Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone
- Автор: Гэблдон Диана
- Серия: Outlander #9
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Delacorte Press
- ISBN: 978-1-473-51900-8
- Жанр: Исторические приключения
Электронная книга - «Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone». Краткое содержание книги:
The past may seem the safest place to be . . . but it is the most dangerous time to be alive. . . .
Jamie Fraser and Claire Randall were torn apart by the Jacobite Rising in 1746, and it took them twenty years to find each other again. Now the American Revolution threatens to do the same. It is 1779 and Claire and Jamie are at last reunited with their daughter, Brianna, her husband, Roger, and their children on Fraser’s Ridge. Having the family together is a dream the Frasers had thought impossible. Yet even in the North Carolina backcountry, the effects of war are being felt. Tensions in the Colonies are great and local feelings run hot enough to boil Hell’s teakettle. Jamie knows loyalties among his tenants are split and it won’t be long until the war is on his doorstep. Brianna and Roger have their own worry: that the dangers that provoked their escape from the twentieth century might catch up to them. Sometimes they question whether risking the perils of the 1700s—among them disease, starvation, and an impending war—was indeed the safer choice for their family. Not so far away, young William Ransom is still coming to terms with the discovery of his true father’s identity—and thus his own—and Lord John Grey has reconciliations to make, and dangers to meet . . . on his son’s behalf, and his own. Meanwhile, the Revolutionary War creeps ever closer to Fraser’s Ridge. And with the family finally together, Jamie and Claire have more at stake than ever before.
“Divorce?” his sister suggested. “That seems … cleaner. And she could marry again.”
“Mmphm.” William was envisioning just what might have happened if he had acceded to Amaranthus’s suggestion—and then discovered Benjamin’s continued existence, possibly after having fathered …
“No,” he said abruptly, and was startled when she laughed.
“You think this situation is funny?” he said, suddenly furious.
She shook her head and waved a hand in apology.
“No. No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t the situation—it was the noise you made.”
He stared at her, affronted.
“What do you mean, noise?”
“Mmphm.”
“What?”
“That noise you made in your throat—mmphm. You probably don’t want to hear this,” she added, with grossly belated tact, “but Da makes that sort of noise all the time, and you sounded … just like him.”
He breathed through his teeth, biting back a number of remarks, none of them gentlemanly. Evidently his face spoke for him, though, for her face changed, losing its look of amusement, and she slid off her stool, came to him, and embraced him.
He wanted to push her away, but didn’t. She was tall enough that her chin rested on his shoulder, and he felt the cool touch of her paint-streaked hair against his heated cheek. She was muscular, solid as a tree trunk, and his arms went round her of their own volition. There were people in the house; he could hear voices at a distance, footsteps, thumps, and clanking—tea being served? he thought vaguely. It didn’t matter.
“I am sorry,” she said softly. “For everything.”
“I know,” he said, just as softly. “Thank you.”
He let go of her and they parted gently.
“Divorce isn’t a simple matter,” he said, clearing his throat. “Especially when one of the parties is a viscount and the heir to a dukedom. The House of Lords would have to vote and give consent on the matter—after hearing a full account of everything—and I do mean everything. All of which would be meat for the newspapers and broadsheets, to say nothing of gossip in coffeehouses, taverns, and all the salons in London.
“Though I suppose,” he went on, reaching for his hat, “that a divorce might well be granted. Having your husband convicted of treason seems like sufficient grounds. The results might not be worth it, though.” He punched the crown of his hat back into shape and put it on.
“Thank you,” he said again, and bowed.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Anytime.” She smiled at him, but it was a tremulous smile, and he felt regret at having worried her with his troubles. As he turned to go he caught sight once again of the row of portraits, one still shrouded.
She saw him glance at it and made a small, interrupted gesture.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. I don’t want to keep you—”
“I have very few demands upon my time at the moment,” he said, smiling. “What is it?”
She looked dubious, but then smiled, too.
“The painting of Fanny’s sister. I wondered whether you knew if the original drawing was made during the day or at night. I painted it as though it was daylight, but it occurred to me that …”
“That given her occupation and the fact that a client of the establishment drew her, it might well have been the evening,” he finished. “You’re right, it almost certainly was.” He nodded at Jane, invisible behind her veil of muslin.
“It would have been at night. There was a fire in the parlor—well, the one time I was in it, at least. And the walls were red, so there was a bit of that in the air. But I only saw her by candlelight. A candle with a brass reflector, a little behind and above her, so the light glowed on the top of her head and ran down the side of her face.”
Her brows—thick for a woman—rose.
“You recall her very well,” she said, with no tone of judgment. “Have you ever drawn, or painted, yourself?”
“No,” he said, startled. “I mean—I had a drawing master when I was a child. Why?”
She smiled a little, as though harboring a secret.
“Our grandmother was a painter. I was thinking you might have … inherited something from her. Like I did.”
The thought made his hands curl, with a slight shock that went through the muscles of his forearms. Our grandmother …
“Jesus,” he said.
“She looked a lot like me,” Brianna said casually, and reached to open the door for him. “And you. That’s where we got the nose.”
121
The Quality of Mercy
I WAS IN THE surgery, sorting seeds and enjoying the satisfaction of successful hoarding, when I heard a tentative knock at the front door. The door itself was open, to let fresh air flow through the house, and normally whoever was at the door would have called out. I heard faint whisperings and the shuffle of feet outside, but no one called, and I poked my head out to see who the visitors might be.
To my surprise, there was quite a crowd on the porch; a number of women and children, who all stirred with alarm at seeing me. One woman seemed to be the leader; she plucked up her courage and stepped forward and I saw that it was Mrs. MacIlhenny. Mother Harriet, she was called by everyone: white-haired, widowed three times, and mother to thirteen children and untold quantities of grandchildren.
“By your leave, a bhana-mhaighister,” she said, her voice hesitant, “might we speak with Himself?”
“Er …” I said, disconcerted. “I— Yes of course. I’ll just … tell him you’re here. Ah … won’t you … come in?”
I sounded nearly as hesitant as she did, and for the same reason. There were five women besides Mother Harriet: Doris Hallam, Molly Adair, Fiona Leslie, Annie MacFarland, and Gracie MacNeil. All of them were wives or mothers of tenants Jamie had excommunicated, and it was reasonably clear why they’d come. They’d brought nearly twenty children with them, from ten-year-old girls with their hair neatly braided to skirt-clinging toddlers and babes in arms, all scrubbed within an inch of their lives; the smell of lye soap rose off them in an almost-visible cloud.
Jamie was sitting at his desk with a quill in his hand when I came in, closing the door of the study behind me. He glanced toward the door; the whispering and shushing was clearly audible.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes,” I said. “Five of them. With their children. They want to speak with you.”
He said something under his breath in Gaelic, rubbed his hands hard over his face, and sat up straight in his chair, squaring his shoulders.
“Aye. Let them come in, then.”
Harriet MacIlhenny came in with her head up, jaw clenched, and chin trembling. She stopped abruptly before Jamie’s table and collapsed onto her knees with a thud, followed by the other wives and half the children, spilling out into the hallway, all looking bewildered but obedient.
“We have come to beg thy mercy, Laird,” she said, bowing so low that she spoke to the floor. “Not for ourselves, but for our bairns.”
“Did your husbands put ye up to this?” Jamie demanded. “Get yourselves up, for God’s sake.”
“No, Laird,” Harriet said. She rose, slowly, but her hands were pressed so hard together that the knuckles and nails showed white. “Our husbands forbade us to come to ye; said they would beat us should we stir a foot out of doors. The gomerels would sacrifice us and the bairns for the sake of their pride—but … we came anyway.”