Диана Гэблдон - A Breath of Snow and Ashes 6

“An acute choice of words,” he replied dryly. “Jamie Fraser is ‘responsible’ for more than any man I know. As to the rest, I have no idea. I know the essentials of what happened, because Isobel knew; her mother was present and presumably told her only the briefest outline of the incident.”

“Huh.” She kicked a small stone, deliberately. It skittered across the packed sand in front of her, ending a few feet away. “And you never asked Da about it?”

The stone lay in his line of march; he kicked it neatly as he walked, rolling it back into her path.

“I have never spoken to your father regarding Geneva, Ellesmere, or William himself—save to inform him of my marriage to Isobel and to assure him that I would fulfill my responsibilities as William’s guardian to the best of my ability.”

She set her foot on the stone, driving it into the soft sand, and stopped.

“You never said anything to him? What did he say to you?” she demanded.

“Nothing.” He returned her stare.

“Why did you marry Isobel?”

He sighed, but there was no point in evasion.

“In order to take care of William.”

The thick red brows nearly touched her hairline.

“So you got married, in spite of—I mean, you turned your whole life upside down, just to take care of Jamie Fraser’s illegitimate son? And neither one of you ever talked about it?”

“No,” he said, baffled. “Of course not.”

Slowly, the brows came down again, and she shook her head.

“Men,” she said cryptically. She glanced back toward the town. The air was calm, and a haze from the chimneys of Wilmington lay heavy above the trees. No roofs showed; it might have been a dragon that lay sleeping on the shore, for all that could be seen. The low, rumbling noise was not a reptilian snore, though; a small but constant stream of people had been passing by the track, headed for the town, and the reverberations of an increasing crowd were clearly audible, whenever the wind was right.

“It’s nearly dark. I have to go back.” She turned toward the lane that led into town, and he followed, relieved for the moment, but under no illusion that the inquisition was over.

She had only one more question, though.

“When are you going to tell him?” she asked, turning to look at him as she reached the edge of the trees.

“Tell who what?” he replied, startled.

“Him.” She frowned at him, irritated. “William. My brother.” The irritation faded as she tasted the word. She was still pale, but a sort of excitement had begun to glow beneath her skin. Lord John felt as though he had eaten something that violently disagreed with him. A cold sweat broke out along his jaw, and his guts clenched into fistlike knots. His knees turned to water.

“Are you quite mad?” He grasped at her arm, as much to keep from stumbling as to prevent her going off.

“I gather he doesn’t know who his father really is,” she said with a bit of asperity. “Given that you and Da never talked to each other about it, you probably didn’t see any point talking to him, either. But he’s grown up now—he has a right to know, surely.”

Lord John closed his eyes with a low moan.

“Are you all right?” she asked. He felt her bending close to inspect him. “You don’t look very good.”

“Sit.” He sat himself, back to a tree, and pulled her down beside him on the ground. He breathed deeply, keeping his eyes closed while his mind raced. Surely she was joking? Surely not, his cynically observant self assured him. She had a marked sense of humor, but it wasn’t in evidence at the moment.

She couldn’t. He couldn’t let her. It was inconceivable that she—but how could he stop her? If she wouldn’t listen to him, perhaps Jamie or her mother . . .

A hand touched his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t stop to think.”

Relief filled him. He felt his bowels begin to uncramp, and opened his eyes to see her gazing at him with a peculiar sort of limpid sympathy that he didn’t understand at all. His bowels promptly convulsed again, making him fear that he was about to suffer an embarrassing attack of flatulence on the spot.

His bowels had read her better than he had.

“I should have thought,” she reproached herself. “I should have known how you’d feel about it. You said it yourself—he’s your son. You’ve raised him all this time, I can see how much you love him. It must make you feel terrible to think of William finding out about Da and maybe blaming you for not telling him sooner.” Her hand was massaging his collarbone in what he assumed was meant to be a soothing gesture. If that was her intent, the movement had singularly failed.

“But—” he began, but she had taken his hand in both hers and was squeezing it earnestly, her blue eyes shimmering with tears.

“He won’t,” she assured him. “William would never stop loving you. Believe me. It was the same for me—when I found out about Da. I didn’t want to believe it at first; I had a father, and I loved him, and I didn’t want another one. But then I met Da, and it was—he was . . . who he is—” She shrugged slightly, and lifted one hand to wipe her eyes on the lace at her wrist.

“But I haven’t forgotten my other father,” she said very softly. “I never will. Never.”

Touched despite the general seriousness of the situation, Lord John cleared his throat.

“Yes. Well. I am sure your sentiments do you great credit, my dear. And while I hope that I likewise enjoy William’s affectionate regard at present and will continue to do so in future, that is really not the point I was endeavoring to make.”

“It’s not?” She looked up, wide-eyed, tears clumping her lashes into dark spikes. She was really a lovely young woman, and he felt a small twinge of tenderness.

“No,” he said, quite gently under the circumstances. “Look, my love. I told you who William is—or who he thinks he is.”

“Viscount Whatnot, you mean?”

He sighed deeply.

“Quite. The five people who know of his true parentage have expended considerable effort for the last eighteeen years, to the end that no one—William included—should ever have cause to doubt that he is the ninth Earl of Ellesmere.”

She looked down at that, her thick brows knitted, lips compressed. Christ, he hoped that her husband had succeeded in locating Jamie Fraser in time. Jamie Fraser was the only person who had a hope of being more effectually stubborn than his daughter.

“You don’t understand,” she said finally. She looked up, and he saw that she had come to some decision.

“We’re leaving,” she said abruptly. “Roger and I and the—the children.”

“Oh?” he said cautiously. This might be good news—on several counts. “Where do you propose to go? Will you remove to England? Or Scotland? If England or Canada, I have several social connexions who might be of—”

“No. Not there. Not anywhere you have ‘connexions.’” She smiled painfully at him, then swallowed before continuing.

“But you see—we’ll be gone. For—for good. I won’t—I don’t think I’ll ever see you again.” That realization had just dawned on her; he saw it on her face, and despite the strength of the pang it gave him, he was deeply moved by her obvious distress at the thought.

“I will miss you very much, Brianna,” he said gently. He had been a soldier most of his life, and then a diplomat. He had learned to live with separation and absence, with the occasional death of friends left behind. But the notion of never seeing this odd girl again caused him a most unexpected degree of grief. Almost, he thought with surprise, as though she were his own daughter.