Jo Beardsley had plainly never seen a whistle before, but didnt care to admit it. He turned the little object over in his hand, trying not to stare at it.
Roger reached out, took it from him, and blew a healthy blast that shattered the night. Several birds, startled from their rest, shot out of the nearby trees, shrieking, followed closely by Kezzie Beardsley, eyes huge with amazement.
Blow in that end, Roger said, tapping the appropriate end of the whistle before handing it back. Squeeze your lips a bit.
Much obliged, sir, Jo murmured. His normal stoic facade had shattered with the silence, and he took the whistle with the wide-eyed look of a boy on Christmas morning, turning at once to show the prize to his twin. It struck her quite suddenly that neither boy likely ever had had a Christmas morningor any other sort of gift.
Ill make another one for you, she told Kezzie. Then the two of you can signal back and forth. If you see any brigands, she added, smiling.
Oh, yes, maam. Well do that, we surely will! he assured her, scarcely glancing at her in his eagerness to examine the whistle his brother had put in his hands.
Blow it three times, if ye want help, Roger called after them, taking her arm.
Aye, sir! came back from the darkness, followed by a belated faint Thank you, maam!this in turn followed at once by a fusillade of puffs, gasps, and breathless rattles, punctuated by briefly successful shrill toots.
Lizzies been teaching them manners, I see, Roger said. As well as their letters. Dye think theyll ever be truly civilized, though?
No, she said, with a trace of regret.
Really? She couldnt see his face in the dark, but heard the surprise in his voice. I was only joking. Ye really think not?
I doand no wonder, after the way they grew up. Did you see the way they were with that whistle? No ones ever given them a present, or a toy.
I suppose not. Dye think thats what makes boys civilized? If so, I imagine wee Jem will be a philosopher or an artist or something. Mrs. Bug spoils him rotten.
Oh, as if you dont, she said tolerantly. And Da, and Lizzie, and Mama, and everyone else in sight.
Oh, well, Roger said, unembarrassed at the accusation. Wait til he has a bit of competition. Germains in no danger of spoiling, is he? Germain, Fergus and Marsalis eldest son, was harried by two small sisters, known to one and all as the hell-kittens, who followed their brother constantly, teasing and pestering.
She laughed, but felt a slight sense of uneasiness. The thought of another baby always made her feel as though she were perched at
the top of a roller coaster, short of breath and stomach clenched, poised somewhere between excitement and terror. Particularly now, with the memory of their lovemaking still softly heavy, shifting like mercury in her belly.
Roger seemed to sense her ambivalence, for he didnt pursue the subject, but reached for her hand and held it, his own large and warm. The air was cold, the last vestiges of a winter chill lingering in the hollows.
What about Fergus, then? he asked, taking up an earlier thread of the conversation. From what I hear, he hadnt much of a childhood, either, but he seems fairly civilized.
My aunt Jenny had the raising of him from the time he was ten, she objected. You havent met my aunt Jenny, but believe me, she could have civilized Adolf Hitler, if she put her mind to it. Besides, Fergus grew up in Paris, not the backwoodseven if it was in a brothel. And it sounds like it was a pretty high-class brothel, too, from what Marsali tells me.
Oh, aye? What does she tell you?
Oh, just stories that hes told her, now and then. About the clients, and the whthe girls.
Can ye not say whore, then? he asked, amused. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, and was pleased that it was dark; he teased her more when she blushed.
I cant help it that I went to a Catholic school, she said, defensive. Early conditioning. It was true; she couldnt say certain words, save when in the grip of fury or when mentally prepared. Why can you, though? Youd think a preachers lad would have the same problem.
He laughed, a little wryly.
Not precisely the same problem. It was more a matter of feeling obliged to curse and carry on in front of my friends, to prove I could.
What kind of carrying on? she asked, scenting a story. He didnt often talk about his early life in Inverness, adopted by his great-uncle, a Presbyterian minister, but she loved hearing the small tidbits he sometimes let fall.
Och. Smoking, drinking beer, and writing filthy words on the walls in the boys toilet, he said, the smile evident in his voice. Tipping over dustbins. Letting air out of automobile tires. Stealing sweeties from the Post Office. Quite the wee criminal I was, for a time.
The terror of Inverness, huh? Did you have a gang? she teased.
I did, he said, and laughed. Gerry MacMillan, Bobby Cawdor, and Dougie Buchanan. I was odd man out, not only for being the preachers lad, but for having an English father and an English name. So I was always out to show them I was a hard man. Meaning I was usually the one in most trouble.