The Outlander Read Online Free PDF

blacksash under her clothes, and into this she dropped the coins,
     adding theft to her list of crimes.
    She rushed to the threshold but stopped and went no further, for there on
     the gravel drive was the coach, and next to the horses was Jeffrey. Crows high up in the
     trees made craggy calls. If not for this man standing in the way of her flight, those
     crows would have seen another black thing moving into the trees.
    Jeffrey stood with his back to her, idly polishing some brass harness
     ornament, and he spoke to the mare, a poor-looking blue roan, as gently and reasonably
     as if it were a woman he loved. His hand swept in pacifying strokes over the
     mare’s shoulder, and traces lay loose upon its speckled grey hide. The
     widow’s heart pounded. She felt a braid of intention unravelling within her.
     Ghostly plans of flight, so recently formed, unformed themselves. A wandering puff of
     cooking smells came to her, and her stomach answered with a terrible pang. She could
     hear women’s voices somewhere in the unknown house. Were they coming back to get
     her? Surely they would not leave her alone for long. Someone heavy-footed was coming
     down the hall.
    Still, the widow was unable to take her eyes from the brightness of the
     day, from freedom. Someone called out, “Mrs. Tower!” At that sound, both
     horse and man looked around to where she stood in half darkness, their eyes moving like
     twin shotgun barrels. The widow let her knees go out from under her and fell unresisting
     to the floor.
    SHE HAD BEEN carried up the stairs by Jeffrey, the women
     behind him shouting orders as he went. She had not fainted,nor was
     she unconscious: twice he knocked her ankles on door frames and twice she tucked her
     feet in. The women sat her on the bed and shooed the man out before setting about a
     feminine reclamation of this wreck. They stripped the outlandish funeral costume from
     her body. Among its folds they discovered a pocket containing the widow’s small
     Bible, very expensive and of fine paper, which Zenta thumped onto the bedside table
     without comment. The old woman flipped a few translucent pages and stopped. She stared
     at the minute marginalia therein — inscrutable symbols and signs drawn by an
     inexpert hand.
    â€œHow queer,” she murmured and put it aside.
    The widow sipped some clear broth from a double-handled soup bowl, and
     then they made her eat a little buttered toast off a napkin. As soon as the widow lifted
     the slice of toast, Zenta retrieved the napkin, inspected it for butter stains, then
     popped it in the pocket of her apron. The widow recognized the motive. Linen napkins
     might go a month without washing if you were careful. They were laid across your lap
     only to catch disastrous spills on skirts and pants, which were far worse trouble to
     clean. Seeing Zenta’s hard hands, the widow had a sudden vision of yellowed
     squares of cloth laid out upon the grass to bleach in the sun.
    Finally, she was taken to a bath and washed by Zenta, who scrubbed her as
     if she were a child, lifting limbs and pulling hair and swivelling her about for a
     better grip as the widow’s buttocks squalled against the glazed metal tub. Water
     sloshed and a wooden brush bobbed upon the waves. She could not remember the last time
     someone had washed her. And Zenta was strong. It caused in the widow a fleeting sense of
     the physical submissions of her own childhood, the helplessnessof
     it. Then later, the sudden onslaught of her husband’s hands and face and body. The
     way he might seize her in the midst of his urgency and roll her over to get at her from
     behind, like she were a doll or some other invulnerable thing.
    â€œThat weren’t a real spell you had. I know that much.”
     Zenta scrubbed at her shoulder blades, the back of her neck. “And you’re not
     the first one she’s brought home.”
    â€œThe first what?” the widow