A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [375]
“Do you think Tom Christie would be receptive, if Joseph isn’t? I think both girls are rather partial to Bobby.”
Jamie made a mildly derisive noise at the thought.
“Tom Christie marry his daughter to a murderer, and a penniless murderer at that? John Grey doesna ken the man at all, or he wouldna be suggesting such a thing. Christie’s proud as Nebuchadnezzar, if not more so.”
“Oh, as proud as all that, is he?” I said, amused despite myself. “Who do you think he would find suitable, here in the wilderness?”
Jamie lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
“He hasna honored me with his confidences in the matter,” he said dryly. “Though he doesna let his daughter walk out wi’ any of the young lads hereabouts; I imagine none seems worthy to him. I shouldna be surprised at all, if he were to contrive some means of sending her to Edenton or New Bern to make a match, and he can contrive a way to do it. Roger Mac says he’s mentioned such a course.”
“Really? He’s getting quite thick with Roger these days, isn’t he?”
A reluctant smile crossed his face at that.
“Aye, well. Roger Mac takes the welfare of his flock to heart—with an eye to his own, nay doubt.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
He eyed me for a moment, evidently judging my capacity for keeping secrets.
“Mmphm. Well, ye mustna mention it to Brianna, but Roger Mac has it in mind to make a match between Tom Christie and Amy McCallum.”
I blinked, but then considered. It wasn’t really a bad idea, though not one that would have occurred to me. Granted, Tom was likely more than twenty-five years older than Amy McCallum, but he was still healthy and strong enough to provide for her and her sons. And she plainly needed a provider. Whether she and Malva could share a house was another question; Malva had had the running of her father’s house since she could manage it. She was amiable, certainly, but I rather thought she had as much pride as her father, and wouldn’t take kindly to being supplanted.
“Mmm,” I said dubiously. “Perhaps. What do you mean about Roger’s own welfare, though?”
Jamie raised one thick eyebrow.
“Have ye not seen the way the widow McCallum looks at him?”
“No,” I said, taken aback. “Have you?”
He nodded.
“I have, and so has Brianna. She bides her time for the moment—but mark my words, Sassenach: if wee Roger doesna see the widow safely marrit soon, he’ll find hell nay hotter than his own hearth.”
“Oh, now. Roger isn’t looking back at Mrs. McCallum, is he?” I demanded.
“No, he is not,” Jamie said judiciously, “and that’s why he’s still in possession of his balls. But if ye think my daughter is one to stand—”
We had been speaking in low voices and, at the sound of the surgery door opening, stopped abruptly. Malva poked her head into the study, her cheeks flushed and wispy tendrils of dark hair floating round her face. She looked like a Dresden figurine, despite the stains on her apron, and I saw Jamie smile at her look of eager freshness.
“Please, Mrs. Fraser, I’ve strained off all the liquid and bottled it—ye did say that we must feed the slops left over to the pig at once . . . did ye mean the big white sow that lives under the house?” She looked rather doubtful at the prospect, and no wonder.
“I’ll come and do it,” I said, rising. “Thank you, dear. You go along to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Bug for a bit of bread and honey before you go home, why don’t you?”
She curtsied and went off toward the kitchen; I could hear Young Ian’s voice, teasing Mrs. Bug, and saw Malva stop for an instant to pat her cap, twirl a wisp of hair around her finger to make it curl against her cheek, and straighten her slender back before going in.
“Well, Tom Christie may propose all he likes,” I murmured to Jamie, who had come out into the hall with me and seen her go, “but yours isn’t the only daughter with a mind of her own and strong opinions.”
He gave a small, dismissive grunt and went back to his study, while I continued across