“Or, of course, it might be a wee sister, I suppose,” Mrs. Bug admitted. “But good news, good news, either way. Here, a luaidh, have a sweetie on the strength of it, and the rest of us will drink to it!”

Obviously bewildered, but strongly in favor of sweeties, Jem took the proffered molasses drop and stuck it promptly in his mouth.

“But he isn’t—” Bree began.

“Nank you, Missus Bug,” Jem said hastily, putting a hand over his mouth lest his mother try to repossess this distinctly forbidden predinner treat on grounds of impoliteness.

“Oh, a wee sweetie will do him nay harm,” Mrs. Bug assured her, picking up the fallen spoon and wiping it on her apron. “Call Arch in, a muirninn, and we’ll tell him your news. Blessed Bride save ye, lass, I thought ye’d never get round to it! Here was all the ladies saying’ as they didna ken whether ye’d turned cold to your husband, or was it him maybe, lackin’ the vital spark, but as it is—”

“Well, as it is,” said Roger, raising his voice in order to be heard.

“I’m not pregnant!” said Bree, very loudly.

The succeeding silence echoed like a thunderclap.

“Oh,” said Jamie mildly. He picked up a serviette and sat down, tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Well, then. Shall we eat?” He held out a hand to Jem, who scrambled up onto the bench beside him, still sucking fiercely on his molasses drop.

Mrs. Bug, momentarily turned to stone, revived with a marked “Hmpf!” Massively affronted, she turned to the sideboard and slapped down a stack of pewter plates with a clatter.

Roger, still rather flushed, appeared to find the situation funny, judging from the twitching of his mouth. Brianna was incandescent, and breathing like a grampus.

“Sit down, darling,” I said, in the tentative manner of one addressing a large explosive device. “You … um … had some news, you said?”

“Never mind!” She stood still, glaring. “Nobody cares, since I’m not pregnant. After all, what else could I possibly do that anybody would think was worthwhile?” She shoved a violent hand through her hair, and encountering the ribbon tying it back, yanked this loose and flung it on the ground.

“Now, sweetheart …” Roger began. I could have told him this was a mistake; Frasers in a fury tended to pay no attention to honeyed words, being instead inclined to go for the throat of the nearest party unwary enough to speak to them.

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me!” she snapped, turning on him. “You think so, too! You think everything I do is a waste of time if it isn’t washing clothes or cooking dinner or mending your effing socks! And you blame me for not getting pregnant, too, you think it’s my fault! Well, it’s NOT, and you know it!”

“No! I don’t think that, I don’t at all. Brianna, please… .” He stretched out a hand to her, then thought better of the gesture and withdrew it, clearly feeling that she might take his hand off at the wrist.

“Less EAT, Mummy!” Jemmy piped up helpfully. A long string of molasses-tinged saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth and dripped down the front of his shirt. Seeing this, his mother turned on Mrs. Bug like a tiger.

“Now see what you’ve done, you interfering old busybody! That was his last clean shirt! And how dare you talk about our private lives with everybody in sight, what possible earthly business of yours is it, you beastly old gossiping—”

Seeing the futility of protest, Roger put his arms round her from behind, picked her up bodily off the floor, and carried her out the back door, this departure accented by incoherent protests from Bree and grunts of pain from Roger, as she kicked him repeatedly in the shins, with considerable force and accuracy.

I went to the door and closed it delicately, shutting off the sounds of further altercation in the yard.

“She gets that from you, you know,” I said reproachfully, sitting down opposite Jamie. “Mrs. Bug, that smells wonderful. Do let’s eat!”

Mrs. Bug dished the fricassee in huffy silence, but declined to join us at table, instead putting on her cloak and stamping out the front door, leaving us to deal with the clearing-up. An excellent bargain, if you asked me.

We ate in blissful peace, the quiet broken only by the clink of spoons on pewter and the occasional question from Jemmy as to why molasses was sticky, how did milk get into the cow, and when would he get his little brother?

“What am I going to say to Mrs. Bug?” I asked, in the brief hiatus between queries.

“Why ought ye to say anything, Sassenach? It wasna you calling her names.”

“Well, no. But I’d be willing to bet that Brianna isn’t going to apologize—”

“Why should she?” He shrugged. “She was provoked, after all. And I canna think Mrs. Bug has lived sae long without being called a gossiping busybody before. She’ll wear herself out, telling Arch all about it, and tomorrow it will be fine again.”

“Well,” I said uncertainly. “Perhaps so. But Bree and Roger—”

He smiled at me, dark blue eyes crinkling into triangles.

“Dinna feel as though every disaster is yours to fash yourself about, mo chridhe,” he said. He reached across and patted my hand. “Roger Mac and the lass must work it out between them—and the lad did appear to have a decent grip on the situation.”

He laughed, and I joined him, reluctantly.

“Well, it will be mine to fash about, if she’s broken his leg,” I remarked, getting up to fetch cream for the coffee. “Likely he’ll come crawling back to have it mended.”

At this apropos moment, a knock sounded on the back door. Wondering why Roger would knock, I opened it, and stared in astonishment at the pale face of Thomas Christie.



HE WAS NOT ONLY PALE, but sweating, and had a bloodstained cloth wrapped round one hand.

“I wouldna discommode ye, mistress,” he said, holding himself stiffly. “I’ll just … wait upon your convenience.”

“Nonsense,” I said, rather shortly. “Come into the surgery while there’s still some light.”

I took care not to catch Jamie’s eye directly, but I glanced at him as I bent to push in the bench. He was leaning forward to put a saucer over my coffee, his eyes on Tom Christie with an air of thoughtful speculation that I had last seen in a bobcat watching a flight of ducks overhead. Not urgent, but definitely taking notice.

Christie was taking no notice of anything beyond his injured hand, reasonably enough. My surgery’s windows were oriented to east and south, to take best advantage of morning light, but even near sunset, the room held a soft radiance—the setting sun’s reflection from the shimmering leaves of the chestnut grove. Everything in the room was suffused with golden light, save Tom Christie’s face, which was noticeably green.

“Sit down,” I said, shoving a stool hastily behind him. His knees buckled as he lowered himself; he landed harder than he had intended, jarring his hand, and let out a small exclamation of pain.

I put a thumb on the big vein at the wrist, to help slow the bleeding, and unwound the cloth. Given his aspect, I was expecting a severed finger or two, and was surprised to find a simple gash in the meat at the base of the thumb, angled down and running onto the wrist. It was deep enough to gape, and still bleeding freely, but no major vessels had been cut, and he had by great good fortune only nicked the thumb tendon; I could mend that with a stitch or two.

I looked up to tell him this, only to see his eyes roll back in his head.

“Help!” I shouted, dropping the hand and grabbing for his shoulders as he toppled backward.

A crash of overturned bench and the thump of running feet answered my call, and Jamie burst into the room in a heartbeat. Seeing me dragged off my feet by Christie’s weight, he seized the man by the scruff of the neck and shoved him forward like a rag doll, pushing Christie’s head down between his legs.

“Is he desperate bad?” Jamie asked, squinting at Christie’s injured hand, which was resting on the floor, oozing blood. “Shall I lay him on the table?”