Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [75]
“Well, I think he didna want to tell too many tales of war and fighting, lest you lads get thinking on it and set yourselves to go for soldiers, too. He and your mother will ha’ wanted better for you, aye?”
I thought the elder Ian had been wise; it was clear from the look on his face that the younger Ian couldn’t think of a much more exciting prospect than war and fighting.
“That will ha’ been my Mam’s doing,” Ian said, with an air of disgust. “She’d have me wrapped in wool and tied to her apron strings, did I let her.”
Jamie grinned.
“Oh, let her, is it? And d’ye think she’d wrap ye in wool and smother ye wi’ kisses if ye were home this minute?”
Ian dropped the pose of disdain.
“Well, no,” he admitted. “I think she’d skelp me raw.”
Jamie laughed.
“Ye know a bit about women, Ian, if not so much as ye think.”
Ian glanced skeptically from his uncle to me, and back.
“And you’ll ken all about them, I suppose, Uncle?”
I raised one eyebrow, inviting an answer to this, but Jamie merely laughed.
“It’s a wise man who kens the limits of his knowledge, Ian.” He bent and kissed my damp forehead, then turned back to his nephew, adding, “Though I could wish your own limits went a bit further.”
Ian shrugged, looking bored.
“I dinna mean to set up for a gentleman,” he said. “After all, Young Jamie and Michael dinna read Greek; they do well enough!”
Jamie rubbed his nose, considering his nephew thoughtfully.
“Young Jamie has Lallybroch. And wee Michael does well wi’ Jared in Paris. They’ll be settled. We did as best we might for the two o’ them, but there was precious little money to pay for travel or schooling when they came to manhood. There wasna much choice for them, aye?”
He pushed himself off the rail and stood upright.
“But your parents dinna want that for you, Ian, if better might be managed. They’d have ye grow to be a man of learning and influence; duine uasal, perhaps.” It was a Gaelic expression I had heard before, literally “a man of worth.” It was the term for tacksmen and lairds, the men of property and followers who ranked only below chieftains in the Highland clans.
Such a man as Jamie himself had been, before the Rising. But not now.
“Mmphm. And did ye do as your parents wanted for ye, then, Uncle Jamie?” Ian looked blandly at his uncle, with only a wary twitch of the eye to show he knew he was treading on shaky ground. Jamie had been meant to be duine uasal, indeed; Lallybroch had been his by right. It was only in an effort to save the property from confiscation by the Crown that he had made it over legally to Young Jamie, instead.
Jamie stared at him for a moment, then rubbed a knuckle across his upper lip before replying.
“I did say ye’d a fine mind, no?” he answered dryly. “Though since ye ask … I was raised to do two things, Ian. To mind my land and people, and to care for my family. I’ve done those two things, as best I might—and I shall go on doing them as best I can.”
Young Ian had the grace to look abashed at this.
“Aye, well, I didna mean …” he mumbled, looking at his feet.
“Dinna fash, laddie,” Jamie interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. He grinned wryly at his nephew. “Ye’ll amount to something for your mother’s sake—if it kills us both. And now I think it will be my turn at the pole.”
He glanced forward, to where Troklus’s shoulders gleamed like oily copper, snake-muscled with long labor. Jamie untied his breeches—unlike the other men, he would not take off his shirt for poling, but stripped his breeks for coolness and worked with his shirt knotted between his thighs, in the Highland style—and nodded to Ian.
“You think about it, laddie. Youngest son or no, your life’s not meant to be wasted.”
He smiled at me then, with a sudden heart-stopping brilliance, and handed me his shed breeks. Then, still holding my hand in his, he stood upright and, hand over heart, declaimed,
“Amo, amas, I love a lass,
As cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslip’s grace
Is her nominative case,
And she’s o’ the feminine gender.”
He nodded graciously to Ian, who had dissolved in giggles, and