From his saddle Roger caught snatches of the discussion that had been going on ever since his arrival.
“John, for sure,” Brianna was saying, frowning down at her son, who was burrowing energetically under her shawl. “But I don’t know if it should be his first name. And if it was—should it maybe be Ian? That’s ‘John’ in Gaelic—and I’d like to name him that, but would it be too confusing, with Uncle Ian and our Ian, too?”
“Since neither one of them is here, I think it wouldna be too troublesome,” Marsali put in. She glanced up at her stepfather’s back. “Did ye not say ye wanted to use one of Da’s names, as well?”
“Yes, but which one?” Brianna twisted around to talk to Marsali. “Not James, that would be confusing. And I don’t think I like Malcolm much. He’ll already have MacKenzie, of course, so maybe—” She caught Roger’s eye and smiled up at him.
“What about Jeremiah?”
“John Jeremiah Alexander Fraser MacKenzie?” Marsali frowned, saying the names over to taste them.
“I rather like Jeremiah,” Claire chipped in. “Very Old Testament. It’s one of your names, isn’t it, Roger?” She smiled at him and drew closer to the wagon, leaning over to talk to Brianna.
“Besides, if Jeremiah seems too formal, you can call him Jemmy,” she said. “Or is that too much like Jamie?”
Roger felt a small chill prickle down his spine, at the sudden recollection of another child whose mother had called him Jemmy—a child whose father was fair-haired, with eyes as green as Roger’s own.
He waited until Brianna had turned to rummage through her bag for a fresh diaper, handing the fussing baby to Lizzie to mind. He kneed his horse, urging it up close to Claire’s mare.
“Do you recall something?” he asked in a low voice. “When you first came to call on me in Inverness, with Brianna—you’d had my genealogy researched beforehand.”
“Yes?” She quirked a brow at him.
“It’s been some time, and you likely wouldn’t have noticed in any case…” He hesitated, but he had to know, if it could be known. “You pointed out the place on my family tree where the substitution was made; where Geilie Duncan’s child by Dougal was adopted in place of another child who’d died, and given his name.”
“William Buccleigh MacKenzie,” she said promptly, and smiled at his look of surprise. “I went over that genealogy at some length,” she said dryly. “I could probably tell you every name on it.”
He took a deep breath, uneasiness curling at the back of his neck.
“Can you? What I’m wondering—do you know the name of the changeling’s wife—my six-times great-grandmother? Her name wasn’t listed on my own family tree; only William Buccleigh.”
Soft lashes dropped over the golden eyes as she thought, lips pursed.
“Yes,” she said at last, and looked at him. “Morag. Her name was Morag Gunn. Why?”
He only shook his head, too shaken to reply. He glanced at Brianna; the baby lay half naked in her lap, the soggy diaper in a heap on the seat beside her—and remembered the smooth damp skin and soggy clout of the little boy named Jemmy.
“And their son’s name was Jeremiah,” he said at last, so softly that Claire had to lean close to hear it.
“Yes.” She watched him curiously, then turned her head to look down the twisting road ahead, disappearing between the dark pines.
“I asked Geilie,” Claire said suddenly. “I asked her why. Why we can do it.”
“And did she have an answer?” Roger stared at a deerfly on his wrist without seeing it.
“She said—‘To change things.’ ” Claire smiled at him, her mouth curled wryly. “I don’t know whether that’s an answer or not.”
70
THE GATHERING
It had been nearly thirty years since the last Gathering I had seen; the Gathering at Leoch, and the oath-taking of clan MacKenzie. Colum MacKenzie was dead now, and his brother Dougal—and all the clans with them. Leoch lay in ruins, and there would be no more Gatherings of the clans in Scotland.
Yet here were the plaids and the pipes, and the remnants of the Highlanders themselves, undiminished in fierce pride, among the the new mountains they claimed for their own. MacNeills and Campbells, Buchanans and Lindseys, MacLeods and MacDonalds; families, slaves and servants, indentured men and lairds.
I looked out over the stir and bustle of the dozens of encampments to see if I could find Jamie, and spotted instead a familiar tall form, striding loose-jointed through the scattered throng. I stood up and waved, calling out to him.
“Myers! Mr. Myers!”
John Quincy Myers spotted me and, beaming, made his way up the slope to our encampment.
“Mrs. Claire!” he exclaimed, sweeping off his disreputable hat and bowing over my hand with his usual courtliness. “I’m right uplifted to see ye.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I assured him, smiling. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, I usually reckon to come to a Gathering,” he said, straightening up and beaming down at me. “If I’m down from the mountains in time. Fine place to sell my hides; any little bits of things I have to get rid of. Speakin’ of which…” He began a slow, methodical rummage through the contents of his big buckskin pouch.
“Will you have been far to the north, Mr. Myers?”
“Oh, ’deed I have, ’deed I have, Mrs. Claire. Halfway up the Mohawk River, to the place they call the Upper Castle.”
“The Mohawk?” My heart began to beat faster.
“Mm.” He withdrew something from his bag, squinted at it, put it back, and rummaged further. “Imagine my surprise, Mrs. Claire, when I stopped at a Mohawk village to the south, to see a familiar face.”
“Ian! You’ve seen Ian? Is he all right?” I was so excited, I grasped him by the arm.
“Oh, aye,” he assured me. “Fine-lookin’ boy—though I will say it did give me a right turn to see him rigged out like a brave, and his face burnt dark enough that I might ha’ taken him for one, did he not hail me by name.”
At last he found what he was looking for, and handed me a small package wrapped in thin leather and tied with a strip of buckskin—a woodpecker’s feather thrust through the knot.
“He trusted me with that, ma’am, to bring to you and your goodman.” He smiled kindly. “Reckon as you’ll want to read that right promptly; I’ll meet up with ye a mite later, Mrs. Claire.” He bowed with solemn formality, and walked away, hailing acquaintances as he passed.
I wouldn’t read it without waiting for Jamie; luckily, he appeared no more than a few minutes later. The letter was written on what seemed to be the torn-out flyleaf of a book, its ink the pale brown of oak-galls, but legible enough. Ian salutat avunculus Jacobus, the note began, and a grin broke out on Jamie’s face.
Ave! That exhausting my Remembrance of the Latin tongue, I must now lapse into Plain English, of which I recall much more. I am well, Uncle, and Happy—I ask you to believe it. I have been married, after the custom of the Mohawk, and live in the house of my Wife. You will remember Emily, who carves so cleverly. Rollo has sired a Great many puppies; the village is littered with small wolfish Replicas. I cannot hope to claim the same profligacy of Procreation—yet I hope you will write to my Mother with the wish that she has not yet so many Grandchildren that she will overlook the addition of one more. The birth will be in spring; I will send Word of its outcome so soon as I may. In the meantime, you will oblige me by Remembering me to all at Lallybroch, at River Run, and Fraser’s Ridge. I remember them all most Fondly, and will, so long as I shall live. My love to Auntie Claire, to Cousin Brianna, and most of all to yourself. Your most affectionate nephew, Ian Murray. Vale, avunculus.