A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [464]
“It’s no a matter of whom ye love, now, lass,” Jamie said very gently. “Not even your father.” He nodded toward her stomach. “Ye’ve a child in your belly. Nothing else matters, but to do right by it. And that doesna mean painting its mother a whore, aye?”
Her cheeks flamed, a patchy crimson.
“I’m not a whore!”
“I didna say ye were,” Jamie replied calmly. “But others will, and it gets around what ye’ve been up to, lass. Spreading your legs for two men, and married to neither of them? And now with a wean, and ye canna name its father?”
She looked angrily away from him—and saw her own father, head bowed, his own cheeks darkening in shame. She made a small, heartbroken sound, and buried her face in her hands.
The twins stirred uneasily, glancing at each other, and Jo got his feet under him to rise—then caught a look of wounded reproach from Mr. Wemyss, and changed his mind.
Jamie sighed heavily and rubbed a knuckle down the bridge of his nose. He stood then, stooped to the hearth, and pulled two straws from the basket of kindling. Holding these in his fist, he held them out to the twins.
“Short straw weds her,” he said with resignation.
The twins gaped at him, open-mouthed. Then Kezzie swallowed visibly, closed his eyes, and plucked a straw, gingerly, as though it might be attached to something explosive. Jo kept his eyes open, but didn’t look at the straw he’d drawn; his eyes were fixed on Lizzie.
Everyone seemed to exhale at once, looking at the straws.
“Verra well, then. Stand up,” Jamie said to Kezzie, who held the short one. Looking dazed, he did so.
“Take her hand,” Jamie told him patiently. “Now, d’ye swear before these witnesses”—he nodded at me and Mr. Wemyss—“that ye take Elizabeth Wemyss as your wife?”
Kezzie nodded, then cleared his throat and drew himself up.
“I do, so,” he said firmly.
“And do you, ye wee besom, accept Keziah—ye are Keziah?” he asked, squinting dubiously at the twin. “Aye, all right, Keziah. Ye’ll take him as your husband?”
“Aye,” Lizzie said, sounding hopelessly confused.
“Good,” Jamie said briskly. “You’re handfast. Directly we find a priest, we’ll have it properly blessed, but ye’re married.” He looked at Jo, who had risen to his feet.
“And you,” he said firmly, “ye’ll leave. Tonight. Ye’ll not come back ’til the child is born.”
Jo was white to the lips, but nodded. He had both hands pressed to his body—not where Jamie had hit him, but higher, over his heart. I felt a sharp answering pain in the same place, seeing his face.
“Well, then.” Jamie took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping a little. “Joseph—have ye still got the marriage contract ye drew for your daughter and young McGillivray? Fetch it out, aye, and we’ll change the name.”
Looking like a snail poking its head out after a thunderstorm, Mr. Wemyss nodded cautiously. He looked at Lizzie, still standing hand-in-hand with her new bridegroom, the two of them resembling Lot and Mrs. Lot, respectively. Mr. Wemyss patted her softly on the shoulder, and hurried out, his feet tapping on the stairs.
“You’ll need a fresh candle, won’t you?” I said to Jamie, tilting my head meaningfully toward Lizzie and the twins. The stub in his candlestick had half an inch to go, but I thought it only decent to give them a few moments of privacy.
“Oh? Oh, aye,” he said, catching my meaning. He coughed. “I’ll, ah, come and get it.”
The moment we entered my surgery, he closed the door, leaned against it, and let his head fall, shaking it.
“Oh, God,” he said.
“Poor things,” I said, with some sympathy. “I mean—you do have to feel sorry for them.”
“I do?” He sniffed at his shirt, which had dried but still had a distinct stain of vomit down the front, then straightened up, stretching ’til his back creaked. “Aye, I suppose I do,” he admitted. “But—oh, God! Did she tell ye how it happened?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you the gory details later.” I heard Mr. Wemyss’s feet coming down the stairs. I took down a fresh pair of candles from the array that hung near the ceiling and held them