A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [291]
“What d’ye think your father will do,” he inquired, swishing his stick casually through a patch of toadflax, “once ye’ve wed and left his house? Is there a woman he might consider? He’d need someone to do for him, I expect.”
Her lips tightened at that, to his interest, and a faint flush rose in her cheeks.
“I dinna mean to be wed anytime soon, sir. We’ll manage well enough.”
Her answer was short enough to cause him to probe a bit.
“No? Surely ye’ve suitors, lass—the lads swoon after ye in droves; I’ve seen them.”
The flush on her skin bloomed brighter.
“Please, sir, ye’ll say no such thing to my faither!”
That rang a small alarm bell in him—but then, she might mean only that Tom Christie was a strict parent, vigilant of his daughter’s virtue. And he would have been astonished to the marrow to learn that Christie was soft, indulgent, or in any way delinquent in such responsibilities.
“I shall not,” he said mildly. “I was only teasin’, lass. Is your father sae fierce, then?”
She did look at him then, very direct.
“Thought ye kent him, sir.”
He burst out laughing at that, and after a moment’s hesitation, she joined him, with a small titter like the sound of the wee birds in the trees above.
“I do,” he said, recovering. “He’s a good man, Tom—if a bit dour.”
He looked to see the effect of this. Her face was still flushed, but there was a tiny residual smile on her lips. That was good.
“Well, so,” he resumed casually, “have ye enough of the woodears there?” He nodded at her basket. “I saw a good many yesterday, up near the Green Spring.”
“Oh, did ye?” She glanced up, interested. “Where?”
“I’m headed that way,” he said “Come if ye like, I’ll show ye.”
They made their way along the Ridge, talking of inconsequent things. He led her now and then back to the subject of her father, and noted that she seemed to have no reservations concerning him—only a prudent regard for his foibles and temper.
“Your brother, then,” he said thoughtfully, at one point. “Is he content, d’ye think? Or will he be wanting to leave, maybe go down to the coast? I ken he’s no really a farmer at heart, is he?”
She snorted a bit, but shook her head.
“No, sir, that he’s not.”
“What did he do, then? I mean, he grew up on a plantation, did he not?”
“Oh, no, sir.” She looked up at him, surprised. “He grew up in Edinburgh. We both did.”
He was taken back a bit at that. It was true, both she and Allan had an educated accent, but he had thought it only that Christie was a schoolmaster, and strict of such things.
“How is that, lass? Tom said he’d married here, in the Colonies.”
“Oh, so he did, sir,” she assured him hastily. “But his wife was not a bond servant; she went back to Scotland.”
“I see,” he said mildly, seeing her face grow much pinker and her lips press tight. Tom had said his wife had died—well, and he supposed she had, but in Scotland, after she’d left him. Proud as Christie was, he could hardly wonder that the man hadn’t confessed to his wife’s desertion. But—
“Is it true, sir, that your grandsire was Lord Lovat? Him they called the Old Fox?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, smiling. “I come from a long line of traitors, thieves, and bastards, ken?”
She laughed at that, and very prettily urged him to tell her more of his sordid family history—quite obviously, as a means of avoiding his asking more questions regarding hers.
The “but” lingered in his mind, though, even as they talked, with increasing desultoriness as they climbed through the dark, scented forest.
But. Tom Christie had been arrested two or three days after the Battle of Culloden, and imprisoned for the next ten years, before being transported to America. He did not know Malva’s exact age, but he thought she must be eighteen or so—though she often seemed older, her manner was so poised.
She must have been conceived, then, quite soon after Christie’s arrival in the Colonies. No great wonder, if the man had seized the first chance he had to marry, after living without a woman for so long. And then the wife had thought better of her bargain,