The conversation, what there was of it, petered out, and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Through the faint hissing of the peat fire, I could hear a few distant thumps in the direction of the kitchen, but nothing like the sounds I remembered in this house, of constant activity and bustling movement, feet always pounding on the stair, and the shouts of children and squalling of babies splitting the air in the nursery overhead.
“How are all of your children?” I asked Jenny, to break the silence. She started, and I realized that I had inadvertently asked the wrong question.
“Oh, they’re well enough,” she replied hesitantly. “All verra bonny. And the grandchildren, too,” she added, breaking into a sudden smile at the thought of them.
“They’ve mostly gone to Young Jamie’s house,” Ian put in, answering my real question. “His wife’s had a new babe just the week past, so the three girls have gone to help a bit. And Michael’s up in Inverness just now, to fetch down some things come in from France.”
Another glance flicked across the room, this one between Ian and Jamie. I felt the small tilt of Jamie’s head, and saw Ian’s not-quite-nod in response. And what in hell was that about? I wondered. There were so many invisible cross-currents of emotion in the room that I had a sudden impulse to stand up and call the meeting to order, just to break the tension.
Apparently Jamie felt the same. He cleared his throat, looking directly at Ian, and addressed the main point on the agenda, saying, “We’ve brought the lad home with us.”
Ian took a deep breath, his long, homely face hardening slightly. “Have ye, then?” The thin layer of pleasantry spread over the occasion vanished suddenly, like morning dew.
I could feel Jamie beside me, tensing slightly as he prepared to defend his nephew as best he might.
“He’s a good lad, Ian,” he said.
“Is he, so?” It was Jenny who answered, her fine black brows drawn down in a frown. “Ye couldna tell, the way he acts at home. But perhaps he’s different wi’ you, Jamie.” There was a strong note of accusation in her words, and I felt Jamie tense at my side.
“It’s kind of ye to speak up for the lad, Jamie,” Ian put in, with a cool nod in his brother-in-law’s direction. “But I think we’d best hear from Young Ian himself, if ye please. Will he be upstairs?”
A muscle near Jamie’s mouth twitched, but he answered noncommittally. “In the scullery, I expect; he wanted to tidy himself a bit before seein’ ye.” His right hand slid down and pressed against my leg in warning. He hadn’t mentioned meeting Janet, and I understood; she had been sent away with her siblings, so that Jenny and Ian could deal with the matters of my appearance and their prodigal son in some privacy, but had crept back unbeknownst to her parents, wanting either to catch a glimpse of her notorious aunt Claire, or to offer succor to her brother.
I lowered my eyelids, indicating that I understood. No point in mentioning the girl’s presence, in a situation already so fraught with tension.
The sound of feet and the regular thump of Ian’s wooden leg sounded in the uncarpeted passage. Ian had left the room in the direction of the scullery; now he returned, grimly ushering Young Ian before him.
The prodigal was as presentable as soap, water, and razor could make him. His bony jaws were reddened with scraping and the hair on his neck was clotted in wet spikes, most of the dust beaten from his coat, and the round neck of his shirt neatly buttoned to the collarbone. There was little to be done about the singed half of his head, but the other side was neatly combed. He had no stock, and there was a large rip in the leg of his breeks, but all things considered, he looked as well as someone could who expects momentarily to be shot.
“Mam,” he said, ducking his head awkwardly in his mother’s direction.
“Ian,” she said softly, and he looked up at her, clearly startled at the gentleness of her tone. A slight smile curved her lips as she saw his face. “I’m glad you’re safe home, mo chridhe,” she said.
The boy’s face cleared abruptly, as though he had just heard the reprieve read to the firing squad. Then he caught a glimpse of his father’s face, and stiffened. He swallowed hard, and bent his head again, staring hard at the floorboards.
“Mmphm,” Ian said. He sounded sternly Scotch; much more like the Reverend Campbell than the easygoing man I had known before. “Now then, I want to hear what ye’ve got to say for yourself, laddie.”
“Oh. Well…I…” Young Ian trailed off miserably, then cleared his throat and had another try. “Well…nothing, really, Father,” he murmured.
“Look at me!” Ian said sharply. His son reluctantly raised his head and looked at his father, but his gaze kept flicking away, as though afraid to rest very long on the stern countenance before him.
“D’ye ken what ye did to your mother?” Ian demanded. “Disappeared and left her thinkin’ ye dead or hurt? Gone off without a word, and not a smell of ye for three days, until Joe Fraser brought down the letter ye left? Can ye even think what those three days were like for her?”
Either Ian’s expression or his words seemed to have a strong effect on his errant offspring; Young Ian bowed his head again, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Aye, well, I thought Joe would bring the letter sooner,” he muttered.
“Aye, that letter!” Ian’s face was growing more flushed as he talked.
“‘Gone to Edinburgh,’ it said, cool as dammit.” He slapped a hand flat on the table, with a smack that made everyone jump. “Gone to Edinburgh! Not a ‘by your leave,’ not an ‘I’ll send word,’ not a thing but ‘Dear Mother, I have gone to Edinburgh. Ian’!”
Young Ian’s head snapped up, eyes bright with anger.
“That’s not true! I said ‘Don’t worry for me,’ and I said ‘Love, Ian’! I did! Did I no, Mother?” For the first time, he looked at Jenny, appealing.
She had been still as a stone since her husband began to talk, her face smooth and blank. Now her eyes softened, and the hint of a curve touched her wide, full mouth again.
“Ye did, Ian,” she said softly. “It was kind to say—but I did worry, aye?”
His eyes fell, and I could see the oversized Adam’s apple bobble in his lean throat as he swallowed.
“I’m sorry, Mam,” he said, so low I could scarcely hear him. “I—I didna mean…” his words trailed off, ending in a small shrug.
Jenny made an impulsive movement, as though to extend a hand to him, but Ian caught her eye, and she let the hand fall to her lap.
“The thing is,” Ian said, speaking slowly and precisely, “it’s no the first time, is it, Ian?”
The boy didn’t answer, but made a small twitching movement that might have been assent. Ian took a step closer to his son. Close as they were in height, the differences between them were obvious. Ian was tall and lanky, but firmly muscled for all that, and a powerful man, wooden leg or no. By comparison, his son seemed almost frail, fledgling-boned and gawky.
“No, it’s not as though ye had no idea what ye were doing; not like we’d never told ye the dangers, not like we’d no forbidden ye to go past Broch Mordha—not like ye didna ken we’d worry, aye? Ye kent all that—and ye did it anyway.”
This merciless analysis of his behavior caused a sort of indefinite quiver, like an internal squirm, to go through Young Ian, but he kept up a stubborn silence.
“Look at me, laddie, when I’m speakin’ to ye!” The boy’s head rose slowly. He looked sullen now, but resigned; evidently he had been through scenes like this before, and knew where they were heading.
“I’m not even going to ask your uncle what ye’ve been doing,” Ian said. “I can only hope ye weren’t such a fool in Edinburgh as ye’ve been here. But ye’ve disobeyed me outright, and broken your mother’s heart, whatever else ye’ve done.”
Jenny moved again, as though to speak, but a brusque movement of Ian’s hand stopped her.
“And what did I tell ye the last time, wee Ian? What did I say when I gave ye your whipping? You tell m
e that, Ian!”
The bones in Young Ian’s face stood out, but he kept his mouth shut, sealed in a stubborn line.
“Tell me!” Ian roared, slamming his hand on the table again.
Young Ian blinked in reflex, and his shoulder blades drew together, then apart, as though he were trying to alter his size, and unsure whether to grow larger or try to be smaller. He swallowed hard, and blinked once more.
“Ye said—ye said ye’d skin me. Next time.” His voice broke in a ridiculous squeak on the last word, and he clamped his mouth hard shut on it.
Ian shook his head in heavy disapproval. “Aye. And I thought ye’d have enough sense to see there was no next time, but I was wrong about that, hm?” He breathed in heavily and let it out with a snort.
“I’m fair disgusted wi’ ye, Ian, and that’s the truth.” He jerked his head toward the doorway. “Go outside. I’ll see ye by the gate, presently.”
There was a tense silence in the sitting room, as the sound of the miscreant’s dragging footsteps disappeared down the passage. I kept my own eyes carefully on my hands, folded in my lap. Beside me, Jamie drew a slow, deep breath and sat up straighter, steeling himself.
“Ian.” Jamie spoke mildly to his brother-in-law. “I wish ye wouldna do that.”
“What?” Ian’s brow was still furrowed with anger as he turned toward Jamie. “Thrash the lad? And what have you to say about it, aye?”
Jamie’s jaw tensed, but his voice stayed calm.
“I’ve nothing to say about it, Ian—he’s your son; you’ll do as ye like. But maybe you’ll let me speak for the way he’s acted?”
“How he’s acted?” Jenny cried, starting suddenly to life. She might leave dealing with her son to Ian, but when it came to her brother, no one was likely to speak for her. “Sneakin’ away in the night like a thief, ye mean? Or perhaps ye’ll mean consorting wi’ criminals, and risking his neck for a cask of brandy!”
Ian silenced her with a quick gesture. He hesitated, still frowning, but then nodded abruptly at Jamie, giving permission.
“Consorting wi’ criminals like me?” Jamie asked his sister, a definite edge to his voice. His eyes met hers straight on, matching slits of blue.
“D’ye ken where the money comes from, Jenny, that keeps you and your bairns and everyone here in food, and the roof from fallin’ in over your head? It’s not from me printing up copies o’ the Psalms in Edinburgh!”
“And did I think it was?” she flared at him. “Did I ask ye what ye did?”
“No, ye didn’t,” he flashed back. “I think ye’d rather not know—but ye do know, don’t you?”
“And will ye blame me for what ye do? It’s my fault that I’ve children, and that they must eat?” She didn’t flush red like Jamie did; when Jenny lost her temper, she went dead white with fury.
I could see him struggling to keep his own temper. “Blame ye? No, of course I dinna blame ye—but is it right for you to blame me, that Ian and I canna keep ye all just working the land?”
Jenny too was making an effort to subdue her rising temper. “No,” she said. “Ye do what ye must, Jamie. Ye ken verra well I didna mean you when I said ‘criminals,’ but—”
“So ye mean the men who work for me? I do the same things, Jenny. If they’re criminals, what am I, then?” He glared at her, eyes hot with resentment.
“You’re my brother,” she said shortly, “little pleased as I am to say so, sometimes. Damn your eyes, Jamie Fraser! Ye ken quite well I dinna mean to quarrel wi’ whatever ye see fit to do! If ye robbed folk on the highway, or kept a whorehouse in Edinburgh, ’twould be because there was no help for it. That doesna mean I want ye takin’ my son to be part of it!”
Jamie’s eyes tightened slightly at the corners at the mention of whorehouses in Edinburgh, and he darted a quick glance of accusation at Ian, who shook his head. He looked mildly stunned at his wife’s ferocity.
“I’ve said not a word,” he said briefly. “Ye ken how she is.”
Jamie took a deep breath and turned back to Jenny, obviously determined to be reasonable.
“Aye, I see that. But ye canna think I would take Young Ian into danger—God, Jenny, I care for him as though he were my own son!”
“Aye?” Her skepticism was pronounced. “So that’s why ye encouraged him to run off from his home, and kept him with ye, wi’ no word to ease our minds about where he was?”
Jamie had the grace to look abashed at this.
“Aye, well, I’m sorry for that,” he muttered. “I meant to—” He broke off with an impatient gesture. “Well, it doesna matter what I meant; I should have sent word, and I didna. But as for encouraging him to run off—”
“No, I dinna suppose ye did,” Ian interrupted. “Not directly, anyway.” The anger had faded from his long face. He looked tired now, and a little sad. The bones in his face were more pronounced, leaving him hollow-cheeked in the waning afternoon light.
“It’s only that the lad loves ye, Jamie,” he said quietly. “I see him listen when ye visit, and talk of what ye do; I can see his face. He thinks it’s all excitement and adventure, how ye live, and a good long way from shoveling goat-shit for his mother’s garden.” He smiled briefly, despite himself.
Jamie gave his brother-in-law a quick smile in return, and a lifted shoulder. “Well, but it’s usual for a lad of that age to want a bit of adventure, no? You and I were the same.”
“Whether he wants it or no, he shouldna be having the sort of adventures he’ll get with you,” Jenny interrupted sharply. She shook her head, the line between her brows growing deeper as she looked disapprovingly at her brother. “The good Lord kens as there’s a charm on your life, Jamie, or ye’d ha’ been dead a dozen times.”
“Aye, well. I suppose He had something in mind to preserve me for.” Jamie glanced at me with a brief smile, and his hand sought mine. Jenny darted a glance at me, too, her face unreadable, then returned to the subject at hand.
“Well, that’s as may be,” she said. “But I canna say as the same’s true for Young Ian.” Her expression softened slightly as she looked at Jamie.
“I dinna ken everything about the way ye live, Jamie—but I ken you well enough to say it’s likely not the way a wee laddie should live.”
“Mmphm.” Jamie rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, and tried again. “Aye, well, that’s what I mean about Young Ian. He’s carried himself like a man this last week. I dinna think it right for ye to thrash him like a wee laddie, Ian.”
Jenny’s eyebrows rose, graceful wings of scorn.
“A man, now, is he? Why, he’s but a baby, Jamie—he’s not but fourteen!”
Despite his annoyance, one side of Jamie’s mouth curled slightly.
“I was a man at fourteen, Jenny,” he said softly.
She snorted, but a film of moisture shone suddenly over her eyes.
“Ye thought ye were.” She stood and turned away abruptly, blinking. “Aye, I mind ye then,” she said, face turned to the bookshelf. She reached out a hand as though to support herself, grasping the edge.
“Ye were a bonny lad, Jamie, riding off wi’ Dougal to your first raid, and your dirk all bright on your thigh. I was sixteen, and I thought I’d never seen a sight so fair as you on your pony, so straight and tall. And I mind ye coming back, too, all covered in mud, and a scratch down the side of your face from falling in brambles, and Dougal boasting to Da how brawly ye’d done—driven off six kine by yourself, and had a dunt on the head from the flat of a broadsword, and not made a squeak about it.” Her face once more under control, she turned back from her contemplation of the books to face her brother. “That’s what a man is, aye?”
A hint of humor stole back into Jamie’s face as he met her gaze.
“Aye, well, there’s maybe a bit more to it than that,” he said.
“Is there,” she said, more dryly still. “And what will that be? To be able to bed a girl? Or to kill a man?”
I had always thought Janet Fraser had somet
hing of the Sight, particularly where her brother was concerned. Evidently the talent extended to her son, as well. The flush over Jamie’s cheekbones deepened, but his expression didn’t change.
She shook her head slowly, looking steadily at her brother. “Nay, Young Ian’s not a man yet—but you are, Jamie; and ye ken the difference verra well.”
Ian, who had been watching the fireworks between the two Frasers with the same fascination as I had, now coughed briefly.
“Be that as it may,” he said dryly. “Young Ian’s been waiting for his whipping for the last quarter-hour. Whether or not it’s suitable to beat him, to make him wait any longer for it is a bit cruel, aye?”
“Have ye really got to do it, Ian?” Jamie made one last effort, turning to appeal to his brother-in-law.
“Well,” said Ian slowly, “as I’ve told the lad he’s going to be thrashed, and he kens verra well he’s earned it, I canna just go back on my word. But as for me doing it—no, I dinna think I will.” A faint gleam of humor showed in the soft brown eyes. He reached into a drawer of the sideboard, drew out a thick leather strap, and thrust it into Jamie’s hand. “You do it.”
“Me?” Jamie was horror-struck. He made a futile attempt to shove the strap back into Ian’s hand, but his brother-in-law ignored it. “I canna thrash the lad!”
“Oh, I think ye can,” Ian said calmly, folding his arms. “Ye’ve said often enough ye care for him as though he were your son.” He tilted his head to one side, and while his expression stayed mild, the brown eyes were implacable. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Jamie—it’s no that easy to be his Da; best ye go and find that out now, aye?”
Jamie stared at Ian for a long moment, then looked to his sister. She raised one eyebrow, staring him down.
“You deserve it as much as he does, Jamie. Get ye gone.”
Jamie’s lips pressed tight together and his nostrils flared white. Then he whirled on his heel and was gone without speaking. Rapid steps sounded on the boards, and a muffled slam came from the far end of the passage.
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