The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [38]
It was the vivid memory of the gory splotches on the worn lino of the Abercrombies’ kitchen that decided him. Pragmatic Bree might be, but this was their wedding. Better, worse, death do us part. He’d go for romantic—or as romantic as could be managed on one shilling, threepence.
There was a flash of red among the spruce needles nearby, like the glimpse of a cardinal. Bigger than the average bird, though; he stopped, bending to peer through an opening in the branches.
“Duncan?” he said. “Is that you?”
Duncan Innes came out of the trees, nodding shyly. He still wore the scarlet Cameron tartan, but had left off his splendid coat, instead wrapping the end of his plaid shawllike round his shoulders in the cozy old style of the Highlands.
“A word, a Smeòraich?” he said.
“Aye, sure. I’m just off to the tinkers’—walk with me.” He turned back to the trail—now clear of smoke—and they made their way companionably across the mountain, side by side.
Roger said nothing, waiting courteously for Duncan to choose his way into the conversation. Duncan was diffident and retiring by temperament, but observant, perceptive, and stubborn in a very quiet way. If he had something to say, he’d say it—given time. At last he drew breath and started in.
“Mac Dubh did say to me as how your Da was a minister—that’s true, is it?”
“Aye,” Roger said, rather startled at the subject. “Or at least—my real father was killed, and my mother’s uncle adopted me; it was him was the minister.” Even as he spoke, Roger wondered why he should feel it necessary to explain. For most of his life, he had thought and spoken of the Reverend as his father; and surely it made no difference to Duncan.
Duncan nodded, clicking his tongue in sympathy.
“But ye will have been Presbyterian yourself, then? I did hear Mac Dubh speak of it.” Despite Duncan’s normal good manners, a brief grin showed beneath the edge of his ragged mustache.
“I expect ye did, aye,” Roger replied dryly. He’d be surprised if the whole Gathering hadn’t heard Mac Dubh speak of it.
“Well, the thing about it is, so am I,” Duncan said, sounding rather apologetic.
Roger looked at him in astonishment.
“You? I thought you were Catholic!”
Duncan made a small embarrassed noise, lifting the shoulder of his amputated arm in a shrug.
“No. My great-grandda on my mother’s side was a Covenanter—verra fierce in his beliefs, aye?” He smiled, a little shyly. “That was watered down a good bit before it came to me; my Mam was godly, but Da wasna much of a one for the kirk, nor was I. And when I met up wi’ Mac Dubh . . . well, it wasna as though he’d asked me to go to Mass with him of a Sunday, was it?”
Roger nodded, with a brief grunt of comprehension. Duncan had met with Jamie in Ardsmuir Prison, after the Rising. While most of the Jacobite troops had been Catholic, he knew there had been Protestants of different stripes among them, too—and most would likely have kept quiet about it, outnumbered by the Catholics in close quarters. And it was true enough that Jamie’s and Duncan’s later career in smuggling would have offered few occasions for religious discourse.
“Aye, so. And your wedding to Mrs. Cameron tonight . . .”
Duncan nodded, and sucked in a corner of his mouth, gnawing contemplatively at the edge of his mustache.
“That’s it. Am I bound, d’ye think, to say anything?”
“Mrs. Cameron doesn’t know? Nor Jamie?”
Duncan shook his head silently, eyes on the trampled mud of the trail.
Roger realized that it was, of course, Jamie whose opinion was important here, rather than Jocasta Cameron’s. The issue of differing religion had evidently not seemed important to Duncan—and Roger had never heard that Jocasta was in any way devout—but hearing about Jamie’s response to Roger’s Presbyterianism, Duncan had now taken alarm.
“Ye went to see the priest, Mac Dubh said.” Duncan glanced at him sidelong. “Did he—” He cleared his throat, flushing.