A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [137]
She nodded, but the shadow still lay on her face, her lower lip tucked in.
“Aye, it’s only . . .” she began, then trailed off.
I sat patiently, careful not to push her. She wanted—needed—to talk. And I needed to hear it, before deciding what—or if—to tell Jamie. There was something going on between her and Fergus, that was sure.
“I . . . was just thinking of it now, whilst I was shoveling. I wouldna have done it, I don’t think, only it minded me so much . . . it was only I felt as though it was the same again. . . .”
“The same as what?” I asked, when it became clear that she had trailed off.
“I spilt the milk,” she said, all in a rush. “When I was a wean. I was hungry, and I reached to pull the jug, and it spilled.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. And he shouted.” Her shoulders hunched a little, as though in memory of a blow.
“Who shouted?”
“I dinna ken, for sure. It might ha’ been my father, Hugh—but it might have been Simon—Mam’s second husband. I dinna really remember—only bein’ so scairt that I wet myself, and that made him angrier.” Color flamed in her face, and her toes curled with shame.
“My mother cried, for it was all the food there was, a bit o’ bread and milk, and now the milk was gone—but he shouted that he couldna bear the noise, for Joan and I were both howling, too . . . and then he slapped my face, and Mam went for him bald-heided, and he pushed her so she fell against the hearth and smacked her face on the chimney—I could see the blood running from her nose.”
She sniffed and brushed a knuckle under her own nose, blinking, her eyes still fixed on the leaves.
“He stamped out, then, slammin’ the door, and Joanie and I rushed up to Mam, both shriekin’ our heids off, for we thought she was deid . . . but she got up onto her hands and knees and told us it was all right, it would be all right—and her swayin’ to and fro, with her cap fallen off and strings of bloody snot dripping from her face onto the floor . . . I’d forgot that. But when Fergus started shouting at poor wee Joanie . . . ’twas like he was Simon. Or maybe Hugh. Him, whoever he was.” She closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh, leaning forward so her arms cradled the burden of her pregnancy.
I reached out and smoothed the damp strings of hair out of her face, brushing them back from her rounded brow.
“You miss your mother, don’t you?” I said softly. For the first time, I felt some sympathy for her mother, Laoghaire, as well as for Marsali.
“Oh, aye,” Marsali said simply. “Something terrible.” She sighed again, closing her eyes as she leaned her cheek against my hand. I drew her head against me, holding her, and stroked her hair in silence.
It was late afternoon, and the shadows lay long, cold in the oak wood. The heat had left her now, and she shivered briefly in the cooling air, a stipple of gooseflesh coming up on her fine-boned arms.
“Here,” I said, standing up and swinging the cloak off my shoulders. “Put this on. You don’t want to take a chill.”
“Ah, no, it’s all right.” She straightened up, shaking back her hair, and wiped her face with the back of a hand. “There’s no but a bit more to do here, and then I’ve got to be going home and making up the supper—”
“I’ll do it,” I said firmly, and tucked the cloak around her shoulders. “You rest a bit.”
The air inside the tiny shed was ripe enough to make one light-headed, all by itself, thick with the fecund musk of sprouting grain and the fine sharp dust of barley hulls. The warmth was welcoming after the chill of the air outside, but within moments, my skin was damp beneath dress and shift, and I pulled the gown off over my head and hung it on a nail by the door.
No matter; she was right, there wasn’t much to be done. The work would keep me warm, and then I would walk home with Marsali straightaway. I would make supper for the family, letting her rest—and while I was about it, I’d perhaps have a word with Fergus and discover more about what was going on.
Fergus could have been making the supper, I thought, frowning as I dug into the dim heaps of sticky grain. Not that he would think