Excerpts:
William and Fanny
[In which William goes to the stable on Fraser’s Ridge to fetch his horse, before leaving with Jamie on their quest to find Lord John, and finds Fanny, who has been readying his horse for the journey.]
Mildly surprised, William nevertheless bent courteously toward her, only to have her step back.
“Not on the cheek,” she said. She sounded slightly breathless, but determined. “I’m not a little girl.”
He realized, with an odd feeling that ran down his backbone like quicksilver, that she wasn’t. He took her hand, and bowed over it.
“My apologies, Miss Pocock.” Her hand was quite warm in his, and surprisingly larger than he’d expected. Her fingers were long, supple and well-shaped—and they turned, moving between his own and grasping his hand.
“And not that, either.”
He’d straightened up in surprise, but didn’t—not yet—pull his hand away.
“I’ve kissed men before, you know,” she said.
“Who?” he asked, not at all sure he wanted to know, but unable not to ask.
“I’ve been kissing men since I was five years old,” she said boldly, and he realized suddenly that while Jane had saved her sister from violation and defilement, there were other services a very young girl might be required to perform in a brothel.
He concealed his shock, though, asking lightly instead, “Oh? What about the tall Scottish chap that’s been skulking about looking daggers at me? Hasn’t he tried to kiss you?”
“Cyrus can’t skulk,” she said, without offense. “He’s much too tall. He didn’t have to ask. And you should be pleased it’s only looks. He’s a Highlander and a fisherman and he hasn’t punched you yet because I told him not to.”
“I appreciate your forbearance, Frances,” he said gravely. And not so gravely, took his hand from hers, and lifting her chin with a forefinger, bent again and kissed her lightly on the lips.
It lasted no more than a second or two, but long enough to leave a sense of softness and warmth.
“Goodbye, Frances,” he said, meeting her eyes, the soft yellow-brown of half-cured tobacco. “I’ll see you again.” And picking up his saddlebags, took [horse’s] rein and led him toward the daylight.
At the open door, though, he turned for a moment.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
She was standing quite still in the shadows, the curry-comb hanging from her hand, and her eyes still on him.
“In case you don’t come back,” she said. “Often people don’t.”
Jamie's choice of Roger
[William is conversing with Jamie in Jamie’s study, expressing some surprise at his choosing Roger to defend the Ridge while Jamie is gone, in such controversial times (he’s heard about what happened at Lodge Night, from Ian).]
“I can’t say I know the Reverend MacKenzie well, but he is clearly a—a man of God. You’re sure he’s capable of handling…” He waved a hand toward the narrow window above the neat bookshelves, indicating the sunlit Ridge outside, with all its tenants, crops, servants, animals….
Fraser gave him a faintly amused look.
“Aye, well. At least most o’ the tenants willna think he’s likely to collect a few men and come along by night to set their house ablaze or hang them in their own dooryard.”
“And they think you _would_?” William blurted.
“They’re no sure I wouldna,” Jamie said bluntly. “Ken this is a new-built house?” He lifted his chin, indicating the massive ceiling beams overhead, the wood raw and yellow, with small fragrant beads of oozing, half-dried sap along the edges. William stared at him.
“Mind, it wasna the tenants who set fire to the last one. It was the neighbors—from Brownsville--who dragged me and my wife out of our home and tried to hang her and deport me to Scotland. But it _was_ some o’ my own tenants who tried to kill me later—in Lodge, no less—” He stopped abruptly, looked at William, then tapped his fingers on the desk; casually, but in a noticeable pattern.
“No,” William said in answer. Papa had explained Freemasonry to him, but had never suggested that he join a Lodge, and he’d not felt a desire to do so.
Fraser nodded, and went on.
“This was nay more than last year, ken. I dealt wi’ the matter and there’s been nay bother since. I let some o’ them come back, for the sake of their wives and families—and because Harriett McIlhenny blackmailed me, the auld besom—but those that left the Ridge are likely still alive, and bear me a black grudge if they are.”
“Why the devil did they want to kill you?” William asked, because it was the only straightforward question he could think of. His head wasn’t exactly spinning, but he could hear the blood beating in his ears.
Fraser looked at him thoughtfully, and his fingers drummed softly on the table—though obviously as an aid to thought, rather than a Masonic identification.
“Lad,” he said finally, “I’m a Highlander and a Papist. _ And_ a rebel, twice over. I ken ye know that, but ye maybe dinna ken that there are folk—and not all o’ them Englishmen—to whom my existence is a mortal offense.” One thick red eyebrow twitched up. “Ye could maybe have chosen a safer ally.”
“Jesus. And—Mother Claire may be in danger, too--because of you?”
That, strangely enough, made Fraser laugh.
“Nay, lad,” he said, shaking his head. “She can manage that on her own account. She’s known through all this neck o’ the woods—and a far piece beyond—as a conjure-woman. And to some folk, a healer who can cast folk into a deep sleep, or reach inside them to cure their ailments, is plainly a witch, and ye ken what the Bible says about _that_.”
“What…you mean ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?”
“Aye, that.” Fraser raised the eyebrow again. “Were ye taught your Bible? I ken neither Lord John nor his brother are what ye’d call godly men.”
“They’re soldiers,” William said shortly.
“So am I, lad,” Fraser said mildly. “And so are you.” He stopped, though, and leaned back a little, regarding William thoughtfully.
“Ye dinna like it when I call ye ‘lad’, do ye? Shall I call ye William? Or Mr. Ransom?” His lips twitched, but the knot between William’s shoulder blades relaxed fractionally.
“William will do.” He was—had been, for weeks—all too conscious of the last time he’d been obliged to ask James Fraser for help. Furious with his own helplessness when Fraser betrayed—he thought—hesitance at his request, he’d snapped, “Don’t bother—I’ll do it myself!”
To which outburst Fraser had replied levelly, “_If ye thought ye could, lad, ye’d never have come to me_.”
That objective assessment had burned at the time—it burned now, too. But Fraser had been right, then, and he was right now, though sufficiently courteous as not to mention the fact.
William could only hope that things would end better, this time.
William sees Jamie's back
Jamie felt the crawling and slapped a hand hard over his ribs. The slap numbed his flesh for a moment, but the instant it passed, he felt the tickle again—and in several places at once, including his—
“[Gaelic curse]! _Earbsa_!”
He ripped the flap of his breeks open and shoved them down over his legs, in time to catch the tick crawling toward his balls before it sank its fangs in him. He snapped it away with a flick of a fingernail and jerked the collar of his sark up over his head.
“Dinna go through the bushes!” he shouted from inside the shirt. “They’re alive wi’ ticks!” William said something, but Jamie didn’t catch it, his head enveloped in the heavy hunting shirt. His skin was afire between the sweat and the crawling.
He yanked the sark off and flung it away, scratching and slapping himself. Ears now free, he heard the next thing William said. Clearly.
“Oh, Jesus.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but the shock in it froze Jamie with realization. By reflex, he bent, arm stretched out for his shirt, but it was too late. Slowly, he stood up again. A tick was trundling over the curve of his breast, just above the cutlass scar. He reached to snap it off, and saw that his fingers were trembling.
He clenched his fist briefly to stop it, then bent his head, picked off three more of the wee buggers on his neck and ribs, then scratched his arse thoroughly, just in case, before pulling up his breeks. His heart was racing and his wame was hollow, but there was naught to do about it. He took a deep breath and spoke calmly, without turning around.
“D’ye see any more of them on my back?”
A moment’s silence, and a let-out breath. Crunching footsteps behind him and a faint sense of warmth on his bare back.
“Yes,” William said. “It’s not moving, I think it’s dug in. I’ll—get it off.”
Jamie opened his mouth to say no, but then closed it. William seeing his scars close to wasn’t like to make matters worse. He closed his eyes instead, hearing the _shush_ of a knife being drawn from its sheath. Then a large hand came down on his shoulder, and he felt his son’s breath hot on the back of his neck. He barely noticed the prick of the blade or the tickle of a drop of blood running down his back.
The hand left his shoulder, and to his surprise, he missed the comfort of the touch. The touch came back an instant later, when William pressed a handkerchief below his shoulder blade, to stop the bleeding.
A moment, and the cloth lifted, tickling his back. He felt suddenly calm, and put on his shirt, after shaking it hard to dislodge any hangers-on.
“_Taing_,” he said, turning to William. “Ye’re sure ye’ve none on ye?”
William shrugged, face carefully expressionless.
“I’ll know soon enough.”
They walked on without speaking until the sun began to touch the trees on the highest ridge. Jamie had been looking out for a decent spot to camp, but William moved suddenly, nodding toward a copse of scrubby oaks near the top of a small hillock to the right.
“There,” he said. “Cover, we’ll have good sight of the trail, and there’s water coming down the side of that gravelly bit.”
“Aye.” Jamie turned in that direction, asking after a moment, “So, was it the army taught ye castrametation, or Lord John?”
“A bit of both.” William spoke casually, but there was a tinge of pride in his voice, and Jamie smiled to himself.
They made camp—a rudimentary process involving naught more than gathering wood for a fire, fetching water from the rill and finding stones flat enough to sit on. They ate the last of the bread and cold meat, and a couple of small, mealy apples pitted with the knots of insect chewing, and drank water, as there was nothing else.
There was no conversation, but there was an awareness between them that hadn’t been there before. Something different to their usual polite awkwardness, but just as awkward.
_He wants to ask, but doesna ken how. I dinna want to tell him, but I will. If he asks._
As the dark deepened, Jamie heard a distant sound and turned his head sharply. William had heard it too; rustling and shuffling below, and now a chorus of grunting and loud guttural noises that made it clear who the visitors were.
He saw William turn his head, listening, and reach down for his rifle.
“At night?” Jamie asked. “There’s a dozen o’ them at least. And if we killed one without being torn to bits by the rest, we’d leave most of it to the crows. Ye really want to butcher a hog just now?”
William straightened up, but was still listening to the pigs below.
“Can they see in the dark, do you know?”
“I dinna think they’d be walkin’ about now, if they couldn’t. But I dinna think their sight is any better than ours, if as good. I’ve stood near a herd o’ them, nay more than ten yards away—upwind, mind—and they didna ken I was there until I moved. There’s naught amiss wi’ their ears, hairy as they are, and anything that can root out trubs has a better sense o’ smell than I have.”
William made a small noise of amusement, and they waited, listening, ‘til the sounds of the wild hogs faded into the growing night sounds—a racket of crickets and shrilling toads, punctuated by the calling of night birds and owl-hoots.
“When you lived in Savannah,” William said abruptly. “Did you ever encounter a gentleman named Preston?”
Jamie had been half-expecting a question, but not that one.
“No, “ he said, surprised. “Or at least I dinna think so. Who is he?”
“A…um…very junior undersecretary in the War Office. With a particular interest in the welfare of British prisoners of war. We met at a luncheon at General Prevost’s house, and then later that evening, to discuss…things…in more detail.”
“Things,” Jamie repeated, carefully.
“Conditions of prisoners of war, mostly,” William said, with a brief wave of the hand. “But it was from Mr. Preston that I discovered that my father had once been governor of a prison in Scotland. I hadn’t known that.”
_Oh, Jesus_…
“Aye,” Jamie said, and stopped to breathe. “A place called Ardsmuir. That’s where I first became acquainted—” He stopped, suddenly recalling the whole truth of the matter. _Do I tell him _that_? Aye, I suppose I do…_
“Aye, well, I met your father there, that’s true—though I’d met him some years before, ken. During the Rising.”
He felt a sudden prickle in his blood at the memory.
“Where?” William asked, curiosity clear in his voice.
“The Highlands. My men and I were camped near the Carryarick Pass—we were lookin’ out for troops bringin’ cannon to General Cope.”
“Cope. I don’t believe I recall the gentleman…”
“Aye, well. We--disabled his cannon. He lost the battle. At Prestonpans, it was.” Despite the present situation, there was still a deep sense of pleasure at the recollection.
“Indeed,” William said dryly. “I hadn’t heard that, either.”
“Mmphm. It was your uncle, his grace, that was in charge of bringin’ the cannon, and he’d brought along his young brother to have a, um, taste of the army, I suppose. That was Lord John.”
“Young. How old was he?” William asked curiously.
“Nay more than sixteen. But bold enough to try to kill me, alone, when he came across me sittin’ by a fire with my wife.” Despite his conviction that this conversation wasn’t going to end well, he’d started, and he’d finish it, wherever it led.
“He was sixteen,” Jamie repeated. “Plenty of balls, but no much brain, ken.”
William’s face twitched a little at that.
“And how old were you, may I ask?”
“Four-and-twenty,” Jamie said, and felt a rush of such unexpected feeling that it choked him. He’d not thought of those days in many years, would have thought he’d forgotten, but no—it was all there in a heartbeat: Claire’s face in the firelight and her flying hair, his passion for her eclipsing everything, his men nearby, and then the moment of startlement and instant rage and pummeling a stripling on the ground, the dropped knife glinting on the ground beside the fire.
And everything else—the war. Loss, desolation. The long death of his heart.
“I broke his arm,” he said abruptly. “When he attacked me. He wouldna speak, when I asked where the British troops were, but I tricked him into saying. Then I told my men to tie him to a tree where his brother’s men would find him…and then we went to deal wi’ the cannon. I didna see his lordship again until--” He shrugged. “A good many years later. At Ardsmuir.”
William’s face was clearly visible in the firelight, and Jamie could plainly see interest war with caution, while the lad—_Christ, he’s…three-and-twenty? Older than me when_…
“Did he do it?” William asked abruptly.
“What?”
William made a small movement of one hand and nodded toward him.
“Your…back. Did Lord John do that…to you?”
Jamie opened his mouth to say no, for all his memory had been focused on Jack Randall, but of course…
“Part of it,” he said, and reached for his canteen on the ground, avoiding William’s eye. “Not that much.”
“Why?”
Jamie shook his head, not in negation, but trying to organize his thoughts.
“I made him,” he said, wondering _What’s the matter wi’ me? It’s the truth, but—_
“Why?” William asked again, in a harder tone of voice. Jamie sighed deeply; it might have been irritation, but it wasn’t; it was resignation.
“I broke a rule and he had me punished for it. Sixty lashes. He didna have any choice, really.”
William gave his own deep sigh and it _was_ irritation.
“Tell me or don’t,” he said, and stood up, glaring down at Jamie. “I want to know, but I’m not going to drag it out of you, God damn it!”
Jamie nodded, his immediate feeling of relief tainted by memory. His back itched as though millions of tiny feet were marching over it, and the tiny wound burned. He sighed.
“I said I’d tell ye whatever ye wanted to know, and I will. The Government outlawed the possession of tartan. A wee lad in the prison had kept a scrap of his family’s tartan, for comfort—it wasna likely that any of us would see our families again. It was found, and Lord John asked the lad was it his. He—the lad, I mean—was no but fourteen or fifteen, small, and crined wi’ cold and hunger. We all were.” Memory made him stretch out his hands toward the fire, gathering the warmth.
“So I reached over his shoulder and took the clootie and said it was mine,” he finished simply. “That’s all.”
Roger takes over the Ridge
Jamie and Roger sitting outside the malting shed, discussing Jamie’s imminent departure to find Lord John.]
“Are you afraid?” he said. Jamie gave Roger a sharp look, but shrugged and settled himself before replying.
“Does it show?”
“Not on you,” Roger reassured him. “On Claire.”
Jamie looked astonished, but after a moment’s contemplation, nodded slightly.
“Aye, I suppose it does. She sleeps wi’ me, ken?” Evidently Roger’s expression didn’t show complete comprehension, for Jamie sighed a little and leaned back against the wall of the malting shed.
“I dream,” he said simply. “I can mind my thoughts well enough whilst I’m awake, but…ken, the Indians say the dream world is as real as this one? Sometimes I think that’s true—but I often hope it’s not.”
“You tell Claire about your dreams?”
Jamie grimaced briefly.
“Sometimes. Some...well, ye’ll maybe ken that sometimes it helps to open your mind to someone, when ye’re troubled, and some dreams are like that; just saying what happened lets ye step back from it. Ye ken it’s only a dream, as they say.”
“Only.” Roger said it softly, but Jamie nodded, his mouth relaxing a little.
“Aye.” They were silent for a few moments, and the sounds of the wind and the local birds kept them company.
“I’m afraid for William,” Jamie said abruptly. He hesitated, but added, in a low voice, “And I’m afraid for John. I dinna want to think of the things that might—might be done to him. Things I may not be able to save him from.”
Roger glanced at him, trying not to look startled. But then he realized that Jamie didn’t avoid things, nor the mention of them. He had simply accepted the fact that Roger knew the things that had been done to Jamie, and exactly why he might fear for his friend.
“I wish I could go with you,” he said. It was impulsive, but true, and a genuine smile lighted Jamie’s face in response.
“I do, too, _a Smeorach_. But the folk here need ye—and they’ll need ye a good deal more, should I not come back.”
Roger found himself wishing that Jamie would avoid some things now and then, but reluctantly conceded that things must be said now, no matter how uncomfortable. So he answered the question Jamie hadn’t asked.
“Aye. I’ll mind them for ye. Claire, and Bree and Ian and Rachel and the weans. And all your bloody tenants, too. I’m not milking your kine, though, nor yet looking after that damn sow and her offpsring.”
Jamie didn’t laugh, but the smile was still there.
“It’s a comfort to me, Roger Mac, to ken ye’ll be here, to deal wi’ whatever might happen. And things will.”
“Now _I’m_ afraid,” Roger said, as lightly as he could.
“I know.” Luckily Jamie didn’t expand on this, but turned to practicalities.
“An Deamhan Gael can mind herself,” he assured Roger. “And wee Frances will take care for the kine. Oh—as for Frances herself--”
“I won’t let her marry anyone until you come back,” Roger assured him.
“Good.” Jamie let out his breath and his shoulders slumped. “I think I will. But the dead ha’ been talking to me.” He caught Roger’s lifted eyebrow. “Not—well, not only—my own dead. That’s often a comfort to me, should my Da or Murtagh or Ian Mor come by. Once in a long while…my mother.” That made him shy; he looked away.
Roger made a small noncommittal sound and waited for a moment, then asked, “you said, not only your own dead…?”
“Ah.” Jamie straightened up and set his feet solidly in the dirt. “The others. Men I’ve killed. Sometimes killed for cause. Others—in battle. Strangers. Men who—” he broke off and Roger saw his whole body tighten. Jamie looked away, down the path that led to the lake, as though something might be coming. The feeling was so strong that Roger looked too, and was relieved to see no more than a small covey of quail dust-bathing under a bush.
“Jack Randall came to me, two nights ago.”
Claire births a baby
I uncurled the tiny fist to check again. I’d caught only a glimpse, but… By reflex, I turned my left hand up and glanced at my own palm. It was a maze of wandering lines: head, heart, life, love, fate—and dozens more caused by the daily wear of age and work. A net to catch an unknown future.
But the twitching little starfish in my right hand was almost a blank slate, save for a single smooth, deep line across the upper palm. Only one. The Merck Manual of Diagnosis called it a simian crease.
The little fingers curled again, gripping my index finger. Weak, but definitely a grasping reflex. The birth had been easy—it was Mhairi MacDonald’s eighth labor, but things could go wrong with any birth. Apgar scores were on the low side, but tolerable--with the exception of some of the other reflexes; I couldn’t get a Babinski reflex at all—and the muscle tone overall, which was…the baby gave a sort of floppy, convulsive movement that nearly spilled her off my lap and made a grunting squeak that wasn’t quite a cry.
“Shh, sweetheart, I’ve got you…don’t worry, everything will be fine…” I picked her up and cuddled her—small, but warm and solid, wrapped in her older brother’s shirt, for lack of a blanket—against my shoulder and glanced at the mother, a cold, heavy feeling in my chest.
I knew. Had known by the time I’d started swabbing the little body with oil. Not all the signs were there, but…enough. The flattened nose, the unusual space between the big toe and the second toe… What could I—what _should_ I tell them?
Old Mrs. MacDonald was helping her daughter, kneading her flaccid belly with a firm but kindly touch, whispering what I thought was a blessing in _Gaidhlig_. Mhairi lay on her sweat-soaked pillow, breathing slowly, eyes half- shut, making little grunts that sounded not unlike her new daughter’s.
Maybe I shouldn’t say anything …specific. “Down’s Syndrome” would mean nothing to anyone in this time, let alone “Trisomy of Chromosome 21”. There was no telling how much cognitive impairment there might be; perhaps only a little, perhaps it wouldn’t be very noticeable. And in this time, when girls largely worked in house and field and took care of children, it mightn’t matter that much; maybe she could function well enough in the bosom of her family.
If she could nurse. If she couldn’t, she likely wouldn’t live long. Her mouth was slightly open, filled by a large, protrusive tongue. I laid her on my lap again and stroked her cheek lightly. Her ears were still pink and slightly crumpled from birth, but looked normal, though small. Her eyes looked somewhat slanted, but were still tight closed, lashes invisible, but she turned her head at once at my touch, snuffling.
_Rooting reflex. Check_
“Good,” I whispered. “Can you suck, sweetheart?”
My hands weren’t clean enough for me to consider sticking a finger in her mouth to try. We’d have to wait and see. I glanced over at the bed, half-hidden in darkness. Mrs. MacDonald was still kneading, but her head was raised and she was looking at me as she worked, a deep crease between her brows. Her mouth was pressed tight, but it dawned on me that neither I nor the child was her immediate concern.
“What is the word for a placenta in _Gaidhlig_?” I asked, rising to my feet with the baby. Mrs. MacDonald blinked and knuckled away a bead of perspiration running down her cheek. The door and window were closed to keep out flies drawn to the scent of blood, so there was a fire to provide light and hot water, and all of us—except the baby—were sweating in the moving shadows.
She shrugged. “There’s some as says ‘birth-cake’. That’s _breith-cèic_. ” She glanced down at her working hands. “Whatever ye choose to call it, this one’s no lettin’ go.” There was a note of strain in her voice, though her gnarled old hands kept up a steady kneading.
“I have something that might help,” I offered. I’d brought my birthing kit along in a cloth bag. The bag didn’t have everything, but it did have dried raspberry leaves. A strong tea aided labor; it might—I hoped—dislodge an uncooperative placenta. I would have put the child to Mhairi’s breast to suckle, but given my doubts…best start with the tea.
Mrs. MacDonald hesitated for a moment, hands stilled and brows knit. _Old Mrs. MacDonald thinks you’re a witch,_ Fanny had told me. _But it doesn’t matter, because Mr. MacDonald is afraid of Mr. Fraser_. She stared at me, eyes narrowed, but then glanced down at her gasping daughter, and gave in.
“Gie’ me the wean and do what ye can,” she said abruptly.
"William"
#DailyLines #Book10 #ABombInTheHand #dontbotheraskingwhenitwillbedone #really #dont #youllfindoutwhenIdo
[Excerpt from Book 10 [Untitled], Copyright 2022 Diana Gabaldon]
“What are you thinking?” I asked. “I know it’s about William.”
“Oh, aye?” He glanced at me, mouth curled up at one side. “And what do I look like if I’m thinking of William?”
“Like someone’s handed you a wrapped package and you’re not sure whether it’s something wonderful, or a bomb.”
That made him laugh, and he put an arm around me and pulled me in close, kissing my temple. He smelled of day-old linen, ink and hay, and the dribble of honey that had dried down the front of his shirt, like tiny amber beads.
“Aye, well, one look at the lad and ye ken he’ll explode before too long,” he said. “I only hope he doesna damage himself doing it.”
“Or you.”
He shrugged comfortably
“I’m no very breakable, Sassenach.
“Says the man with four—no, five bullet holes in his hide, to say nothing of enough surgical stitching to make a whole crazy quilt. And if we start counting the bones you’ve cracked or broken…
“Ach, away—I’ve never broken anything important; just the odd finger. Maybe a rib, here or there.
“And your sternum and your left kneecap.
He made a dismissive Scottish noise, but didn’t argue
We stood for a bit, arms about each other, listening to the sounds outside. The younger children had fallen asleep under bushes or in their parents’ wagons, their happy screeching replaced by music and the laughter of the dancers, the clapping and calls of those watching.
“He came to me,” Jamie said quietly. He was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but he’d stopped trying to hide what he was feeling.
“He did,” I said softly, and squeezed his arm.
“I suppose there wasna really anyone else he could go to,” he said, off-handed. “If he canna find his grace, I mean, and he couldna very well talk to anyone in the army, could he? Given that….” He stopped, a thought having struck him, and turned to me.
“D’ye think he knows, Sassenach?”
“Knows what?”
“About—what he said. The…threat to Lord John. I mean--” he elaborated, seeing my blank look, “does he ken that it’s no just a canard.”
“A—oh.” I stopped to consider for a moment, then shook my head with decision. “No. Almost certainly not. You saw his face when he told us about what Richardson was threatening. He’d still have been scared—maybe more scared—if he knew it wasn’t an empty threat—but he wouldn’t have looked the way he did.”
Anxious? Angry?”
“Both. But Anyone would be, wouldn’t they? Under the circumstances.”
“They would. And…determined, would ye say?”
“Stubborn,” I said promptly, and he laughed.
“A bomb for sure, then.”
William on the Ridge
#DailyLines #UntitledBook10 #HappyEaster #ChagPesachSameach #or #DeliriousRitesofSpring #YourPreference #nospoilers
[Excerpt from (Untitled) Book Ten, Copyright 2022 Diana Gabaldon]
The room was large and dim; someone had tacked part of a burlap sack over the large window, but light filtered through. So did a breeze carrying the earthy smell of fresh potatoes through the burlap. He picked loose a couple of tacks and the breeze, thus invited, cooled his face and rippled through his hair, like the touch of gentle fingers.
“Mother?” he said softly.
It hadn’t happened in some time. When he was younger, he felt it often; the passing touch of a hand, stroking his head, touching his shoulder, vanished in a moment. He’d never told anyone about it.
Maybe she was here, because _he_ was here—Fraser?
Fraser had declined to tell him anything regarding his relations with Mother Geneva, and William was reluctantly obliged to admit that this was gentlemanly of him.
“I still want to know, though.”
“Know what?”
He swung round, startled, to find his sister standing in the doorway, her face full of joy and her arms full of quilts.
“I—nothing,” he said, and felt a sudden bounce in his heart. “Sister. I—it’s good to see you.” The smile on her face was on his own, and she dropped the bedding and hugged him tight. The smell of her was different from the last time he’d seen her. The pungent scents of turpentine and linseed oil were gone, replaced by an oddly disorienting scent that he tentatively identified as milk and baby-shit.
“You’ve had a child?” he blurted, letting go. “Another, I mean?” It wasn’t surprise at the revelation, as much as the fact that the scents of motherhood were inextricably linked with Amaranthus in his mind.
“You have a new nephew,” she said, laughing at him. “Davy. David William James Fraser MacKenzie, to be exact.”
“William?” He could feel his lips twitching, not sure whether he should assume that…
“Yes, we named him for you,” she assured him. “Partly.”
“Well, I’m entirely grateful,” he said, smiling. “And most sensible of the honor…sister.”
“Brother,” she said softly, and reached out to touch his face. “It’s good to see you. Will you stay awhile?”
"Jamie's dream"
Aaaand....Happy Birthday to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, born May 1st, 1721!
#DailyLines #UntitledBook10
“Did your Mam ever tell ye of the dream I had? Soon after ye…went away.” He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, to be sure no one was in earshot.
“No.” She was looking at him with deep interest, a small line between her brows, and he couldn’t help smiling at her. “Was it a funny dream?” she asked.
“Och, no. I was only smiling because ye looked so much like Claire, there. When she’s trying to puzzle out what’s the matter with someone, I mean.”
She didn’t laugh, but the transitory dimple that sometimes appeared in her right cheek flashed for an instant.
“Nobody ever says I look like Mama,” she said. “They carry on all the time about how much like _you_ I look.”
“Oh, ye look like your mother often,” he assured her. “It’s just that it’s no a matter of hair or eyes or how tall ye are. It’s the look on your face when ye touch Jem or Mandy—or when ye’re talkin’ with Roger Mac in the evening on the porch, and the light of the moon in your eyes.”
His own voice had gown soft and husky, and he looked down at the ground, the plastering of layer upon layer of dead leaves, like dying stars beneath his boots.
“Ye look like your mother in love, is all I mean. Exactly like her.”
Sage, Rosemary and Thyme
“What are you thinking?” I asked. “I know it’s about William.”
“Oh, aye?” He glanced at me, mouth curled up at one side. “And what do I look like if I’m thinking of William?”
“Like someone’s handed you a wrapped package and you’re not sure whether it’s something wonderful, or a bomb.”
That made him laugh, and he put an arm around me and pulled me in close, kissing my temple. He smelled of day-old linen, ink and hay, and the dribble of honey that had dried down the front of his shirt, like tiny amber beads.
“Aye, well, one look at the lad and ye ken he’ll explode before too long,” he said. “I only hope he doesna damage himself doing it.”
“Or you.”
He shrugged comfortably.
“I’m no very breakable, Sassenach.”
“Says the man with four—no, five bullet holes in his hide, to say nothing of enough surgical stitching to make a whole crazy quilt. And if we start counting the bones you’ve cracked or broken…”
“Ach, away—I’ve never broken anything important; just the odd finger. Maybe a rib, here or there.”
“And your sternum and your left kneecap.”
He made a dismissive Scottish noise, but didn’t argue.
We stood for a bit, arms about each other, listening to the sounds outside. The younger children had fallen asleep under bushes or in their parents’ wagons, their happy screeching replaced by music and the laughter of the dancers, the clapping and calls of those watching.
“He came to me,” Jamie said quietly. He was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but he’d stopped trying to hide what he was feeling.
“He did,” I said softly, and squeezed his arm.
“I suppose there wasna really anyone else he could go to,” he said, off-handed. “If he canna find his grace, I mean, and he couldna very well talk to anyone in the army, could he? Given that….” He stopped, a thought having struck him, and turned to me.
“D’ye think he knows, Sassenach?”
“Knows what?”
“About—what he said. The…threat to Lord John. I mean--” he elaborated, seeing my blank look, “does he ken that it’s no just a canard.”
“A—oh.” I stopped to consider for a moment, then shook my head with decision. “No. Almost certainly not. You saw his face when he told us about what Richardson was threatening. He’d still have been scared—maybe more scared, if he knew it wasn’t an empty threat—but he wouldn’t have looked the way he did.”
“Anxious? Angry?”
“Both. But anyone would be, wouldn’t they? Under the circumstances.”
“They would. And…determined, would ye say?”
“Stubborn,” I said promptly, and he laughed.
“A bomb for sure, then.”
The air had cooled with the setting of the sun. Now it was full dark and the mountain breathed, a lithe sense of spring in an air filled with night-blooming flowers and the resins of resting trees. It would be different on the coast. Still fresh, but strong with fish and seaweed, tar and wood and the tang of salt in everything.
I might have one more mountain night like this, maybe two or three, but likely not more. I breathed deep, resolved to enjoy it.
“When?” I asked.
“If it were up to William, we’d already be gone,” Jamie said, drawing me closer. “I told him I must think, but meanwhile, preparations would be made; no time will be wasted. “ He glanced toward the window. With luck, Brianna and Roger Mac will have him drunk by now; he’ll sleep sound. He kens he’s safe,” he added, softly. “Or I hope so, at least.”
“I’m sure that he does,” I said, also softly, and rubbed his back, the scars invisible under his shirt. His children, his grandchildren. If only for a moment, here, together, in the place he had made.
There was a break in the music, though the air was still full of talk and laughter. That died down now, though, and there were a few moments of silence before the faint sounds of a guitar drifted up from the distant bonfire. Then two voices, one rough and one smooth, weaving a song.
Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…
My heart squeezed tight and so did my throat. I’d never heard Bree and Roger sing together. They must have done this before, though, in private; perhaps as an exercise to strengthen Roger’s voice.
We stood in silence ‘til the song was over, listening to magic. I looked up at Jamie’s face, soft in the candlelight, his eyes far away. He didn’t hear music, as such, but I knew he felt the song anyway.
William and Davy
A piercing scream stopped Brianna in mid-word. At once, she detached the infant from her person and pushed him into William’s arms.
“Here,” she said, and disappeared in a rustle of skirts. He heard her footsteps, irregular thuds suggesting that she was taking the porch stairs two or three at a time, and then her distant voice inside the house, upraised in adjuration. He looked down at the warm bundle, and carefully readjusted it so that the child rested—face up—in the crook of his elbow.
The little boy was smacking his milky lips in a thoughtful sort of way, as though curious as to the sudden change in his circumstances, but didn’t seem to object to them.
“Hullo,” he said, tentatively. The infant’s round eyes narrowed suddenly. The little body stiffened and a sharp smell of fresh pee made William hold the baby hastily out at arm’s length, then squat and lay David on the grass before anything else happened. Something else promptly did, and the child turned purple and began shrieking.
“Really?” William said. “Come now, we scarcely know one another.” A quick glance at the house revealed a complete absence of Brianna or any other woman who might be helpful, and the muffled shouting inside suggested that no one was likely to appear very soon. He rubbed a finger under his nose, then shrugged and set about gingerly removing the infant’s napkin, which was wet and filled with a sweetish smelling, mustard-like substance, sufficient in quantity as to have leaked down the baby’s legs.
The blanket was wet in spots, but not filthy, and he used it to clean the tiny privates and legs. The shirt had suffered somewhat in the eruption, and he managed to roll this up and edge it gingerly over the child’s head without getting too much shit on either of them. David had quit yelling by this point, and kicked his little bandy legs with enthusiasm.
“Better, yes?” William asked, smiling down at him. “Yes, I think so, too. What the devil am I to put on you, though?”
Davy—yes, that’s what his sister called the baby—was a good deal younger than Trevor had been the first time William had met him, but the sensation of something at once very fragile and yet amazingly solid—very male--brought back immediate memories of Amaranthus’s son—and Amaranthus.
William blew out his breath and drew it in again, slowly, trying to ease the sudden knot in the pit of his stomach.
“Where are you?” he said softly to the mountain air. “And what are you doing?”
_What have you done_? This thought came on the heels of the first, and he shook his head violently, in hopes of dislodging it. Pressing his lips together, he pulled a large—and only slightly used—handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out.
“Better than nothing,” he said to Davy. “Must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?”
Excerpt Rachel's pregnant
I have just finished book 9 so these excerpts from book 10 are nice nuggets of what to expect.
ReplyDeleteEnchanting, engaging all the senses, like all of Ms. Gabaldon’s work. I don’t like the waiting but know it will be worth it!
ReplyDeleteWhen Claire received the duke's note and answered it she talked about it to Jamie and he read her answer, so he should be able to remember the occasion only a year later! Their dialogue abuot it sounds a bit surprising!
DeleteI’m so looking forward to book 10. I hope it doesn’t take as long as book 9 but whatever, I will devour it when it’s finished. J’ai tellement apprécié cette série! I wasn’t aware of Outlander until the tv show aired and I immediately purchased all eight that were available at the time. I read them one after the other and was transported to another time, that was so rich in detail I felt I could see it. Thank you !
ReplyDeleteCannot wait for more😁👍
ReplyDeleteI hope I live long enough for Book 10. I am older and in failing health. I have read all 9 three times. I so love the relationships and their stories.
ReplyDelete