One eye opened a slit and looked up at me. I stroked the heavy damp hair off his brow. The scent of ale and whisky hung about him like perfume.
"You are going to feel exactly like hell when you wake up in Scotland," I told him.
The other eye opened, and regarded the dancing waves of light reflected across the timbered ceiling. Then they fixed on me, deep pools of limpid blue.
"Between hell now, and hell later, Sassenach," he said, his speech measured and precise, "I will take later, every time." His eyes closed. He belched softly, once, and the long body relaxed, rocked at ease on the cradle of the deep.
The horses seemed as eager as we; sensing the nearness of stables and food, they began to push the pace a bit, heads up and ears cocked forward in anticipation.
I was just reflecting that I could do with a wash and a bite to eat, myself, when my horse, slightly in the lead, dug in its feet and came to a slithering halt, hooves buried fetlock deep in the reddish dust. The mare shook her head violently from side to side, snorting and whooshing.
"Hey, lass, what's amiss? Got a bee up your nose?" Jamie swung down from his own mount and hurried to grab the gray mare's bridle. Feeling the broad back shiver and twitch beneath me, I slid down as well.
"Whatever is the matter with her?" I gazed curiously at the horse, which was pulling backward against Jamie's grip on the bridle, shaking her mane, with eyes bugging. The other horses, as though infected by her unease, began to stamp and shift as well.
Jamie glanced briefly over his shoulder at the empty road.
"She sees something."
Fergus raised himself in his shortened stirrups and shaded his eyes, staring over the mare's back. Lowering his hand, he looked at me and shrugged.
I shrugged back; there seemed to be nothing whatever to cause the mare's distress—the road and the fields lay vacant all around us, grain-heads ripening and drying in the late summer sun. The nearest grove of trees was more than a hundred yards away, beyond a small heap of stones that might have been the remnants of a tumbled chimneystack. Wolves were almost unheard of in cleared land like this, and surely no fox or badger would disturb a horse at this distance.
Giving up the attempt to coax the mare forward, Jamie led her in a half-circle; she went willingly enough, back in the direction we had come.
He motioned to Murtagh to lead the other horses out of the way, then swung himself into the saddle, and leaning forward, one hand clutched in the mare's mane, urged her slowly forward, speaking softly in her ear. She came hesitantly, but without resistance, until she reached the point of her previous stopping. There she halted again and stood shivering, and nothing would persuade her to move a step farther.
"All right, then," said Jamie, resigned. "Have it your way." He turned the horse's head and led her into the field, the yellow grain-heads brushing the shaggy hairs of her belly. We rustled after them, the horses bending their necks to snatch a mouthful of grain here and there as we passed through the field.
As we rounded a small granite outcrop just below the crest of the hill, I heard a brief warning bark just ahead. We emerged onto the road to find a black and white shepherd dog on guard, head up and tail stiff as he kept a wary eye on us.
He uttered another short yap, and a matching black and white figure shot out of a clump of alders, followed more slowly by a tall, slender figure wrapped in a brown hunting plaid.
"Ian!"
"Jamie!"
Jamie tossed the mare's reins back to me, and met his brother-in-law in the middle of the road, where the two men clutched each other round the shoulders, laughing and pounding each other on the back. Released from suspicion, the dogs frolicked happily around them, tails wagging, darting aside now and then to sniff at the legs of the horses.
"We didna expect ye 'til tomorrow at the earliest," Ian was saying, his long, homely face beaming.
"We had a good wind crossing," Jamie explained. "Or at least Claire tells me we did; I wasna taking much notice, myself." He cast a glance back at me, grinning, and Ian came up to grasp my hand.
"Good-sister," he said in formal greeting. Then he smiled, the warmth of it lighting his soft brown eyes. "Claire." Impulsively, he kissed my fingers, and I squeezed his hand.
"Jenny's gone daft wi' cleaning and cooking," he said, still smiling at me. "You'll be lucky to have a bed to sleep in tonight; she's got all the mattresses outside, being beaten."
"After three nights in the heather, I wouldn't mind sleeping on the floor," I assured him. "Are Jenny and the children all well?"
"Oh, aye. She's breeding again," he added. "Due in February."
"Again?" Jamie and I spoke together, and a rich blush rose in Ian's lean cheeks.
"God, man, wee Maggie's less than a year old," Jamie said, with a censorious c*ck of one brow. "Have ye no sense of restraint?"
"Me?" Ian said indignantly. "Ye think I had anything to do with it?"
"Well, if ye didn't, I should think ye'd be interested in who did," Jamie said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
The blush deepened to a rich rose color, contrasting nicely with Ian's smooth brown hair. "Ye know damn well what I mean," he said. "I slept on the trundle bed wi' Young Jamie for two months, but then Jenny…"
"Oh, you're saying my sister's a wanton, eh?"
"I'm saying she's as stubborn as her brother when it comes to getting what she wants," Ian said. He feinted to one side, dodged neatly back and landed a blow in the pit of Jamie's stomach. Jamie doubled over, laughing.
"Just as well I've come home, then," he said. "I'll help ye keep her under control."
"Oh, aye?" Ian said skeptically. "I'll call all the tenants to watch."
"Lost a few sheep, have ye?" Jamie changed the subject with a gesture that took in the dogs and Ian's long crook, dropped in the dust of the roadway.
"Fifteen yows and a ram," Ian said, nodding. "Jenny's own flock of merinos, that she keeps for the special wool. The ram's a right bastard; broke down the gate. I thought they might have been in the grain up here, but nay sign o' them."
"We didn't see them up above," I said.
"Oh, they wouldna be up there," Ian said, waving a dismissive hand. "None o' the beasts will go past the cottage."
"Cottage?" Fergus, growing impatient with this exchange of civilities, had kicked his mount up alongside mine. "I saw no cottage, milord. Only a pile of stones."
"That's all that's left of MacNab's cottage, laddie," said Ian. He squinted up at Fergus, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. "And ye'd be well-advised to keep away from there yourself."
The hair prickled on the back of my neck, despite the heat of the day. Ronald MacNab was the tenant who had betrayed Jamie to the men of the Watch a year before, the man who had died for his treachery within a day of its being found out. Died, I remembered, among the ashes of his home, burned over his head by the men of Lallybroch. The pile of chimneystones, so innocent when we had passed them a moment ago, had now the grim look of a cairn. I swallowed, forcing back the bitter taste that rose at the back of my throat.
"MacNab?" Jamie said softly. His expression was at once alert. "Ronnie MacNab?"
I had told Jamie of MacNab's betrayal, and his death, but I hadn't told him the means of it.
Ian nodded. "Aye. He died there, the night the English took ye, Jamie. The thatch must ha' caught from a spark, and him too far gone in drink to get out in time." He met Jamie's eyes straight on, all teasing gone.
"Ah? And his wife and child?" Jamie's look was the same as Ian's; cool and inscrutable.
"Safe. Mary MacNab's kitchen-maid at the house, and Rabbie works in the stables." Ian glanced involuntarily over his shoulder in the direction of the ruined cottage. "Mary comes up here now and again; she's the only one on the place will go there."
"Was she fond of him, then?" Jamie had turned to look in the direction of the cottage, so his face was hidden from me, but there was tension in the line of his back.
Ian shrugged. "I shouldna think so. A drunkard, and vicious with it, was Ronnie; not even his auld mother had much use for him. No, I think Mary feels it her duty to pray for his soul—much good it'll do him," he added.
"Ah." Jamie paused a moment as though in thought, then tossed his horse's reins over its neck and turned up the hill.
"Jamie," I said, but he was already walking back up the road, toward the small clearing beside the grove. I handed the reins I was holding to a surprised Fergus.
"Stay here with the horses," I said. "I have to go with him." Ian moved to come with me, but Murtagh stopped him with a shake of the head, and I went on alone, following Jamie up over the crest of the hill.
He had the long, tireless stride of a hill-walker, and had reached the small clearing before I caught him up. He stood at the edge of what had been the outer wall. The square shape of the cottage's earth floor was still barely visible, the new growth that covered it sparser than the nearby barley, greener and wild in the shade of the trees.
There was little trace of the fire left; a few chunks of charred wood poked through the grass near the stone hearth that lay open now, flat and exposed as a tombstone. Careful not to step within the outlines of the vanished walls, Jamie began to walk around the clearing. He circled the hearthstone three times, walking always widdershins, left, and left, and left again, to confound any evil that might follow.
I stood to one side and watched. This was a private confrontation, but I couldn't leave him to face it alone, and though he didn't glance at me, still I knew he was glad of my presence.
At last he stopped by the fallen pile of stones. Reaching out, he laid a hand gingerly on it and closed his eyes for a moment, as though in prayer. Then, stooping, he picked up a stone the size of his fist, and placed it carefully on the pile, as though it might weigh down the uneasy soul of the ghost. He crossed himself, turned and came toward me with a firm, unhurried step.
"Don't look back," he said quietly, taking me by the arm as we turned toward the road.
I didn't.
Jamie, Fergus, and Murtagh went with Ian and the dogs in search of the sheep, leaving me to take the string of horses down to the house alone. I was far from being an accomplished horse-handler, but thought I could manage half a mile, so long as nothing popped out at me unexpectedly.
This was very different from our first homecoming to Lallybroch; then, we had been in flight, both of us. Me from the future, Jamie from his past. Our residence then had been happy, but tenuous and insecure; always there was the chance of discovery, of Jamie's arrest. Now, thanks to the Duke of Sandringham's intervention, Jamie had come to take possession of his birthright, and I, my lawful place beside him as his wife.
Then, we had arrived disheveled, unexpected, a violent disruption in the household. This time, we had come announced, with due ceremony, bearing presents from France. While I was sure our reception would be cordial, I did wonder how Ian and Jamie's sister Jenny would take our permanent return. After all, they had lived as master and mistress of the estate for the last several years, ever since the death of Jamie's father, and the disastrous events that had precipitated him into a life of outlawry and exile.
I topped the last hill without incident, and the manor house and its outbuildings lay below me, slate roofs darkening as the first banks of rain clouds rolled in. Suddenly, my mare started, and so did I, struggling to keep a hold on the reins as she curvetted and plunged in alarm.
Not that I could blame her; from around the corner of the house had emerged two huge, puffy objects, rolling along the ground like overweight clouds.
"Stop that!" I shouted "Whoa!" All the horses were now swerving and pulling, and I was inches away from a stampede. Fine homecoming, I thought, if I let all Jamie's new breeding stock break their collective legs.
One of the clouds rose slightly, then sank flat to the ground, and Jenny Fraser Murray, released from the burden of the feather mattress she had been carrying, raced for the road, dark curls flying.
Without a moment's hesitation, she leaped for the bridle of the nearest animal, and jerked down, hard.
"Whoa!" she said. The horse, obviously recognizing the voice of authority, did whoa. With a little effort, the other horses were calmed, and by the time I could slide down from my saddle, we had been joined by another woman and a boy of nine or ten, who lent an experienced hand with the remaining beasts.
I recognized young Rabbie MacNab, and deduced that the woman must be his mother, Mary. The bustle and shuffle of horses, bundles and mattresses precluded much conversation, but I had time for a quick hug of greeting with Jenny. She smelled of cinnamon and honey and the clean sweat of exertion, with an undertone of baby-scent, that paradoxical smell composed of spit-up milk, soft feces, and the ultimate cleanliness of fresh, smooth skin.
We clung together for a moment, hugging tight, remembering our last embrace, when we had parted on the edge of a night-dark wood—me to go in search of Jamie, she to return to a newborn daughter.
"How's little Maggie?" I asked, breaking away at last.
Jenny made a face, wryness mingled with pride. "She's just walking, and the terror o' the house." She glanced up the empty road. "Met Ian, did ye?"
"Yes, Jamie, Murtagh, and Fergus went with him to find the sheep."
"Better them than us," she said, with a quick gesture toward the sky. "It's coming on to rain any minute. Let Rabbie stable the horses and you come lend a hand wi' the mattresses, or we'll all sleep wet tonight."
A frenzy of activity ensued, but when the rain came, Jenny and I were snug in the parlor, undoing the parcels we had brought from France, and admiring the size and precocity of wee Maggie, a sprightly miss of some ten months, with round blue eyes and a head of strawberry fuzz, and her elder brother, Young Jamie, a sturdy almost-four-year-old. The impending arrival was no more than a tiny bulge beneath their mother's apron, but I saw her hand rest tenderly there from time to time, and felt a small pang to see it.
"You mentioned Fergus," Jenny said, as we talked. "Who's that?"
"Oh, Fergus? He's—well, he's—" I hesitated, not sure quite how to describe Fergus. A pickpocket's prospects for employment on a farm seemed limited. "He's Jamie's," I said at last.
"Oh, aye? Well, I suppose he can sleep in the stable," said Jenny, resigned. "Speaking of Jamie"—she glanced at the window, where the rain was streaming down—"I hope they find those sheep soon. I've a good dinner planned, and I dinna want it to spoil with keeping."
In fact, darkness had fallen, and Mary MacNab had laid the table before the men returned. I watched her at her work; a small, fine-boned woman with dark-brown hair and a faintly worried look that faded into a smile when Rabbie returned from the stables and went to the kitchen, hungrily asking when dinner would be.
"When the men are back, mo luaidh," she said, "Ye know that. Go and wash, so you'll be ready."
When the men finally did appear, they seemed a good deal more in need of a wash than did Rabbie. Rain-soaked, draggled, and muddy to the knees, they trailed slowly into the parlor. Ian unwound the wet plaid from his shoulders and hung it over the firescreen, where it dripped and steamed in the heat of the fire. Fergus, worn out by his abrupt introduction to farm life, simply sat down where he was and stared numbly at the floor between his legs.
Jenny looked up at the brother she had not seen for nearly a year. Glancing from his rain-drenched hair to his mud-crusted feet, she pointed to the door.
"Outside, and off wi' your boots," she said firmly. "And if ye've been in the high field, remember to piss on the doorposts on your way back in. That's how ye keep a ghost from comin' in the house," she explained to me in a lowered tone, with a quick look at the door through which Mary MacNab had disappeared to fetch the dinner.
Jamie, slumped into a chair, opened one eye and gave his sister a dark-blue look.
"I land in Scotland near dead wi' the crossing, ride for four days over the hills to get here, and when I arrive, I canna even come in the house for a drop to wet my parched throat; instead I'm off through the mud, huntin' lost sheep. And once I do get here, ye want to send me out in the dark again to piss on doorposts. Tcha!" He closed the eye again, crossed his hands across his stomach, and sank lower in his chair, a study in stubborn negation.
"Jamie, my dearie," his sister said sweetly. "D'ye want your dinner, or shall I feed it to the dogs?"
He remained motionless for a long moment, eyes closed. Then, with a hissing sigh of resignation, he got laboriously to his feet. With a moody twitch of his shoulder, he summoned Ian and the two of them turned, following Murtagh, who was already out the door. As he passed, Jamie reached down a long arm, hauled Fergus to his feet, and dragged the boy sleepily along.
"Welcome home," Jamie said morosely, and with a last wistful glance at fire and whisky, trudged out into the night once more.
31
MAIL CALL
After this inauspicious homecoming, matters rapidly improved. Lallybroch absorbed Jamie at once, as though he had never left, and I found myself pulled effortlessly into the current of farm life as well. It was an unsettled autumn, with frequent rain, but with fair, bright days that made the blood sing, too. The place bustled with life, everyone hurrying through the harvest time and the preparations that must be made for the coming winter.
Lallybroch was remote, even for a Highland farm. No real roads led there, but the post still reached us by messenger, over the crags and the heather-clad slopes, a connection with the world outside. It was a world that sometimes seemed unreal in memory, as though I had never danced among the mirrors of Versailles. But the letters brought back France, and reading them, I could see the poplar trees along the Rue Tremoulins, or hear the reverberating bong of the cathedral bell that hung above L'Hôpital des Anges.
Louise's child was born safely; a son. Her letters, rife with exclamations and underlinings, overflowed with besotted descriptions of the angelic Henri. Of his father, putative or real, there was no mention.
Charles Stuart's letter, arriving a month later, made no mention of the child, but according to Jamie, was even more incoherent than usual, seething with vague plans and grandiosities.
The Earl of Mar wrote soberly and circumspectly, but his general annoyance with Charles was clear. The Bonnie Prince was not behaving. He was rude and overbearing to his most loyal followers, ignored those who might be of help to him, insulted whom he should not, talked wildly, and—reading between the lines—drank to excess. Given the attitude of the times regarding alcoholic intake on the part of gentlemen, I thought Charles's performance must have been fairly spectacular, to occasion such comment. I supposed the birth of his son had not, in fact, escaped his notice.