The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [177]
Despite my tiredness and the serious nature of the journey, I was looking forward to it. Beyond the lure of novelty and the possibility of adventure, there was the delightful prospect of escape from laundry, cookery, and female warfare. Still, Jamie was right; tonight was likely the last we would have of privacy and comfort for some little time.
I stretched, consciously enjoying the soft embrace of the feather bed, the smooth, clean sheets with their faint scent of rosemary and elderflower. Had I packed sufficient bedding?
Roger’s voice reached through the shutters, still strong but beginning to sound a bit ragged with fatigue.
“The Thrush had best get to his bed,” Jamie said, with mild disapproval, “if he means to bid his wife a proper farewell.”
“Goodness, Bree and Jemmy went to bed hours ago!” I said.
“The wean, perhaps; the lass is still there. I heard her voice, a moment ago.”
“Is she?” I strained to listen, but made out no more than a rumble of muted applause as Roger brought his song to a close. “I suppose she wants to stay with him as long as she can. Those men are going to be exhausted in the morning—to say nothing of hung over.”
“So long as they can sit a horse, I dinna mind if they slip off to have a vomit in the weeds now and again,” Jamie assured me.
I nestled down, covers drawn up warm around my shoulders. I could hear the deep rumble of Roger’s voice, laughing, but declining firmly to sing anymore. Little by little, the noises in the dooryard ceased, though I could still hear bumpings and rattlings as the beer keg was picked up and shaken empty of the last few drops. Then a hollow thud as someone dropped it on the ground.
There were noises in the house; the sudden yowl of a wakening baby, footsteps in the kitchen, the sleepy whine of toddlers disturbed by the men, a woman’s voice raised in remonstrance, then reassurance.
My neck and shoulders ached, and my feet were sore from the long walk to the whisky spring, carrying Jemmy. Still, I found myself annoyingly wakeful, unable to shut out the noises of the external world as completely as the shutters blocked it from view.
“Can you remember everything you did today?” This was a small game we played sometimes at night, each trying to recall in detail everything done, seen, heard, or eaten during the day, from getting up to going to bed. Like writing in a journal, the effort of recall seemed to purge the mind of the day’s exertions, and we found great entertainment in each other’s experiences. I loved to hear Jamie’s daily accounts, whether pedestrian or exciting, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight.
“I canna remember a thing that happened before we closed the chamber door,” he said, squeezing my buttock in a companionable way. “After that, though, I expect I could recall a detail or two.”
“It’s reasonably fresh in my mind, too,” I assured him. I curled my toes, caressing the tops of his feet.
We stopped speaking, then, and began to shift and settle toward sleep, as the sounds below ceased, replaced by the buzz and rasp of miscellaneous snores. Or at least I tried to. Late as it was, and exhausted as my body undoubtedly was, my mind appeared determined to stay up and carouse. Fragments of the day appeared behind my eyelids the moment I shut my eyes—Mrs. Bug and her broom, Gerhard Mueller’s muddy boots, bare-stemmed grape clusters, blanched tangles of sauerkraut, the round halves of Jemmy’s miniature pink bottom, dozens of young Chisholms running amok . . . I resolutely strove to discipline my fugitive mind by turning instead to a mental checklist of my preparations for leaving.
This was most unhelpful, as within moments I was wide awake with suppressed anxiety, imagining the complete destruction of my surgery; Brianna, Marsali, or the children succumbing to some sudden hideous epidemic; and Mrs. Bug inciting riot and bloodshed from one end of the Ridge to the other.
I rolled onto my side, looking at Jamie. He had rolled onto