“Gralloched it, put ropes on it, and dragged it home. I think your da put it in the root cellar, to keep things from getting at it. He says he and Gilly MacMillan will skin and butcher it tomorrow. It’ll be a lot of meat,” he added.
A faint shudder went down her back and into her belly. He felt it and hugged her closer.
“You okay?” he said softly into her hair. She nodded, unable to speak, and they stood together in silence, listening to the subdued rumble of the house below.
“Are you okay?” she asked, at last letting go. She stepped back to look at him; his eyes looked bruised with tiredness and he’d just shaved. His face was damp and blotched from scraping and there was a small cut just below his jaw, a dark line of dried blood. “Was it awful?”
“Aye, it was—but really wonderful, too.” He shook his head and stooped to pick up the fallen petticoat. “I’ll tell ye later. I’ve got to put on my gear and go speak to people.” He’d straightened his shoulders as he spoke; she could see him reach beyond his own emotion and tiredness and grasp his calling as another man might grip his sword.
“Later,” she echoed, and thought fleetingly that maybe she should learn the words of the blessing for a warrior going out.
IT TOOK HER some time to pull herself together enough to leave the sanctuary of her bedroom and go down.
Amy’s coffin had been placed on trestles in the kitchen, as the crowd come to wake her would never fit into the small parlor. Everyone brought food; Rachel and the two eldest Chisholm girls had taken charge of unpacking the baskets and bags and laying things out. Brianna drew in a hesitant deep breath as she entered the room, making her stays creak, but it was all right; if there was any smell of bear or decay, it was masked by the scents of burning firewood, candle wax, berry jam, apple cider, cheese, bread, cold meat, and beer, with the comforting ghost of her father’s whisky floating through the crowd.
Roger was by the hearth, dressed in his black broadcloth with the minister’s high white neckcloth, greeting people quietly, clasping their hands, offering calm and comfort. He caught Brianna’s eye and gave her a warm look, but was engaged with Auld Mam, who stood on tiptoe, balancing with her hand on his arm, shouting something into his ear.
She glanced at the coffin. She must go and pay her respects—find a few words to say to Bobby.
Yeah, like what? I can’t just say, “I’m so sorry.” Tears had come to her eyes, just looking at him.
The bereaved husband was making a valiant effort to keep upright and to respond to a rush of sympathy that threatened to swamp him. Her father had taken up a station standing beside Bobby, keeping an eye on him, fielding the more exigent outpourings—and keeping Bobby’s cup topped up. He sensed Brianna’s gaze on him and looked toward her, caught her eye, and lifted one heavy brow in an expression that said clear as day, “Are ye all right, lass?”
She nodded and made her best effort at a smile, but a sense of panic was rising in her and she turned abruptly and made her way out into the hall, breathing fast and shallow. As she made her way down the chilly hallway, she seemed to hear a slow, heavy tread behind her and the scrape of claws on wood.
Her mother had told her that the smaller children had been fed and put to bed in the surgery, safe behind the hanging quilt. Brianna paused, listening, and even though all was quiet within, she pulled back the edge of the quilt and looked into the room.
Small bodies were curled and sprawled in cozy heaps under the big table, beside the hearth—though the fire had been smoored and the fire screen brought in from the kitchen, to prevent accidents—and in every corner of the room, sleeping on and under their parents’ outer garments and their own; she saw Mandy in one pile, limbs spread like a starfish. Jem would be somewhere else, out with the older boys. The whole room seemed to breathe with the deep slow rhythms of sleep, and she longed suddenly to lie down beside them and abandon consciousness.
She glanced for the dozenth time at the big window. That had an Indian trade blanket tacked over it, to keep out cold drafts. The hair lifted on her nape, looking at it; it wouldn’t keep out any of the things that walked at night.
“It’s all right, Bwee. I’m he-re.” The soft voice startled her and she jerked back, looking round. The voice had come from the corner by the hearth, and peering into the shadows, she made out Fanny, sitting cross-legged, Bluebell on the floor beside her, sound asleep, the dog’s muzzle laid on Fanny’s thigh, the muslin bandages round Bluey’s ribs a soft white patch in the dark.