Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
6th Mar 2013 from Twitlonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #thebloodylimit
Hot, disheveled, and still thoroughly out of temper from his enc0unter with Richardson, William made his way back through the crowded streets. One more night in a decent bed, at least. Tomorrow he’d leave Philadelphia with the last few companies of the army, following Clinton north—and leaving the remaining Loyalists to fend for themselves. He was torn between relief and guilt at the thought, but had little energy left to consider them.
He arrived at his billet to find that his orderly had deserted, and had taken with him William’s best coat, two pairs of silk stockings, a half-bottle of brandy, and the seed-pearl-encrusted double miniature of William’s mother Geneva and his other mother, her sister Isobel.
This was so far over the bloody limit of what could be borne that he didn’t even swear; merely sank down on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes and breathed through clenched teeth until the pain in his stomach subsided. It left a raw-edged hollow. He’d had that miniature since he was born, was accustomed to bid it good-night before he slept, though since he’d left home, he did this silently.
He told himself it didn’t matter; he was unlikely to forget what his mothers looked like—there were other paintings, at home at Helwater. He remembered Mama Isobel. And he could see the traces of his real mother in his own face… Involuntarily, he glanced at the shaving-mirror that hung on the wall—the orderly had somehow overlooked that in his flight—and felt the hollow inside him fill with hot tar. He no longer saw the curve of his mother’s mouth, her dark wavy chestnut hair; he saw instead the too-long, knife-edged nose, the slanted eyes and broad cheekbones.
He stared at this blunt evidence of betrayal for an instant, then turned and stamped out.
“Fuck the resemblance!” he said, and slammed the door behind him.