#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMARCH25th #theHLNversion Jenny’s eyes were disturbingly like Jamie’s. She blinked at me once, then twice, and shook her head as though to clear it, accepting what I’d just told her. “So Jamie’s gone off wi’ your Lord John, the British army is after them, the tall lad I met on the stoop wi’ steam comin’ out of his ears is Jamie’s son—well, of course he is; a blind man could see that—and the town’s aboil wi’ British soldiers. Is that it, then?” “He’s not exactly _my_ Lord John,” I said. “But yes, that’s essentially the position. I take it Jamie told you about William, then?” “Aye, he did.” She grinned at me over the rim of her teacup. “I’m that happy for him. But what’s troubling his lad, then? He looked like he wouldna give the road to a bear.” “What did you say?” Mrs. Figg’s voice cut in abruptly. She set down the tray she had just brought in, the silver milk jug and sugar basin rattling like castanets. “William is _whose_ son?” I took a fortifying gulp of tea. Mrs. Figg did know that I’d been married to—and theoretically widowed from—one James Fraser. But that was all she knew. “Well,” I said, and paused to clear my throat. “The, um, tall gentleman with the red hair who was just here—you saw him?” “I did.” Mrs. Figg eyed me narrowly. “Did you get a good look at him?” “Didn’t pay much heed to his face when he came to the door and asked where you were, but I saw his backside pretty plain when he pushed past me and ran up the stairs.” “Possibly the resemblance is less marked from that angle.” I took another mouthful of tea. “Um…that gentleman is James Fraser, my…er…my—“ “First husband,” wasn’t accurate, and neither was “last husband”—or even, unfortunately, “most recent husband.” I settled for the simplest alternative. “My husband. And, er…William’s father.” Mrs. Figg’s mouth opened, soundless for an instant. She backed up slowly and sat down on a needlework ottoman with a soft _phumph_. “William know that?” she asked, after a moment’s contemplation. “He does _now_,” I said, with a brief gesture toward the devastation in the stairwell, clearly visible through the door of the parlor where we were sitting. “_Merde_ on—I mean, Holy Lamb of God preserve us.” Mrs. Figg’s second husband was a Methodist preacher, and she strove to be a credit to him, but her first had been a French gambler. Her eyes fixed on me like gun-sights. “You his mother?” I choked on my tea. “No,” I said, wiping my chin with a linen napkin. “It isn’t quite _that_ complicated.” In fact, it was more so, but I wasn’t going to explain just how Willie had come about, either to Mrs. Figg or to Jenny.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Oct 2013 10:08:00 +0000
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