Each one had a tiny figure carved into one side, some with lettering above or on the reverse. Each letter ended with the same words "Bouton also sends his regards." Master Raymond did not write, but every so often, a parcel would come addressed to me, unsigned and unmarked, but containing odd things: rare herbs and small, faceted crystals a collection of stones, each the size of Jamie's thumbnail, smooth and disc-shaped. Mother Hildegarde wrote from time to time, brief, informative notes squeezed into a few minutes that could be snatched from her daily schedule. I supposed the birth of his son had not, in fact, escaped his notice. Given the attitude of the times regarding alcoholic intake on the part of gentlemen, I thought Charles's performance must have been fairly spectacular, to occasion such comment. He was rude and overbearing to his most loyal followers, ignored those who might be of help to him, insulted whom he should not, talked wildly, and-reading between the lines-drank to excess. The Earl of Mar wrote soberly and circumspectly, but his general annoyance with Charles was clear. Charles Stuart's letter, arriving a month later, made no mention of the child, but according to Jamie, was even more incoherent than usual, seething with vague plans and grandiosities. Of his father, putative or real, there was no mention. Her letters, rife with exclamations and underlinings, overflowed with besotted descriptions of the angelic Henri. But the letters brought back France, and reading them, I could see the poplar trees along the Rue Tremoulins, or hear the reverberating bong of the cathedral bell that hung above L'Hôpital des Anges. It was a world that sometimes seemed unreal in memory, as though I had never danced among the mirrors of Versailles. No real roads led there, but the post still reached us by messenger, over the crags and the heather-clad slopes, a connection with the world outside. Lallybroch was remote, even for a Highland farm.
The place bustled with life, everyone hurrying through the harvest time and the preparations that must be made for the coming winter. It was an unsettled autumn, with frequent rain, but with fair, bright days that made the blood sing, too. Lallybroch absorbed Jamie at once, as though he had never left, and I found myself pulled effortlessly into the current of farm life as well. 31 MAIL CALL After this inauspicious homecoming, matters rapidly improved.
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