“Were they no handfast?” Jem’s brow wrinkled, trying to recollect.
“Aye, they were. That’s sort of my point. They made a contract with each other when they became handfast. Ye understand contracts?”
“Oh, aye. Grandda showed me the land deed the old governor gave him for the Ridge, and he explained why that was a contract. Two … er … parties? I think that’s what he said. The parties promise each other something and sign their names to it.”
“Ye’ve got it.” Roger smiled and was happy to get a smile back in return. “So then. Mairi and Archie had that contract, though it wasn’t written down, and what it said—have ye seen anyone get handfast? No? Well, when two people are handfast, they promise to live together as man and wife for a year and a day, and to—do the things a man and wife do, in the way of taking care of each other. And that’s a contract between them. But … when the year and a day are up, then they can decide if they want to go on living as man and wife or if they can’t abide each other and want to go their separate ways.
“So if they want to stay with each other … they do, but if there’s a minister at hand to marry them, they do that, and it’s the same sort of contract, but more … detailed … and it’s permanent. They promise to stay married.”
“Oh, is that what that means, ‘’til death us do part’?”
“Exactly.”
Jem was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind. In the distance, a church bell rang twice and then was silent: the half-hour bell.
“So ye’ve been handfast to the Presbyterians and now ye’re going to marry them?” Jem asked, frowning a little. “Will Mam not mind?”
“No, she doesn’t,” Roger assured him, hoping it was true.
Another example occurred to him.
“Ye’ve seen your grandda ride out with his men now and then, aye?”
“Oh, aye!” Jem’s eyes grew bright at the recollection. “He says I can go with them when I’m thirteen!”
Roger swallowed his automatic “the hell you will,” and cleared his throat instead. Jamie Fraser had gone on his first cattle raid at the age of eight; in his view of life, as long as the boy’s feet reached the stirrups, why shouldn’t a thirteen-year-old be capable of keeping public order, socializing with Indians, and facing down Loyalist militias?
He’s got to learn sometime, he could hear Jamie saying, with that mild tone that belied the stubborn conviction behind the words. Better early than too late.
“Mmphm. Well. Ye’ve seen when they ride out, your grandda lifts his sword or his rifle as the signal to start?”
Jem nodded enthusiastically, and Roger was obliged to admit that seeing Jamie do that sent a small thrill down his own spine.
“Well, see, that’s the signal that the men are to follow him and go where he leads them. If they come to a place where they need to go in a certain direction, quickly, he’ll draw his sword and point it in the way they should go, so they can all follow at once and not get lost.
“He’s still just who he is—your grandda, and your mam’s father, and a good man—but he’s also got to be a leader, and when he does that, he wears his leather waistcoat and he has his sword in his hand, so everyone knows he’s the leader. He doesna have to stop and explain it to anybody.”
Jem nodded again, listening intently.
“So, that’s sort of what it’s like for me to be ordained. Folk will know that I’m … a sort of leader. Being ordained is—my sword, in a way.” And with luck, they might pay attention to what I tell them, now and then …
“Ohh …” Jem said, understanding dawning. “I see.”
“Good.” He wanted to pat Jem on the head, but instead shook his hand briefly and squeezed it, then rose. “I’ll need to be off now, but I’ll be back by suppertime.”
The smell of gumbo full of shrimp and oysters and sausage was seeping out of the printshop, oddly mixed with the smells of ink and metal, but enough to stir the gastric juices nonetheless.
“Dad?” Jem said, and Roger turned to look over his shoulder.
“Aye?”
“I think they should give you a real sword. You might need one.”
71
Rolling Heads
THEY’D FINISHED THE MOST urgent printing jobs and got everyone fed lunch—Germain and Jem had come back from their rounds with two loaves of day-old bread from the bakery and a bowl of shrimp fricassee from Mrs. Wharton’s ordinary.
“Mrs. Wharton says she wants the bowl back, Mam,” Germain said, conscious of his dignity and responsibilities as a bearer of the printed word.
“I’m thinking we’ll have melon tonight—they’re in season—and if they’re good, I’ll buy an extra one for ye to take back to her wi’ her bowl,” Marsali assured him. “Now—the wee yins have just been fed; they’ll sleep for an hour or two. You and Jem look after Mandy while we do the marketing, and I’ll make ye bridies for your supper.”
Mandy was miffed at not being allowed to go to the market with the Big Girls, but was substantially mollified by being given her own composing stick and a bag of type with which to spell out words, along with the assurance that Auntie Marsali would print whatever she made up onto a sheet of paper that she could keep.
“And if either of you try to get her to spell bad words, I’ll tell both your fathers and you won’t sit down for a week,” Brianna said to Jem and Germain. Germain looked piously offended at the notion. Jem didn’t bother, merely raising his brows at his mother.
“She knows every bad word I do already,” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t she ken how to spell them right?”
Familiar with Jem’s techniques, she refused to be drawn into philosophical discussion, and instead patted him on the head.
“Just don’t give her any ideas.”
“FISH LAST,” MARSALI said as they made their way down toward the seafront. “Vegetables and fruit usually come in early in the morning, so we’ll have to take what we can get at this time o’ day—but fish dinna keep the same hours as farmers do, so boats come in anytime they’ve got a decent catch, and our chances are still good. Besides, we dinna want to carry fish longer than we have to, not in this weather.”
Fergus had brought home a sack of potatoes and a braid of onions before breakfast, these taken in payment from some of his customers. Beans and rice were kept in large quantities in the pantry. For now, they meant to scavenge the produce markets for whatever fresh stuff was available, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine while doing so.
Late in the day as it was, the market was still busy, but not thronged as it likely had been at dawn. They made their way through stalls and wagons and the cries of vendors trying to get rid of the last of their wares and go home, sniffing the mingled scents of sun-warmed flowers, garlic, summer squash, and fresh corn in the ear.
“What are ye askin’ for your okra?” Marsali inquired of one young gentleman, fresh off the farm, judging from his smock and apron.
“A penny a bunch,” he replied, scooping up a bunch tied with string and holding it under her nose. “Picked fresh this morning!”