Go Tell the Bees that I Am Gone (Outlander, #9)

by Diana Gabaldon

twitched violently and one of Gillebride’s big bear dogs shouldered his way in, sniffing eagerly along the floor. “And what do you think you’re doing?” I asked. The dog ignored me and made a beeline for the counter, where he rose gracefully onto his hind legs, gulped the eye, and then dropped and ran out in answer to his master’s annoyed call from the hallway.

I can't... 👁

“Aye, well,” she said at last. “I dinna suppose it matters so much whether a person’s eaten by worms or by dogs.” She sounded dubious, though, and I suppressed a sudden insane urge to laugh.

“Your mother wasna eaten by a bear, and she’ll no be pleased if you are. Ye’re stayin’.”

Logic 🙃

All the reasons why not were clustering like flies round his head, but the remembered sense of an orphaned boy’s helpless despair was an iron splinter in his heart—and that weighed heavier than the rest.

Jamie felt those words strike suddenly and without warning, deep in his own wame. Felt again a bundle of cloth clutched hard against his breast, feeling the tiny pushings of the hours-old babe inside, himself shaking with terror at what he’d just done to save the boy—his son. That’s what he’d thought. The only thought that came through the haze of fear and shock: His mother’s dead. I’m all he has.

“Da’s gone,” she said. “And he’s taken Roger and Jem and Aidan with him! To hunt that bloody bear!” “Oh, aye,” Jenny said behind me, before I could speak. She laid a hand on Brianna’s arm and squeezed. “Dinna fash, lass. Jamie’s a hard man to kill, and Ian’s painted his face. And I said the blessing for them both—the one for a warrior goin’ out. They’ll be fine.”

“Come on.” Roger gathered the boys and led them up the slope, behind Jamie and the others. Now that he’d got them safely in hand, he had a moment to actually look at the bear. It was moving its head restively from side to side, peering down at the dogs and clearly thinking, What the hell…? He was surprised to feel a sense of sympathy for the treed animal. Then he remembered Amy and sympathy died.

“Crap,” said Jemmy, awed. Germain grabbed his hand. Aidan gave a howl of rage and lunged toward the fallen bear. Roger lunged, too, and grabbed Aidan’s collar, but the worn shirt ripped and Aidan ran, leaving a handful of cloth in Roger’s grasp. “Fucking stay there!” Roger shouted at Jem, who was staring openmouthed, and went after Aidan, crashing through fallen branches and twisting his ankles and scraping his shins on stumps and deadfalls.

He could hear Aidan sobbing and looked for him. Ian had him, an arm round the boy, cuddled against his side as they sat in the yellow leaves against a fallen log. He saw that Ian had thumbed some of the white paint mixed with bear fat from his own face and streaked it across Aidan’s forehead.

Jamie knelt by the bear’s head and lifted it, the heavy skull moving easily as he turned it and thumbed the lip away from the big teeth, fingers moving along the jaw. He grimaced and, reaching gingerly into the bear’s maw, drew out a tiny scrap from between the back teeth—something that looked like a fragment of some plant, something dark green. He spread out his palm and touched the thing, spreading it open, and Roger saw that it was a scrap of dark-green homespun, tinged black at one edge. The wet black seeped out onto Jamie’s palm, and Roger could see that it was blood. Jamie nodded, as though to himself, and tucked the fragment of Amy’s bodice into his sporran.

“It’s all right, Bwee. I’m he-re.” The soft voice startled her and she jerked back, looking round. The voice had come from the corner by the hearth, and peering into the shadows, she made out Fanny, sitting cross-legged, Bluebell on the floor beside her, sound asleep, the dog’s muzzle laid on Fanny’s thigh, the muslin bandages round Bluey’s ribs a soft white patch in the dark.

I love this little image, their daughter being comforted by their new 'adopted' daughter, layers of Fraser upon Fraser

“Bobby’s not a murderer,” she said, and was surprised to hear how hoarse she was. She cleared her throat hard and repeated, “He’s not a murderer. He was a soldier, and he shot someone during a riot. In Boston.”

As we neared the garden, I paused. “I’ll—get some—” I waved vaguely toward the palisades. What? I wondered. What could I pick or dig up, to make a poultice for a mortal wound to the heart? Jamie nodded, then took me in his arms and kissed me. Stepped back and laid a hand against my cheek, looking at me as though to fix my image in his mind, then turned and went on down. In truth, I didn’t need anything from the garden, save to be alone in it.

I reached out and put a hand on the hive, feeling the lovely deep hum of the workings within. Amy Higgins is gone—is dead. You know her—her dooryard is full of hollyhocks and she’s got—had—jasmine growing by her cowshed and a good patch of dogwood nearby. I stood quite still, letting the vibration of life come into my hand and touch my heart with the strength of transparent wings. Her flowers are still growing.

“Coward,” Campbell said contemptuously behind him. “Coward and whoremonger. Get out of my sight before I have you arrested.” William’s logical mind was telling him that it was Campbell’s relations with Uncle Hal that lay behind this insult, and he ought not to take it personally. He must walk straight on as though he hadn’t heard. He turned, gravel grinding under his heel, and only the fact that the expression on his face made Campbell go white and leap backward allowed John Cinnamon time to take three huge strides and grab William’s arms from behind.

“Yours?” he inquired politely, with a nod at the child, who had momentarily stopped howling and was gnawing ferociously on Lord John’s knuckle. “Surely you jest, William,” his father replied, stepping back and jerking his head in invitation. “Allow me to make you acquainted with your second cousin, Trevor Wattiswade Grey. I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Cinnamon—will you take a drop of beer? Or something stronger?”

Why does LJG + baby = disaster? Always!!

William’s head swiveled toward it. Framed in the doorway was a blond girl of medium size, except for her bosoms, which were very large, white as milk, and half-exposed by the open banyan and untied shift that she wore.

William..... jamie likes ass and Claire's boobs, more similarity

“Please—sit down, will you? I’ll send—Oh. Actually, there’s no one to send, I’m afraid. The manservant’s joined the army and my cook is quite drunk. I’ll get—”

Ha!!

“As your son,” he said roughly. “Take him; he’s better than the one you have.” And reaching the door in two strides, he yanked it open and went out, leaving it ajar behind him.

Impulsive

WILLIAM WALKED PURPOSEFULLY to the gate, and stopped. He wanted to be gone, go away and leave Lord John and his son to make what accommodations they might. The less he knew of their conversation, the better. But he hesitated, hand on the latch.

Impulsive but second guessing

He couldn’t bring himself to abandon Cinnamon, not knowing what the outcome of that conversation might be. If things went awry…he had a vision of Cinnamon, rejected and distraught, blundering out of the house and away, God knew where, alone. “Don’t be a fool,” he muttered to himself. “You know Papa wouldn’t…” “Papa” stuck like a thorn in his throat and he swallowed.

Thinking

“Oh.” It was little more than a breath of acknowledgment, but Grey was startled—and moved—to see the boy’s face change. Just for an instant, Grey was reminded of the look on Jamie Fraser’s face when he had received Communion from the hand of an Irish priest, when the two of them had gone to Ireland in search of a criminal. A look of reverence, of grateful peace.

The Scottish Prisoner, for reference. Glad I read it!

“So it was you who called me John?” A slight smile appeared on Cinnamon’s face. “You gave me your own name?” Grey felt an answering smile on his own face, and lifted one shoulder in a deprecating way. “Oh, well…” he said. “I liked you.”

“Even so—it isn’t a matter of kingly whim, either. Grounds for revoking a peerage are rather limited, I believe. The only one that comes to mind is engaging in a rebellion against the Crown.” “You don’t say.” William had spoken lightly—or meant to—but Hal stopped and turned a piercing look on his nephew. “If you consider treason and the betrayal of your King, your country, and your family a suitable means of solving your personal difficulties, William, then perhaps John hasn’t taught you as well as I supposed.”

“No great loss,” replied the husband of the sole practicing Quaker on Fraser’s Ridge. “Worst beer I’ve had since wee Markie Henderson pissed in his mother’s brew tub and no one found it out before the beer was served.”

As I stood with Jamie outside the new Meeting House, waiting for Captain Cunningham’s service to begin, I heard muttered bets behind me—first, as to whether the two preachers would fight each other, and if so, who might win. Jamie, also hearing this, turned round to address the gaggle of half-grown boys doing it. “A hundred to one says they willna fight each other,” he said, in a carrying voice, adding then in a lower tone, “But if they do, I’ll have ten shillings on Roger Mac, five to one.”

Bree seemed to be wondering, too; I saw her with Roger, in the shade of a big chinkapin oak, in close discussion. He shook his head, though, smiled, and tugged her cap straight. She’d dressed her part, as a modest minister’s wife, and smoothed her skirt and bodice. “Two months, and she’ll be comin’ to kirk in buckskins,” Jamie said, following the direction of my gaze. “What odds?” I inquired. “Three to one. Ye want to wager, Sassenach?” “Gambling on Sunday? You’re going straight to hell, Jamie Fraser.” “I dinna mind. Ye’ll be there afore me. Askin’ me the odds, forbye…Besides, going to church three times in one day must at least get ye a few days off purgatory.”

Even if it hadn’t been ninety degrees and a thousand percent humidity in the small room,

Nice to see the climate being acknowledged!

“Oh. Well, then. Er…thank thee? Is that right?” she whispered to her husband. “How would I know?” he asked reasonably.

“That doesna necessarily mean she willna start a stramash,” Ian muttered in my ear. “The spirit tends to be very free wi’ its opinions.”

he glanced at Fanny and then Rachel—“one

Another!! How did hey have a family discussion on Savannah yet Jenny and Rachel weren't in on it?! Bizarre... diana confirmed somewhere or other that Fergus and Marsali know, because that IS why they sent Germain with J/C but what about the others????? Weird!

“Would you care to rephrase that?” I said politely.

“He’s Scottish,” I amended, with a sigh. “Which means stubborn. Also unreasonable, intolerant, contumelious, froward, pigheaded, and a few other objectionable things. But don’t worry; it really isn’t anything to do with William.

“You can say anything to me,” I said, with slight emphasis on “anything.” “You don’t ever have to tell me—or Mr. Fraser—anything that you don’t want to. But if there are things that you want to talk about—your sister, maybe, or anything else—you can. Anyone in the family—me, Mr. Fraser, Brianna, or Mr. MacKenzie…You can tell any of us anything you need to. We won’t be shocked—” Actually, we probably would be, I thought, but no matter. “And perhaps we can help, if you’re troubled about anything. But—”

“But,” I repeated firmly, “not everyone who lives on the Ridge has had such experiences, and many of them have never met anyone who has. Most of them have lived in small villages in Scotland, many of them aren’t educated. They would be shocked, perhaps, if you told them very much about…where you lived. How you and your sister—” “They’ve never met whores?” she said, and blinked. “I think some of the men must have.”

“That’s the look, all right. You always look like a heron staring into the water when you have something you can’t quite decide whether to tell somebody.” “A heron?” “Beady-eyed and intent,” she explained. “A contemplative killer. I’ll draw you doing it one of these days, so you can see.”

“He married me, when we thought Jamie was dead.” Total silence. I opened my eyes to find Bree staring at me, both eyebrows raised, her face completely blank with incomprehension. And then I remembered my conversation with Fanny. I thought she would keep quiet about the conclusions she’d drawn. But if she didn’t… “And I slept with him. But it’s not what you think…” At this inauspicious moment, Jamie walked past the window with Sean McHugh. They were talking, both of them looking upward, Jamie pointing at something on the upper story. Brianna made a noise as though she’d tried to swallow a pawpaw whole, and Jamie glanced in at us, startled. I felt as though I had swallowed a hand grenade,

“Or—if you happen not to be near any cold water—you can try one of the vagal maneuvers.” That caught her unaware, and she gave me a cat-eyed look. “If you mean having sex—” “Not vaginal maneuvers,” I said, “though I’d think the fibrillating might be too distracting to want to do that, in any case. I said vagal maneuvers—as

She gave me a long, considering stare, exactly the sort of look Jamie would have given me in receipt of this sort of advice. Deeply suspicious that I was practicing upon him, but inwardly fearful that I wasn’t.

“Because I promised you honesty a long time ago,” I said. “And if honesty turns out to be a double-edged sword, I think the wounds are usually worth it.”

But then that sodomite sends me a letter, out o’ the blue—just

Waitwhat???

“Did I break the skin?” “Ye do that every time ye touch me, Sassenach. I’m no bleeding, though.”

“Gaeilge,” he said. “Irish. I heard it from Stephen O’Farrell, during the Rising. It just came back to me now. “My body is out from my control,” he said softly. “She was the half of my body—the very half of my soul.”

“Are ye perhaps…lost, Lieutenant? I believe the nearest ocean is roughly three hundred miles behind you.”

a bottle of the JFS whisky,

Good. So the casks Jamie set aside to age, did. And they have them and can enjoy them.

“I’ve heard ye,” Jamie said dryly. “And ye’ll notice, I suppose, that I’ve made nay move to hinder ye doing so. I take no issue with your opinions; speak as ye find and let the devil listen.” I blinked. He was angry, and was beginning to let it show. “Talk all ye like, Captain. But I’ll not countenance any action that threatens the Ridge.”

He emptied his glass and slammed it on the table with a bang that startled Mr. Voules out of his stupor. “What the hell was that?” He sat up, staring blearily to and fro. “They shootin’ at us with our own guns?” The brief silence was broken by Jamie. “Guns?” he said mildly. “Did ye notice any guns, Ian, when ye packed up the captain’s gear?” “No, Uncle,” Ian said, in exactly the same tone. “No guns.”

Dear M. It was true that Hal had always addressed letters to him merely as “J.” Just as well that Mr. Beasley, Hal’s clerk, did tidy up Hal’s correspondence, or the King might well have found himself addressed curtly as “G.” Or would it be “R,” for “Rex”?

I love these two!