Tùsaire

Man of Worth

2 January, 1770

River Run, North Carolina

CAOIMHE POV

"So ye say it wi' a bit more of an emphasis on '-us', sort of like 'a-yus', but it really depends on where yer from, I suppose," Caoimhe was explaining to Maevis, who had recently asked her cousin to teach her Gaelic. According to Maevis, she had once been fluent in Gaelic, but after spending years not speaking the language, she lost most of it, and now was the only of the Fraser children who did not speak it fluently.

"Perhaps ye should teach her te say it like a Scot and no' like an Irishman," Archie teased her as he walked past her down the steps of the porch, and Caoimhe rolled her eyes at him. "'Tis agus, not 'a-yus'."

"Everraone says it differently in Barra, ye gabbot," Caoimhe said to him, and he chuckled lightly in response. Archie had been recovering well from being shot in the arm, although because the bullet shattered his radial head and tore a tendon - she couldn't remember the name of it precisely, but it connected to his bicep muscle - he still had to keep his arm in a sling until it healed properly. It had only been about three weeks since the duel, and ever since, all had been quiet in the Fraser house, for once. Jocasta, for the most part, had backed off of the girls concerning marriage, and Archie and Clara had settled happily into their lives as newlyweds, with the exception of a honeymoon - perhaps it would come later. Now that Christmas and Hogmanay had come and gone, however, it was time for Archie to check on the Ridge, and Caoimhe would accompany him. "Ye'll have te keep practicin' while I'm gone. Perhaps ye can wi' Brèagha?" Maevis scoffed lightly.

"She's barely spoken to me since the duel," Maevis told her. "I think she likes that I can't speak Gaelic. It's one thing she has above me."

"I'd say I'm sure that isnae true, but... I imagine it is," said Caoimhe with a sigh, standing up and turning to look at Archie. "Oi! Watch yer arm!"

"Why? Will it do a trick?" Archie asked her as he loaded up bags of flour onto the wagon, and Caoimhe huffed.

"It'll take longer te heal if ye dinnae rest it," she told him.

"I've been restin' it constantly since I was shot. Mama would say I need te start movin' it eventually," Archie told her.

"She didnae let Uncle Jamie do much when he broke his leg," Caoimhe reminded him.

"Aye, his leg. This is an arm, I dinnae need te support my weight on it," said Archie, and then he paused and gave his cousin a look. "Well, usually." She scoffed at him, then took the bag of flour that he had been carrying and put it in the wagon.

"Just dinnae do somethin' foolish, or ye might not have an arm," she said to him. Their attention was drawn by the sound of a horse's hooves approaching, and Caoimhe looked up to see none other than Allan McCullough sitting in the seat beside Mr. Abernathy, and in the wagon was everything Mr. Abernathy owned, including his three daughters.

"Ah, Mr. Abernathy!" said Archie, approaching the wagon as Mr. Abernathy hopped down from the wagon to greet Archie with a handshake. "Are ye ready fer the journey?"

"Aye. 'Tis five days ye said, aye?" Mr. Abernathy asked him.

"A wee bit longer, this time of year, I'm afraid," Archie told him. "We're lookin' at aboot a week." Archie then turned to the three Abernathy girls in the wagon, who were all children. "Have ye bonny wee lassies ever slept beneath the stars?"

"No, sir," said the eldest, who Caoimhe estimated to be around ten or eleven years old.

"Ah, I dinnae believe I've introduced ye te my daughters," said Mr. Abernathy. "My eldest, Maggie, named fer her bonny mother. My middle lass, Bonnie, and my youngest, Alice." Bonnie looked to be around maybe seven or eight, and the youngest, Alice, was perhaps a year or two older than Ginnie. "I did have another. Patricia. She'd hae been sixteen this year. Died of a flux some years ago."