Ian took a deep breath, his long, homely face hardening slightly. “Have ye, then?” The thin layer of pleasantry spread over the occasion vanished suddenly, like morning dew.
I could feel Jamie beside me, tensing slightly as he prepared to defend his nephew as best he might.
“He’s a good lad, Ian,” he said.
“Is he, so?” It was Jenny who answered, her fine black brows drawn down in a frown. “Ye couldna tell, the way he acts at home. But perhaps he’s different wi’ you, Jamie.” There was a strong note of accusation in her words, and I felt Jamie tense at my side.
“It’s kind of ye to speak up for the lad, Jamie,” Ian put in, with a cool nod in his brother-in-law’s direction. “But I think we’d best hear from Young Ian himself, if ye please. Will he be upstairs?”
A muscle near Jamie’s mouth twitched, but he answered noncommittally. “In the scullery, I expect; he wanted to tidy himself a bit before seein’ ye.” His right hand slid down and pressed against my leg in warning. He hadn’t mentioned meeting Janet, and I understood; she had been sent away with her siblings, so that Jenny and Ian could deal with the matters of my appearance and their prodigal son in some privacy, but had crept back unbeknownst to her parents, wanting either to catch a glimpse of her notorious aunt Claire, or to offer succor to her brother.
I lowered my eyelids, indicating that I understood. No point in mentioning the girl’s presence, in a situation already so fraught with tension.
The sound of feet and the regular thump of Ian’s wooden leg sounded in the uncarpeted passage. Ian had left the room in the direction of the scullery; now he returned, grimly ushering Young Ian before him.
The prodigal was as presentable as soap, water, and razor could make him. His bony jaws were reddened with scraping and the hair on his neck was clotted in wet spikes, most of the dust beaten from his coat, and the round neck of his shirt neatly buttoned to the collarbone. There was little to be done about the singed half of his head, but the other side was neatly combed. He had no stock, and there was a large rip in the leg of his breeks, but all things considered, he looked as well as someone could who expects momentarily to be shot.
“Mam,” he said, ducking his head awkwardly in his mother’s direction.
“Ian,” she said softly, and he looked up at her, clearly startled at the gentleness of her tone. A slight smile curved her lips as she saw his face. “I’m glad you’re safe home,
The boy’s face cleared abruptly, as though he had just heard the reprieve read to the firing squad. Then he caught a glimpse of his father’s face, and stiffened. He swallowed hard, and bent his head again, staring hard at the floorboards.
“Mmphm,” Ian said. He sounded sternly Scotch; much more like the Reverend Campbell than the easygoing man I had known before. “Now then, I want to hear what ye’ve got to say for yourself, laddie.”
“Oh. Well…I…” Young Ian trailed off miserably, then cleared his throat and had another try. “Well…nothing, really, Father,” he murmured.
“Look at me!” Ian said sharply. His son reluctantly raised his head and looked at his father, but his gaze kept flicking away, as though afraid to rest very long on the stern countenance before him.
“D’ye ken what ye did to your mother?” Ian demanded. “Disappeared and left her thinkin’ ye dead or hurt? Gone off without a word, and not a smell of ye for three days, until Joe Fraser brought down the letter ye left? Can ye even think what those three days were like for her?”
Either Ian’s expression or his words seemed to have a strong effect on his errant offspring; Young Ian bowed his head again, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Aye, well, I thought Joe would bring the letter sooner,” he muttered.
“Aye, that letter!” Ian’s face was growing more flushed as he talked.
“‘Gone to Edinburgh,’ it said, cool as dammit.” He slapped a hand flat on the table, with a smack that made everyone jump. “Gone to Edinburgh! Not a ‘by your leave,’ not an ‘I’ll send word,’ not a thing but ‘Dear Mother, I have gone to Edinburgh. Ian’!”
Young Ian’s head snapped up, eyes bright with anger.
“That’s not true! I said ‘Don’t worry for me,’ and I said ‘
She had been still as a stone since her husband began to talk, her face smooth and blank. Now her eyes softened, and the hint of a curve touched her wide, full mouth again.
“Ye did, Ian,” she said softly. “It was kind to say—but I did worry, aye?”
His eyes fell, and I could see the oversized Adam’s apple bobble in his lean throat as he swallowed.
“I’m sorry, Mam,” he said, so low I could scarcely hear him. “I—I didna mean…” his words trailed off, ending in a small shrug.
Jenny made an impulsive movement, as though to extend a hand to him, but Ian caught her eye, and she let the hand fall to her lap.
“The thing is,” Ian said, speaking slowly and precisely, “it’s no the first time, is it, Ian?”
