Voyager - Diana Gabaldon [323]
“And if there’s no need for a man to protect a woman, and care for her, then I think it will be a verra poor time!” He glared back at me.
I drew a deep breath, trying to be calm.
“I didn’t say there’s no need for it.” I placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke in a softer tone. “I said, she can choose. She needn’t take a man out of necessity; she can take one for love.”
His face began to relax, just slightly.
“You took me from need,” he said. “When we wed.”
“And I came back for love,” I said. “Do you think I needed you any less, only because I could feed myself?”
The lines of his face eased, and the shoulder under my hand relaxed a bit as he searched my face.
“No,” he said softly. “I dinna think that.”
He put his arm around me and drew me close. I put my arms around his waist and held him, feeling the small flat patch of Brianna’s pictures in his pocket under my cheek.
“I did worry about leaving her,” I whispered, a little later. “She made me go; we were afraid that if I waited longer, I might not be able to find you. But I did worry.”
“I know. I shouldna ha’ said anything.” He brushed my curls away from his chin, smoothing them down.
“I left her a letter,” I said. “It was all I could think to do—knowing I might…might not see her again.” I pressed my lips tight together and swallowed hard.
His fingertips stroked my back, very softly.
“Aye? That was good, Sassenach. What did ye say to her?”
I laughed, a little shakily.
“Everything I could think of. Motherly advice and wisdom—what I had of it. All the practical things—where the deed to the house and the family papers were. And everything I knew or could think of, about how to live. I expect she’ll ignore it all, and have a wonderful life—but at least she’ll know I thought about her.”
It had taken me nearly a week, going through the cupboards and desk drawers of the house in Boston, finding all of the business papers, the bankbooks and mortgage papers and the family things. There were a good many bits and pieces of Frank’s family lying about; huge scrapbooks and dozens of genealogy charts, albums of photographs, cartons of saved letters. My side of the family was a good deal simpler to sum up.
I lifted down the box I kept on the shelf of my closet. It was a small box. Uncle Lambert was a saver, as all scholars are, but there had been little to save. The essential documents of a small family—birth certificates, mine and my parents’, their marriage lines, the registration for the car that had killed them—what ironic whim had prompted Uncle Lamb to save that? More likely he had never opened the box, but only kept it, in a scholar’s blind faith that information must never be destroyed, for who knew what use it might be, and to whom?
I had seen its contents before, of course. There had been a period in my teens when I opened it nightly to look at the few photos it contained. I remembered the bone-deep longing for the mother I didn’t remember, and the vain effort to imagine her, to bring her back to life from the small dim images in the box.
The best of them was a close-up photograph of her, face turned toward the camera, warm eyes and a delicate mouth, smiling under the brim of a felt cloche hat. The photograph had been hand-tinted; the cheeks and lips were an unnatural rose-pink, the eyes soft brown. Uncle Lamb said that that was wrong; her eyes had been gold, he said, like mine.
I thought perhaps that time of deep need had passed for Brianna, but was not sure. I had had a studio portrait made of myself the week before; I placed it carefully in the box and closed it, and put the box in the center of my desk, where she would find it. Then I sat down to write.
* * *
My dear Bree— I wrote, and stopped. I couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly be contemplating abandoning my child. To see those three black words stark on the page brought