“We could call this one Spotty, too,” Jem offered generously. “If you want. She’s got lots of spots. Lots of spots,” he repeated, giggling at the rhyme. “Lots and lots of spots and spots.”
“Now you’re a thilly thing,” Fanny said to him, laughing.
“Maybe you should wait and see if your grandda means to keep her, Jem,” Roger said. “Before you give her a name.”
Plainly, the possibility that we might not keep the dog hadn’t entered the children’s heads, and they were aghast at the notion.
“Oh, please, Mr. Fraser!” Fanny said, urgent. “I’ll feed her, I promise I will!”
“And I’ll take the ticks out of her fur, Grandda!” Jemmy put in. “Please, please, can’t we keep her?”
Jamie’s eyes met mine, and his mouth turned up a little at one side—in resignation, I thought, rather than humor.
“She came to me for help,” he said to me. “I canna very well turn her away.”
“Then maybe you should name her, Da,” Bree put in, quelling Jem’s and Fanny’s exhibitions of relieved delight. “What would you call her?”
“Bluebell,” he said without hesitation, surprising me. “It’s a good Scottish name—and it fits her, aye?”
“Bwoo—Bulubell.” Fanny stroked the dog’s back, and the long plumed tail moved lazily to and fro. “Can I call her Bluey? For short?”
Jamie did laugh then, and rose slowly to his feet, knees cracking from kneeling on the boards for so long.
“Call her anything she’ll answer to, lass. But for now, she needs her bed, and so do I.”
The children coaxed the newly christened Bluebell to come with them, offering more bits of piecrust, and the adults began to gather ourselves, settling for bed. There was a momentary silence as Bree took Mandy from Roger, and as I knelt to smoor the hastily stirred-up fire again, I heard Jem’s and Fanny’s voices on the stair landing.
“What happened to your dog, Spotty?” Jem asked, the question distant but clear. Fanny’s answer was just as clear, and I saw Jamie’s head turn sharply toward the open door as he heard it.
“The bad men threw him into the sea,” she said. “Can Bluey sleep with me tonight? You can have her tomorrow.”
17
Reading by Firelight
THE FRAMING FOR THE second story was done. It would be some time yet before it was completely walled in and a roof put on, but his nights of cool sleeping under the naked stars with Claire were numbered. Jamie felt a slight pang of regret at the thought, but this was at once eclipsed by the cozy vision of them sleeping in a featherbed before a warm hearth, three months hence, the shutters closed against howling wind and plastering snow.
He sank slowly into the big chair by the fire, half enjoying the pain as his joints relaxed, both mind and knees knowing that the bliss of rest was at hand. The household was abed, but Claire had gone to a birthing, near the bottom of the cove. He missed her, but it was a pleasant pain, like the stretch in his backbone. She would be back, likely tomorrow. For now, he had a good fire warming his feet, a glass of soft red wine, and books to hand. He took the spectacles from his pocket, unfolded them, and settled them on his nose.
The house’s entire library stood in two modest piles on the table beside his wineglass. A small Bible bound in green cloth, very much the worse for wear. He touched it gently, as he did every time he saw it; it was an old companion—a friend that had seen him through many bad times. A coverless copy of Roxana: The Fortunate Mistress … he’d best take that one up to the bedroom; Jem hadn’t shown any interest in it yet, but the lad could certainly read well enough to make out what it was about if he did.
A not-bad copy of Mr. Pope’s translation of The Odyssey—maybe he’d read a bit of that with Jem; he’d likely find the ships and monsters interesting, and it would be an excuse to cram a bit of Latin into the lad’s head while they were about it. Joseph Andrews … a waste of paper, that one; he’d maybe trade it to Hugh Grant, who liked silliness. Manon Lescaut, in French and a fine morocco binding. He frowned briefly at that one; he’d not opened it. John Grey had sent it to him, before …
He grunted irritably and, on impulse, took the book at the bottom of the stack—Mandy’s big bright-orange Green Eggs and Ham. The color, the title, and the comical beast on the cover made him smile, and a few minutes with Sam-I-Am eased his temper.
The thump of steps coming down the stairs made him sit up, but it was only Bluebell, who padded up to him, tail wagging gently, sniffed him in case he had any food about his person, gave that up, and went to stand by the back door in a meaningful manner.
“Aye, a nighean,” he said, opening the door for her. “Look out for painters.” She vanished into the night with a swipe of her tail, but he stood for a moment, looking out and listening to the dark.
It was quiet, save for the trees talking among themselves, and he stepped outside and stood looking up at the stars, letting go of the lingering annoyance roused by Manon Lescaut and letting their peace come into him. Took a deep breath of the fresh piney air and let it out slowly.
“Aye, I forgive ye, ye bloody wee bugger,” he said to John Grey, and felt the lightening of soul he’d been unconsciously seeking.
A rustling in the bushes by the privy heralded the dog’s return. He waited for her to finish her industrious sniffing and held the door open for her. She passed him with a brief wag of her tail and bounded softly up the stairs.
He felt more settled in himself, and walked a little way by starlight to the red cedar that grew near the well, to drink water and pluck a twig. He liked the smell of the berries—Claire told him they were used to flavor gin, which he didn’t care for, but the scent was fine.
Inside again, the door bolted and the fire poked up, he went back to the books, the cedar twig making a small fresh smell for him that went well with the wine. He took up one of the small thick books about Hobbits that Bree had brought for him, but even with his spectacles, the print was dense enough to make him feel tired looking at it, and he put it down again, eyes seeking something else in the pile.
Not Manon, not yet. His forgiveness was sincere, but distinctly grudging, and he kent well enough it would need to be repeated a few times before he spoke to John Grey again.
Nay doubt it was the thought of reluctant forgiveness that made him pick up the book Brianna had brought for herself—Frank Randall’s book. The Soul of a Rebel.
“Mmphm,” he said, and drew it out of the stack, turning it over in his hands. It felt strange; a good weight and size, sound binding, but the paper cover was printed with a very peculiar tartan background in pink and green, on which there was a square of pale green with a decent wee painting of the basket hilt of a Scottish broadsword and a bit of the blade. Below the square, the subtitle, The Scottish Roots of the American Revolution. What made it feel odd, though, was the fact that it was wrapped in a transparent sheet of something that wasn’t paper, slick under his touch. Plastic, Brianna had told him when he asked. He kent the word, all right, but not with this meaning. He turned the book over to look at the photograph—he was becoming halfway accustomed to photographs, but it still took him back a bit to see the man looking out at him like that.