The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [174]
Grey smiled back and accepted the old baronet’s hand on the bargain, then followed him as they sped up to a canter past the ruffled waves of the mere. Movement in the distance caught his eye, and he saw a string of horses running down the slope of a distant hill, graceful and wild as a flurry of leaves, led by a horseman.
It was too far to be sure, but he was sure, nonetheless. He couldn’t take his eyes off the distant horses until they had rounded the bottom of the slope and disappeared.
Only then did his interrupted chain of thought restring itself. Yes, marrying Betty would make Jamie Fraser more comfortable at Helwater—but he need not stay at Helwater; it had been his choice to return. So it must in fact be Betty that drew him back.
“Well, bloody hell,” Grey muttered. “It’s his life.” He spurred up, passing Dunsany on the road.
JAMIE WAS SURPRISED at how quickly Helwater reabsorbed him, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. A farm—and Helwater was a working farm, for all its grand manor house—has a life of its own, with a great, slow-beating heart, and everything on a farm listens to that beat and lives to its rhythm.
He knew that, for the rhythm of Lallybroch was deep in his bones, always would be. That knowledge was both sorrow and comfort, but more of the latter, for he knew that should he ever go back, that familiar heartbeat would still be there.
… and his place shall know him no more, the Bible said. He didn’t think that was exactly what was meant; his place would always know him, should he come again.
But he would not come to Lallybroch again for a long time. If ever, he thought, but quickly put that thought out of his head. He turned his ear to the ground and felt the beating of Helwater, a quicker sound, one that would support him in his weakness, comfort him in loneliness. He could hear the speaking of its waters and the growing of the grass, the movement of horses and the silence of its rocks. The people were part of it—a more transient part, but not an unimportant part. And one of those was Betty Mitchell.
It couldn’t be put off. And one benefit of the inexorable daily rhythm of a farm was that the people were part of it. He lingered for a moment after breakfast, to speak to Keren-happuch, the middle-aged Welsh kitchen maid, who liked him in a reserved, thin-lipped, dour sort of way. She was deeply religious, Keren—as evidenced by her name—thought him a Roman heretic, and wouldn’t stand for carryings-on in any case, but when he told her that he had come back with news for Betty of a kinsman, she was willing to take his message. Everyone would know, of course, but under the circumstances, that wouldn’t matter. At least he hoped not.
And so in the quiet part of the afternoon, an hour before tea, he came to the kitchen garden and found Betty waiting.
She turned at his step, and he saw that she’d put on a clean fichu and a little silver brooch. She lifted her chin and looked at him under her straight dark brows, a woman not quite sure of her power but clearly thinking she had some. He must be careful.
“Mrs. Betty,” he said, bowing his head to her, formal. She had stretched out her hand, and he was obliged to take it but was careful not to squeeze or breathe on it.
“I came to tell ye about Toby,” he said at once, before she could say anything. She blinked and her gaze sharpened, but she left her hand in his.
“Toby Quinn? What’s happened to him, then?”
“He’s died, lass. I’m sorry for it.”
Her fingers curled over his and she gripped his hand.
“Died! How?”
“In the service of his king,” he said. “He’s buried safe in Ireland.”
She was plainly shocked but gave him a sharp look.
“I said how. Who killed him?”
I did, he thought, but said, “He died by his own hand, lass,” and said again, “I’m sorry for it.”
She let go his hand