“He did, evidently, when he was a sea captain. Preach to his men, I mean, on Sundays aboard his ship. I gather that he found it gratifying, and had a notion, when he retired, of becoming a lay preacher. He has no real idea of how that might be accomplished, but his mother assured him that God would find a way.”

The news of the captain’s desire to preach was surprising, but also something of a comfort. Still, he reminded himself, there were a good many preachers who would call down hellfire in the service of an army, and having a vocation to preach didn’t limit a man’s beliefs in other directions. It wasn’t likely that a retired sea captain of the British navy would have strong tendencies toward independency for the American colonies. And he didn’t think wee Frances’s observations regarding Mr. Partland were in any way mistaken.

“Did ye ken that Roger and Brianna called on them, and were shown the door for their trouble?” he asked. “I think the butter’s come.”

She rose, smoothing her dark hair back under her cap, and came to look. She took the churn handle, worked it a few times, and nodded.

“Yes. Brianna told me. I think,” she added delicately, “that perhaps Roger should try to speak with Friend Cunningham in the absence of his mother.”

“Perhaps he should.” He pulled off the top of the churn and they looked in, to see the flakes and clumps of pale-gold butter swimming in the cream.

19

Daylight Haunting

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL day, and I had persuaded Jamie—with some difficulty—that the world would not end if he didn’t hang the door for the kitchen today. Instead, we collected the children and walked up through the woods toward Ian’s cabin, bearing small presents for Rachel, Jenny, and Oggy.

“What will ye wager me, Sassenach, that they’ve settled on a name for yon wee man?”

“What odds?” I said, diverted. “And are you betting that they have, or that they haven’t?”

“Five to two against. As to stakes …” He glanced round to see that our companions weren’t within hearing distance and lowered his voice. “Your drawers.”

My “drawers” were in fact the lower half of a planned pair of flannel pajamas, made with an oncoming winter in mind.

“And what on earth would you do with my drawers?”

“Burn them.”

“No bet. Besides, I don’t think they’ve chosen a name yet, either. The last suggestions I heard were Shadrach, Gilbert, and whatever the Mohawk might be for ‘Farts Like a Goat.’”

“Let me guess. It was Jenny suggested that last one?”

“Who would know goats better?”

Bluebell snuffled energetically through the layers of crackling leaves, tail moving to and fro like a metronome.

“Can you train that sort of dog to hunt for specific things?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s called a coonhound, but plainly she isn’t looking for raccoons right now.”