Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [540]
He was coming toward us; I saw his eyes fix on Jamie from a distance, so conspicuous by his height and his hair, bright as scarlet maple leaves.
The man drew up before us, and took off his feathered cap. He slid off his horse, took two steps toward Jamie, and bowed, rigidly correct. He was a short man, but solid, maybe thirty, with dark eyes that glittered bright as the gorget at his throat. Closer now, I saw what I had missed before, the smaller bit of metal pinned to the shoulder of his red coat; a battered brooch of tarnished gilt.
“Ma name is Airchie Hayes,” he said in broad Scots. His eyes were fixed on Jamie’s face, dark with hope. “They say ye kent my faither.”
71
CIRCLE’S CLOSE
“I have a thing to say to you,” Roger said. He’d waited for some time to catch Jamie Fraser alone. Fraser was much in demand; everyone wanted his ear for a moment. For this moment, though, he was by himself, sitting on the fallen log from which he held court. He looked up at Roger, brows raised, but nodded toward a seat on the log.
Roger sat down. He had the baby with him; Brianna and Lizzie were making the dinner, and Claire had gone to visit with the Camerons of Isle Fleur, whose fire was nearby. The night air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke rather than peat fires, but in many ways it might be Scotland, he thought.
Jamie’s eye lighted on the curve of little Jemmy’s skull, dusted with copper fuzz that shone in the firelight. He held out his arms, and with only the slightest hesitation, Roger carefully passed the sleeping baby to him.
“Balach Boidheach,” Jamie murmured as the baby stirred against him. “There now, it’s fine.” He looked across at Roger. “You’ve a thing to say to me, you said.”
Roger nodded.
“I have, though not on my own account. You might say it is a message to be passed on for someone else.”
Jamie lifted one quizzical brow, in a gesture so reminiscent of Brianna that Roger felt a small internal start. To cover it, he coughed.
“I—ah—when Brianna went to the stones on Craigh na Dun, I was forced to wait a few weeks until I could follow after her.”
“Aye?” Jamie looked wary, as he always did at any mention of stone circles.
“I went to Inverness,” Roger continued, keeping his eyes on his father-in-law. “I stayed at the house that my father had lived in, and I spent part of the time in sorting through his papers; he was a great saver of letters and bits of old rubbish.”
Jamie nodded, evidently wondering what Roger was on about, but too polite to interrupt him.
“I found a letter.” Roger took a deep breath, feeling his heart thump in his chest. “I committed it to memory, thinking that if I found Claire, I would tell her of it. But then when I found her”—he shrugged—“I was not sure whether I should tell her or not—or tell Brianna.”
“And you are asking me if you should tell them?” Fraser’s brows rose, thick and ruddy, showing his puzzlement.
“Perhaps I am. But thinking on it, it occurred to me that the letter was perhaps of more concern to you than to them.” Now that the moment was at hand, Roger found himself feeling some sympathy for Fraser.
“You’ll know my father was a minister? The letter was to him. I suppose it was written under the seal of confession, in a way—but I imagine death has dissolved this particular seal.”
Roger took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seeing the black letters slanting across the page, in the neat, angular handwriting. He’d read it over more than a hundred times; he was sure of every word.
Dear Reg (the letter said);
I’ve something the matter with my heart. Besides Claire, I mean (says he, with irony). The doctor says it might be years yet, with care, and I hope it is—but there’s the odd chance. The nuns at Bree’s school used to scare the kids into fits about the horrible fate in store for sinners who died unconfessed and un-forgiven; damned