"It's his father, ye ken," she said, leaning forward confidentially. "Not as I'll say there's aught wrong wi' a bit o' firmness; spare the rod and spoil the child, I've said often enough, and the good Lord kens weel enough that boys were meant to be smacked, or He'd not ha' filled 'em sae full o' the de'il. But when it comes to layin' a child out on the hearth, and a bruise on his face the size o' my hand, and for naught more than takin' an extra bannock from the platter, then—"
"Rabbie's father beats him, you mean?" I interrupted.
The old lady nodded, pleased with my ready intelligence. "To be sure. Is that no what I've been sayin'?" She held up a hand. "Now, in the regular way, o' course I'd not interfere. A man's son's his ain to do as he sees fit wi', but… weel, Rabbie's a bit of a favorite o' mine. And it's no the lad's fault as his father's a drunken sot, shameful as 'tis for his own mither to say such a thing."
She raised an admonitory finger like a stick. "Not but what Ronald's father didna take a drop too much from time to time. But lay a hand on me or the bairns he never did—not after the first time, at any rate," she added thoughtfully. She twinkled suddenly at me, little cheeks round and firm as summer apples, so I could see what a very lively and attractive girl she must have been.
"He struck me the once," she confided, "and I snatched the girdle off the fire and crowned him wi' it." She rocked back and forth, laughing. "Thought I'd kilt him for sure, and me wailin' and holdin' of his heid in my lap, thinkin' what would I do, a widow wi' twa bairns to feed? But he came round," she said matter-of-factly, "and ne'er laid a hand on me or the bairnies again. I bore thirteen, ye ken," she said proudly. "And raised ten."
"Congratulations," I said, meaning it.
"Raspberry leaves," she said, laying a confiding hand on my knee. "Mark me, lassie, raspberry leaves will do it. And if not, come to see me, and I'll make ye a bittie drink o' coneflower and marrow seed, wi' a raw egg beaten up in it. That'll draw yer man's seed straight up into the womb, ye ken, and you'll be swellin' like a pumpkin by Easter."
I coughed, growing a bit red in the face. "Mmmphm. And you want Jamie, er, his lairdship I mean, to take your grandson into his house as stable lad, to get him away from his father?"
"Aye, that's it. Now he's a brankie wee worker, is Rabbie, and his lairdship will no be—"
The old lady's face froze in the midst of her animated conversation. I turned to look over my shoulder, and froze as well. Redcoats. Dragoons, six of them, on horseback, making their way carefully down the hill toward the millhouse.
With admirable presence of mind, Mrs. MacNab stood up and sat down again on top of Jamie's discarded clothes, her spreading skirts hiding everything.
There was a splash and an explosive gasp from the millpond behind me as Jamie surfaced again. I was afraid to call out or move, for fear of attracting the dragoons' attention to the pond, but the sudden dead silence behind me told me he had seen them. The silence was broken by a single word traveling across the water, softly spoken, but heartfelt in its sincerity.
"Merde," he said.
The old lady and I sat unmoving, stone-faced, watching the soldiers come down the hill. At the last moment, as they made the final turn around the millhouse path, she turned swiftly to me and laid a stick-straight finger across her withered lips. I mustn't speak and let them hear that I was English. I didn't have time even to nod in acknowledgment before the mud-caked hooves came to a halt a few feet away.
"Good morrow to you, ladies," said the leader. He was a corporal, but not, I was pleased to see, Corporal Hawkins. A quick glance showed me that none of the men were among those I had seen at Fort William, and I relaxed my grip on the handle of my basket just a fraction.
"We saw the mill from above," the dragoon said, "and thought perhaps to purchase a sack of meal?" He divided a bow between us, not sure who to address.
Mrs. MacNab was frosty, but polite.
"Good morrow," she said, inclining her head. "But if ye've come for meal, I fear me ye'll be sair disappointit. The mill wheel's nae workin' just now. Perhaps next time ye come this way."
"Oh? What's amiss, then?" The corporal, a short young man with a fresh complexion, seemed interested. He walked down to the edge of the pond to peer at the wheel. The miller, popping up in the mill to report the latest progress with the millstone, saw him and hastily popped back down out of sight.