A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [457]
“My God, my God. What shall I do?” he whispered. A blast of wind thundered through the rocks and whipped the cloak around him, momentarily obliterating him in a shroud of gray, as though distress had quite engulfed him.
I kept tight hold of my own cloak, to prevent it being torn off me; the wind was strong enough that I nearly lost my footing. Jamie squinted against the spray of dust and fine gravel that blasted us, setting his teeth in discomfort. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering.
“Is the lass with child, then, Joseph?” he said, obviously wanting to get to the bottom of things and go home.
Mr. Wemyss’s head popped out of the folds of cloak, fair hair tousled into broomstraw. Blinking reddened eyes, he nodded, then excavated the jug and, raising it in trembling hands, took several gulps. I saw the single “X” marked on the jug; with his characteristic modesty, he had taken a jug of the raw new whisky, not the cask-aged higher quality.
Jamie sighed, reached out a hand, and taking the jug from him, took a healthy gulp himself.
“Who?” he said, handing it back. “Is it my nephew?”
Mr. Wemyss stared at him, owl-eyed.
“Your nephew?”
“Ian Murray,” I put in helpfully. “Tall brown-haired lad? Tattoos?”
Jamie gave me a look suggesting that I was perhaps not being quite so helpful as I thought, but Mr. Wemyss went on looking blank.
“Ian Murray?” Then the name appeared to penetrate through the alcoholic fog. “Oh. No. Christ, if it were! I should bless the lad,” he said fervently.
I exchanged another look with Jamie. This looked like being serious.
“Joseph,” he said with just a touch of menace. “It’s cold.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Who’s debauched your daughter? Give me his name, and I’ll see him wed to her in the morning or dead at her feet, whichever ye like. But let’s do it inside by the fire, aye?”
“Beardsley,” Mr. Wemyss said, in a tone suggesting visions of utter despair.
“Beardsley?” Jamie repeated. He raised one eyebrow at me. It wasn’t what I would have expected—but hearing it came as no great shock, either.
“Which Beardsley was it?” he asked, with relative patience. “Jo? Or Kezzie?”
Mr. Wemyss heaved a sigh that came from the bottoms of his feet.
“She doesn’t know,” he said flatly.
“Christ,” said Jamie involuntarily. He reached for the whisky again, and drank heavily.
“Ahem,” I said, giving him a meaningful look as he lowered the jug. He surrendered it to me without comment, and straightened himself on his boulder, shirt plastered against his chest by the wind, his hair whipped loose behind him.
“Well, then,” he said firmly. “We’ll have the two of them in, and find out the truth of it.”
“No,” said Mr. Wemyss, “we won’t. They don’t know, either.”
I had just taken a mouthful of raw spirit. At this, I choked, spluttering whisky down my chin.
“They what?” I croaked, wiping my face with a corner of my cloak. “You mean . . . both of them?”
Mr. Wemyss looked at me. Instead of replying, though, he blinked once. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell headlong off the boulder, poleaxed.
I MANAGED TO RESTORE Mr. Wemyss to semiconsciousness, but not to the point of his being able to walk. Jamie was therefore obliged to carry the little man slung across his shoulders like a deer carcass; no mean feat, considering the broken ground that lay between the whisky cache and the new malting floor, and the wind that pelted us with bits of gravel, leaves, and flying pinecones. Clouds had boiled up over the shoulder of the mountain, dark and dirty as laundry suds, and were spreading rapidly across the sky. We were going to get drenched, if we didn’t hurry.
The going became easier once we reached the trail to the house, but Jamie’s temper was not improved by Mr. Wemyss’s suddenly coming to at this point and vomiting down the front of his shirt. After a hasty attempt at swabbing off the mess, we reorganized our strategy, and made our way with Mr. Wemyss precariously balanced between us, each firmly gripping one elbow as he slipped and stumbled, his spindly knees