Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [302]
It was neither her unorthodox costume nor the sheer novelty of seeing a stranger, she thought—even one stranger than most. There was something else; some current of joy that ran among the members of the family, unseen but lively as electricity.
She realized only slowly what it was; a remark from Ian brought it into focus.
“We didna think that Jamie would ever have a bairn of his own.” Ian’s smile across the table was warm enough to melt ice. “You’ll never have seen him, though?”
She shook her head, swallowing the remains of the last bite, smiling back in spite of her full mouth. That was it, she thought; they were delighted with her not so much for her sake, but for Jamie’s. They loved him, and they were happy not for themselves but for him.
That realization brought tears to her eyes. Laoghaire’s accusations had shaken her, wild as they were, and it was a great comfort to realize that to all of these people who knew him well, Jamie Fraser was neither a liar nor a wicked man; he was indeed the man her mother thought him.
Mistaking her emotion for choking, Young Jamie pounded her helpfully on the back, making her choke in good earnest.
“Will ye have written Uncle Jamie, then, to say as ye were coming to us?” he asked, ignoring her coughing and red-faced spluttering.
“No,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know where he is.”
Jenny’s gull-winged brows went up.
“Aye, ye said that; I’d forgotten.”
“Do you know where he is now? He and my mother?” Brianna bent forward anxiously, brushing pastry crumbs from her jabot.
Jenny smiled and rose from the table.
“Aye, I do—more or less. If ye’ve eaten your fill, d’ye come with me, lassie. I’ll fetch his last letter for ye.”
Brianna rose to follow Jenny, but stopped abruptly near the door. She had vaguely noticed some paintings on the walls of the parlor earlier, but hadn’t really looked at them, in the rush of emotion and event. She looked at this one, though.
Two little boys with red-gold hair, stiffly solemn in kilts and jackets, white shirts with frills showing bright against the dark coat of a huge dog that sat beside them, tongue lolling in patient boredom.
The older boy was tall and fine-featured; he sat straight and proud, chin lifted, one hand resting on the dog’s head, the other protectively on the shoulder of the small brother who stood between his knees.
It was the younger boy Brianna stared at, though. His face was round and snub-nosed, cheeks translucent and ruddy as apples. Wide blue eyes, slightly slanted, looked out under a bell of bright hair combed into an unnatural tidiness. The pose was formal, done in classic eighteenth-century style, but there was something in the robust, stocky little figure that made her smile and reach a finger to touch his face.
“Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said softly.
“Jamie was a sweet laddie, but a stubborn wee fiend, forbye.” Jenny’s voice by her ear startled her. “Beat him or coax him, it made no difference; if he’d made up his mind, it stayed made up. Come wi’ me; there’s another picture you’ll like to see, I think.”
The second portrait hung on the landing of the stairs, looking thoroughly out of place. From below she could see the ornate gilded frame, its heavy carving quite at odds with the solid, battered comfort of the house’s other furnishings. It reminded her of pictures in museums; this homely setting seemed incongruous.
As she followed Jenny onto the landing the glare of light from the window disappeared, leaving the painting’s surface flat and clear before her.
She gasped, and felt the hair rise on her forearms, under the linen of her shirt.
“It’s remarkable, aye?” Jenny looked from the painting to Brianna and back again, her own features marked with something between pride and awe.
“Remarkable!” Brianna agreed, swallowing.
“Ye see why we kent ye at once,” her aunt went on, laying a loving hand against the carved frame.
“Yes. Yes, I can see that.”
“It will be my mother,