Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [257]
The boy’s eyes narrowed into bright blue triangles, but he evidently took Jamie at his word. His jaw stayed clenched, but his shoulders slumped a little in temporary defeat.
They rode in silence for most of the morning, rain drizzling down their necks and weighting the shoulders of their cloaks. Willie might have accepted defeat, but not graciously. He was still sullen when they dismounted to eat, but did at least fetch water without protest, and pack up the remains of their meal while Jamie watered the horses.
Jamie eyed him covertly, but there was no sign of measles. The Earl’s face was frowning but rashless, and while the tip of his nose was dripping, this appeared to be due solely to the effects of the weather.
“How far is it?” It was midafternoon before William’s curiosity overcame his stubbornness. Jamie had long since relinquished the boy’s reins to him—there was no danger of the lad’s trying to make his way back alone now.
“Two days, perhaps.” In such mountainous terrain as lay between the Ridge and Anna Ooka, they would make little better speed on horseback than on foot. Having horses, though, allowed them to bring a few small conveniences, such as a kettle, extra food, and a pair of carved fishing rods. And a number of small gifts for the Indians, including a keg of home-brewed whisky to help cushion the bad news they bore.
There was no reason to hurry, and some to delay—Claire had told him firmly not to bring Willie back for at least six days. By then, John would no longer be infectious. He would be well on the way to recovery—or dead.
Claire had been outwardly confident, assuring Willie that his stepfather would be quite all right, but he’d seen the mist of worry in her eyes. It gave him a feeling of hollowness just below the ribs. It was perhaps as well that he was leaving; he could be of no help, and sickness always left him with a helpless feeling that made him at once afraid and angry.
“These Indians—they are friendly?” He could hear the tone of doubt in Willie’s voice.
“Yes.” He felt Willie waiting for him to add “my lord,” and took a small, perverse satisfaction in not doing it. He guided his horse’s head to the side and slowed his pace, an invitation for Willie to ride up next to him. He smiled at the boy as he did so.
“We have known them more than a year, and been guests in their longhouses—aye, the people of Anna Ooka are more courteous and hospitable than most folk I’ve met in England.”
“You have lived in England?” The boy shot him a surprised look, and he cursed his carelessness, but luckily the lad was a great deal more interested in Red Indians than in the personal history of James Fraser, and the question passed with no more than a vague reply.
He was glad to see the boy abandon his sullen preoccupation and begin to take some interest in their surroundings. He did his best to encourage it, telling stories of the Indians and pointing out animal sign as they went, and he was glad to see the boy thaw into civility, if nothing more, as they rode.
He welcomed the distraction of conversation himself; his mind was a good deal too busy to make silence comfortable. If the worst should happen—if John should die—what then became of Willie? He would doubtless return to England and his grandmother—and Jamie would hear no more of him.
John was the only other person, besides Claire, who knew the truth of Willie’s paternity without doubt. It was possible that Willie’s grandmother at least suspected the truth, but she would never, under any circumstances, admit that her grandson might be the bastard of a Jacobite traitor rather than the legitimate issue of the late Earl.
He said a small prayer to Saint Bride for the welfare of John Grey, and tried to dismiss the nagging worry from his mind. In spite of his apprehensions, he was beginning to enjoy the trip. The rain had lessened to no more than a light spattering, and the forest was fragrant with the scents of wet, fresh leaves and fecund dark leaf mold.
“D’ye see those scratches down the trunk of that tree?” He pointed