The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [366]
Jocasta’s lips pressed tight. There was no help for it, though; not now. She made a small growling noise in her throat, an inarticulate protest at being compelled to give up the secret she had kept for so long.
“The Frenchman’s gold,” she said, abruptly.
“What?” said Duncan in bewilderment. He touched the lump behind his ear, gingerly, as though convinced it had affected his hearing.
“The French gold,” Jocasta repeated, rather irritably. “That was sent, just before Culloden.”
“Before—” Bree began, wide-eyed, but Jamie interrupted her.
“Louis’s gold,” he said softly. “That’s what ye mean, Aunt? The Stuarts’ gold?”
Jocasta uttered a short laugh, quite without humor.
“Once it was.”
She paused, listening. The voices had moved away from the door, though there were still noises in the hallway. She turned toward Bree, and motioned toward the door.
“Go and see that no one’s got his lug to the keyhole, lass. I havena held my peace these twenty-five years only to spill it to the whole county.”
Bree opened the door briefly, peered out, then closed it, reporting that no one was near.
“Good. Come ye here, lass. Sit by me. But no—first, fetch me the case I showed ye yesterday.”
Looking more than puzzled, Bree vanished into the dressing room, returning with a slender case of worn black leather. She laid it in Jocasta’s lap and settled onto a stool beside her aunt, giving me a look of faint concern.
I was feeling quite myself again, though a faint echo of that odd fear still rang in my bones. I nodded reassuringly to Bree, though, and bent to give Duncan a sip of watered brandy. I knew what it was now, that ancient distress. It was that phrase overheard, the words by chance the same that a small girl had once heard spoken, whispered in the next room by the strangers who had come to say her mother would not be coming back, that she had died. An accident; a crash; fire. Burnt to bones, the voice had said, filled with the awe of it. Burnt to bones, and the desolation of a daughter, forever abandoned. My hand trembled, and the cloudy liquid ran in a trickle down Duncan’s chin.
But that was long ago, and in another country, I thought, steeling myself against the riptide of memory.
And besides . . .
Jocasta drained her own cup, set it down with a small thump, and opened the case in her lap. A gleam of gold and diamonds showed inside, and she lifted out a slender wooden rod that held three rings.
“I had three daughters, once,” she said. “Three girls. Clementina, Seonag, and Morna.” She touched one of the rings, a wide band, set with three large diamonds.
“This was for my girls; Hector gave it to me when Morna was born. She was his, Morna—you know it means ‘beloved’?” Her other hand left the box and stretched out, groping. She touched Bree’s cheek, and Bree took the hand, cradling it between her own.
“I had one living child of each marriage.” Jocasta’s long fingers probed delicately, touching each ring in turn. “Clementina belonged to John Cameron; him I wed when I myself was little more than a child; I bore her at sixteen. Seonag was the daughter of Black Hugh—she was dark, like her sire, but she had my brother Colum’s eyes.” She turned her own blind eyes toward Jamie, briefly, then bent her head back, touching the ring with three diamonds again.
“And then Morna, my last child. She was but sixteen when she died.”
The old woman’s face was bleak, but the line of her mouth softened, speaking the names of her vanished girls.
“I’m sorry, Aunt.” Bree spoke softly. She bent her head to kiss the knuckles of the hand she cradled, knobbed with age. Jocasta tightened her hand a little in acknowledgment, but did not mean to be distracted from her story.
“Hector Cameron gave me this,” Jocasta said, touching the ring. “And he killed them all. My children, my daughters. He killed them for the Frenchman’s gold.”
The shock of it took my breath and hollowed my stomach. I felt Jamie go still behind me, and saw Duncan’s bloodshot eyes go wide. Brianna didn’t change expression. She closed her eyes for a moment, but still held on to