Dragonfly in Amber (83 page)

And so far, Charles had succeeded. From the Highland grapevine, we learned that he had landed at Eriskay, crossed to Glenfinnan, and there waited, accompanied only by several large casks of brandywine, to see whether the clans would answer the call to his standard. And after what must have been several nerve-racking hours, three hundred men of clan Cameron had come down the defiles of the steep green hills, led not by their chieftain, who was away from his home—but by his sister, Jenny Cameron.

The Camerons had been the first, but they had been joined by others, as the Bill of Association showed.

If Charles should now proceed to disaster, despite all efforts, then how many men of Lallybroch could be spared, left at home to save something from the wreck?

Ian himself would be safe; that much was sure, and some balm to Jamie's spirit. But the others—the sixty families who lived on Lallybroch? Choosing who would go and who would stay must seem in some lights like choosing men for sacrifice. I had seen commanders before; the men whom war forced to make such choices—and I knew what it cost them.

Jamie had done it—he had no choice—but on two matters he had held firm; no women would accompany his troop, and no lads under eighteen years of age would go. Ian had looked mildly surprised at this—while most women with young children would normally stay behind, it was far from unusual for Highland wives to follow their men to battle, cooking and caring for them, and sharing the army's rations. And the lads, who considered themselves men at fourteen, would be grossly humiliated at being omitted from the tally. But Jamie had given his orders in a tone that brooked no argument, and Ian, after a moment's hesitation, had merely nodded and written them down.

I hadn't wanted to ask him, in the presence of Ian and Jenny, whether his ban on womenfolk was intended to include me. Because, whether it was or not, I was going with him, and that, I thought, was bloody all about it.

"Leave you behind?" he said now, and I saw his mouth curl into a sideways grin. "D'ye think I'd stand a chance of it?"

"No," I said, snuggling next to him in sudden relief. "You wouldn't. But I thought you might think about it."

He gave a small snort, and drew me down, head on his shoulder. "Oh, aye. And if I thought I could leave ye, I'd chain ye to the banister; not much else would stop ye." I could feel his head shake above me, in negation. "No. I must take ye wi' me, Sassenach, whether I will or no. There are things you'll maybe know along the way—even if they dinna seem like anything now, they may later. And you're a rare fine healer, Sassenach—I canna deny the men your skill, and it be needed."

His hand patted my shoulder, and he sighed. "I would give anything, mo duinne, could I leave ye here safe, but I cannot. So you will go with me—you and Fergus."

"Fergus?" I was surprised by this. "But I thought you wouldn't take any of the younger lads!"

He sighed again, and I put my hand flat on the center of his chest, where his heart beat beneath the small hollow, slow and steady.

"Well, Fergus is a bit different. The other lads—I willna take them, because they belong here; if it all goes to smash, they'll be left to keep their families from starving, to work the fields and tend beasts. They'll likely need to grow up fast, if it happens, but at least they'll be here to do it. But Fergus…this isna his place, Sassenach. Nor is France, or I would send him back. But he has no place there, either."

"His place is with you," I said softly, understanding. "Like mine."

He was silent for a long time, then his hand squeezed me gently.

"Aye, that's so," he said quietly. "Sleep now, mo duinne, it's late."

The fretful wail pulled me toward the surface of wakefulness for the third time. Baby Katherine was teething, and didn't care who knew it. From their room down the hall, I heard Ian's sleepy mumble, and Jenny's higher voice, resigned, as she got out of bed and went to soothe the infant.

Then I heard the soft, heavy footfalls in the corridor, and realized that Jamie, still wakeful, was walking barefoot through the house.

"Jenny?" His voice, low-pitched to avoid disturbance, was still plainly audible in the creaking silence of the manor house,

"I heard the wee lassie greetin'," he said. "If she canna sleep, neither can I, but you can. If she's fed and dry, perhaps we can bear each other company for a bit, while you go back to your bed."

Jenny smothered a yawn, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Jamie dear, you're a mother's blessing. Aye, she's full as a drum, and a dry clout on her this minute. Take her, and I wish ye joy of each other." A door closed, and I heard the heavy footfall again, heading back toward our room, and the low murmur of Jamie's voice as he muttered soothingly to the baby.

I snuggled deeper into the comfort of the goose-down bed and turned toward sleep again, hearing with half an ear the baby's whining, interspersed with hiccuping sobs, and Jamie's deep, tuneless humming, the sound as comforting as the thought of beehives in the sun.

"Eh, wee Kitty, ciamar a tha thu? Much, mo naoidheachan, much."

The sound of them went up and down the passage, and I dropped further toward sleep, but kept half-wakeful on purpose to hear them. One day perhaps he would hold his own child so, small round head cradled in the big hands, small solid body cupped and held firm against his shoulder. And thus he would sing to his own daughter, a tuneless song, a warm, soft chant in the dark.

The constant small ache in my heart was submerged in a flood of tenderness. I had conceived once; I could do so again. Faith had given me the gift of that knowledge, Jamie the courage and means to use it. My hands rested lightly on my breasts, cupping the deep swell of them, knowing beyond doubt that one day they would nourish the child of my heart. I drifted into sleep with the sound of Jamie's singing in my ears.

Sometime later I drifted near the surface again, and opened my eyes to the light-filled room. The moon had risen, full and beaming, and all the objects in the room were plainly visible, in that flat, two-dimensional way of things seen without shadow.

The baby had quieted, but I could hear Jamie's voice in the hall, still speaking, but much more quietly, hardly more than a murmur. And the tone of it had changed; it wasn't the rhythmic, half-nonsense way one talks to babies, but the broken, halting speech of a man seeking the way through the wilderness of his own heart.

Curious, I slipped out of bed and crept quietly to the door. I could see them there at the end of the hall. Jamie sat leaning back against the side of the window seat, wearing only his shirt. His bare legs were raised, forming a back against which small Katherine Mary rested as she sat facing him in his lap, her own chubby legs kicking restlessly over his stomach.

The baby's face was blank and light as the moon's, her eyes dark pools absorbing his words. He traced the curve of her cheek with one finger, again and again, whispering with heartbreaking gentleness.

He spoke in Gaelic, and so low that I could not have told what he said, even had I known the words. But the whispering voice was thick, and the moonlight from the casement behind him showed the tracks of the tears that slid unregarded down his own cheeks.

It was not a scene that bore intrusion. I came back to the still-warm bed, holding in my mind the picture of the laird of Lallybroch, half-naked in the moonlight, pouring out his heart to an unknown future, holding in his lap the promise of his blood.

When I woke in the morning, there was a warm, unfamiliar scent next to me, and something tangled in my hair. I opened my eyes to find Katherine Mary's rosebud lips smacking dreamily an inch from my nose, her fat fingers clutched in the hair above my left ear. I cautiously disengaged myself, and she stirred, but flopped over onto her stomach, drew her knees up and went back to sleep.

Jamie was lying on the other side of the child, face half-buried in his pillow. He opened one eye, clear blue as the morning sky.

"Good morning, Sassenach," he said, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the small sleeper. He smiled at me as I sat up in bed. "Ye looked verra sweet, the two of you, asleep face-to-face like that."

I ran a hand through my tangled hair, and smiled myself at Kitty's upturned bottom, jutting absurdly into the air.

"That doesn't look at all comfortable," I observed. "But she's still asleep, so it can't be that bad. How late were you up with her last night? I didn't hear you come to bed."

He yawned and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it away from his face. There were shadows under his eyes, but he seemed peacefully content.

"Oh, some time. Before moonset, at least. I didna want to wake Jenny by taking the wean back to her, so I laid her in the bed between us, and she didna twitch once, the rest of the night."

The baby was kneading the mattress with elbows and knees, rootling in the bedclothes with a low grunting noise. It must be close to time for her morning feed. This supposition was borne out in the next moment, when she raised her head, eyes still tight shut, and let out a healthy howl. I reached hastily for her and picked her up.

"There-there-there," I soothed, patting the straining little back. I swung my legs out of bed, then reached back and patted Jamie on the head. The rough bright hair was warm under my hand.

"I'll take her to Jenny," I said. "It's early yet; you sleep some more."

"I may do that, Sassenach," Jamie said, flinching at the noise. "I'll see ye at breakfast, shall I?" He rolled onto his back, crossed his hands on his chest in his favorite sleeping posture, and was breathing deeply again by the time Katherine Mary and I had reached the door.

The baby squirmed vigorously, rooting for a nipple and squawking in frustration when none was immediately forthcoming. Hurrying along the hall, I met Jenny, hurrying out of her bedroom in response to her offspring's cries, pulling on a green dressing gown as she came. I held out the baby, waving little fists in urgent demand.

"There, mo mùirninn, hush now, hush," Jenny soothed. With a cock of the eyebrow in invitation, she took the child from me and turned back into her room.

I followed her in and sat on the rumpled bed as she sat down on a nursing stool by the hearth and hastily bared one breast. The yowling little mouth clamped at once on to a nipple and we all relaxed in relief as sudden silence descended.

"Ah," Jenny sighed. Her shoulders slumped a fraction as the flow of milk started. "That's better, my wee piggie, no?" She opened her eyes and smiled at me, eyes clear and blue as her brother's.

" 'Twas kind of ye to keep the lassie all night; I slept like the dead."

I shrugged, smiling at the picture of mother and child, relaxed together in total content. The curve of the baby's head exactly echoed the high, round curve of Jenny's breast and small, slurping noises came from the little bundle as her body sagged against her mother's, fitting easily into the curve of Jenny's lap.

"It was Jamie, not me," I said. "He and his niece seem to have got on well together." The picture of them came back to me, Jamie talking in earnest, low tones to the child, tears slipping down his face.

Jenny nodded, watching my face.

"Aye. I thought perhaps they'd comfort each other a bit. He doesna sleep well these days?" Her voice held a question.

"No," I answered softly. "He has a lot on his mind."

"Well he might," she said, glancing at the bed behind me. Ian was gone already, risen at dawn to see to the stock in the barn. The horses that could be spared from the farming—and some that couldn't—needed shoeing, needed harness, in preparation for their journey to rebellion.

"You can talk to a babe, ye ken," she said suddenly, breaking into my thought. "Really talk, I mean. Ye can tell them anything, no matter how foolish it would sound did ye say it to a soul could understand ye."

"Oh. You heard him, then?" I asked. She nodded, eyes on the curve of Katherine's cheek, where the tiny dark lashes lay against the fair skin, eyes closed in ecstasy.

"Aye. Ye shouldna worrit yourself," she added, smiling gently at me. "It isna that he feels he canna talk to you; he knows he can. But it's different to talk to a babe that way. It's a person; ye ken that you're not alone. But they dinna ken your words, and ye don't worry a bit what they'll think of ye, or what they may feel they must do. You can pour out your heart to them wi'out choosing your words, or keeping anything back at all—and that's a comfort to the soul."

She spoke matter-of-factly, as though this were something that everyone knew. I wondered whether she spoke that way often to her child. The generous wide mouth, so like her brother's, lifted slightly at one side.

"It's the way ye talk to them before they're born," she said softly. "You'll know?"

I placed my hands gently over my belly, one atop the other, remembering.

"Yes, I know."

She pressed a thumb against the baby's cheek, breaking the suction, and with a deft movement, shifted the small body to bring the full breast within reach.

"I've thought that perhaps that's why women are so often sad, once the child's born," she said meditatively, as though thinking aloud. "Ye think of them while ye talk, and you have a knowledge of them as they are inside ye, the way you think they are. And then they're born, and they're different—not the way ye thought of them inside, at all. And ye love them, o' course, and get to know them the way they are…but still, there's the thought of the child ye once talked to in your heart, and that child is gone. So I think it's the grievin' for the child unborn that ye feel, even as ye hold the born one in your arms." She dipped her head and kissed her daughter's downy skull.

"Yes," I said. "Before…it's all possibility. It might be a son, or a daughter. A plain child, a bonny one. And then it's born, and all the things it might have been are gone, because now it is."

She rocked gently back and forth, and the small clutching hand that seized the folds of green silk over her breast began to loose its grip.

"And a daughter is born, and the son that she might have been is dead," she said quietly. "And the bonny lad at your breast has killed the wee lassie ye thought ye carried. And ye weep for what you didn't know, that's gone for good, until you know the child you have, and then at last it's as though they could never have been other than they are, and ye feel naught but joy in them. But 'til then, ye weep easy."