A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [79]
“Broom!” Jemmy echoed. “Lemme do it, Daddy, let me!”
Roger surrendered the toy to Jemmy, smiling.
“Broom! Broom-broom!” The little boy shoved the car enthusiastically, then, losing his grip on it, watched open-mouthed as it zoomed to the end of the hearthstone by itself, hit the edge, and flipped over. Squealing with delight, he scampered after the new toy.
Still smiling, Roger glanced up, to see Brianna looking after Jem, a rather odd expression on her face. She felt his eyes on her, and looked down at him.
“Vroom?” she said quietly, and he felt a small internal jolt, like a punch in the stomach.
“Whatsit, Daddy, what’s it?” Jemmy had recaptured the toy and ran up to him, clutching it to his chest.
“It’s a . . . a . . .” he began, helpless. It was in fact a crude replica of a Morris Minor, but even the word “car,” let alone “automobile,” had no meaning here. And the internal combustion engine, with its pleasantly evocative noises, was at least a century away.
“I guess it’s a vroom, honey,” said Bree, a distinct tone of sympathy in her voice. He felt the gentle weight of her hand, resting on his head.
“Er . . . yeah, that’s right,” he said, and cleared a thickening in his throat. “It’s a vroom.”
“Broom,” said Jemmy happily, and knelt to roll it down the hearth again. “Broom-broom!”
STEAM. It would have to be steam- or wind-powered; a windmill would work, maybe, to pump water into the system, but if I want hot water, there would be steam anyway—why not use it?
Containment is the problem; wood burns and leaks, clay won’t hold against pressure. I need metal, that’s all there is to it. What would Mrs. Bug do, I wonder, if I took the laundry cauldron? Well, I know what she’d do, and a steam explosion is no comparison; besides, we do need to do the laundry. I’ll have to dream up something else.
19
MAKING HAY
MAJOR MACDONALD returned on the final day of haymaking. I was just maneuvering my way along the side of the house with an immense basket of bread, when I saw him near the trailhead, tying up his horse to a tree. He lifted his hat to me and bowed, then came across the dooryard, looking curiously round at the preparations taking place.
We had set up trestles under the chestnut trees, with boards laid across them for tables, and a constant stream of women scurried to and fro like ants between the house and yard, fetching food. The sun was setting, and the men would be in soon for a celebratory feast; filthy, exhausted, starving—and exhilarated by the end of their labors.
I greeted the Major with a nod, and accepted with relief his offer to carry the bread to the tables for me.
“Haying, is it?” he said, in answer to my explanation. A nostalgic smile spread across his weathered face. “I remember the haymaking, from when I was a lad. But that was in Scotland, aye? We’d seldom such glorious weather as this for it.” He looked up into the blazing deep blue bowl of the August sky above. It really was perfect haying weather, hot and dry.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, sniffing appreciatively. The scent of fresh hay was everywhere—and so was the hay; there were shimmering mounds of it in every shed, everyone carried bits of it on their clothes, and small trails of scattered straw lay everywhere. Now the smell of cut, dry hay was mingled with the delectable scent of the barbecue that had been simmering underground overnight, the fresh bread, and the heady tang of Mrs. Bug’s cider. Marsali and Bree were bringing down jugs of it from the springhouse, where it had been cooling, along with buttermilk and beer.
“I see I’ve chosen my time well,” the Major remarked, viewing all this effort with approval.
“If you came to eat, yes,” I said, rather amused. “If you came to talk to Jamie, I rather think you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
He looked at me, puzzled, but had no opportunity to inquire further; I had caught another glimpse of movement at the trailhead. The Major turned, seeing the direction of my glance, and frowned slightly.
“Why, it’s that fellow with the brand on