"Usually I'd know when it was going to be over, but this time he didn't stop. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut; I was grunting wi' each stroke and I could feel the tears starting, no matter how much I blinked, but I held on for dear life." He was uncovered to the waist, almost glowing in the moonlight, frosted with tiny silver hairs. I could see the pulse beat just below his breastbone, a steady throb just under my hand.
"I don't know how long it went on," he continued. "Not that long, likely, but it seemed like a long time to me. At last he stopped a moment and shouted at me. He was beside himself wi' fury, and I was so furious myself I could barely make out what he said at first, but then I could.
"He roared 'Damn you, Jamie! Can ye no cry out? You're grown now, and I dinna mean to beat you ever again, but I want one good yelp out of ye, lad, before I quit, just so I'll think I've made some impression on ye at last!' " Jamie laughed, disturbing the even movement of his pulsebeat.
"I was so upset at that, I straightened up and whirled round and yelled at him, 'Weel, why did ye no say so in the first place, ye auld fool! OUCH!!'
"Next thing I knew I was on the ground, wi' my ears ringing and a pain in my jaw, where he'd clouted me. He was standing over me, panting, and wi' his hair and his beard all on end. He reached down and got my hand and hauled me up.
"Then he patted my jaw, and said, still breathing hard, 'That's for calling your father a fool. It may be true, but it's disrespectful. Come on, we'll wash for supper.' And he never struck me again. He still shouted at me, but I shouted back, and it was mostly man to man, after that."
He laughed comfortably, and I smiled into the warmth of his shoulder.
"I wish I'd known your father," I said. "Or maybe it's better not," I said, struck by a thought. "He might not have liked you marrying an Englishwoman."
Jamie hugged me closer and pulled the quilts up over my bare shoulders. "He'd have thought I'd got some sense at last." He stroked my hair. "He'd have respected my choice, whoever it was, but you"—he turned his head and kissed my brow gently—"he would have liked you verra much, my Sassenach." And I recognized it for the accolade it was.
* * *
30
Conversations by the Hearth
Whatever rift Jenny's revelations had caused between her and Ian, it seemed to have healed. We sat for a short time after dinner in the parlor next evening, Ian and Jamie talking over the farm's business in the corner, accompanied by a decanter of elderberry wine, while Jenny relaxed at last with her swollen ankles propped on a hassock. I tried to write down some of the receipts she had tossed over her shoulder at me as we whizzed through the day's work, consulting her for details as I scribbled.
To treat carbuncles, I headed one sheet.
Three iron nails, to be soaked for one week in sour ale. Add one handful of cedarwood shavings, allow to set. When shavings have sunk to the bottom, mixture is ready. Apply three times daily, beginning on the first day of a quarter moon.
beeswax candles began another sheet.
Drain honey from the comb. Remove dead bees, so far as possible. Melt comb with a small amount of water in a large cauldron. Skim bees, wings, and other impurities from surface of water. Drain water, replace. Stir frequently for half an hour, then allow to settle. Drain water, keep for use in sweetening. Purify with water twice more.
My hand was getting tired, and I had not even gotten to the making of candle molds, the twisting of wicks, and the hanging of candles to dry.
"Jenny," I called, "how long does it take to make candles, counting everything?"
She laid the small shirt she was stitching in her lap, considering.
"Half a day to gather the combs, two to drain the honey—one if it's hot—one day to purify the wax, unless there's a lot or it's verra dirty—then two. Half a day to make the wicks, one or two to make the molds, half a day to melt the wax, pour the molds and hang them to dry. Say a week altogether."
The dim lamplight and the sputtering quill were too much to contend with after the day's labors. I sat down next to Jenny and admired the tiny garment she was embroidering with nearly invisible stitches.
Her rounded stomach suddenly heaved, as the inhabitant shifted position. I watched, fascinated. I had never been close to someone pregnant for a prolonged period, and hadn't realized the amount of activity that went on inside.
"Would you like to feel it?" Jenny offered, seeing me staring at her middle.
"Well…" She took my hand and placed it firmly on her mound.