Alex MacGregor, a lad of eighteen or so, had been arrested for the common offense of cattle-lifting. A fair, quiet lad, he had seemed likely to serve his sentence and be released without incident. A week before his release, though, he had been found hanging in the horseshed.
"There was no doubt he'd done it himself, the doctor said." Jamie caressed the leather cover of the small book, drawing one large thumb along the binding. "And he did not exactly say what he thought, himself. But he did say that Captain Randall had had a private conversation with the lad a week before."
I swallowed, suddenly cold despite the sunshine.
"And you think—"
"No." His voice was soft and certain. "I dinna think. I know, and so did the doctor. And I imagine the sergeant-major knew for certain, and that's why he died." He spread his hands flat on his knees, looking down at the long joints of his fingers. Large, strong and capable; the hands of a farmer, the hands of a warrior. He picked up the small Bible and put it into the sporran.
"I'll tell ye this, mo duinne. One day Jack Randall will die at my hands. And when he is dead, I shall send back that book to the mother of Alex MacGregor, with word that her son is avenged."
The air of tension was broken by the sudden reappearance of Jenny, now resplendent in blue silk and her own lace kertch, holding a large box of worn red morocco leather.
"Jamie, the Currans are come, and Willie Murray and the Jeffries. You'd best go down and have a second breakfast with them—I've put out fresh bannocks and salt herring, and Mrs. Crook's doing fresh jam cakes."
"Oh, aye. Claire, come down when you're ready." Rising hastily, he paused long enough to gather me up for a brief but thorough kiss, and disappeared. His footsteps clattered down the first flight of stairs, slowing on the second to the more sedate pace suitable to a laird's entrance, as he neared the ground floor.
Jenny smiled after him, then turned her attention to me. Placing the box on the bed, she threw back the lid, revealing a jumbled array of jewels and baubles. I was surprised to see it; it seemed unlike the neat, orderly Jenny Murray whose iron hand kept the household running smoothly from dawn to dusk.
She stirred a finger through the bright clutter, then as though picking up my thought, looked up and smiled at me.
"I keep thinking I must sort all these things one day. But when I was small, my mother would let me rummage in her box sometimes, and it was like finding magic treasure—I never knew what I'd pick up next. I suppose I think if it were all orderly, the magic would go, somehow. Daft, no?"
"No," I said, smiling back at her. "No, it isn't."
We rummaged slowly through the box, holding the cherished bits and pieces of four generations of women.
"That was my grandmother Fraser's," Jenny said, holding up a silver brooch. It was in the shape of a fret-worked crescent moon, a small single diamond shining above the tip like a star.
"And this—" She pulled out a slender gold band, with a ruby surrounded by brilliants. "That's my wedding ring. Ian spent half a year's salary on it, though I told him he was foolish to do it." The fond look on her face suggested that Ian had been anything but foolish. She polished the stone on the bosom of her dress and admired it once more before replacing it in the box.
"I'll be happy once the babe is born," she said, patting her bulge with a grimace. "My fingers are so swollen in the mornings I can scarcely do up my laces, let alone wear my rings."
I caught a strange nonmetallic gleam in the depths of the box, and pointed. "What's that?"
"Oh, those," she said, dipping into the box again. "I've never worn them; they don't suit me. But you could wear them—you're tall and queenly, like my mother was. They were hers, ye ken."
They were a pair of bracelets. Each made from the curving, almost-circular tusk of a wild boar, polished to a deep ivory glow, the ends capped with silver tappets, etched with flowered tracery.
"Lord, they're gorgeous! I've never seen anything so… so wonderfully barbaric."
Jenny was amused. "Aye, that they are. Someone gave them to Mother as a wedding gift, but she never would say who. My father used to tease her now and then about her admirer, but she wouldna tell him, either, just smiled like a cat that's had cream to its supper. Here, try them."
The ivory was cool and heavy on my arm. I couldn't resist stroking the deep yellow surface, grained with age.
"Aye, they suit ye," Jenny declared. "And they go wi' that yellow gown, as well. Here are the earbobs—put these on, and we'll go down."