A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [364]
He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help; he still felt giddy and light-headed, doubtless from the smoke.
“Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant,” he said, “and our bed is green. The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies.” He reached out and touched her, gently.
“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.”
“They are?”
“It’s in the Bible,” he assured her gravely. “It must be so, aye?”
“Tell me more about my navel,” she said, but before he could, he saw a small form bounding out of the woods and haring toward them. Aidan, now fishless and panting.
“Mrs. Ogil . . . vie says . . . come now!” he blurted. He gasped a little, recovering enough breath for the rest of the message. “The wean—she’s poorly, and they want her christened, in case she should die.”
Roger clapped a hand to his other side; The Book of Common Worship that they’d given him in Charlotte was a small, reassuring weight in his pocket.
“Can you?” Brianna was looking at him worriedly. “Catholics can—I mean, a lay person can baptize somebody if it’s an emergency.”
“Yes, in that case—yes,” he said, more breathless than he’d been a moment before. He glanced at Brianna, smudged with soot and dirt, her garments reeking of smoke and baked clay rather than myrrh and aloes.
“D’ye want to come?” He urgently wanted her to say yes.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she assured him, and discarding the filthy scarf, shook out her hair, bright as banners on the wind.
IT WAS THE OGILVIES’ first child, a tiny girl whom Brianna—with the experience of long motherhood—diagnosed as suffering from a vicious colic, but basically in good health. The frighteningly young parents—they both looked about fifteen—were pathetically grateful for everything: Brianna’s reassurances and advice, her offer to have Claire visit (for they were much too scared to think of approaching the laird’s wife themselves, leave alone the stories they had heard of her) with medicine and food, and most of all, for Roger’s coming to baptize the baby.
That a real minister—for they could not be convinced otherwise—should appear in this wilderness, and condescend to come confer the blessing of God upon their child—they were overwhelmed by their good fortune.
Roger and Brianna stayed for some time, and left as the sun was going down, glowing with the faintly self-conscious pleasure of doing good.
“Poor things,” Brianna said, voice trembling between sympathy and amusement.
“Poor wee things,” Roger agreed, sharing her sentiments. The christening had gone beautifully; even the screaming, purple-faced infant had suspended operations long enough for him to pour the water on her bald head and claim heaven’s protection for her soul. He felt the greatest joy in it, and immense humility at having been allowed to perform the ceremony. There was only the one thing—and his feelings were still confused between embarrassed pride and deep dismay.
“Her name—” Brianna said, and stopped, shaking her head.
“I tried to stop them,” he said, trying to control his voice. “I did try—you’re my witness. Elizabeth, I said. Mairi. Elspeth, perhaps. You heard me!”
“Oh, now,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I think Rogerina is a perfectly beautiful name.” Then she lost control, sat down in the grass, and laughed like a hyena.
“Oh, God, the poor wee lassie,” he said, trying—and failing—not to laugh himself. “I’ve heard of Thomasina, and even Jamesina, but . . . oh, God.”
“Maybe they’ll call her Ina for short,” Brianna suggested, snuffling and wiping her face on her apron. “Or they can spell it backward—Aniregor—and call her Annie.”
“Oh, you