He went pink with gratification.
“Och, it was nothing,” he said. “There’s plenty more, Auntie. Or shall I fetch ye a bit of cheese? I could cut the green bits off for ye.”
“No, no—this will be fine,” I said hastily. “Ah…why don’t you take your gun out, Ian, and see if you can bag a squirrel or a rabbit? I’m sure I’ll be well enough to cook supper.”
He beamed, the smile transforming his long, bony face.
“I’m glad to hear it, Auntie,” he said. “Ye should see what Uncle Jamie and I have been eatin’ while ye’ve been gone!”
He left me lying on my pillows, wondering what to do with the cup of crowdie. I didn’t want to drink it, but I felt like a puddle of warm butter—soft and creamy, nearly liquid—and the idea of getting up seemed unthinkably energetic.
Jamie, making no further protests, had taken me to bed, where he had completed the business of thawing me out with thoroughness and dispatch. I thought it was a good thing he wasn’t going hunting with Ian. He reeked of camphor as much as I did; the animals would scent him a mile away.
Tucking me tenderly under the quilts, he had left me to sleep while he went to greet Duncan more formally and offer him the hospitality of the house. I could hear the deep murmur of their voices outside now; they were sitting on the bench beside the door, enjoying the last of the afternoon sunshine—long, pale beams slanted through the window, lighting a warm glow of pewter and wood within.
The sun touched the skull, too. This stood on my writing table across the room, composing a cozily domestic still life with a clay jug filled with flowers and my casebook.
It was sight of the casebook that roused me from torpor. The birth I had attended at the Muellers’ farm now seemed vague and insubstantial in my mind; I thought I had better record the details while I still recalled them at all.
Thus prompted by the stirrings of professional duty, I stretched, groaned, and sat up. I still felt mildly dizzy and my ears rang from the aftereffects of brandywine. I was also faintly sore almost everywhere—more in some spots than others—but generally speaking, I was in decent working order. Beginning to be hungry, though.
I did hope Ian would come back with meat for the pot; I knew better than to gorge my shriveled stomach on cheese and salt fish, but a nice, strengthening squirrel broth, flavored with spring onions and dried mushrooms, would be just what the doctor ordered.
Speaking of broth—I slid reluctantly out of bed and stumbled across the floor to the hearth, where I poured the cold barley soup back into the pot. Ian had made enough for a regiment—always supposing the regiment to be composed of Scots. Living in a country normally barren of much that was edible, they were capable of relishing glutinous masses of cereal, untouched by any redeeming hint of spice or flavor. From a feebler race myself, I didn’t feel quite up to it.
The opened bag of barley stood beside the hearth, the burlap sack still visibly damp. I would have to spread the grain to dry, or it would rot. My bruised knee protesting a bit, I went and got a large flat tray-basket made of plaited reeds, and knelt to spread the damp grain in a thin layer over it.
“Will he have a soft mouth, then, Duncan?” Jamie’s voice came clearly through the window; the hide covering was rolled up, to let in air, and I caught the faint tang of tobacco from Duncan’s pipe. “He’s a big, strong brute, but he’s got a kind eye.”
“Oh, he’s a bonny wee fellow,” Duncan said, the note of pride in his voice unmistakable. “And a nice soft mouth, aye. Miss Jo had her stableman pick him from the market in Wilmington; said he must find a horse could be managed well wi’ one hand.”
“Mmphm. Aye, well, he’s a lovely creature.” The wooden bench creaked as one of the men shifted his weight. I understood the equivocation behind Jamie’s compliment, and wondered whether Duncan did, as well.
Part of it was simple condescension; Jamie had been raised on horseback, and as a born horseman, would scorn the notion that hands were necessary at all; I had seen him maneuver a horse by the shifting pressure of knees and thighs alone, or set his mount at a gallop across a crowded field, the reins knotted on the horse’s neck, to leave Jamie’s hands free for sword and pistol.
But Duncan was neither a horseman nor a soldier; he had lived as a fisherman near Ardrossan, until the Rising had plucked him, like so many others, from his nets and his boat, and sent him to Culloden and disaster.
Jamie wouldn’t be so untactful as to point up an inexperience of which Duncan was more than aware already; he would, though, mean to point up something else. Had Duncan caught it?
“It’s you she means to help, Mac Dubh, and well ye ken it, too.” Duncan’s tones were very dry; he’d taken Jamie’s point, all right.
“I havena said otherwise, Duncan.” Jamie’s voice was even.
“Mmphm.”
I smiled, despite the air of edginess between them. Duncan was every bit as good as Jamie at the Highland art of inarticulate eloquence. This particular noise captured both mild insult at Jamie’s implication that it was improper for Duncan to be accepting the gift of a horse from Jocasta, and a willingness to accept the likewise implied apology for the insult.
“Have ye thought, then?” The bench creaked as Duncan abruptly changed the subject. “Will it be Sinclair, or Geordie Chisholm?”
Without giving Jamie time to reply, he went on, but in a way that made it clear that he had said all this before. I wondered whether he was trying to convince Jamie, or himself—or only assist them both in coming to a decision by repeating the facts of the matter.
“It’s true Sinclair’s a cooper, but Geordie’s a good fellow; a thrifty worker, and he’s the two wee sons, besides. Sinclair isna marrit, so he wouldna need so much in the way of setting up, but—”
“He’d need lathes and tools, and iron and seasoned wood,” Jamie broke in. “He could sleep in his shop, aye, but he’ll need the shop to sleep in. And it will cost verra dear, I think, to buy all that’s needed for a cooperage. Geordie would need a bit of food for his family, but we can provide that from the place here; beyond that, he’ll need no more to begin than a few wee tools—he’ll have an ax, aye?”
“Aye, he’ll have that from his indenture, but it’s the planting season now, Mac Dubh. With the clearing—”
“I ken that weel enough,” Jamie said, a bit testily. “It’s me that put five acres in corn a month ago. And cleared them, first.” While Duncan had been taking his ease at River Run, chatting in taverns and breaking in his new horse. I heard it, and so did Duncan; there was a distinct silence that spoke as loud as words.
A creak from the bench, and then Duncan spoke again, mildly.
“Your auntie Jo’s sent a wee gift for ye.”
“Oh, has she?” The edge in his voice was even more perceptible. I hoped Duncan had sense enough to heed it.
“A bottle of whisky.” There was a smile in Duncan’s voice, answered by a reluctant laugh from Jamie.
“Oh, has she?” he said again, in quite a different tone. “That’s verra kind.”
“She means to be.” There was a substantial creak and shuffle as Duncan got to his feet. “Come wi’ me and fetch it, then, Mac Dubh. A wee drink wouldna do your temper any harm.”