Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [429]
“Yes, of course,” I said. I set down the food, got my small mirror and the tortoiseshell comb from the drawer of the sideboy and handed them to him, peering upward at his gangling form.
His face seemed abnormally shiny, his lean cheeks blotched with red, as though he had not only shaved but had scrubbed the skin to the point of rawness. His hair, normally a thick, stubborn sheaf of soft brown, was now slicked straight back on the sides of his head with some kind of grease. Liberally pomaded with the same substance, it erupted in an untidy quiff over his forehead, making him look like a deranged porcupine.
“What have you got on your hair, Ian?” I asked. I sniffed at him and recoiled slightly at the result.
“Bear fat,” he said. “But it stank a bit, so I mixed in a wee scoop of incense soap to make it smell better.” He peered critically at himself in the mirror and made small jabs at his coiffure with the comb, which seemed pitifully inadequate to the task.
He was wearing his good coat, with a clean shirt and—unheard of touch for a workday—a clean, starched stock wrapped about his throat, looking tight enough to strangle him.
“You look very nice, Ian,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. “Um … are you going somewhere special?”
“Aye, well,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just if I’m meant to be courting, like, I thought I must try to look decent.”
Courting? I wondered at his haste. While he was certainly interested in girls—and there were a few girls in the district who made no secret of returning his interest—he was barely seventeen. Men did marry that young, of course, and Ian had both his own land and a share in the whisky making, but I hadn’t thought his affections so strongly engaged yet.
“I see,” I said. “Ah … is the young lady anyone I know?” He rubbed at his jaw, raising a red flush along the bone.
“Aye, well. It’s—it’s Brianna.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but the flush rose slowly over his face.
“What?” I said incredulously. I set down the slice of bread I was holding and stared at him. “Did you say Brianna?”
His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his jaw was set stubbornly.
“Brianna,” he repeated. “I’ve come to make her a proposal of marriage.”
“Ian, you can’t possibly mean that.”
“I do,” he said, sticking out his long, square chin in a determined manner. He glanced toward the window, and shuffled his feet. “Will she—is she comin’ in soon, d’ye think?”
The sharp scent of nervous perspiration reached me, mingled with soap and bear fat, and I saw that his hands were clenched in fists, tight enough to make the knobby knuckles stand out white against his tanned skin.
“Ian,” I said, torn between exasperation and tenderness, “are you doing this because of Brianna’s baby?”
The whites of his eyes flashed as he glanced at me, startled. He nodded, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably inside the stiff coat.
“Aye, of course,” he said, as though surprised that I should ask.
“Then you’re not in love with her?” I knew the answer quite well, but thought we had better have it all out.
“Well … no,” he said, the painful blush renewing itself. “But I’m no promised to anyone else,” he hastened to add. “So that’s all right.”
“It is not all right,” I said firmly. “Ian, that’s a very, very kind notion of yours, but—”
“Oh, it’s not mine,” he interrupted, looking surprised. “Uncle Jamie thought of it.”
“He what?” A loud, incredulous voice spoke behind me, and I whirled to find Brianna standing in the doorway, staring at Ian. She advanced slowly into the room, hands fisted at her sides. Just as slowly, Ian retreated, fetching up with a bump against the table.
“Cousin,” he said, with a bob of his head that dislodged a spike of greased hair. He brushed at it, but it stuck out, hanging disreputably over one eye. “I … ah … I …” He saw the look on Brianna’s face and promptly shut his eyes.
“I - have - come - to - express - my - desire - to - ask - for - your - hand - in - the -blessed-sacrament-of-matrimony,” he said in one breath. He took in another, with an audible gasp. “I—”
“Shut up!”
Ian,