Or was I only seeking excuses, not wanting to admit the possibility of what Brianna had suggested?

“One for me,” Germain was explaining, touching the eggs, “and one for Joan, and one for Félicité, and one for Monsieur L’Oeuf.” He pointed at the melonlike swell of her stomach.

“Ah, now, what a sweet lad,” Marsali said, pulling him close and kissing his smudged forehead. “Ye’re my wee nestling, to be sure.”

Germain’s beam of pleasure faded into a look of speculation as he came in contact with his mother’s protruding belly. He patted it cautiously.

“When the egg hatches inside, what do you do with the shell?” he inquired. “Can I have it?”

Marsali went pink with suppressed laughter.

“People dinna come in shells,” she said. “Thank God.”

“You are sure, Maman?” He eyed her belly dubiously, then poked it gently. “It feels like an egg.”

“Well, so it does, but it’s not. That’s only what Papa and I call a wee one before it’s born. You were ‘Monsieur L’Oeuf’ once, aye?”

“I was?” Germain looked thunderstruck at this revelation.

“Ye were. So were your sisters.”

Germain frowned, shaggy blond fringe almost touching his nose.

“No, they weren’t. They are Mademoiselles L’Oeufs.”

“Oui, certainement,” Marsali said, laughing at him. “And perhaps this one is, too—but Monsieur is easier to say. Here, look.” She leaned back a little and pushed a hand firmly into the side of her mound. Then she seized Germain’s hand and put it on the spot. Even from where I stood, I could see the surge of flesh as the baby kicked vigorously in response to being poked.

Germain jerked his hand away, startled, then put it back, looking fascinated, and pushed.

“Hello!” he said loudly, putting his face close to his mother’s belly. “Comment ça va in there, Monsieur L’Oeuf?”

“He’s fine,” his mother assured him. “Or she. But babies dinna talk right at first. Ye ken that much. Félicité doesna say anything but ‘Mama’ yet.”

“Oh, aye.” Losing interest in his impending sibling, he stooped to pick up an interesting-looking stone.

Marsali lifted her head, squinting at the sun.

“Ye should go home, Germain. Mirabel will be wanting milked, and I’ve a bit to do here yet. Go and help Papa, aye?” Mirabel was a goat, and a sufficiently new addition to the household as still to be interesting, for Germain brightened at the suggestion.

“Oui, Maman. Au’voir, Grandmère!” He took aim and flipped his rock at the shed, missing it, then turned and scampered toward the path.

“Germain!” Marsali called after him. “Na tuit!”

“What does that mean?” I asked curiously. “It’s Gaelic, is it—or French?”

“It’s the Gaelic,” she said, smiling. “It means ‘Don’t fall!’” She shook her head in mock dismay. “That laddie canna stay out of trees to save his life.” Germain had left the nest with its eggs; she set it gently on the ground, and I saw then the faint yellowed ovals on the underside of her forearm—faded, but just as Brianna had described them.

“And how is Fergus?” I asked, as though it had anything to do with the conversation.

“He’s well enough,” she replied, a look of wariness closing over her features.

“Really?” I glanced deliberately at her arm, then into her eyes. She flushed, and turned her arm quickly, hiding the marks.

“Aye, he’s fine!” she said. “He’s no verra good at the milking just yet, but he’ll have the way of it soon enough. It’s awkward wi’ the one hand, to be sure, but he’s—”

I sat down on the log beside her, and took hold of her wrist, turning it over.

“Brianna told me,” I said. “Did Fergus do this?”

“Oh.” She seemed embarrassed, and pulled her wrist away, pressing the forearm against her belly to hide the marks. “Well, aye. Aye, he did.”

“Do you want me to speak to Jamie about it?”

A rich tide of color surged into her face, and she sat up in alarm.

“Christ, no! Da would break Fergus’s neck! And it wasna his fault, really.”

“Certainly it was his fault,” I said firmly. I had seen all too many beaten women in Boston emergency rooms, all of whom claimed that it wasn’t really their husband’s or boyfriend’s fault. Granted, the women often did have something to do with it, but still—

“But it wasn’t!” Marsali insisted. The color had not gone from her face; if anything, it intensified. “I—he—I mean, he grabbed my arm, aye, but ’twas only because I … er … well, I was tryin’ to brain him wi’ a stick of wood at the time.” She glanced away, blushing fiercely.

“Oh.” I rubbed my nose, a little taken aback. “I see. And why were you trying to do that? Was he … attacking you?”

She sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

“Oh. No. Weel, it was because Joanie spilled the milk, and he shouted at her, and she cried, and …” She shrugged a little, looking uncomfortable. “I just had a wee de’il sittin’ on my shoulder, I suppose.”

“It’s not like Fergus to shout at the children, is it?”

“Oh, no, it’s not!” she said quickly. “He hardly ever … well, he didna used to, but with so many … well, I couldna blame him, this time. It took him a terrible time to milk the goat, and then to have it all spilt and wasted—I would ha’ shouted, too, I expect.”

Her eyes were fixed on the ground, avoiding mine, and she was fingering the seam of her shift, running a thumb over and over the stitching.

“Small children can certainly be trying,” I agreed, with vivid memories of an incident involving a two-year-old Brianna, a phone call that had distracted me, a large bowl of spaghetti with meatballs, and Frank’s open briefcase. Frank normally exhibited a saintly degree of patience with Bree—if somewhat less with me—but on that particular occasion his bellows of outrage had rattled the windows.

And now that I recalled the occasion, I actually had thrown a meatball at him in a fury verging on hysteria. So had Bree, though she had done it out of glee, rather than vindictiveness. Had I been standing by the stove at the time, it might easily have been the pot I threw. I rubbed a finger under my nose, not sure whether to regret the memory or to laugh at it. I never did get the stains out of the rug.

It was a shame that I couldn’t share the memory with Marsali, as she was in ignorance not only of spaghetti and briefcases, but also of Frank. She was still looking down, scuffing at the dead oak leaves with a pointed toe.

“’Twas all my fault, really,” she said, and bit her lip.

“No, it wasn’t.” I squeezed her arm in reassurance. “Things like that are no one’s fault; accidents happen, people get upset … but it all comes right in the end.” So it did, I thought—though often not in any expected way.

She nodded, but the shadow still lay on her face, her lower lip tucked in.

“Aye, it’s only …” she began, then trailed off.

I sat patiently, careful not to push her. She wanted—needed—to talk. And I needed to hear it, before deciding what—or if—to tell Jamie. There was something going on between her and Fergus, that was sure.

“I … was just thinking of it now, whilst I was shoveling. I wouldna have done it, I don’t think, only it minded me so much … it was only I felt as though it was the same again… .”

“The same as what?” I asked, when it became clear that she had trailed off.

“I spilt the milk,” she said, all in a rush. “When I was a wean. I was hungry, and I reached to pull the jug, and it spilled.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. And he shouted.” Her shoulders hunched a little, as though in memory of a blow.

“Who shouted?”

“I dinna ken, for sure. It might ha’ been my father, Hugh—but it might have been Simon—Mam’s second husband. I dinna really remember—only bein’ so scairt that I wet myself, and that made him angrier.” Color flamed in her face, and her toes curled with shame.

“My mother cried, for it was all the food there was, a bit o’ bread and milk, and now the milk was gone—but he shouted that he couldna bear the noise, for Joan and I were both howling, too … and then he slapped my face, and Mam went for him bald-heided, and he pushed her so she fell against the hearth and smacked her face on the chimney—I could see the blood running from her nose.”