The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [234]
“And miles to go before we sleep,” I remarked, turning back to Jamie with a sigh.
“Eh? Ah, no, it’s no more than an hour’s ride to Brownsville,” he assured me. “Or maybe two,” he amended, glancing up at the white-muslin sky, from which the snow was falling faster. “I ken where we are, now it’s light.”
He coughed again, a sudden spasm racking his body, then straightened, and handed me the cup and dummy.
“Here, Sassenach. Feed the poor were sgaogan while I tend the beasts, aye?”
Sgaogan. A changeling. So the air of supernatural strangeness about the whole affair had struck him, too. Well, the woman had claimed to see ghosts; perhaps one of them had come for her? I shivered, and cradled the baby closer.
“Is there any settlement near here, besides Brownsville? Anywhere Mrs. Beardsley might have decided to go?”
Jamie shook his head, a line between his brows. The snow melted where it touched his heated skin, and ran down his face in tiny streams.
“Naught that I ken,” he said. “Is the wean takin’ to the goat’s milk?”
“Like a kid,” I assured him, and laughed. He looked puzzled, but one side of his mouth turned up nonetheless—he wanted humor just now, whether he understood the joke or not.
“That’s what the Americans call—will call—children,” I told him. “Kids.”
The smile broadened across his face.
“Oh, aye? So that’s why Brianna and MacKenzie call wee Jem so, is it? I thought it was only a bit of private fun between them.”
He milked the rest of the goats quickly while I dribbled more nourishment into the child, bringing back a brimming bucket of warm milk for our own breakfast. I should have liked a nice hot cup of tea—my fingers were chilled and numb from dipping the false teat over and over—but the creamy white stuff was delicious, and as much comfort to our chilled and empty stomachs as to the little one’s.
The child had stopped suckling, and had wet itself copiously; a good sign of health, by and large, but rather inconvenient just at the moment, as both its swaddling cloth and the front of my bodice were now soaked.
Jamie rootled hastily through the packs once again, this time in search of diapering and dry clothes. Fortunately, Mrs. Piggy had been carrying the bag in which I kept lengths of linen and wads of cotton lint for cleansing and bandaging. He took a handful of these and the child, while I went about the awkward and drafty business of changing my shift and bodice without removing skirt, petticoat, or cloak.
“P-put on your own cloak,” I said, through chattering teeth. “You’ll die of f-frigging pneumonia.”
He smiled at that, eyes focused on his job, though the tip of his nose glowed redly in contrast to his pale face.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, then cleared his throat with a noise like ripping cloth, impatient. “Fine,” he repeated, more strongly, then stopped, eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” he said, more softly. “Look. It’s a wee lassie.”
“Is it?” I dropped to my knees beside him to look.
“Rather plain,” he said, critically surveying the little creature. “A good thing she’ll have a decent dowry.”
“I don’t suppose you were any great beauty when you were born, either,” I said rebukingly. “She hasn’t even been properly cleaned, poor thing. What do you mean about her dowry, though?”
He shrugged, contriving to keep the child covered with a shawl, meanwhile sliding a folded sheet of linen dexterously beneath her miniature bottom.
“Her father’s dead and her mother’s gone. She’s no brothers or sisters to share, and I didna find any will in the house saying that anyone else was to have Beardsley’s property. There’s a decent farm left, though, and a good bit in trade goods there—to say nothing of the goats.” He glanced at Hiram and his family, and smiled.