The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (656 page)

19

MAKING HAY

Major MacDonald returned on the final day of haymaking. I was just maneuvering my way along the side of the house with an immense basket of bread, when I saw him near the trailhead, tying up his horse to a tree. He lifted his hat to me and bowed, then came across the dooryard, looking curiously round at the preparations taking place.

We had set up trestles under the chestnut trees, with boards laid across them for tables, and a constant stream of women scurried to and fro like ants between the house and yard, fetching food. The sun was setting, and the men would be in soon for a celebratory feast; filthy, exhausted, starving—and exhilarated by the end of their labors.

I greeted the Major with a nod, and accepted with relief his offer to carry the bread to the tables for me.

“Haying, is it?” he said, in answer to my explanation. A nostalgic smile spread across his weathered face. “I remember the haymaking, from when I was a lad. But that was in Scotland, aye? We’d seldom such glorious weather as this for it.” He looked up into the blazing deep blue bowl of the August sky above. It really was perfect haying weather, hot and dry.

“It’s wonderful,” I said, sniffing appreciatively. The scent of fresh hay was everywhere—and so was the hay; there were shimmering mounds of it in every shed, everyone carried bits of it on their clothes, and small trails of scattered straw lay everywhere. Now the smell of cut, dry hay was mingled with the delectable scent of the barbecue that had been simmering underground overnight, the fresh bread, and the heady tang of Mrs. Bug’s cider. Marsali and Bree were bringing down jugs of it from the springhouse, where it had been cooling, along with buttermilk and beer.

“I see I’ve chosen my time well,” the Major remarked, viewing all this effort with approval.

“If you came to eat, yes,” I said, rather amused. “If you came to talk to Jamie, I rather think you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

He looked at me, puzzled, but had no opportunity to inquire further; I had caught another glimpse of movement at the trailhead. The Major turned, seeing the direction of my glance, and frowned slightly.

“Why, it’s that fellow with the brand on his face,” he said, wary disapproval in his voice. “I saw him down at Coopersville, but he saw me first, and steered well clear. Will ye have me drive him off, mum?” He set down the bread and was already settling his sword belt on his hip, when I gripped his forearm.

“You’ll do no such thing, Major,” I said sharply. “Mr. Higgins is a friend.”

He gave me a flat look, then dropped his arm.

“As ye like, Mrs. Fraser, of course,” he said coolly, and picking up the bread again, went off toward the tables.

Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I went to greet the newcomer. Plainly Bobby Higgins could have joined the Major on the path to the Ridge; just as plainly, he had chosen not to. He had become a little more familiar with mules, I saw; he was riding one and leading another, laden with a promising array of panniers and boxes.

“His Lordship’s compliments, mum,” he said, saluting me smartly as he slid off. From the corner of my eye, I saw MacDonald watching—and his small start of recognition at the military gesture. So, now he knew Bobby for a soldier, and doubtless would ferret out his background in short order. I repressed a sigh; I couldn’t mend matters; they’d have to settle it between themselves—if there was anything to settle.

“You’re looking well, Bobby,” I said, smiling as I pushed aside my disquiet. “No difficulties with the riding, I hope?”

“Oh, no, mum!” He beamed. “And I’s not fallen out once since I left you last!” “Fallen out” meant “fainted,” and I congratulated him on the state of his health, looking him over as he unloaded the pack mule with deft efficiency. He did seem much better; pink and fresh-skinned as a child, bar the ugly brand on his cheek.

“Yonder lobsterback,” he said, affecting insouciance as he set down a box. “He’s known to ye, is he, mum?”

“That’s Major MacDonald,” I said, carefully not looking in the Major’s direction; I could feel his stare boring into my back. “Yes. He … does things for the Governor, I believe. Not regular army, I mean; he’s a half-pay officer.”

That bit of information seemed to ease Bobby’s mind a bit. He took a breath, as though to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he reached into his shirt and withdrew a sealed letter, which he handed over.

“That’s for you,” he explained. “From his Lordship. Is Miss Lizzie by any chance about?” His eyes were already searching the flock of girls and women readying the tables.

“Yes, she was in the kitchen last I saw,” I replied, a small uneasy feeling skittering down my backbone. “She’ll be out in a minute. But … you do know she’s betrothed, don’t you, Bobby? Her fiancé will be coming with the other men for supper.”

He met my eyes and smiled with singular sweetness.

“Oh, aye, mum, I know that well enough. On’y thought as I s’ould thank her for her kindness when I last was here.”

“Oh,” I said, not trusting that smile in the slightest. Bobby was a very handsome lad, blind eye or not—and he had been a soldier. “Well … good.”

Before I could say more, I caught the sound of male voices, coming through the trees. It wasn’t precisely singing; sort of a rhythmic chant. I wasn’t sure what it was—there was a lot of Gaelic “Ho-ro!” and the like—but all of them seemed to be bellowing along in a cordial fashion.

Haymaking was a novel concept to the new tenants, who were much more accustomed to rake kelp than scythe grass. Jamie, Arch, and Roger had shepherded them through the process, though, and I had been asked to stitch no more than a handful of minor wounds, so I assumed it had been a success—no hands or feet lopped off, a few shouting matches, but no fistfights, and no more than the usual amount of hay trampled or ruined.

All of them seemed in good spirits as they poured into the dooryard, bedraggled, sweat-soaked, and thirsty as sponges. Jamie was in the thick of them, laughing and staggering as someone pushed him. He caught sight of me, and a huge grin split his sun-browned face. In a stride, he had reached me and swept me into an exuberant embrace, redolent of hay, horses, and sweat.

“Done, by God!” he said, and kissed me soundly. “Christ, I need a drink. And nay, that’s no blasphemy, wee Roger,” he added, with a glance behind him. “It’s heartfelt gratitude and desperate need, aye?”

“Aye. First things first, though, hm?” Roger had appeared behind Jamie, his voice so hoarse that it was barely audible in the general uproar. He swallowed, grimacing.

“Oh, aye.” Jamie shot a quick look at Roger, assessing, then shrugged and strode out into the center of the yard.

“Eìsd ris! Eìsd ris!”
bellowed Kenny Lindsay, seeing him. Evan and Murdo joined him, clapping their hands and shouting “Hear him!” loudly enough that the crowd began to subside and pay attention.

He didn’t raise his voice much above its normal speaking level, but everyone quieted at once, so the words rang clear.

There was a stirring of faint approval in the crowd; I saw a few of the fisher-folk bow their heads, though their eyes stayed fixed on him.

I glanced at Roger, who was nodding slightly with approval, as well. Evidently, they’d agreed on it together. Sensible; it would be a prayer familiar in form to the fisher-folk, and nothing specifically Catholic about it.

Jamie spread his arms, quite unconsciously, and the breeze caught the worn damp linen of his shirt as he tilted back his head and raised his face to the sky, open with joy.

“Amen!” said Roger, as loudly as he could, and there were gratified murmurs of “amen” round the yard. Then Major MacDonald raised the tankard of cider he was holding, called
“Slàinte!”
and drained it.

Festivity became general after that. I found myself sitting on a cask, Jamie on the grass at my feet, with a platter of food and a constantly refilled mug of cider.

“Bobby Higgins is here,” I told him, catching sight of Bobby in the midst of a small group of admiring young ladies. “Do you see Lizzie anywhere?”

“No,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Why?”

“He asked for her particularly.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll find her. Will ye have a bit o’ meat, Sassenach?” He held up a large rib bone, brow cocked inquiringly.

“I’ve had some,” I assured him, and he at once tore into it, addressing himself to the vinegar-spiced barbecue as though he hadn’t eaten for a week.

“Has Major MacDonald spoken to you?”

“No,” he said, mouth full, and swallowed. “He’ll keep. There’s Lizzie—wi’ the McGillivrays.”

I felt reassured by that. The McGillivrays—particularly
Frau
Ute—would certainly discourage any inappropriate attentions to their new intended daughter-in-law. Lizzie was chatting and laughing with Robin McGillivray, who was smiling at her in fatherly fashion, while his son Manfred ate and drank with single-minded appetite.
Frau
Ute, I saw, was keeping a sharp and interested eye on Lizzie’s father, who was sitting on the porch nearby, cozily side by side with a tall, rather plain-faced German lady.

“Who’s that with Joseph Wemyss?” I asked, nudging Jamie with my knee to direct his attention.

He narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, looking, then shrugged.

“I dinna ken. She’s German; she must ha’ come with Ute McGillivray. Matchmaking, aye?” He tilted up his mug and drank, sighing with bliss.

“Do you think so?” I looked at the strange woman with interest. She certainly seemed to be getting on well with Joseph—and he with her. His thin face was alight as he gestured, explaining something to her, and her neatly capped head was bent toward him, a smile on her lips.

I didn’t always approve of Ute McGillivray’s methods, which tended toward the juggernaut, but I had to admire the painstaking intricacy of her plans. Lizzie and Manfred would marry next spring, and I had wondered how Joseph would fare then; Lizzie was his whole life.

He might, of course, go with her when she married. She and Manfred would simply live in the McGillivrays’ large house, and I imagined that they would find room for Joseph, too. Still, he would be torn, not wanting to leave us—and while any able-bodied man could always be of use on a homestead, he was by no means a natural farmer, let alone a gunsmith, like Manfred and his father. If he himself were to wed, though …

I gave Ute McGillivray a glance, and saw her watching Mr. Wemyss and his inamorata with the contented expression of a puppet master whose puppets are dancing precisely to her tune.

Someone had left a pitcher of cider beside us. I refilled Jamie’s mug, then my own. It was wonderful, a dark, cloudy amber, sweet and pungent and with the bite of a particularly subtle serpent to it. I let the cool liquid trickle down my throat and bloom inside my head like a silent flower.

There was much talk and laughter, and I noticed that while the new tenants still kept to their own family groups, there was now a little more blending, as the men who had been working side-by-side for the last two weeks maintained their cordial relations, these social courtesies fueled by cider. The new tenants mostly regarded wine as a mocker, strong drink—whisky, rum, or brandy—as raging, but everyone drank beer and cider. Cider was wholesome, one of the women had told me, handing a mug to her small son. I gave it half an hour, I thought, sipping slowly, before they started dropping like flies.