Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [317]
“They say it’s a wise bairn that kens its father, but I dinna think there’s much doubt who yours is, lass. Ye might have had the lang nebbit and red locks from anyone, but ye didna get the stubbornness from any man but Jamie Fraser.”
A self-conscious flush rose to her cheeks, but Brianna felt an odd flutter of something like pleasure.
His feathers ruffled from the argument, Young Jamie made one last attempt.
“It’s verra unseemly for a woman to be givin’ her opinions sae free, and her with menfolk to look after her,” he said stiffly.
“You don’t think women ought to have opinions?” Brianna asked sweetly.
“No, I don’t!”
Ian gave his son a long look.
“And you’ll have been marrit what, eight years?” He shook his head. “Aye, well, your Joan’s a tactful woman.” Ignoring Young Jamie’s black look, he turned back to Lizzie.
“Verra well, then. Go and take farewell of your father, lassie. I’ll see to the papers.” He watched Lizzie scurry away, thin shoulders hunched against the crowd. He shook his head a little doubtfully, and turned back to Brianna.
“Well, she’ll maybe be better company for ye than a manservant, lass, but your cousin’s right about the one thing—she’ll be no protection. It’ll be you lookin’ out for her, likely.”
Brianna straightened her shoulders and thrust out her chin, summoning up as much self-confidence as she could, in spite of the sudden hollow feeling that assailed her.
“I can manage,” she said.
She kept her hand curled tight, holding on to the stone in her palm. It was something to cling to, as the Moray Firth widened into the sea, and the cradling shore of Scotland fell away to either side.
Why ought she to feel so strongly for a place she hardly knew? Lizzie, born and raised in Scotland, had spared no glance for the receding land but had gone below at once, to lay claim to their space and arrange the few belongings they had brought aboard.
Brianna had never thought of herself as Scottish—had not known she was Scottish until quite recently—yet she had scarcely felt more bereft by her mother’s leaving or her father’s death than by this parting from people and places she had known for so short a time.
Perhaps it was only the contagious emotion of the other passengers. Many of them were standing at the rail as she was, several weeping openly. Or fear of the long journey ahead. But she knew quite well it was none of those things.
“That’s that, I expect.” It was Lizzie, appearing at her elbow after all, to see the last sight of the land fade away. Her small pale face was expressionless, but Brianna didn’t mistake lack of expression for lack of feeling.
“Yes, we’re on our way.” Moved by impulse, Brianna put out a hand and drew the girl to stand in front of her at the rail, sheltered alike from freshening wind and from jostling passengers and seamen. Lizzie was a good foot shorter than Brianna, and fine-boned as the delicate sooty terns that circled the masts, squawking overhead.
The sun did not really set at this time of year but hung low above the dark hills, and the air had grown quite cold in the Firth. The girl was thinly dressed; she shivered, and pressed quite unselfconsciously against Brianna for warmth. Brianna had a blue woolen arisaid provided by Jenny; she wrapped her arms and the shawl ends around the younger girl, finding as much comfort in the embrace as she gave.
“It will be all right,” she said, to herself as much as to Lizzie.
The pale blond head bobbed briefly under her chin; she couldn’t tell whether it was a nod, or only Lizzie’s attempt to get the wind-whipped strands of hair out of her eyes. Elf-locks snatched from her own thick plait fluttered in the stiff salt breeze, echoing the pull of the huge sails above. Despite her misgivings, she felt her spirits start to rise with the wind. She had survived a good many partings so far; she would survive this. That was what made this leaving hard, she thought. She had already lost father, mother, lover, home, and friends. She was alone by necessity, and also by choice. But then to find both