The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [256]
Her eyes were dark on his, but the candle flames struck glints of blue in their depths.
“What I wondered is—are all geese like that? Not only greylags?” She nodded at the pictures.
He touched her, and cleared his throat. He wanted to comfort her, but not at the price of an easy lie.
“Maybe so. I don’t know for sure, though. You’re worried, then, about the mates of the birds you shot?”
The soft pale lips pressed tight together, then relaxed.
“Not worried. Just . . . I couldn’t help thinking about it, afterward. About them, flying on . . . alone. You were gone—I couldn’t help thinking—I mean, I knew you were all right, this time, but next time, you might not come—well, never mind. It’s just silly. Don’t worry about it.”
She stood up, and would have pushed past him into the room, but he put his arms around her and held her, close so she couldn’t see his face.
He knew that she didn’t absolutely require him—not to make hay, to plow, to hunt for her. If needs must, she could do those things herself—or find another man. And yet . . . the wild geese said she needed him—would mourn his loss if it came. Perhaps forever. In his present vulnerable mood, that knowledge seemed a great gift.
“Geese,” he said at last, his voice half-muffled in her hair. “The next-door neighbors kept geese, when I was a wee lad. Big white buggers. Six of them; they went round in a gang, all high-nosed and honking. Terrorized dogs and children and folk that passed by on the street.”
“Did they terrorize you?” Her breath tickled warm on his collarbone.
“Oh, aye. All the time. When we played in the street, they’d rush out honking and peck at us and beat us with their wings. When I wanted to go out into the back garden to play with a mate, Mrs. Graham would have to come, too, to drive the bastards off to their own yard with a broomstick.
“Then the milkman came by one morning while the geese were in their front garden. They went for him, and he ran for his float—and his horse took fright at all the honking and screeching, and stamped two of the geese flatter than bannocks. The kids on the street were all thrilled.”
She was laughing against his shoulder, half-shocked but amused.
“What happened then?”
“Mrs. Graham took them and plucked them, and we had goose pie for a week,” he said matter-of-factly. He straightened up and smiled at her. She was flushed and rosy. “That’s what I ken about geese—they’re wicked buggers, but they taste great.”
He turned and plucked his mud-stained coat from the floor.
“So, then. Let me help your Da with the chores, and then I want to see how ye’ve taught my son to crawl.”
34
CHARMS
I TOUCHED A FINGER to the gleaming white surface, then rubbed my fingers together appraisingly.
“There is absolutely nothing greasier than goose grease,” I said with approval. I wiped my fingers on my apron and took up a large spoon.
“Nothing better for a nice pastry crust,” Mrs. Bug agreed. She stood on her tiptoes, watching jealously as I divided the soft white fat, ladling it from the kettle into two large stone crocks; one for the kitchen, one for my surgery.
“A nice venison pie we’ll have for Hogmanay,” she said, eyes narrowing as she envisioned the prospect. “And the haggis to follow, wi’ cullen skink, and a bit o’ corn crowdie . . . and a great raisin tart wi’ jam and clotted cream for sweeties!”
“Wonderful,” I murmured. My own immediate plans for the goose grease involved a salve of wild sarsaparilla and bittersweet for burns and abrasions, a mentholated ointment for stuffy noses and chest congestion, and something soothing and pleasantly scented for diaper rash—perhaps a lavender infusion, with the juice of crushed jewelweed leaves.
I glanced down in search of Jemmy; he had learned to crawl only a few days before, but was already capable of an astonishing rate of speed, particularly when no one was looking. He was sitting peaceably