The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [227]
Jem began trying to get his foot into his crumb-encrusted mouth, despite the clear illogic of the procedure.
“You must take after Daddy,” she told him, tolerantly. She put the quill back in its jar, and started to close the ledger, then stopped, attracted by the sprawling entries. The sight of Jamie’s characteristically messy writing still gave her a faint thrill, remembering her first sight of it—on an ancient deed of sasine, its ink gone pale brown with age.
This ink had been pale brown to start with, but had now darkened, the iron-gall mixture achieving its typical blue-black with exposure to air over a day or so.
It was not so much a ledger, she saw, as a logbook, recording the daily activities of the farm.
16 July—Rec’d six weaned piglets of Pastor Gottfried, in trade for two bottles muscat wine and a goosewing axhead. Have put them in the stable ’til they be grown enough to forage conveniently.
17 July—One of the hives commenced to swarm in the afternoon, and came into the stable. My wife fortunately recaptured the swarm, which she housed in an empty churn. She says Ronnie Sinclair must make her a new one.
18 July—Letter from my aunt, asking advice re sawmill on Grinder’s Creek. Replied, saying I will ride to inspect the situation within the month. Letter sent with R. Sinclair, who goes to Cross Creek with a load of 22 barrels, from which I am to receive half his profit toward payment of debt on cobbler’s tools. Have arranged to deduct cost of new churn from this amount.
The flow of entries was soothing, as peaceful as the summer days they recorded. She felt the knot of tension between her shoulder blades beginning to relax, and her mind began to loosen and stretch, ready to seek a way out of her difficulties.
20 July—Barley in the lower field as high as my stocking-tops. A healthy heifer calf born to red cow soon after midnight. All well. An excellent day.
21 July—Rode to Muellers’. Exchanged one jar honeycomb for leather bridle in poor repair (but can be mended). Home well after dark, in consequence of seeing a twilight hatch rising upon the pond near Hollis’s Gap. Stopped to fish, and caught a string of ten fine trout. Six eaten for supper; the rest will do for breakfast.
22 July—My grandson has a rash, though my wife declares it of no moment. The white sow has broken through her pen again and escaped into the forest. I am in two minds whether I shall pursue her or only express sympathy for the unfortunate predator that first encounters her. Her temper is similar to that of my daughter at the moment, the latter having slept little these past few nights . . .
Brianna leaned forward, frowning at the page.
. . . in consequence of the infant’s screaming, which my wife says is the colic and will pass. I trust she is right. Meanwhile, I have settled Brianna and the child in the old cabin, which is some relief to us in the house, if not to my poor daughter. The white sow ate four of her last litter before I could prevent her.
“Why, you bloody bastard!” she said. She was familiar with the white sow in question, and not flattered by the comparison. Jemmy, alarmed by her tone, stopped crooning and dropped his toast, his mouth beginning to quiver.
“No, no, it’s all right, sweetie.” She got up and scooped him into her arms, swaying gently to soothe him. “Shh, it’s all right. Mummy is just talking to Grandpa, that’s all. You didn’t hear that word either, okay? Shh, shh.”
Jemmy was reassured, but leaned out from her arms, reaching after his discarded meal with small grunts of anxiety. She stooped and picked it up, eyeing the half-dissolved object with distaste. The crust was not only stale and wet, but had acquired a light coating of what seemed to be cat hair.
“Ick. You don’t really want that, do you?”
Evidently he did, and was persuaded only with difficulty to accept a large iron bull’s ring—used for leading male animals by the nose,