A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [369]
Roger made it somehow to the end, sufficiently relieved at having the snake in custody that even leading the final hymn—an interminable back-and-forth “line hymn” in which he was obliged to chant each line, this echoed by the congregation—didn’t disconcert him too much, though he had almost no voice left and what there was creaked like an unoiled hinge.
His shirt was clinging to him and the cool air outside was a balm as he stood shaking hands, bowing, accepting the kind words of his flock.
“A grand sermon, Mr. MacKenzie, grand!” Mrs. Gwilty assured him. She nudged the wizened gentleman who accompanied her, who might be either her husband or her father-in-law. “Was it no the grand sermon, then, Mr. Gwilty?”
“Mmphm,” said the wizened gentleman judiciously. “No bad, no bad. Bit short, and ye left out the fine story aboot the harlot, but nay doot ye’ll get the way of it in time.”
“Nay doubt,” Roger said, nodding and smiling, wondering, What harlot? “Thank ye for coming.”
“Oh, wouldna have missed it for the world,” the next lady informed him. “Though the singing wasna quite what one might have hoped for, was it?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Perhaps next time—”
“I never did care for Psalm 109, it’s that dreary. Next time, perhaps ye’ll give us one o’ the mair sprightly ones, aye?”
“Aye, I expect—”
“DaddyDaddyDaddy!” Jem cannoned into his legs, clutching him affectionately round the thighs and nearly knocking him over.
“Nice job,” said Brianna, looking amused. “What was going on in the back of the room? You kept looking back there, but I couldn’t see anything, and—”
“Fine sermon, sir, fine sermon!” The older Mr. Ogilvie bowed to him, then walked off, his wife’s hand in his arm, saying to her, “The puir lad canna carry a tune in his shoe, but the preaching wasna sae bad, all things considered.”
Germain and Aidan joined Jemmy, all trying to hug him at once, and he did his best to encompass them, smile at everyone, and nod agreeably to suggestions that he speak louder, preach in the Gaelic, refrain from Latin (what Latin?) and Popish references, try to look more sober, try to look happier, try not to twitch, and put in more stories.
Jamie came out, and gravely shook his hand.
“Verra nice,” he said.
“Thanks.” Roger struggled to find words. “You—well. Thanks,” he repeated.
“Greater love hath no man,” Claire observed, smiling at him from behind Jamie’s elbow. The wind lifted her shawl, and he could see the side of her skirt moving oddly.
Jamie made a small amused sound.
“Mmphm. Ye might drop by, maybe, and have a word wi’ Rab McAfee and Isaiah Lachlan—perhaps a short sermon on the text, ‘He who loveth his son chasteneth him betimes?’”
“McAfee and Lachlan. Aye, I’ll do that.” Or perhaps he’d just get the McAfees and Jacky Lachlan alone and see to the chastening himself.
He saw off the last of the congregation, took his leave of Tom Christie and his family with thanks, and headed for home and luncheon, his own family in tow. Normally, there would be another service in the afternoon, but he wasn’t up to that yet.
Old Mrs. Abernathy was a little way before them on the path, being assisted by her friend, the slightly less-ancient Mrs. Coinneach.
“A nice-looking lad,” Mrs. Abernathy was remarking, her cracked old voice floating back on the crisp fall air. “But nervous, och! Sweating rivers, did ye see?”
“Aye, well, shy, I suppose,” Mrs. Coinneach replied comfortably. “I expect he’ll settle, though, in time.”
ROGER LAY IN BED, savoring the lingering sense of the day’s accomplishments, the relief of disasters averted, and the sight of his wife, the light from the embers glowing through the thin linen of her shift as she knelt by the hearth, touching her skin and the ends of her hair with light, so that she looked illuminated from within.
The fire banked for the night, she rose and peered at Jemmy, curled up in his trundle and looking deceptively angelic, before coming to bed.
“You look contemplative,” she said, smiling as she climbed onto