Work Text:
Ian Murray had an Important Matter to take up with his brother-in-law, Jamie. It was for this reason he’d usurped the desk of his son, Jamie the Younger, and closeted himself in the study.
His eyes wandered over to the open window, distracted by the cloud-flecked sky of a fine spring day. He knew he had to finish his missive. Preferably within the hour. But he kept getting distracted by the bustle of daily life at Lallybroch. It was a working farm, as Ian was well aware. And there were, most likely, a dozens things going on this very minute. But, it didn't make his task any easier. He wanted to be out in the fields, working the earth.
All he had to do, was convey his fears and hopes for his son, Ian the Younger, in the letter. And in the telling of those, hope to persuade Jamie and his wife, Claire, to keep him with them longer.
It was a daunting task. He didn't know if Jamie and Claire had already tired of his son's company. Or if Ian had tired of theirs.
"Mo graidh, yer still at it?" Jenny bustled into the room. She set a cup of cider on the table, within easy reach of his hand. "Shall I close the windows?"
"No need," he answered, waving his hand toward the small peat fire. "It'll smoke dreadfully in here if ye do."
"But then, ye'll write faster and finally be out there," she said pointing toward the window.
"Och, now ye're just fussing to prove a point, Jenny." He grinned at her, enjoying their banter.
She countered by peering at his face. "Ye've got ink on yer face."
Ian turned his face toward her, pale skin flushing in embarrassment. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief then wiped the offending spot. Tilting his head to the side with gentle fingers, she inspected her handiwork.
"There, all gone," she said with satisfaction.
Ian caught at her hand, teasing her by keeping it longer in his. "Ye think, it'll make a difference in getting my letter done?"
"It'll make me happy, that's fer sure," she answered and smiled. "And when ye write Jamie, let the muckle-heided gowk know he's no' longer on level wi' Auld Scratch."
"Aye, if ye leave me be. This letter willna write itself!"
She chuckled, then rubbed his arm soothingly.
"Mind, luncheon is in an hour. Dinna be late this time." With that, she left to let him get on wi' his letter.
Jenny, he thought, melting inside with love. She had brought him back from the brink when he returned from France, lacking a limb, hiding out in the fields. There were times, even now, when he'd wake at night, glad to hear her steady breathing beside him.
She'd chosen him over more suitable suitors, he reminded himself, puffing out his chest. And that was after he had lost his leg. He kent quite well Jenny was his as he was hers. Irrevocably. Passionately--the sight of her could still stir him mightily--even after well nigh on thirty years of marriage.
Was that how Jamie still felt about Claire?
Aye, he thought so.
Of course the last time she was here, there was a stramash between the two Mistress Frasers. Claire had won that round, he thought with fondness. Now, being an Auld One, she had most likely looked into young Ian's heart and found him worthy of her affection. And, he suspected, Jamie had enlisted her help with his son's rescue.
Ian coughed, spitting blood on the rag he always had with him. It was becoming more frequent but so far, none of Jenny's medicines had helped.
"Tcha, and since when have ye been so scared fer yer own mortality?" Ian muttered. "Ye still have a few more years left in ye."
And that brought his wandering thoughts to Simon, Lord Lovat.
Simon had passed by Lallybroch this week, recruiting men for his Highland regiment. That in itself was strange. A Scottish regiment workin' wi' Sassunachs! He couldna believe it at first--not of Simon, who had fought at Culloden--but a chill settled in Ian's wame upon hearing the truth in his words.
Much later, some tenants had complained that Simon had enthralled their sons with stories of a military life. He clenched his pen tightly and rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the anger that had gotten hold of him. He'd bet his best shoon, he'd be losing some young men by the end of summer.
Mmph. It was as if Culloden hadna happened! To take the coin of the English, taking up a sword in the king’s name--why, it was almost too much to bear! The pride of the Scots was all but gone. The spirit of community, nay the very notion of clan, destroyed by the armies of the German usurper.
Suddenly, Ian knew how to start. Seizing both paper and quill, he hunched over the desk and began to write...
"Now, Brother, I have a matter of some concern to put to you, upon which I write separately ..."