in that deep, gruff voice that sent shivers down her spine. When she glanced up she saw a soft, almost apologetic smile on his face.

“Rory, then,” she said, a bit flustered. It seemed that they had finally reached a ceasefire, however temporary it might be.

The four of them had eaten in companionable silence until Mercy and Amity excused themselves to continue their work in the upper gardens. If they were going to town soon, Mercy realized, they’d need to collect an arsenal of Granny’s healing concoctions. The sisters spent the rest of that day tending to what needed tending to, then ended it in the barn with the Scots. Amity read from the collection of Shakespeare that Rose Clintock’s tutor had deemed too lewd for a lady, and Mercy and the men listened with delight.

In the following days, the five of them fell into a comfortable rhythm: Rory and Rabbie started chopping pines to repair the barn, Mercy and Amity collected and dried and steamed herbs, and Cailean complained.

“Damn ye all,” he yelled from his bed of hay. “I’m no’ crippled!”

He was summarily ignored. Until she could get him to the springs, Mercy had forbidden him from helping with any of the chores, and the others seemed almost afraid to disagree with her. The men especially, after they’d watched her distilling cedarwood oil with steam one night.

“And this is why they call her a witch,” Amity had said as she passed Cailean some applejack. Mercy admitted she’d probably looked positively occult with the glass tubes and vials on her worktable at the back of the barn.

“What’s the oil for?” Rory had asked, and when even Amity hadn’t answered, the brothers shared uncomfortable glances.

“Women’s issues,” Mercy had answered finally. To her amusement, this had only seemed to make them more distressed.

Rory woke before the rooster crowed. Mercy would be about soon, and in the past few days he’d very much enjoyed seeing the shock on her face when she’d opened the cabin door each morning to find him already hauling the sack of chicken feed up onto his shoulder.

The woman, he realized without distaste, was never far from his thoughts. He usually despised weakness and idleness, but he didn’t despise how weak she made him feel and how idle he wanted to be with her. Perhaps that was why her face constantly swam through his mind. She was both strong and ambitious. She would never let him be weak or idle with her. Rory himself had always been happiest at work—planning, building, standing back in satisfaction as his projects came to fruition. But he suddenly had the silliest desire to lie around in the sun with a woman in his arms, merely listening to her laugh.

Before Prince Charlie’s war, Rory had enjoyed the admiration of many of the women at the Laird’s castle. His father was close to his cousin Laird Malcolm, who felt that Connor and his success in business and manufacturing was indispensable to the clan. Rory’s father’s importance never went unnoticed with the girls of Clachan, and he wasn’t too modest to admit that his appearance never hurt his chances. He’d captured hearts heartlessly, and had never given a second thought to the suffering he caused when he aimed his attentions elsewhere. He’d only truly cared about two things: family and work. Now, more than ever, he couldn’t afford to add another thing to the list.

His family was safe now, but for how long? He’d promised himself that he’d lead his family west until they were in the lands of New France, where they’d be free of British tyranny. They should leave as soon as Cailean was able, but Rory felt a fealty to Mercy. She’d saved his brother’s life. He admired her, how swiftly she took action, how creative and gentle she was in her healing. How she spoke plainly and dispensed with flowery turns of phrase. He admired her strength. And, unfortunately, he often caught himself admiring her beauty. At first, he’d not thought she was very fair, but every day he found something new about her that he enjoyed looking upon.

Would it be so dangerous to stay the year and repair the barn and cabin? Glancing upward at the sagging beams and holes in the thatching as he dressed, he was sure the barn wouldn’t last a heavy blanket of snow. And damn it all if he didn’t want Mercy to be able to sleep safely in a dry house, warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth.

He knew they shouldn’t stay. He knew they should find heavy cloaks, better boots, extra food, weapons, a flint and steel. Yes. They could gather supplies and head west, even in winter. It would be dangerous, but so would staying on the mountain, so close to Crawley’s grasp.

“Good day,” Mercy said as they met by the firepit in the silvery light of morning. She looked rather beautiful in these nicer, better fitting skirts and patterned bedgown, which he’d never seen before. “Amity and I are going to town.”

A sinking feeling in his gut had Rory’s hackles raised. “Today?” he asked, a little too gruffly.

“Yes,” she answered slowly, narrowing her eyes. The woman was always ready for a fight, he reminded himself.

“Aye,” he said quickly. Agreeably. He went to the cabin stairs and fished out the bag of chicken feed. “We’ll set to work on the barn. When can we expect ye back?” he asked.

“Before supper, I’m sure,” she said, lowering her defenses. “Unless Mrs. Waller is further along than I’d originally thought. I may be asked to stay and help with her delivery.”

“Ye help the mothers bear their bairns?”

Mercy nodded, walking alongside him to the chicken coop. “Some. The ones who can’t afford anyone better.”

“I dinna think there’s anyone better than you,” he said, surprising them both. “Not now that I’ve seen what ye did for Cailean,” he added quickly. He snuck a look at her and saw that she was pleased—her cheeks were pink and she was quite obviously fighting a smile.

“There’s no one that cares as much as I do,” she said as she picked up who he’d come to learn was her favorite hen, Miss Margaret.

“I believe that,” he told her, and he wanted to say more, but Amity crashed out of the cabin door, pulling on a bonnet and looking sour but fine in a form-fitting dress.

“I hate rising before the sun,” she grumbled. “And do not,” she hissed, lifting a finger in her sister’s direction, “speak to me of early birds or worms.”

Mercy and Amity had ridden Cameo down much of the carriage road in silence, but once the sun had chased away most of the cold, her sister’s mood improved. She’d not stopped talking for the second half of their journey, about how she was hoping to run into Rose Clintock and her cousin, as she wasn’t able to call on them directly.

Their differing stations, Amity lamented often, were a farce. The true deceit in this world. That any man or woman is higher or lower than another. Mercy had heard it a hundred times before, and assumed she’d hear it another hundred, if not more. She didn’t mind societal rules as much as her sister did. Only when it came to the ability to practice her work. More than a few times, she’d watched someone in town too haughty to accept her help become irreversibly impaired or die.

The way they were treated rankled, to be sure. Even hurt. But whereas Amity wanted total equanimity, Mercy would rather rise in station. The thought made her laugh.

“What?” Amity asked behind her as Cameo’s hooves beat out a rhythm below.

“Nothing, dear,” Mercy said. “Just amused by all our impossibilities.”

When they finally reached town, they secured Cameo at the water trough outside the Halfway House. The doors had not yet opened for the day, so they knew their father was not about. More than likely, he had found a barn to sleep in or, Mercy wrinkled her nose at the thought, a warm bed. There were working women in town, and some widows who’d taken to drink. Her father, for all his flaws, could be an amusing acquaintance when you were in your cups.

After delivering nettles and speedwell to Mr. Selden, who was sick with jaundice, and burdock root to young Jimmy Payne, who suffered intermittently with asthma, the sisters trudged up the hill to the Wallers’ clapboard home. Mrs. Waller, swollen with child, let them in with an uneasy smile.

“Mr. Waller will be back from the fields soon,” she said, not inviting them to sit.

“I understand.” Mercy had helped Mrs. Waller deliver five of her seven children, all without Mr. Waller’s knowledge. As was his custom, he celebrated at the Halfway House until Mrs. Waller’s daughter from her previous marriage came to fetch him with news of success. Mercy knew Mrs. Waller felt guilty for using her services when Mr. Waller had expressly forbidden it, but her deliveries were often difficult and long. Her oldest daughter, Mr. Waller’s stepdaughter, was only able to help so much.

Perhaps what weighed more on Mrs. Waller’s conscience was that there had been another pregnancy, one between her third and fourth children that was untenable for her at the time. Right after Mrs. Waller had missed her monthly courses, she’d asked for Mercy’s help. Cedarwood oil could be dangerous if not dosed correctly, but Gran had taught Mercy well. After her courses had returned, she’d been careful not to fall pregnant again until her health and household had improved. Abraham Waller had been born healthy a year and a half later.

“I think we’re still a month away.” She rubbed her belly affectionately.

Mercy nodded, then handed her a jar of dried raspberry leaf tea. “You remember, don’t you? One cup a night to strengthen the womb and encourage the milk.”

“I do. Thank you, Miss Barnett. Miss Amity,” she said, and the sisters bobbed up and down before leaving with several yards of scrap fabric.

With the coin Mercy had earned from the Seldens and Paynes and lots of herbs and tobacco to barter with, they stopped at the general store on their way back to Cameo and bought a new hammer, some nails, and a few yards of wool. Their chief concern now was keeping themselves and the Scots warm enough on the mountaintop when the snow came.

“Here come the mad Barnetts,” muttered someone in a group outside the Halfway House. The doors were now open, and the debauchery had spilled out onto the covered porch.

“A biter and a blower, to be sure,” someone else said, and the rest laughed. Mercy’s mouth twisted at the lewd insults, but she kept her eyes on the ground, squeezing Amity’s hand when she heard her sister suck in a breath through clenched teeth.

“Come along quickly,” she whispered, eyeing Amity’s furious grimace. The last thing she needed was her sister engaging with these pathetic excuses for men. She ignored the raucous whistles and hoots as she mounted Cameo. Once Amity was on behind her, she tapped her boots against the old mare but immediately pulled the reins to stop when she saw Miss Rose Clintock in her fine shoes and even finer dress, wrapped in a gray fur stole. Her similarly dressed cousin and their bespectacled companion in crisp black, flanked her. The three women paused momentarily before averting their eyes and continued down the dirt road without a word.