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.
“You do resemble your father,” Grey said, meeting the young man’s eyes directly. “I wish that I were that man—both for your sake and for my own.”
There was a deep silence in the room. Cinnamon’s face went blank and stayed that way. He blinked once or twice, but gave away nothing of what he felt. Finally he nodded, and took a breath that went to the roots of his soul.
“Can you—will you—tell me of my father, sir?”
Well, that was it, Grey thought. He’d realized the choices instantly: claim the young man as his own, or tell him the truth. But how much of the truth?
The trouble was that Cinnamon’s existence wasn’t purely his own concern; there were other people involved; did Grey have the right to meddle with their affairs without consultation or permission? But he had to tell the boy something, he thought. And reached for his glass.
“He was a British soldier, as Manoke told you,” he said carefully. “Your mother was half French and half … I’m afraid I have no idea of the nation from which her other parent originated.”
“Assiniboine, I always thought,” Cinnamon said. “I mean—I knew some part of me must be Indian, and I’d look at the men who came through Gareon, to see if— There are a lot of Assiniboine in that part of the country. They’re often tall and …” His big hand lifted and gestured half consciously at the breadth of his shoulders.
Grey nodded, surprised, but pleased that the young man was taking the news calmly.
“I saw her, your mother,” he said, and took another swallow of the brandy. “Only the once—but she was in fact tall for a woman; perhaps an inch or so taller than I am. And very beautiful,” he added gently.
“Oh.” It was little more than a breath of acknowledgment, but Grey was startled—and moved—to see the boy’s face change. Just for an instant, Grey was reminded of the look on Jamie Fraser’s face when he had received Communion from the hand of an Irish priest, when the two of them had gone to Ireland in search of a criminal. A look of reverence, of grateful peace.
“She died of the smallpox, in an epidemic. I … er … purchased you from your grandmother for the sum of five guineas, two trade blankets, and a small cask of rum. She was a Frenchwoman,” he added, in apologetic explanation, and Cinnamon actually gave a brief twitch of the lips.
“And … my father?” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, intent. “Will you tell me his name? Please,” he added, some of the anxiety returning.
Grey hesitated, with the vivid images of what had happened when William had discovered his true parentage fresh in his mind—but the situations were quite different, he told himself, and in all conscience …
“His name is Malcolm Stubbs,” he said. “You, um, didn’t inherit your stature from him.”
Cinnamon stared at him for a bewildered instant, then, catching the allusion, gave a brief, shocked laugh. He put a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, but seeing that Grey was not discomposed, lowered it.
“You say is, sir. He is … alive, then?” All the hope—and all the fear—with which he had entered the house was back in his eyes.
“He was, the last time I had word of him, though that will be more than a year past. He lives in London, with his wife.”
“London,” Cinnamon whispered, and shook his head, as though London surely could not be a real place.
“As I said, he was wounded when we took Quebec. Badly wounded—he lost a foot and the lower part of his leg to a cannonball; I was amazed that he survived, but he had great resilience. I’m quite sure he managed to pass that trait on to you, Mr. Cinnamon.” He smiled warmly at the young Indian. He hadn’t drunk as much brandy as the young man, but quite enough.
Cinnamon nodded, swallowed, and then, lowering his head, stared at the pattern in the Turkey carpet for some moments. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked up, resolute.
“You say he is married, sir. I do not imagine that his wife—is aware of my existence.”
“A hundred to one against,” Grey assured him. He eyed the young man carefully. Might he actually set out for London? At the moment, upright and stalwart, he looked capable of anything. Grey tried—and failed—to imagine just what Malcolm’s wife would do, should John Cinnamon turn up on her doorstep one fine morning.
“Blame me, I expect,” he murmured under his breath, reaching for the decanter. “Another drop, Mr. Cinnamon? I should advise it, really.”
“I—yes. Please.” He inhaled the brandy and set the glass down with an air of finality. “Be assured, sir, I wish to do nothing that would cause my father or his wife the least discomfort.”
Grey took a cautious sip of his own fresh glass.
“That’s most considerate,” he said. “But also rather prudent. May I ask, had I actually proved to be your father—and let me repeat that I regret the fact that I am not—” He lifted his glass an inch and Cinnamon cast down his eyes, but gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “What did you intend to do? Or ought I to ask what you had hoped for?”
Cinnamon’s mouth opened, but then shut as he considered. Grey was beginning to be impressed by the young man’s manner. Deferential but not shy at all; straightforward but thoughtful.
“In truth, I scarcely know, sir,” Cinnamon said at last. He sat back a little, settling himself. “I did not expect, nor do I seek”—he added, with an inclination of his head—“any recognition or … or material assistance. I suppose it was in good part curiosity. But more, perhaps, a desire for some sense of … not of belonging; it would be foolish to expect that—but some knowledge of connection. Just to know that there is a person who shares my blood,” he ended simply. “And what he is like.
“Oh!” he said then, abashed. “And of course I wished to thank my father for taking thought for my welfare.” He cleared his throat again. “Might I ask, sir—a particular favor of you?”
“Certainly,” Grey replied. His mind had been stimulated by his own question—what might an abandoned child seek from an unknown parent? William certainly wanted nothing from Jamie Fraser, but that was quite a different circumstance; William had known Jamie since he was a child, though knowing him as a man was likely to prove a different kettle of fish …. And then, too, William had a family, a proper family, people who shared not his blood, but his place in the world. Grey tried—and failed completely—to imagine what it must be like to feel oneself totally alone.
“—if I were to write such a letter,” Cinnamon was saying, and Grey returned to the present moment with a jerk.
“Send a letter,” he repeated. “To Malcolm. I—yes, I suppose I could do that. Er … saying what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Just to acknowledge his kindness in providing for my welfare, sir—and to assure him of my service, should he ever find himself in want of it.”
“Oh. His … yes, his kindness …” Cinnamon looked sharply at him, and Grey felt a flush rise in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the brandy. Damn it, he should have realized that Cinnamon thought Malcolm had provided the funds for his support all these years. Whereas, in reality …
“It was you,” Cinnamon said, surprise almost covering the disappointment in his face. “I mean—Mr. Stubbs didn’t …”
“He couldn’t have,” Grey said hurriedly. “As I said—he was badly wounded, very badly. He nearly died, and was sent back to England as soon as possible. Truly, he—he would have been unable …”