35

MOONLIGHT

As the preparations for leaving went forward, a current of excitement and speculation ran all through the estate. Weapons hoarded since the Rising of the ’15 were excavated from thatch and hayrick and hearth, burnished and sharpened. Men met in passing and paused to talk in earnest groups, heads together under the hot August sun. And the women grew quiet, watching them.

Jenny shared with her brother the capacity to be opaque, to give no clue of what she was thinking. Transparent as a pane of glass myself, I rather envied this ability. So, when she asked me one morning if I would fetch Jamie to her in the brewhouse, I had no notion of what she might want with him.

Jamie stepped in behind me and stood just within the door of the brewhouse, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He took a deep breath, inhaling the bitter, damp pungency with evident enjoyment.

“Ahh,” he said, sighing dreamily. “I could get drunk in here just by breathing.”

“Weel, hold your breath, then, for a moment, for I need ye sober,” his sister advised.

He obligingly inflated his lungs and puffed out his cheeks, waiting. Jenny poked him briskly in the stomach with the handle of her masher, making him double over in an explosion of breath.

“Clown,” she said, without rancor. “I wanted to talk to ye about Ian.”

Jamie took an empty bucket from the shelf, and upturning it, sat down on it. A faint glow from the oiled-paper window above him lit his hair with a deep copper gleam.

“What about Ian?” he asked.

Now it was Jenny’s turn to take a deep breath. The wide bran tub before her gave off a damp warmth of fermentation, filled with the yeasty aroma of grain, hops, and alcohol.

“I want ye to take Ian with you, when ye go.”

Jamie’s eyebrows flew up, but he didn’t say anything immediately. Jenny’s eyes were fixed on the motions of the masher, watching the smooth roil of the mixture. He looked at her thoughtfully, big hands hanging loose between his thighs.

“Tired of marriage, are ye?” he asked conversationally. “Likely it would be easier just for me to take him out in the wood and shoot him for ye.” There was a quick flash of blue eyes over the mash tub.

“If I want anyone shot, Jamie Fraser, I’ll do it myself. And Ian wouldna be my first choice as target, either.”

He snorted briefly, and one corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Oh, aye? Why, then?”

Her shoulders moved in a seamless rhythm, one motion fading into the next.

“Because I’m asking ye.”

Jamie spread his right hand out on his knee, absently stroking the jagged scar that zigzagged its way down his middle finger.

“It’s dangerous, Jenny,” he said quietly.

“I know that.”

He shook his head slowly, still gazing down at his hand. It had healed well, and he had good use of it, but the stiff fourth finger and the roughened patch of scar tissue on the back gave it an odd, crooked appearance.

“You think ye know.”

“I know, Jamie.”

His head came up, then. He looked impatient, but was striving to stay reasonable.

“Aye, I know Ian will ha’ told ye stories, about fighting in France, and all. But you’ve no notion how it really is, Jenny. Mo cridh, it isna a matter of a cattle raid. It’s a war, and likely to be a damn bloody shambles of one, too. It’s—”

The masher struck the side of the tub with a clack and fell back into the mash.

“Don’t tell me I dinna ken what it’s like!” Jenny blazed at him. “Stories, is it? Who d’ye think nursed Ian when he came home from France wi’ half a leg and a fever that nearly killed him?”

She slapped her hand flat on the bench. The stretched nerves had snapped.

“Don’t know? I don’t know? I picked the maggots out of the raw flesh of his stump, because his own mother couldna bring herself to do it! I held the hot knife against his leg to seal the wound! I smelled his flesh searing like a roasted pig and listened to him scream while I did it! D’ye dare to stand there and tell me I … don’t … KNOW how it is!”

Angry tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed at them, groping in her pocket for a handkerchief.

Lips pressed tight together, Jamie rose, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, and handed it to her. He knew better than to touch or try to comfort her. He stood staring at her for a moment as she wiped furiously at her eyes and dripping nose.

“Aye, well, ye know, then,” he said. “And yet you want me to take him?”

“I do.” She blew her nose and wiped it briskly, then tucked the handkerchief in her pocket.

“He kens well enough that he’s crippled, Jamie. Kens it a good bit too well. But he could manage with ye. There’s a horse for him; he wouldna have to walk.”

He made an impatient gesture with one hand.

“Could he manage is no the question, is it? A man can do what he thinks he must—why do you think he must?”

Composed once more, she fished the tool out of the mash and shook it. Brown droplets spattered into the tub.

“He hasna asked ye, has he? Whether ye’ll need him or no?”

“No.”

She stabbed the masher back into the tub and resumed her work.

“He thinks ye wilna want him because he’s lame, and that he’d be no use to ye.” She looked up then, troubled dark-blue eyes the twins of her brother’s. “Ye knew Ian before, Jamie. He’s different now.”

He nodded reluctantly, resuming his seat on the bucket.

“Aye. Well, but ye’d expect it, no? And he seems well enough.” He looked up at his sister and smiled.

“He’s happy wi’ ye, Jenny. You and the bairns.”

She nodded, black curls bobbing.

“Aye, he is,” she said softly. “But that’s because he’s a whole man to me, and always will be.” She looked directly at her brother. “But if he thinks he’s of no use to you, he wilna be whole to himself. And that’s why I’ll have ye take him.”

Jamie laced his hands together, elbows braced on his knees, and rested his chin on his linked knuckles.

“This wilna be like France,” he said quietly. “Fighting there, ye risk no more than your life in battle. Here …” He hesitated, then went on. “Jenny, this is treason. If it goes wrong, those that follow the Stuarts are like to end on a scaffold.”

Her normally pale complexion went a shade whiter, but her motions didn’t slow.

“There’s nay choice for me,” he went on, eyes steady on her. “But will ye risk us both? Will ye have Ian look down from the gallows on the fire waiting for his entrails? You’ll chance raising your bairns wi’out their father—to save his pride?” His face was nearly as pale as hers, glimmering in the darkness of the brewhouse.

The strokes of the masher were slower now, without the fierce velocity of her earlier movements, but her voice held all the conviction of her slow, inexorable mashing.

“I’ll have a whole man,” she said steadily. “Or none.”

Jamie sat without moving for a long moment, watching his sister’s dark head bent over her work.

“All right,” he said at last, quietly. She didn’t look up or vary her movements, but the white kertch seemed to incline slightly toward him.

He sighed explosively, then rose and turned abruptly to me.

“Come on out of here, Sassenach,” he said. “Christ, I must be drunk.”

---

“What makes ye think you can order me about?” The vein in Ian’s temple throbbed fiercely. Jenny’s hand squeezed mine tighter.

Jamie’s assertion that Ian would accompany him to join the Stuart army had been met first with incredulity, then with suspicion, and—as Jamie persisted—anger.

“You’re a fool,” Ian declared flatly. “I’m a cripple, and ye ken it well enough.”

“I ken you’re a bonny fighter, and there’s none I’d rather have by my side in a battle,” Jamie said firmly. His face gave no sign of doubts or hesitation; he had agreed to Jenny’s request, and would carry it out, no matter what. “You’ve fought there often enough; will ye desert me now?”

Ian waved an impatient hand, dismissing this flattery. “That’s as may be. If my leg comes off or gives way, there’s precious little fighting I’ll do—I’ll be lyin’ on the ground like a worm, waiting for the first Redcoat who comes by to spit me. And beyond that”—he scowled at his brother-in-law—“who d’ye think will mind this place for ye until you come back, and I’m off to the wars with ye?”

“Jenny,” Jamie replied promptly. “I shall leave enough men behind that they can be seeing to the work; she can manage the accounts well enough.”

Ian’s brows shot up, and he said something very rude in Gaelic.

“Pog ma mahon! You’ll ha’ me leave her to run the place alone, wi’ three small bairns at her apron, and but half the men needed? Man, ye’ve taken leave o’ your senses!” Flinging up both hands, Ian swung around to the sideboard where the whisky was kept.

Jenny, seated next to me on the sofa with Katherine on her lap, made a small sound under her breath. Her hand sought mine under cover of our mingled skirts, and I squeezed her fingers.

“What makes ye think ye can order me about?”

Jamie eyed his brother-in-law’s tense back for a moment, scowling. Suddenly, a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Because I’m bigger than you are,” he said belligerently, still scowling.

Ian rounded on him, incredulity stamped on his face. Indecision played in his eyes for less than a second. His shoulders squared up and his chin lifted.

“I’m older than you,” he answered, with an identical scowl.

“I’m stronger.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Aye, I am!”

“No, I am!”

A vein of dead seriousness underlay the laughter in their voices; while this little confrontation might be passed off as all in fun, they were as intent on each other as they had ever been in youth or childhood, and the echoes of challenge rang in Jamie’s voice as he ripped loose his cuff and jerked back the sleeve of his shirt.

“Prove it,” he said. He cleared the chess table with a careless sweep of the hand, sat down and braced his elbow on the inlaid surface, fingers flexed for an offensive. Deep blue eyes glared up into Ian’s dark-brown ones, hot with the same anger.

Ian took half a second to appraise the situation, then jerked his head in a brief nod of acceptance, making his heavy sheaf of dark hair flop into his eyes.

With calm deliberation, he brushed it back, unfastened his cuff, and rolled his sleeve to the shoulder, turn by turn, never taking his eyes from his brother-in-law.

From where I stood, I could see Ian’s face, a little flushed under his tan, long, narrow chin set in determination. I couldn’t see Jamie’s face, but the determination was eloquently expressed by the line of back and shoulders.

The two men set their elbows carefully, maneuvering to find a good spot, rubbing back and forth with the point of the elbow to be sure the surface was not slippery.

With due ritual, Jamie spread his fingers, palm toward Ian. Ian carefully placed his own palm against it. The fingers matched, touching for a moment in a mirror image, then shifted, one to the right and one to the left, linked and clasping.

“Ready?” Jamie asked.

“Ready.” Ian’s voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed under the feathery brows.

The muscles tensed at once, all along the length of the two arms, springing into sharp definition as they shifted in their seats, seeking leverage.

Jenny caught my eye and rolled her eyes heavenward. Whatever she had been expecting of Jamie, it wasn’t this.

Both men were focused on the straining knot of fingers, to the exclusion of everything else. Both faces were deep red with exertion, sweat damping the hair on their temples, eyes bulging slightly with effort. Suddenly I saw Jamie’s gaze break from its concentration on the clenched fists as he saw Ian’s lips clamp tighter. Ian felt the shift, looked up, met Jamie’s eyes … and the two men burst into laughter.

The hands clung for a moment longer, locked in spasm, then fell apart.

“A draw, then,” said Jamie, pushing back a strand of sweat-damp hair. He shook his head good-naturedly at Ian.

“All right, man. If I could order ye, I wouldna do it. But I can ask, no? Will ye come with me?”

Ian dabbed at the side of his neck, where a runnel of sweat dampened his collar. His gaze roamed about the room, resting for a moment on Jenny. Her face was no paler than usual, but I could see the hasty pulse, beating just below the angle of her jaw. Ian stared at her intently as he rolled his sleeve down again, in careful turns. I could see a deep pink flush begin to rise from the neck of her gown.

Ian rubbed his jaw as though thinking, then turned toward Jamie and shook his head.

“No, my jo,” he said softly. “Ye need me here, and here I shall stay.” His eyes rested on Jenny, with Katherine held against her shoulder, and on small Maggie, clutching her mother’s skirt with grubby hands. And on me. Ian’s long mouth curled in a slight smile. “I shall stay here,” he repeated. “Guardin’ your weak side, man.”

---

“Jamie?”

“Aye?” The answer came at once; I knew he hadn’t been asleep, though he lay still as a figure carved on a tomb. It was moon-bright in the room, and I could see his face when I rose on my elbow; he was staring upward, as though he could see beyond the heavy beams to the open night and the stars beyond.

“You aren’t going to try to leave me behind, are you?” I wouldn’t have thought of asking were it not for the scene with Ian, earlier in the evening. For once it was settled that Ian would stay, Jamie had sat down with him to issue orders—choosing who would march with the laird to the aid of the Prince, who would stay behind to tend to animals and pasture and the maintenance of Lallybroch.

I knew it had been a wrenching process of decision, though he gave no sign of it, calmly discussing with Ian whether Ross the smith could be spared to go and deciding that he could, though the ploughshares needed for the spring must all be in good repair before leaving. Whether Joseph Fraser Kirby might go, and deciding that he should not, as he was the main support not only of his own family but that of his widowed sister. Brendan was the oldest boy of both families, and at nine, ill-prepared to replace his father, should Joseph not come home.

It was a matter for the most delicate planning. How many men should go, to have some impact on the course of the war? For Jenny was right, Jamie had no choice now—no choice but to help Charles Stuart win. And to that end, as many men and arms as could possibly be summoned should be thrown into the cause.

But on the other side was me, and my deadly knowledge—and lack of it. We had succeeded in preventing Charles Stuart from getting money to finance his rebellion; and still the Bonnie Prince, reckless, feckless, and determined to claim his legacy, had landed to rally the clans at Glenfinnan. From a further letter from Jared, we had learned that Charles had crossed the Channel with two small frigates, provided by one Antoine Walsh, a sometime-slaver with an eye for opportunity. Apparently, he saw Charles’s venture as less risky than a slaving expedition, a gamble in which he might or might not be justified. One frigate had been waylaid by the English; the other had landed Charles safe on the isle of Eriskay.

Charles had landed with only seven companions, including the owner of a small bank named Aeneas MacDonald. Unable to finance an entire expedition, MacDonald had provided the funds for a small stock of broadswords, which constituted Charles’s entire armament. Jared sounded simultaneously admiring and horrified by the recklessness of the venture, but, loyal Jacobite that he was, did his best to swallow his misgivings.

And so far, Charles had succeeded. From the Highland grapevine, we learned that he had landed at Eriskay, crossed to Glenfinnan, and there waited, accompanied only by several large casks of brandywine, to see whether the clans would answer the call to his standard. And after what must have been several nerve-racking hours, three hundred men of clan Cameron had come down the defiles of the steep green hills, led not by their chieftain, who was away from his home—but by his sister, Jenny Cameron.

The Camerons had been the first, but they had been joined by others, as the Bill of Association showed.

If Charles should now proceed to disaster, despite all efforts, then how many men of Lallybroch could be spared, left at home to save something from the wreck?

Ian himself would be safe; that much was sure, and some balm to Jamie’s spirit. But the others—the sixty families who lived on Lallybroch? Choosing who would go and who would stay must seem in some lights like choosing men for sacrifice. I had seen commanders before; the men whom war forced to make such choices—and I knew what it cost them.

Jamie had done it—he had no choice—but on two matters he had held firm; no women would accompany his troop, and no lads under eighteen years of age would go. Ian had looked mildly surprised at this—while most women with young children would normally stay behind, it was far from unusual for Highland wives to follow their men to battle, cooking and caring for them, and sharing the army’s rations. And the lads, who considered themselves men at fourteen, would be grossly humiliated at being omitted from the tally. But Jamie had given his orders in a tone that brooked no argument, and Ian, after a moment’s hesitation, had merely nodded and written them down.

I hadn’t wanted to ask him, in the presence of Ian and Jenny, whether his ban on womenfolk was intended to include me. Because, whether it was or not, I was going with him, and that, I thought, was bloody all about it.

“Leave you behind?” he said now, and I saw his mouth curl into a sideways grin. “D’ye think I’d stand a chance of it?”

“No,” I said, snuggling next to him in sudden relief. “You wouldn’t. But I thought you might think about it.”

He gave a small snort, and drew me down, head on his shoulder. “Oh, aye. And if I thought I could leave ye, I’d chain ye to the banister; not much else would stop ye.” I could feel his head shake above me, in negation. “No. I must take ye wi’ me, Sassenach, whether I will or no. There are things you’ll maybe know along the way—even if they dinna seem like anything now, they may later. And you’re a rare fine healer, Sassenach—I canna deny the men your skill, and it be needed.”

His hand patted my shoulder, and he sighed. “I would give anything, mo duinne, could I leave ye here safe, but I cannot. So you will go with me—you and Fergus.”

“Fergus?” I was surprised by this. “But I thought you wouldn’t take any of the younger lads!”

He sighed again, and I put my hand flat on the center of his chest, where his heart beat beneath the small hollow, slow and steady.

“Well, Fergus is a bit different. The other lads—I willna take them, because they belong here; if it all goes to smash, they’ll be left to keep their families from starving, to work the fields and tend beasts. They’ll likely need to grow up fast, if it happens, but at least they’ll be here to do it. But Fergus … this isna his place, Sassenach. Nor is France, or I would send him back. But he has no place there, either.”

“His place is with you,” I said softly, understanding. “Like mine.”

He was silent for a long time, then his hand squeezed me gently.

“Aye, that’s so,” he said quietly. “Sleep now, mo duinne, it’s late.”

---

The fretful wail pulled me toward the surface of wakefulness for the third time. Baby Katherine was teething, and didn’t care who knew it. From their room down the hall, I heard Ian’s sleepy mumble, and Jenny’s higher voice, resigned, as she got out of bed and went to soothe the infant.

Then I heard the soft, heavy footfalls in the corridor, and realized that Jamie, still wakeful, was walking barefoot through the house.

“Jenny?” His voice, low-pitched to avoid disturbance, was still plainly audible in the creaking silence of the manor house,

“I heard the wee lassie greetin’,” he said. “If she canna sleep, neither can I, but you can. If she’s fed and dry, perhaps we can bear each other company for a bit, while you go back to your bed.”

Jenny smothered a yawn, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“Jamie dear, you’re a mother’s blessing. Aye, she’s full as a drum, and a dry clout on her this minute. Take her, and I wish ye joy of each other.” A door closed, and I heard the heavy footfall again, heading back toward our room, and the low murmur of Jamie’s voice as he muttered soothingly to the baby.

I snuggled deeper into the comfort of the goose-down bed and turned toward sleep again, hearing with half an ear the baby’s whining, interspersed with hiccuping sobs, and Jamie’s deep, tuneless humming, the sound as comforting as the thought of beehives in the sun.

“Eh, wee Kitty, ciamar a tha thu? Much, mo naoidheachan, much.”

The sound of them went up and down the passage, and I dropped further toward sleep, but kept half-wakeful on purpose to hear them. One day perhaps he would hold his own child so, small round head cradled in the big hands, small solid body cupped and held firm against his shoulder. And thus he would sing to his own daughter, a tuneless song, a warm, soft chant in the dark.

The constant small ache in my heart was submerged in a flood of tenderness. I had conceived once; I could do so again. Faith had given me the gift of that knowledge, Jamie the courage and means to use it. My hands rested lightly on my breasts, cupping the deep swell of them, knowing beyond doubt that one day they would nourish the child of my heart. I drifted into sleep with the sound of Jamie’s singing in my ears.

Sometime later I drifted near the surface again, and opened my eyes to the light-filled room. The moon had risen, full and beaming, and all the objects in the room were plainly visible, in that flat, two-dimensional way of things seen without shadow.

The baby had quieted, but I could hear Jamie’s voice in the hall, still speaking, but much more quietly, hardly more than a murmur. And the tone of it had changed; it wasn’t the rhythmic, half-nonsense way one talks to babies, but the broken, halting speech of a man seeking the way through the wilderness of his own heart.

Curious, I slipped out of bed and crept quietly to the door. I could see them there at the end of the hall. Jamie sat leaning back against the side of the window seat, wearing only his shirt. His bare legs were raised, forming a back against which small Katherine Mary rested as she sat facing him in his lap, her own chubby legs kicking restlessly over his stomach.

The baby’s face was blank and light as the moon’s, her eyes dark pools absorbing his words. He traced the curve of her cheek with one finger, again and again, whispering with heartbreaking gentleness.

He spoke in Gaelic, and so low that I could not have told what he said, even had I known the words. But the whispering voice was thick, and the moonlight from the casement behind him showed the tracks of the tears that slid unregarded down his own cheeks.

It was not a scene that bore intrusion. I came back to the still-warm bed, holding in my mind the picture of the laird of Lallybroch, half-naked in the moonlight, pouring out his heart to an unknown future, holding in his lap the promise of his blood.

---

When I woke in the morning, there was a warm, unfamiliar scent next to me, and something tangled in my hair. I opened my eyes to find Katherine Mary’s rosebud lips smacking dreamily an inch from my nose, her fat fingers clutched in the hair above my left ear. I cautiously disengaged myself, and she stirred, but flopped over onto her stomach, drew her knees up and went back to sleep.

Jamie was lying on the other side of the child, face half-buried in his pillow. He opened one eye, clear blue as the morning sky.

“Good morning, Sassenach,” he said, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the small sleeper. He smiled at me as I sat up in bed. “Ye looked verra sweet, the two of you, asleep face-to-face like that.”

I ran a hand through my tangled hair, and smiled myself at Kitty’s upturned bottom, jutting absurdly into the air.

“That doesn’t look at all comfortable,” I observed. “But she’s still asleep, so it can’t be that bad. How late were you up with her last night? I didn’t hear you come to bed.”

He yawned and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it away from his face. There were shadows under his eyes, but he seemed peacefully content.

“Oh, some time. Before moonset, at least. I didna want to wake Jenny by taking the wean back to her, so I laid her in the bed between us, and she didna twitch once, the rest of the night.”

The baby was kneading the mattress with elbows and knees, rootling in the bedclothes with a low grunting noise. It must be close to time for her morning feed. This supposition was borne out in the next moment, when she raised her head, eyes still tight shut, and let out a healthy howl. I reached hastily for her and picked her up.

“There-there-there,” I soothed, patting the straining little back. I swung my legs out of bed, then reached back and patted Jamie on the head. The rough bright hair was warm under my hand.

“I’ll take her to Jenny,” I said. “It’s early yet; you sleep some more.”

“I may do that, Sassenach,” Jamie said, flinching at the noise. “I’ll see ye at breakfast, shall I?” He rolled onto his back, crossed his hands on his chest in his favorite sleeping posture, and was breathing deeply again by the time Katherine Mary and I had reached the door.

The baby squirmed vigorously, rooting for a nipple and squawking in frustration when none was immediately forthcoming. Hurrying along the hall, I met Jenny, hurrying out of her bedroom in response to her offspring’s cries, pulling on a green dressing gown as she came. I held out the baby, waving little fists in urgent demand.

“There, mo mùirninn, hush now, hush,” Jenny soothed. With a cock of the eyebrow in invitation, she took the child from me and turned back into her room.

I followed her in and sat on the rumpled bed as she sat down on a nursing stool by the hearth and hastily bared one breast. The yowling little mouth clamped at once on to a nipple and we all relaxed in relief as sudden silence descended.

“Ah,” Jenny sighed. Her shoulders slumped a fraction as the flow of milk started. “That’s better, my wee piggie, no?” She opened her eyes and smiled at me, eyes clear and blue as her brother’s.

“ ’Twas kind of ye to keep the lassie all night; I slept like the dead.”

I shrugged, smiling at the picture of mother and child, relaxed together in total content. The curve of the baby’s head exactly echoed the high, round curve of Jenny’s breast and small, slurping noises came from the little bundle as her body sagged against her mother’s, fitting easily into the curve of Jenny’s lap.

“It was Jamie, not me,” I said. “He and his niece seem to have got on well together.” The picture of them came back to me, Jamie talking in earnest, low tones to the child, tears slipping down his face.

Jenny nodded, watching my face.

“Aye. I thought perhaps they’d comfort each other a bit. He doesna sleep well these days?” Her voice held a question.

“No,” I answered softly. “He has a lot on his mind.”

“Well he might,” she said, glancing at the bed behind me. Ian was gone already, risen at dawn to see to the stock in the barn. The horses that could be spared from the farming—and some that couldn’t—needed shoeing, needed harness, in preparation for their journey to rebellion.

“You can talk to a babe, ye ken,” she said suddenly, breaking into my thought. “Really talk, I mean. Ye can tell them anything, no matter how foolish it would sound did ye say it to a soul could understand ye.”

“Oh. You heard him, then?” I asked. She nodded, eyes on the curve of Katherine’s cheek, where the tiny dark lashes lay against the fair skin, eyes closed in ecstasy.

“Aye. Ye shouldna worrit yourself,” she added, smiling gently at me. “It isna that he feels he canna talk to you; he knows he can. But it’s different to talk to a babe that way. It’s a person; ye ken that you’re not alone. But they dinna ken your words, and ye don’t worry a bit what they’ll think of ye, or what they may feel they must do. You can pour out your heart to them wi’out choosing your words, or keeping anything back at all—and that’s a comfort to the soul.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, as though this were something that everyone knew. I wondered whether she spoke that way often to her child. The generous wide mouth, so like her brother’s, lifted slightly at one side.

“It’s the way ye talk to them before they’re born,” she said softly. “You’ll know?”

I placed my hands gently over my belly, one atop the other, remembering.

“Yes, I know.”

She pressed a thumb against the baby’s cheek, breaking the suction, and with a deft movement, shifted the small body to bring the full breast within reach.

“I’ve thought that perhaps that’s why women are so often sad, once the child’s born,” she said meditatively, as though thinking aloud. “Ye think of them while ye talk, and you have a knowledge of them as they are inside ye, the way you think they are. And then they’re born, and they’re different—not the way ye thought of them inside, at all. And ye love them, o’ course, and get to know them the way they are … but still, there’s the thought of the child ye once talked to in your heart, and that child is gone. So I think it’s the grievin’ for the child unborn that ye feel, even as ye hold the born one in your arms.” She dipped her head and kissed her daughter’s downy skull.

“Yes,” I said. “Before … it’s all possibility. It might be a son, or a daughter. A plain child, a bonny one. And then it’s born, and all the things it might have been are gone, because now it is.”

She rocked gently back and forth, and the small clutching hand that seized the folds of green silk over her breast began to loose its grip.

“And a daughter is born, and the son that she might have been is dead,” she said quietly. “And the bonny lad at your breast has killed the wee lassie ye thought ye carried. And ye weep for what you didn’t know, that’s gone for good, until you know the child you have, and then at last it’s as though they could never have been other than they are, and ye feel naught but joy in them. But ’til then, ye weep easy.”

“And men …” I said, thinking of Jamie, whispering secrets to the unhearing ears of the child.

“Aye. They hold their bairns, and they feel all the things that might be, and the things that will never be. But it isna so easy for a man to weep for the things he doesna ken.”