The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [571]
“Brianna, say hello to our new tenants,” he said, with a nod at the Christies. “Mr. Thomas Christie, and . . .”
“My son, Allan,” Christie said, with a jerk of the head, “and my daughter, Malva.”
The son had none of his father’s owlish look, being much fairer in aspect, with a broad, square, clean-shaven face, though he had the same feathery, tufted dark hair. He nodded in silent acknowledgment of the introduction, eyes fixed on the refreshment.
The girl—Malva?—barely looked up, her hands folded modestly in her lap. Roger had the vague impression of a tallish girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, neat in a dark blue dress and white kerch, with a soft frill of black curls just visible around the pale oval of her face. Another point in Christie’s favor, Roger thought absently; girls of marriageable age were rare, pretty ones still rarer. Malva Christie would likely have several offers before the spring planting.
Bree nodded to each of them, looking at the girl with particular interest. Then a loud shriek came from the kitchen, and she fled with a murmured excuse.
“My son,” Roger said, in apology. He lifted a mug of beer, offering it. “Will you take a bit of refreshment, Mr. Christie?”
The tenant contracts were all kept in the left-hand drawer of the desk; he’d seen them, and knew the general outlines. Fifty acres would be granted outright, more land rented as needed, with provision for payment made according to individual situations. A little discussion over the beer and biscuits, and they had reached what seemed an adequate agreement.
Completing the contract with a flourish, Roger signed his own name, as agent for James Fraser, and pushed the paper across the desk for Christie to sign. He felt a deep, pleasant glow of accomplishment. A sound tenant, and willing to pay half his quitrent by serving as schoolmaster for five months of the year. Jamie himself, Roger thought complacently, would not have done better.
Then he caught himself. No, Jamie would have taken one more step, and seen the Christies offered not only hospitality but lodging, a place to stay until they could achieve some shelter of their own. Not here, though; not with Jamie ill and Claire occupied in nursing him. He thought for a moment, then stepped to the door and called for Lizzie.
“We’ve a new tenant come, and his family, a muirninn,” he said, smiling at her anxious, willing mouse-face. “This is Mr. Thomas Christie, and his son and daughter. Can ye ask your Da will he take them up to Evan Lindsay’s cabin? It’s near where they’ll have their own land, and I’m thinking perhaps Evan and his wife have room for them to stay for a bit, until they can get a start on a place of their own.”
“Oh, aye, Mister Roger.” Lizzie bobbed a quick curtsy toward Christie, who acknowledged her with a small bow. Then she glanced at Roger, thin brows lifted. “Will Himself know about it, then?”
Roger felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks, but gave no sign of discomposure.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be telling him, so soon as he’s feeling better.”
“Mr. Fraser is ill? I am sorry to hear it.” The unfamiliar soft voice came from behind, startling him, and he turned to find Malva Christie looking up at him in question. He hadn’t taken much notice of her, but was now struck by the beauty of her eyes—an odd light gray, almond-shaped and luminous, and thickly fringed with long black lashes. Perhaps sooner than the spring planting, he thought, and coughed.
“Bitten by a snake,” he said abruptly. “Not to worry, though; he’s mending.”
He thrust out a hand to Christie, ready this time for the secret grip.
“Welcome to Fraser’s Ridge,” he said. “I hope you and your family