“Oh.” The tension had left her shoulders, and she breathed more easily. “I see. Thank you, sir, for bringing it.”

She’d at least seen letters before, I thought; she slid her thumb under the fold without hesitation, though she loosened the seal, rather than breaking it, and set it down beside the unfolded letter. She stood close, looking down at it, but I could easily see it over her shoulder. She read it out loud, slowly but clearly, following the words with her finger.

“To Miss Frances Pocock

From Mr. William Ransom

Dear Frances,

I write to enquire after your health and well-being. I hope you are happy in your present situation and beginning to feel settled.

Please give my earnest thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser for their generosity.

I am all right, though very much occupied at the moment. I will write again when the opportunity of a messenger offers.

Your most humble and obedient servant,

William Ransom”

“Wil-yum,” she murmured to herself, her finger touching the letters of his name. Her face had changed in an instant; it glowed with a sort of awed happiness.

Jamie moved slightly, beside me, and I glanced up at him. His eyes were warm with firelight, reflecting Fanny’s glow.

FANNY FLED WITH her letter, and, puzzled, I leaned toward John Quincy.

“Didn’t you say that you’d brought a letter for Germain, too?” I asked under the rising hum of talk.

John Quincy nodded. “Oh, I did, ma’am. I give it to him already, though—met him coming back from the privy.” He glanced round the room, then shrugged. “Reckon he might have wanted to read it in private—was from his mother, I think.”

I exchanged wary looks with Jamie. Fergus had written in the early spring, with assurances that all was well with his family. Marsali felt as well as a woman eight months’ pregnant could reasonably be expected to feel; and he also listed the various objects he was sending north to Cross Creek for us. On both occasions, he’d sent brief but fond wishes to Germain. I had read one letter to Germain, Jamie the other—and on both occasions, Germain had just nodded, stone-faced, and said nothing.

Germain didn’t appear for dessert—slices of Amy’s bread with apple butter made by Sarah Chisholm as payment for my attending her younger daughter’s childbed—and I began to be seriously worried. He might have chosen to eat or stay the night with a friend; he often did, with or without Jemmy, but he was supposed to tell someone when he went visiting, and usually did.

Beyond that … I couldn’t think of any reason why he would choose to be absent when there was a visitor. Any visitor, let alone a colorful one like John Quincy Myers, whose very appearance promised entertaining stories as well as news. People would be coming by to visit for the next few evenings to hear him; I knew he’d be staying for a bit—but for tonight, he was ours alone.