A Breath of Snow and Ashes

children and the husband of a very pregnant wife, Roger thought, but didn’t say so.

“I’d not have thought Fergus a layabout,” he observed mildly. Bree shook her head, still frowning, and poured more tea into his mug.

“No, he’s not lazy, really. It’s hard for him, with only one hand; he really can’t handle some of the heavy chores—but he won’t help with the kids, or cook and clean while Marsali does them. Da and Ian help with the plowing, but . . . And he leaves for days on end—sometimes he’s picking up little jobs here and there, translating for a traveler—but mostly, he’s just gone. And . . .” She hesitated, darting a look at him as though wondering whether to go on.

“And?” he said obligingly. The tea was working; the pain in his throat was almost gone.

She looked down at the table, drawing invisible patterns on the oak with a forefinger.

“She didn’t say so . . . but I think he hits her.”

Roger felt a sudden weight on his heart. His first reaction was to dismiss the notion out of hand—but he had seen too much, living with the Reverend. Too many families, outwardly content and respectable, where the wives poked fun at their own “clumsiness,” brushing away concern at black eyes, broken noses, dislocated wrists. Too many men who dealt with the pressures of providing for a family by resorting to the bottle.

“Damn,” he said, feeling suddenly exhausted. He rubbed at his forehead, where a headache was starting.

“Why do you think so?” he asked bluntly. “Has she got marks?”

Bree nodded unhappily, still not looking up, though her finger had stilled.

“On her arm.” She wrapped a hand around her forearm, in illustration. “Little round bruises, like fingermarks. I saw when she reached up to get a bucket of honeycomb from the wagon and her sleeve fell back.”

He nodded, wishing there was something stronger than tea in his mug.

“Shall I talk to him, then, d’ye think?”

She did look up at him then, her eyes softening, though the look of worry remained.

“You know, most men wouldn’t offer to do that.”

“Well, it’s no my idea of fun,” he admitted. “But ye canna let that sort of thing go on, hoping it will cure itself. Someone has to say something.”

God knew what, though—or how. He was already regretting the offer, trying to think what the hell he could say. “So, Fergus, old man. Hear you’re beating your wife. Be a good fellow and stop that, okay?”

He drained the rest of his mug, and got up to look for the whisky.

“We’re out,” Brianna said, seeing his intent. “Mr. Wemyss had a cold.”

He put down the empty bottle with a sigh. She touched his arm delicately.

“We’re invited up to the Big House for supper. We could go early.” That was a cheering suggestion. Jamie invariably had a bottle of excellent single-malt, secreted somewhere on the premises.

“Aye, all right.” He took her cloak from the peg and swung it round her shoulders. “Hey. D’ye think I should mention the business about Fergus to your Da? Or best handle it myself?” He had a sudden, unworthy hope that Jamie would consider it his business and take care of the matter.

That seemed to be what Brianna was afraid of; she was shaking her head, simultaneously fluffing out her half-dried hair.

“No! I think Da would break his neck. And Fergus won’t be any good to Marsali if he’s dead.”

“Mmphm.” He accepted the inevitable, and opened the door for her. The big white house glowed on the hill above them, tranquil in the afternoon light, the big red spruce behind it a looming but benign presence; not for the first time, he felt that the tree was somehow guarding the house—and in his present fragile mental state, found that notion a comfort.

They made a short detour, so that he could properly admire the new pit and be told all about the internal workings of a groundhog kiln. He failed to follow these in any detail, only grasping the notion that the point was to make the inside very hot, but he found the flow of Brianna’s explanation soothing.

“. . . bricks for the chimney,” she was saying, pointing at the far end of the eight-foot pit, which at present resembled nothing so much as the resting place for an extremely large coffin. She’d made a nice, neat job of it so far, though; the corners were squared as though done with a instrument of some sort, and the walls painstakingly smoothed. He said as much, and she beamed at him, thumbing a lock of red hair behind her ear.

“It needs to be a lot deeper,” she said, “maybe another three feet. But the dirt here is really good for digging; it’s soft, but it doesn’t crumble too much. I hope I can finish the hole before it starts to snow, but I don’t know.” She rubbed a knuckle under her nose, squinting dubiously at the hole. “I really need to card and spin enough more wool to weave the fabric for winter shirts for you and Jem, but I’ll have to pick and preserve for the next week or so, and—”

“I’ll dig it for you.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, just under the ear, and he laughed, suddenly feeling better.

“Not for this winter,” she said, taking him contentedly by the arm, “but eventually—I’m wondering if I can vent some of the heat from the kiln, and run it under the floor of the cabin. You know what a Roman hypocaust is?”

“I do.” He turned to eye the foundation of his domicile, a simple hollow base of fieldstone on which the log walls were built. The notion of central heating in a crude mountain cabin made him want to laugh, but there was really nothing impossible about it, he supposed. “You’d what? Run pipes of warm air through the foundation stones?”

“Yes. Always assuming I can actually make good pipes, which remains to be seen. What do you think?”

He glanced from the proposed project up the hill to the Big House. Even at this distance, a mound of dirt by the foundation was visible, evidence of the white sow’s burrowing capabilities.

“I think ye run a great danger of having that big white buggeress transfer her affections to us, if ye make a cozy warm den under our house.”

“Buggeress?” she said, diverted. “Is that physically possible?”

“It’s a metaphysical description,” he informed her. “And ye saw what she tried to do to Major MacDonald.”

“That pig really doesn’t like Major MacDonald,” Bree said reflectively. “I wonder why not?”

“Ask your mother; she’s none so fond of him, either.”

“Oh, well, that—” She stopped suddenly, lips pursed, and looked thoughtfully at the Big House. A shadow passed the window of the surgery, someone moving inside. “Tell you what. You find Da and have a drink with him, and while you’re doing that, I’ll tell Mama about Marsali and Fergus. She might have a good idea.”

“I don’t know that it’s a medical problem, exactly,” he said. “But anesthetizing Germain would certainly be a start.”





27



THE MALTING-FLOOR

I COULD SMELL THE SWEET, musty scent of damp grain on the wind as I made my way up the trail. It was nothing like the heady pungency of the barm mash, the faintly coffeelike toasted smell of malting, nor yet the reek of distilling—but still spoke as strongly of whisky. It was a very fragrant business, making uisgebaugh, and the reason why the whisky clearing was located nearly a mile from the Big House. As it was, I often caught a wild faint scent of spirit through my open surgery windows when the wind was right and the mash was making.

The whisky-making had its own cycle, and one that everyone on the Ridge was subconsciously attuned to, whether directly involved in it or not. Which was how I knew without asking that the barley in the malting shed had just begun its germination, and therefore, Marsali would be there, turning and spreading the grain evenly before the malting fire was lit.

The grain must be allowed to germinate, to assure a maximal sweetness—but must not sprout, or the mash would have a bitter taste and be ruined. No more than twenty-four hours must pass after germination began, and I had smelled the fecund damp scent of the grain begin to rise as I foraged in the woods the afternoon before. The time was here.

It was by far the best place to have a private conversation with Marsali; the whisky clearing was the only place she was ever without a cacophonous assortment of children. I often thought that she valued the solitude of the work much more than the share of whisky Jamie gave her for minding the grain—valuable though that was.

Brianna told me that Roger had gallantly offered to have a word with Fergus, but I thought that I should talk to Marsali first, just to find out what was really going on.

What ought I to say? I wondered. A straightforward “Is Fergus beating you?” I couldn’t quite believe that, despite—or perhaps because of—an intimate knowledge of emergency rooms filled with the debris of domestic disputes.

It wasn’t that I thought Fergus incapable of violence; he’d seen—and experienced—any amount of it from an early age, and growing up among Highlanders in the middle of the Rising and its aftermath probably did not inculcate a young man with any deep regard for the virtues of peace. On the other hand, Jenny Murray had had a hand in his upbringing.

I tried and failed to imagine any man who had lived with Jamie’s sister for more than a week ever lifting his hand to a woman. Besides, I knew by my own observations that Fergus was a very gentle father, and there was usually an easiness between him and Marsali that seemed—

There was a sudden commotion overhead. Before I could so much as glance up, something huge crashed down through the branches in a shower of dust and dead pine needles. I leapt backward and swung my basket up in instinctive defense—but even as I did so, I realized that I was not in fact being attacked. Germain lay flat on the path in front of me, eyes bulging as he struggled for the breath that had been knocked out of him.

“What on earth—?” I began, rather crossly. Then I saw that he was clutching something to his chest; a late nest, filled with a clutch of four greenish eggs, which he had miraculously contrived not to break in his fall.

“For . . . Maman,” he gasped, grinning up at me.

“Very nice,” I said. I had had enough to do with young males—well, any age, really; they all did it—to realize the complete futility of reproach in such situations, and since he had broken neither the eggs nor his legs, I merely took the nest and held it while he gulped for air and my heart resumed beating at its normal speed.

Recovered, he scrambled to his feet, disregarding the dirt, pitch, and broken pine needles that covered him from head to toe.

“Maman’s in the shed,” he said, reaching for his treasure. “You come too, Grandmère?”

“Yes. Where are your sisters?” I asked suspiciously. “Are you meant to be watching them?”

“Non,” he said airily. “They are at home; that’s where women belong.”

“Oh, really? And who told you that?”

“I forget.” Thoroughly recovered, he hopped ahead of me, singing a song, the refrain of which seemed to be “Na tuit, na tuit, na tuit, Germain!”

Marsali was indeed at the whisky clearing; her cap, cloak, and gown hung from a branch of the yellow-leaved persimmon, and a clay firepot full of coals sat nearby, smoking in readiness.

The malting floor had been enclosed now by proper walls, making a shed in which the damp grain could be heaped, first to germinate and then to be gently toasted by a low-burning fire under the floor. The ash and charcoal had been scraped out and oak wood for a new fire laid in the space beneath the stilted floor, but it wasn’t yet lit. Even without a fire, the shed was warm; I felt it from several feet away. As the grain germinated, it gave off such heat that the shed fairly glowed with it.

A rhythmic shush and scrape came from within; Marsali was turning the grain with a wooden shovel, making sure it was evenly spread before lighting the malting fire. The door of the shed was open, but there were of course no windows; from a distance, I could see only a dim shadow moving within.

The shushing of the grain had masked our footsteps; Marsali looked up, startled, when my body blocked the light from the doorway.

“Mother Claire!”

“Hallo,” I said cheerfully. “Germain said you were here. I thought I’d just—”

“Maman! Look, look, see what I have!” Germain pushed past me with single-minded eagerness, thrusting out his prize. Marsali smiled at him, and pushed a damp strand of fair hair back behind her ear.

“Oh, aye? Well, that’s grand, no? Let’s take it out to the light, shall we, so I can have a proper look.”

She stepped out of the shed, sighing in pleasure at the touch of the cool air. She was stripped to her shift, the muslin so wet with sweat that I could see not only the dark rounds of her areolae, but even the tiny bulge of her popped-out navel, where the cloth clung to the massive curves of her belly.

Marsali sat down with another huge sigh of relief, stretching her legs out, bare toes pointed. Her feet were somewhat swollen, and blue veins showed, distended, beneath the transparent skin of her legs.

“Ah, it’s good to sit! So then, a chuisle, show me what ye’ve got.”

I took the opportunity to circle round behind her, as Germain displayed his prize, and covertly check for bruises or other sinister signs.

She was thin—but Marsali simply was thin, bar the bulge of her pregnancy, and always had been. Her arms were slender, but hard with muscle, as were her legs. There were smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes—but she had three small children, after all, besides the discomforts of pregnancy to keep her awake. Her face was rosy and damp, thoroughly healthy-looking.

There were a couple of small bruises on her lower legs, but I dismissed those; pregnant women did bruise easily, and with all the obstructions presented by living in a log cabin and traversing wild mountains, there were few people on the Ridge—male or female—not sporting the odd contusion.

Or was I only seeking excuses, not wanting to admit the possibility of what Brianna had suggested?

“One for me,” Germain was explaining, touching the eggs, “and one for Joan, and one for Félicité, and one for Monsieur L’Oeuf.” He pointed at the melonlike swell of her stomach.

“Ah, now, what a sweet lad,” Marsali said, pulling him close and kissing his smudged forehead. “Ye’re my wee nestling, to be sure.”

Germain’s beam of pleasure faded into a look of speculation as he came in contact with his mother’s protruding belly. He patted it cautiously.

“When the egg hatches inside, what do you do with the shell?” he inquired. “Can I have it?”

Marsali went pink with suppressed laughter.

“People dinna come in shells,” she said. “Thank God.”

“You are sure, Maman?” He eyed her belly dubiously, then poked it gently. “It feels like an egg.”

“Well, so it does, but it’s not. That’s only what Papa and I call a wee one before it’s born. You were ‘Monsieur L’Oeuf’ once, aye?”

“I was?” Germain looked thunderstruck at this revelation.

“Ye were. So were your sisters.”

Germain frowned, shaggy blond fringe almost touching his nose.

“No, they weren’t. They are Mademoiselles L’Oeufs.”

“Oui, certainement,” Marsali said, laughing at him. “And perhaps this one is, too—but Monsieur is easier to say. Here, look.” She leaned back a little and pushed a hand firmly into the side of her mound. Then she seized Germain’s hand and put it on the spot. Even from where I stood, I could see the surge of flesh as the baby kicked vigorously in response to being poked.

Germain jerked his hand away, startled, then put it back, looking fascinated, and pushed.

“Hello!” he said loudly, putting his face close to his mother’s belly. “Comment ça va in there, Monsieur L’Oeuf?”

“He’s fine,” his mother assured him. “Or she. But babies dinna talk right at first. Ye ken that much. Félicité doesna say anything but ‘Mama’ yet.”

“Oh, aye.” Losing interest in his impending sibling, he stooped to pick up an interesting-looking stone.

Marsali lifted her head, squinting at the sun.

“Ye should go home, Germain. Mirabel will be wanting milked, and I’ve a bit to do here yet. Go and help Papa, aye?” Mirabel was a goat, and a sufficiently new addition to the household as still to be interesting, for Germain brightened at the suggestion.

“Oui, Maman. Au’voir, Grandmère!” He took aim and flipped his rock at the shed, missing it, then turned and scampered toward the path.

“Germain!” Marsali called after him. “Na tuit!”

“What does that mean?” I asked curiously. “It’s Gaelic, is it—or French?”

“It’s the Gaelic,” she said, smiling. “It means ‘Don’t fall!’” She shook her head in mock dismay. “That laddie canna stay out of trees to save his life.” Germain had left the nest with its eggs; she set it gently on the ground, and I saw then the faint yellowed ovals on the underside of her forearm—faded, but just as Brianna had described them.

“And how is Fergus?” I asked, as though it had anything to do with the conversation.

“He’s well enough,” she replied, a look of wariness closing over her features.

“Really?” I glanced deliberately at her arm, then into her eyes. She flushed, and turned her arm quickly, hiding the marks.

“Aye, he’s fine!” she said. “He’s no verra good at the milking just yet, but he’ll have the way of it soon enough. It’s awkward wi’ the one hand, to be sure, but he’s—”

I sat down on the log beside her, and took hold of her wrist, turning it over.

“Brianna told me,” I said. “Did Fergus do this?”

“Oh.” She seemed embarrassed, and pulled her wrist away, pressing the forearm against her belly to hide the marks. “Well, aye. Aye, he did.”

“Do you want me to speak to Jamie about it?”

A rich tide of color surged into her face, and she sat up in alarm.

“Christ, no! Da would break Fergus’s neck! And it wasna his fault, really.”

“Certainly it was his fault,” I said firmly. I had seen all too many beaten women in Boston emergency rooms, all of whom claimed that it wasn’t really their husband’s or boyfriend’s fault. Granted, the women often did have something to do with it, but still—

“But it wasn’t!” Marsali insisted. The color had not gone from her face; if anything, it intensified. “I—he—I mean, he grabbed my arm, aye, but ’twas only because I . . . er . . . well, I was tryin’ to brain him wi’ a stick of wood at the time.” She glanced away, blushing fiercely.

“Oh.” I rubbed my nose, a little taken aback. “I see. And why were you trying to do that? Was he . . . attacking you?”

She sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

“Oh. No. Weel, it was because Joanie spilled the milk, and he shouted at her, and she cried, and . . .” She shrugged a little, looking uncomfortable. “I just had a wee de’il sittin’ on my shoulder, I suppose.”

“It’s not like Fergus to shout at the children, is it?”

“Oh, no, it’s not!” she said quickly. “He hardly ever . . . well, he didna used to, but with so many . . . well, I couldna blame him, this time. It took him a terrible time to milk the goat, and then to have it all spilt and wasted—I would ha’ shouted, too, I expect.”

Her eyes were fixed on the ground, avoiding mine, and she was fingering the seam of her shift, running a thumb over and over the stitching.

“Small children can certainly be trying,” I agreed, with vivid memories of an incident involving a two-year-old Brianna, a phone call that had distracted me, a large bowl of spaghetti with meatballs, and Frank’s open briefcase. Frank normally exhibited a saintly degree of patience with Bree—if somewhat less with me—but on that particular occasion his bellows of outrage had rattled the windows.

And now that I recalled the occasion, I actually had thrown a meatball at him in a fury verging on hysteria. So had Bree, though she had done it out of glee, rather than vindictiveness. Had I been standing by the stove at the time, it might easily have been the pot I threw. I rubbed a finger under my nose, not sure whether to regret the memory or to laugh at it. I never did get the stains out of the rug.

It was a shame that I couldn’t share the memory with Marsali, as she was in ignorance not only of spaghetti and briefcases, but also of Frank. She was still looking down, scuffing at the dead oak leaves with a pointed toe.

“’Twas all my fault, really,” she said, and bit her lip.

“No, it wasn’t.” I squeezed her arm in reassurance. “Things like that are no one’s fault; accidents happen, people get upset . . . but it all comes right in the end.” So it did, I thought—though often not in any expected way.

She nodded, but the shadow still lay on her face, her lower lip tucked in.

“Aye, it’s only . . .” she began, then trailed off.

I sat patiently, careful not to push her. She wanted—needed—to talk. And I needed to hear it, before deciding what—or if—to tell Jamie. There was something going on between her and Fergus, that was sure.

“I . . . was just thinking of it now, whilst I was shoveling. I wouldna have done it, I don’t think, only it minded me so much . . . it was only I felt as though it was the same again. . . .”

“The same as what?” I asked, when it became clear that she had trailed off.