The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [265]
The odd thing was that it was not strange in the slightest. It was nothing that came from outside me, but only the acknowledgment of something I already possessed, and recognized, though I had no notion what to call it. But midnight was fast approaching. Still wondering, I opened the door, and stepped into the light and clamor of the hall.
A shout from across the hall betokened the arrival of the magic hour, as announced by Mr. Guthrie’s timepiece, and the men came jostling out of Jamie’s office, joking and pushing, faces turned expectantly toward the door.
Nothing happened. Had Roger decided to go to the back door, given the crowd in the kitchen? I turned to look down the hall, but no, the kitchen doorway was crowded with faces, all looking back at me in expectation.
Still no knock at the door, and there was a small stir of restiveness in the hallway, and a lull in conversation, one of those awkward silences when no one wants to talk for fear of sudden interruption.
Then I heard the sound of footsteps on the porch, and a rapid knock, one-two-three. Jamie, as householder, stepped forward to fling the door open and bid the firstfoot welcome. I was near enough to see the look of astonishment on his face, and looked quickly to see what had caused it.
Instead of Roger and Brianna, two smaller figures stood on the porch. Skinny and bedraggled, but definitely dark-haired, the two Beardsley twins stepped shyly in together, at Jamie’s gesture.
“A happy New Year to you, Mr. Fraser,” said Josiah, in a bullfrog croak. He bowed politely to me, still holding his brother by the arm. “We’ve come.”
THE GENERAL AGREEMENT was that dark-haired twins were a most fortunate omen, obviously bringing twice the luck of a single firstfoot. Nonetheless, Roger and Bree—who had met the twins hesitating in the yard, and sent them up to the door—went off to do their best for the other houses on the Ridge, Bree being severely warned not to enter any house until Roger had crossed the threshold.
Fortunate or not, the appearance of the Beardsleys caused a good deal of talk. Everyone had heard of the death of Aaron Beardsley—the official version, that is, which was that he had perished of an apoplexy—and the mysterious disappearance of his wife, but the advent of the twins caused the whole affair to be raked up and talked over again. No one knew what the boys had been doing between the militia’s expedition and New Year’s; Josiah said only “wanderin’” in his raspy croak, when asked—and his brother Keziah said nothing at all, obliging everyone to talk about the Indian trader and his wife until exhaustion caused a change of subject.
Mrs. Bug took the Beardsleys at once under her wing, taking them off to the kitchen to be washed, warmed, and fed. Half the partygoers had gone home to be firstfooted; those who would not leave ’til morning split into several groups. The younger people returned to the barn to dance—or to seek a bit of privacy among the hay bales—the older ones sat to talk of memories by the hearth, and those who had overindulged in dance or whisky curled up in any convenient corner—and quite a few inconvenient ones—to sleep.
I found Jamie in his study, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, a drawing of some kind on the table before him. He wasn’t asleep, and opened his eyes when he heard my step.
“Happy New Year,” I said softly, and bent to kiss him.
“A guid New Year to you, a nighean donn.” He was warm and smelled faintly of beer and dried sweat.
“Still want to go outside?” I asked, with a glance at the window. The moon had set long since, and the stars burned faint and cold in the sky. The yard outside was bleak and black.
“No,” he said frankly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I want to go to bed.” He yawned and blinked, trying to smooth down the disheveled bits of hair sticking up on the top of his head. “I want you to come, too, though,” he added, generously.
“I’d like nothing better,” I assured