24/12/2025
The snow had stopped, and there was moonlight, glowing through a haze of vanishing cloud. The air was lung-chillingly cold, still fresh and restless with the ghost of the passing storm, and did much to clear my spinning head.
It was a dry snow, and the white crust compressed beneath our feet with a low crunching noise. I could hear Jamie’s breathing, hoarse and labored still, but the rattle in his chest had gone, and his skin was cool.
“It will be fair by morning,” he said, looking up at the hazy moon. “D’ye see the ring?”
It was hard to miss; an immense circle of diffuse light that ringed the moon, covering the whole of the eastern sky. Faint stars were showing through the haze; it would be bright and clear within the hour.
“Yes. We can go home tomorrow, then?”
“Aye. It will be muddy going, I expect. Ye can feel the air changing; it’s cold enough now, but the snow will melt as soon as the sun’s full on it.”
Reluctant to go back at once to the atmosphere of smoke and noise, we walked by unspoken mutual consent round the house and barn, enjoying the silence of the snowy wood and the nearness of each other.
Coming back, I saw that the door of the lean-to at the rear of the house stood ajar, creaking in the wind, and pointed it out to Jamie. He poked his head inside, to see that all was in order, but then, instead of closing the door, he reached back and took my arm, pulling me into the lean-to after him.
“I’d a question to ask ye, Sassenach, before we go in,” he said. He set the door open, so the moonlight streamed in, shining dimly on the hanging hams, the hogsheads and burlap bags that inhabited the lean-to with us.
“What is it?” I said, mildly curious. The fresh air had cleared my head, at least, and while I knew I would be as good as dead the instant I lay down. It had been a terrible day and night, and a long day after, but now it was done, and we were free.
“Do ye want her, Sassenach?” he asked softly. His face was a pale oval, blurred by the mist of his breath.
“Who?” I asked, startled. He gave a small grunt of amusement.
“The child. Who else?”
“Do I want her to keep her, you mean?” I asked cautiously. “Adopt her?” The notion hadn’t crossed my mind consciously, but must have been lurking somewhere in my subconscious, for I was not startled at his question, and at the speaking, the idea sprang into full flower.
I realized suddenly that I had unconsciously cupped one breast, and was gently massaging it. I stopped at once, but Jamie had seen it; he moved closer and put an arm around me. I leaned my head against him, the rough weave of his hunting shirt cold against my cheek.
“Do you want her?” I asked. I wasn’t sure whether I was hopeful of his answer, or fearful of it. The answer was a slight shrug.
“It’s a big house, Sassenach,” he said. “Big enough.”
“Hmm,” I said. Not a resounding declaration and yet I knew it was commitment, no matter how casually expressed. If he took this child, he would treat her as a daughter. Love her? No one could guarantee love not he…and not I.
“I saw ye with the wean, Sassenach, riding. Ye’ve a great tenderness about ye always but when I saw ye so, wi’ the bairn tumbling about beneath your cloak, it I remembered, how it was, how ye looked, when ye carried Faith.”
I caught my breath. To hear him speak the name of our first daughter like that, so matter-of-factly, was startling. We spoke of her seldom; her death was so long in the past that sometimes it seemed unreal, and yet the wound of her loss had scarred both of us badly.
Faith herself was not unreal at all, though. She was near me, whenever I touched a baby. And this child, this nameless orphan, so small and frail, with skin so translucent that the blue threads of her veins showed clear beneath yes, the echoes of Faith were strong. Still, she wasn’t my child. Though she could be; that was what Jamie was saying.
Was she perhaps a gift to us? Or at least our responsibility?
“Do you think we ought to take her?” I asked cautiously. “I mean what might happen to her if we don’t?”
Jamie snorted faintly, dropping his arm, and leaned back against the wall of the house. He wiped his nose, and tilted his head toward the faint rumble of voices that came through the chinked logs.
“She’d be well cared for, Sassenach. She’s in the way of being an heiress, ken? Nay, she’s legitimate.”
“But she can’t be. No one realizes it yet except you and me, but her father—”
“Her father was Aaron Beardsley, so far as the law is concerned,” he informed me. “By English law, a child born in wedlock is the legal child and heir of the husband even if it’s known for a fact that the mother committed adultery. And yon woman did say that Beardsley married her, no?”
“I see,” I said slowly. “So little Nameless will inherit all Beardsley’s property, even after they discover that he can’t have been her father. That’s…reassuring.”
His eyes met mine for a moment, then dropped.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “Reassuring.” There might have been a hint of bitterness in his voice, but if there was, it vanished without trace as he coughed and cleared his throat.
“So ye see,” he went on, matter-of-factly, “she’s in no danger of neglect. An Orphan Court would give Beardsley’s property—goats and all” he added, with a faint grin “to whomever is her guardian, to be used for her welfare.”
“So the Browns would take her willingly, then.”
“Oh, aye,” he agreed. “They kent Beardsley; they’ll ken well enough how valuable she is. It would be a delicate matter to get her away from them, in fact but if ye want the child, Sassenach, then ye’ll have her. I promise ye that.”
I saw in memory the gentle curve of the baby’s skull, and the tissue-paper ears, small and perfect as shells, their soft pink whorls fading into an otherworldly tinge of blue.
“If ye want the child, Claire, I will take her, and manage whatever comes.”
“For my sake,” he said firmly, addressing the air in front of him as though it were a tribunal, “I dinna want ye to bear another child. I wouldna risk your loss, Sassenach,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “Not for a dozen bairns. I’ve daughters and sons, nieces and nephews, grandchildren weans enough.”
He looked at me directly then, and spoke softly.
“But I’ve no life but you, Claire.” He swallowed audibly, and went on, eyes fixed on mine. “I did think, though…if ye do want another child, perhaps I could still give ye one.”
Brief tears blurred my eyes. It was cold in the lean-to, and our fingers were stiff. I fumbled my hand into his, squeezing tight.
Even as we had spoken, my mind had been busy, envisioning possibilities, difficulties, blessings. I did not need to think further, for I knew the decision had made itself. A child was a temptation of the flesh, as well as of the spirit; I knew the bliss of that unbounded oneness, as I knew the bittersweet joy of seeing that oneness fade as the child learned itself and stood alone.
But I had crossed some subtle line. Whether it was that I was born myself with some secret quota embodied in my flesh, or only that I knew my sole allegiance must be given elsewhere now…I knew. As a mother, I had the lightness now of effort complete, honor satisfied. Mission accomplished.
I leaned my forehead against his chest and spoke into the shadowed cloth above his heart.
“No,” I said softly. “But, Jamie…I so love you.” 💕
Excerpts from Diana Gabaldon’s book The Fiery Cross, Ch 32.
