Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [504]
“Anyway, Aunt Jocasta isn’t likely to throw me out, just because I’m scandalous. I won’t starve; neither will the baby. And I can’t say I care whether the Misses MacNeill call on me or not.”
He took up his glass and drank again, carefully this time, with an eye on her to prevent further shocks. He was curious to know what had passed between her and her father—but not reckless enough to ask. Instead he put down the glass and asked, “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you feel you must speak with Bonnet? You say I do not know your feelings, which is undeniably true.” He allowed a tinge of wryness to creep into his voice. “Whatever they are, though, they must be exigent, to cause you to contemplate such drastic expedients.”
A slow smile grew on her lips, spreading into her eyes.
“I really like the way you talk,” she said.
“I am exceeding flattered. However, if you would contemplate answering my question …”
She sighed, deeply enough to make the flame of the candle flicker. She stood up, moving ponderously, and groped in the seam of her gown. She had evidently had a pocket sewn into it, for she extracted a small piece of paper, folded and worn with much handling.
“Read that,” she said, handing it to him. She turned away, and went to the far end of the room, where her paints and easel stood in a corner by the hearth.
The black letters struck him with a small jolt of familiarity. He had seen Jamie Fraser’s hand only once before, but once was enough; it was a distinctive scrawl.
Daughter—
I cannot say if I shall see you again. My fervent hope is that it shall be so, and that all may be mended between us, but that event must rest in the Hand of God. I write now in the event that He may will otherwise.
You asked me once whether it was right to kill in revenge of the great Wrong done you. I tell you that you must not. For the sake of your Soul, for the sake of your own Life, you must find the grace of forgiveness. Freedom is hard-won, but it is not the fruit of Murder.
Do not Fear that he will escape Vengeance. Such a man carries with him the seeds of his own Destruction. If he does not Die at my Hand, it will be by another. But it must not be your Hand that strikes him down.
Hear me, for the sake of the Love I bear you.
Below the text of the letter, he had written Your most affectionate and loving Father, James Fraser. This was scratched out, and below it was written simply, Da.
“I never said goodbye to him.”
Lord John looked up, startled. Her back was turned to him; she was staring at the half-finished landscape on the easel as though it were a window.
He crossed the carpet to stand beside her. The fire had burned down in the hearth, and it was growing cold in the room. She turned to face him, clutching her elbows against the chill.
“I want to be free,” she said quietly. “Whether Roger comes back or not. Whatever happens.”
The child was restless; he could see it kicking and squirming below her crossed arms, like a cat in a sack. He drew a deep breath, feeling chilled and apprehensive.
“You are sure you must see Bonnet?”
She gave him another of those long blue looks.
“I have to find a way to forgive him, Da says. I’ve been trying, ever since they left, but I can’t do it. Maybe if I see him, I can. I have to try.”
“All right.” He let his breath out in a long sigh, shoulders slumping in capitulation.
A small light—relief?—showed in her eyes, and he tried to smile back.
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes. God knows how, but I’ll do it.”
He put out all the candles save one, keeping that to light their way to bed. He gave her his arm and they walked in silence through the empty hall, the unpeopled quiet wrapping them in peace. At the foot of the stair, he paused, letting her go ahead of him.
“Brianna.”
She turned, questioning, on the stair above him. He stood hesitant, not knowing how to ask for what he suddenly wanted so badly. He reached out a hand, lightly poised.
“May I—?”
Without speaking, she took his hand and pressed it against her belly. It was warm