A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [80]
“You’ll do no such thing, Major,” I said sharply. “Mr. Higgins is a friend.”
He gave me a flat look, then dropped his arm.
“As ye like, Mrs. Fraser, of course,” he said coolly, and picking up the bread again, went off toward the tables.
Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I went to greet the newcomer. Plainly Bobby Higgins could have joined the Major on the path to the Ridge; just as plainly, he had chosen not to. He had become a little more familiar with mules, I saw; he was riding one and leading another, laden with a promising array of panniers and boxes.
“His Lordship’s compliments, mum,” he said, saluting me smartly as he slid off. From the corner of my eye, I saw MacDonald watching—and his small start of recognition at the military gesture. So, now he knew Bobby for a soldier, and doubtless would ferret out his background in short order. I repressed a sigh; I couldn’t mend matters; they’d have to settle it between themselves—if there was anything to settle.
“You’re looking well, Bobby,” I said, smiling as I pushed aside my disquiet. “No difficulties with the riding, I hope?”
“Oh, no, mum!” He beamed. “And I’s not fallen out once since I left you last!” “Fallen out” meant “fainted,” and I congratulated him on the state of his health, looking him over as he unloaded the pack mule with deft efficiency. He did seem much better; pink and fresh-skinned as a child, bar the ugly brand on his cheek.
“Yonder lobsterback,” he said, affecting insouciance as he set down a box. “He’s known to ye, is he, mum?”
“That’s Major MacDonald,” I said, carefully not looking in the Major’s direction; I could feel his stare boring into my back. “Yes. He . . . does things for the Governor, I believe. Not regular army, I mean; he’s a half-pay officer.”
That bit of information seemed to ease Bobby’s mind a bit. He took a breath, as though to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he reached into his shirt and withdrew a sealed letter, which he handed over.
“That’s for you,” he explained. “From his Lordship. Is Miss Lizzie by any chance about?” His eyes were already searching the flock of girls and women readying the tables.
“Yes, she was in the kitchen last I saw,” I replied, a small uneasy feeling skittering down my backbone. “She’ll be out in a minute. But . . . you do know she’s betrothed, don’t you, Bobby? Her fiancé will be coming with the other men for supper.”
He met my eyes and smiled with singular sweetness.
“Oh, aye, mum, I know that well enough. On’y thought as I s’ould thank her for her kindness when I last was here.”
“Oh,” I said, not trusting that smile in the slightest. Bobby was a very handsome lad, blind eye or not—and he had been a soldier. “Well . . . good.”
Before I could say more, I caught the sound of male voices, coming through the trees. It wasn’t precisely singing; sort of a rhythmic chant. I wasn’t sure what it was—there was a lot of Gaelic “Ho-ro!” and the like—but all of them seemed to be bellowing along in a cordial fashion.
Haymaking was a novel concept to the new tenants, who were much more accustomed to rake kelp than scythe grass. Jamie, Arch, and Roger had shepherded them through the process, though, and I had been asked to stitch no more than a handful of minor wounds, so I assumed it had been a success—no hands or feet lopped off, a few shouting matches, but no fistfights, and no more than the usual amount of hay trampled or ruined.
All of them seemed in good spirits as they poured into the dooryard, bedraggled, sweat-soaked, and thirsty as sponges. Jamie was in the thick of them, laughing and staggering as someone pushed him. He caught sight of me, and a huge grin split his sun-browned face. In a stride, he had reached me and swept me into an exuberant embrace, redolent of hay, horses, and sweat.
“Done, by God!”