Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [395]
He was worldly, well educated, tolerant, and compassionate. This did not in any way, shape, or form mean that he shared or understood modern sensibilities; I knew quite well he didn’t. And I couldn’t think that his attitude toward Roger would be tolerant in the slightest.
“Well,” I said dubiously, “I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t want to punch Roger in the nose or something. But don’t worry,” I added, seeing her look of alarm. “He loves you,” I said, and smoothed the tumbled hair off her flushed face. “He won’t stop.”
I got up, brushing yellow leaves from my skirt.
“We’ll have a bit of time, then, but none to waste. Jamie can send word downriver, to keep an eye out for Roger. Speaking of Roger …” I hesitated, picking a bit of dried fern from my sleeve. “I don’t suppose he knows about this, does he?”
Brianna took a deep breath, and her fist closed tight on the leaf in her hand, crushing it.
“Well, see, there’s a problem about that,” she said. She looked up at me, and suddenly she was my little girl again. “It isn’t Roger’s.”
“What?” I said stupidly.
“It. Isn’t. Roger’s. Baby,” she said, between clenched teeth.
I sank down beside her once more. Her worry over Roger suddenly took on new dimensions.
“Who?” I said. “Here, or there?” Even as I spoke, I was calculating—it had to be someone here, in the past. If it had been a man in her own time, she’d be farther along than two months. Not only in the past, then, but here, in the Colonies.
I wasn’t planning to have sex, she’d said. No, of course not. She hadn’t told Roger, for fear he would follow her—he was her anchor, her key to the future. But in that case—
“Here,” she said, confirming my calculations. She dug in the pocket of her skirt, and came out with something. She reached toward me, and I held out my hand automatically.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” The worn gold wedding band sparked in the sun, and my hand closed reflexively over it. It was warm from being carried next to her skin, but I felt a deep coldness seep into my fingers.
“Bonnet?” I said. “Stephen Bonnet?”
Her throat moved convulsively, and she swallowed, head jerking in a brief nod.
“I wasn’t going to tell you—I couldn’t; not after Ian told me about what happened on the river. At first I didn’t know what Da would do; I was afraid he’d blame me. And then when I knew him a little better—I knew he’d try to find Bonnet—that’s what Daddy would have done. I couldn’t let him do that. You met that man, you know what he’s like.” She was sitting in the sun, but a shudder passed over her, and she rubbed her arms as though she was cold.
“I do,” I said. My lips were stiff. Her words were ringing in my ears.
I wasn’t planning to have sex. I couldn’t tell … I was afraid he’d blame me.
“What did he do to you?” I asked, and was surprised that my voice sounded calm. “Did he hurt you, baby?”
She grimaced, and pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them against herself.
“Don’t call me that, okay? Not right now.”
I reached to touch her, but she huddled closer into herself, and I dropped my hand.
“Do you want to tell me?” I didn’t want to know; I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, too.
She looked up at me, lips tightened to a straight white line.
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to. But I think I’d better.”
She had stepped aboard the Gloriana in broad daylight, cautious, but feeling safe by reason of the number of people around; loaders, seamen, merchants, servants—the docks bustled with life. She had told a seaman on the deck what she wanted; he had vanished into the recesses of the ship, and a moment later, Stephen Bonnet had appeared.
He had on the same clothes as the night before; in the daylight, she could see that they were of fine quality, but stained and badly crumpled. Greasy candle wax had dripped on the silk cuff of his coat, and his jabot had crumbs in