Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th May 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #inwhichClairemeetsaFrenchturnip
My chief concern was to get some food into Jamie before he met with General Lee, who had a reputation for arrogance and short temper. I didn’t know what it was about red hair, but many years’ experience with Jamie, Brianna, and Jemmy had taught me that while most people became irritable when hungry, a red-headed person with an empty stomach was a walking time-bomb.
I sent Ian and Rollo with Jamie to find the quartermaster, discover what we might have in the way of accommodation, and unload the pack mule, then followed my nose toward the nearest scent of food.
The mess-tent cooks would long since have banked their fires, but I’d been in many army camps and knew how they worked; the kettles would be simmering all night, filled with stew and porridge for the morning—the more so, as the army was in hot pursuit of General Clinton and would rise early. Amazing to think that I had met him socially only a few days before—
I’d been so focused on my quest that I hadn’t seen a man come out of the half-dark, and nearly ran into him. He seized me by the arms and we waltzed a dizzy turn before coming to rest.
“Pardon, madame! I am afraid I have stepped upon your foot!” said a young French voice, very concerned, and I looked straight into the very concerned face of a very young man. He was in shirt-sleeves and breeches, but I could see that his shirt sported deep, lace-trimmed cuffs. An officer, then, in spite of his youth.
“Well, yes, you have,” I said mildly, “but don’t worry about it. I’m not damaged.”
“Je suis tellement désolé, je suis un navet ! “ he exclaimed, striking himself in the forehead.
“Nonsense,” I said in French, laughing. “You aren’t a turnip at all.”