The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [288]
“Your husband’s grandfather was Simon, Lord Lovat?” Campbell said. “The Old Fox?” His voice rose slightly with incredulity.
“Well . . . yes,” I said, a little uneasily. “I thought you knew that.”
“Indeed,” said Farquard. He looked as though he had swallowed a brandied plum, noticing too late that the stone was still in it. He’d known Jamie was a pardoned Jacobite, all right, but plainly Jocasta hadn’t mentioned his close connection with the Old Fox—executed as a traitor for his role in the Stuart Rising. Most of the Campbells had fought on the Government side of that particular brouhaha.
“Yes,” MacDonald said, ignoring Campbell’s reaction. He frowned slightly in concentration. “I have the honor to be slightly acquainted with the present Lord Lovat—the title has been restored, I collect?”
He went on, turning to Campbell in explanation. “That would be Young Simon, who raised a regiment to fight the French in . . . ’58? No, ’57. Yes, ’57. A gallant soldier, excellent fighting man. And he would be your husband’s . . . nephew? No, uncle.”
“Half-uncle,” I clarified. Old Simon had been married three times, and made no secret of his extramarital by-blows—of which Jamie’s father had been one. No need to point that out, though.
MacDonald nodded, lean face clearing in satisfaction at having got it all neatly sorted. Farquard’s face relaxed a little, hearing that the family reputation had gone so far toward rehabilitation.
“Papist, of course,” MacDonald added, “but an excellent soldier, nonetheless.”
“Speaking of soldiers,” Campbell interrupted, “do you know . . .”
I breathed a sigh of relief that made my corset strings creak, as Mr. Campbell smoothly led the Major into an analysis of some past military event. The Major, it seemed, was not on active duty, but like many, presently retired on half-pay. Unless and until the Crown found some further use for his services, he was thus left to mooch round the Colonies in search of occupation. Peace was hard on professional soldiers.
Just wait, I thought, with a small premonitory shiver. Four years, or less, and the Major would be busy enough.
I caught a flash of tartan from the corner of my eye and turned to look, but it was neither Jamie nor Duncan. One less mystery, though; it was Roger, dark-haired and handsome in his kilt. His face lit as he spotted Brianna, and his stride lengthened. She turned her head, as though feeling his presence, and her own face brightened in answer.
He reached her side, and without the least acknowledgment of the gentleman with her, embraced her and kissed her soundly on the mouth. As they drew apart, he held out his arms for Jemmy, and dropped another kiss on the silky red head.
I returned to the conversation at hand, belatedly realizing that Farquard Campbell had been talking for some time without my having any notion what he had said. Seeing my bemusement, he smiled, a little wryly.
“I must go and pay my respects elsewhere, Mrs. Fraser,” he said. “If you will pardon me? I shall leave you to the Major’s excellent company.” He touched his hat courteously, and eeled off toward the house, perhaps intending to track down Lieutenant Wolff and stop him pocketing the silver.
Thus marooned with me, the Major cast about for suitable conversation, and fell back upon the most commonly asked question between new acquaintances.
“Are you and your husband long arrived in the colony, ma’am?”
“Not long,” I said, rather wary. “Three years or so. We live in a small settlement in the backcountry—” I waved my closed fan toward the invisible mountains to the west. “A place called Fraser’s Ridge.”
“Ah, yes. I have heard of it.” A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth, and I wondered uneasily just what he had heard. Jamie’s still was an open secret in the backcountry, and among the Scottish settlers of the Cape Fear—in fact, several kegs of raw whisky from the still were sitting in plain sight by the stables, Jamie’s wedding present to his aunt