Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [487]
“I had to.” He glanced at her, eyes straight and level. “I hated him for as long as I could. But then I realized that loving him … that was part of me, and one of the best parts. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t love me, that had nothing to do with it. But if I could not forgive him, then I could not love him, and that part of me was gone. And I found eventually that I wanted it back.” He smiled, faintly. “So you see, it was really entirely selfish.”
He squeezed her hand then, stood up, and pulled her to her feet.
“Come, my dear. We shall both freeze solid if we sit here any longer.”
They walked back toward the house, not talking, but walking close together, arm in arm. As they came back through the gardens he spoke abruptly.
“You’re right, I think. To live with someone you love, knowing that they tolerate the relation only for the sake of obligation—no, I wouldn’t do it, either. Were it only a matter of convenience and respect on both sides, then yes; such a marriage is one of honor. As long as both parties are honest—” His mouth twisted briefly as he glanced in the direction of the servants’ quarters. “There is no need for shame on either side.”
She looked down at him, brushing a strand of windblown copper hair out of her eyes with her free hand.
“Then you’ll accept my proposal?” The hollow feeling in her chest didn’t feel like the relief she had expected.
“No,” he said bluntly. “I may have forgiven Jamie Fraser for what he did in the past—but he would never forgive me for marrying you.” He smiled at her, and patted the hand he held tucked in the curve of his arm.
“I can give you some respite from both your suitors and your aunt, though.” He glanced at the house, whose curtains hung unstirring against the glass.
“Do you suppose anyone’s watching?”
“I’d say you can bet on it,” she said, a little grimly.
“Good.” Pulling off the sapphire ring he wore, he turned to face her and took her hand. He pulled off her mitten and ceremoniously slid the ring onto her little finger—the only one it would fit. Then he rose smoothly on his toes and kissed her on the lips. Leaving her no time to recover from surprise, he clasped her hand in his, and turned once more toward the house, his expression bland.
“Come along, my dear,” he said. “Let us announce our engagement.”
60
TRIAL BY FIRE
They were left alone all day. The fire was dead, and there was no food left. It didn’t matter; neither man could eat, and no fire would have reached Roger’s soul-deep chill.
The Indians came back in late afternoon. Several warriors, escorting an elderly man, dressed in a flowing lace shirt and a woven mantle, his face painted with red and ocher—the sachem, bearing a small clay pot in his hand, filled with black liquid.
Alexandre had put on his clothes; he stood when the sachem approached him, but neither spoke nor moved. The sachem began to sing in a cracked old voice, and as he sang, dipped a rabbit’s foot into the pot and painted the priest’s face in black, from forehead to chin.
The Indians left, and the priest sat down on the ground, his eyes closed. Roger tried to speak to him, to offer him water, or at least the knowledge of company, but Alexandre made no response, sitting as though he had been carved of stone.
In the last of the twilight, he spoke, finally.
“There is not much time,” he said softly. “I asked you once before to pray for me. I did not know then what I would have you pray for—for the preservation of my life, or my soul. Now I know that neither is possible.”
Roger moved to speak, but the priest twitched a hand, stopping him.
“There is only the only thing I can ask for. Pray for me, brother—that I might die well. Pray that I may die in silence.” He looked at Roger for the first time, then, his eyes glinting with moisture. “I would not shame her by crying out.”
It was some time after dark that the drums began. Roger had not heard them in his time in the village. Impossible to say how many there were; the sound seemed to come from everywhere. He felt it in the marrow of his bones and