Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [275]
“He didn’t think being left-handed was wrong?” I asked curiously, aware that the general opinion of the times was that left-handedness was at the best unlucky, and at the worst, a symptom of demonic possession. Jamie wrote—with difficulty—with his right hand, because he had been beaten regularly at school for picking up the quill with his left.
Jenny shook her head, black curls bobbing under her kertch.
“No, he was a queer man, auld John Murray. He said if the Lord had chosen to strengthen Jamie’s left arm so, then ’twould be a sin to spurn the gift. And he was a rare man wi’ a sword, auld John, so my father listened, and he let Jamie learn to fight left-handed.”
“I thought Dougal MacKenzie taught Jamie to fight left-handed,” I said. I rather wondered what Jenny thought of her uncle Dougal.
She nodded, licking the end of a thread before putting it through the eye of her needle with one quick poke.
“Aye, it was, but that was later, when Jamie was grown, and went to foster wi’ Dougal. It was Ian’s father taught him his first strokes.” She smiled, eyes on the shirt in her lap.
“I remember, when they were young, auld John told Ian it was his job to stand to Jamie’s right, for he must guard his chief’s weaker side in a fight. And he did—they took it verra seriously, the two of them. And I suppose auld John was right, at that,” she added, snipping off the excess thread. “After a time, nobody would fight them, not even the MacNab lads. Jamie and Ian were both fair-sized, and bonny fighters, and when they stood shoulder to shoulder, there was no one could take the pair o’ them down, even if they were outnumbered.”
She laughed suddenly, and smoothed back a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Watch them sometime, when they’re walking the fields together. I dinna suppose they even realize they do it still, but they do. Jamie always moves to the left, so Ian can take up his place on the right, guardin’ the weak side.”
Jenny gazed out the window, the shirt momentarily forgotten in her lap, and laid a hand over the small swelling of her stomach.
“I hope it’s a boy,” she said, looking at her black-haired son below. “Left-handed or no, it’s good for a man to have a brother to help him.” I caught her glance at the picture on the wall—a very young Jamie, standing between the knees of his elder brother, Willie. Both young faces were snub-nosed and solemn; Willie’s hand rested protectively on his little brother’s shoulder.
“Jamie’s lucky to have Ian,” I said.
Jenny looked away from the picture, and blinked once. She was two years older than Jamie; she would have been three years younger than William.
“Aye, he is. And so am I,” she said softly, picking up the shirt once more.
I took a child’s smock from the mending basket and turned it inside out, to get at the ripped seam beneath the armhole. It was too cold out for anyone but small boys at play or men at work, but it was warm and cozy in the parlor; the windows fogged over quickly as we worked, isolating us from the icy world outside.
“Speaking of brothers,” I said, squinting as I threaded my own needle, “did you see Dougal and Colum MacKenzie much, as you were growing up?”
Jenny shook her head. “I’ve never met Colum. Dougal came here a time or two, bringing Jamie home for Hogmanay or such, but I canna say I know him well.” She looked up from her mending, slanted eyes bright with interest. “You’ll know them, though. Tell me, what’s Colum MacKenzie like? I always wondered, from the bits of things I’d hear from visitors, but my parents never would speak of him.” She paused a moment, a crease between her brows.
“No, I’m wrong; my da did say something about him, once. ’Twas just after Dougal had left, to go back to Beannachd wi’ Jamie. Da was leaning on the fence outside, watching them ride out o’ sight, and I came up to wave to Jamie—it always grieved me sore when he left, for I didna ken how long he’d be gone.