The Fiery Cross (98 page)

“I have not always been a priest, Madame,” he said. “I was married once. I know what that is, as I know what it is to put aside forever that . . . fleshly . . . part of life.” The wooden beads of his rosary clicked softly together as he shifted.

I nodded, took a deep breath, and translated this directly as he had said it. Jocasta listened, but took no time for thought this time; her mind was made up.

“Tell him I thank him for his advice,” she said, with only the slightest edge in her voice. “I too have been married before—more than once. And with his help, I shall be married once again. Today.”

I translated, but he had already taken her meaning from her upright posture and the tone of her voice. He sat for a moment, rubbing his beads between his fingers, then nodded.

“Oui, Madame,”
he said. He reached over and squeezed her hand in gentle encouragement. “Tally-ho, Madame!”

W
ELL, THAT WAS ONE DOWN, I thought, mounting the stairs to the attic. Next on the agenda of pressing affairs, the slave Betty. Had she really been drugged? It had been more than two hours since Jamie had discovered her in the kitchen garden, but I thought I might still be able to discern symptoms, if she had been as badly affected as he had described her. I heard the muffled chime of the grandfather clock far below. One, two, three. An hour left before the wedding—though it could easily be postponed a bit, if Betty required more attention than I expected.

Given the undesirable position of Catholics in the colony, Jocasta would not offend her guests—mostly Protestants of one stripe or another—by obliging them to witness the Popish ceremony itself. The marriage would be performed discreetly, in her boudoir, and then the newlywed couple would descend the stairs arm-in-arm, to celebrate with their friends, all of whom could then diplomatically pretend that Father LeClerc was merely an eccentrically dressed wedding guest.

As I neared the attic, I was surprised to hear a murmur of voices above. The door to the female slaves’ dormitory stood ajar; I pushed it open, to discover Ulysses standing at the head of one narrow bed, arms folded, looking like an avenging angel carved in ebony. Obviously, he considered this unfortunate occurrence to be a grave dereliction of duty on Betty’s part. A small, dapper man in a frock coat and a large wig stooped by her side, some small object in his hand.

Before I could speak, he pressed this against the maid’s limp arm. There was a small, sharp
click!
and he removed the object, leaving a rectangle of welling blood, a rich dark red against the slave’s brown skin. The drops bloomed, merged, and began to trickle down her arm and into a bleeding bowl at her elbow.

“A scarificator,” the little man explained to Ulysses, with some pride, displaying his object. “A great improvement over such crudities as lancets and fleams. Got it from Philadelphia!”

The butler bent his head courteously, either in acceptance of the invitation to examine the instrument, or acknowledgment of its distinguished provenance.

“I am sure Mistress Cameron is most obliged for your kind condescension, Dr. Fentiman,” he murmured.

Fentiman. So, this was the medical establishment of Cross Creek. I cleared my throat and Ulysses lifted his head, eyes alert.

“Mistress Fraser,” he said, with a small bow. “Dr. Fentiman has just been—”

“Mistress Fraser?” Doctor Fentiman had swung round, and was eyeing me with the same sort of suspicious interest with which I was viewing him. Evidently he’d been hearing things, too. Manners triumphed, though, and he made me a leg, one hand to the bosom of his satin waistcoat.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, wobbling slightly as he came upright again. I smelled gin on his breath, and saw it in the blossoms of burst blood vessels in his nose and cheeks.

“Enchanted, I’m sure,” I said, giving him my hand to kiss. He looked at first surprised, but then bent over it with a deep flourish. I looked over his powdered head, trying to make out as much as I could in the dim light of the attic.

Betty might as well have been dead for a week, judging from the ashy cast of her skin, but such light as there was in the attic came through thick oiled paper nailed across the tiny gables. Ulysses himself looked gray, like charcoal frosted with ash.

The blood from the slave’s arm had already begun to clot; that was good—though I shuddered to think how many people Fentiman might have used his nasty little implement on since acquiring it. His case was open on the floor beside the bed, and I saw no indication that he thought of cleaning his instruments between usages.

“Your kindness does you great credit, Mrs. Fraser,” the doctor pronounced, straightening up, but keeping hold of my hand—to steady himself, I thought. “There is no need of your troubling yourself, however. Mrs. Cameron is an old and valued acquaintance; I am quite content to attend her slave.” He smiled benignly, blinking in an attempt to bring me into focus.

I could hear the maid’s breathing, deep and stertorous, but quite regular. I itched to get my hands on her pulse. I inhaled deeply, as unobtrusively as possible. Above the pungent scent of Dr. Fentiman’s wig, which had evidently been treated with nettle powder and hyssop against lice, and a strong fog of ancient sweat and tobacco from the doctor’s body, I caught the sharp copper scent of fresh blood, and the older reek of caked, decayed blood from the inside of his case. No, Fentiman didn’t clean his blades.

Beyond that, I could easily smell the alcoholic miasma that Jamie and Brianna had described, but I couldn’t tell how much of it came from Betty, and how much from Fentiman. If there was any hint of laudanum in the mix, I would have to get closer to detect it, and do it fast, before the volatile aromatic oils could completely evanesce.

“How exceedingly kind of you, Doctor,” I said, smiling insincerely. “I’m sure my husband’s aunt is most grateful for your efforts. But surely a gentleman such as yourself—I mean, you must have many more important demands upon your attention. I’m sure that Ulysses and myself can see to the woman’s nursing; you’ll surely be missed by your companions.” Especially those eager to win a few pounds off you at cards, I thought. They’ll want a chance before you sober up!

Rather to my surprise, the doctor did not at once succumb to the flattery of this speech. Releasing my hand, he smiled at me with an insincerity equal to my own.

“Oh, no, not at all, my dear. I assure you, no nursing is required here. It is no more than a simple case of overindulgence, after all. I have administered a strong emetic; as soon as it shall have its effect, the woman may safely be left. Do return to your pleasures, my dear lady; there is no need for you to risk soiling such a lovely gown, no need at all.”

Before I could remonstrate, there came a heavy gagging noise from the bed, and Doctor Fentiman turned at once, snatching up the chamber pot from beneath the bed.

In spite of his own impairment, he was commendably attentive to the patient. I would myself have hesitated to administer an emetic to a comatose patient, but I had to admit that it wasn’t an unreasonable thing to do in a case of suspected poisoning, even if the poison was something as commonly accepted as alcohol—and if Dr. Fentiman had perhaps detected the same thing Jamie had . . .

The slave had eaten heavily; no surprise, with so much food available for the festivities. That in itself might have saved her life, I thought, slowing the absorption of alcohol—and anything else—into her bloodstream. The vomitus reeked of mingled rum and brandy, but I did think I smelled the ghost of opium as well, faint and sickly sweet, among the other odors.

“What sort of emetic did you use?” I asked, bending over the woman and thumbing open one eye. The iris stared upward, brown and glassy as an agate marble, the pupil shrunk to a pinpoint. Ha, definitely opium.

“Mrs. Fraser!” Dr. Fentiman glared at me in irritation, his wig fallen half askew over one ear. “Do you go, please, and cease interfering! I am greatly occupied, and have no time to indulge your fancies. You, sir—remove her!” He waved a hand at Ulysses and turned back to the bed, shoving his wig into place as he did so.

“Why, you little—” I choked off the intended epithet, seeing Ulysses take an uncertain step toward me. He clearly hesitated to remove me bodily, but it was just as clear that he would obey the Doctor’s orders in preference to mine.

Trembling with fury, I swept around and left the room.

Jamie was waiting for me at the foot of the stair. Seeing my face as I descended, he took my arm at once and led me out into the yard.

“That—that—” Words failed me.

“Officious worm?” he supplied helpfully. “Unsonsie sharg?”

“Yes! Did you hear him?! The gall of him, that jumped-up butcher, that bloody little . . . squirt! No time to indulge my fancies! How dare he?”

Jamie made a guttural noise, indicating sympathetic outrage.

“Shall I go up and knivvle him?” he inquired, hand on his dirk. “I could gut him for ye—or just beat his face in, if ye’d rather.”

Attractive as this prospect sounded, I was forced to decline.

“Well . . . no,” I said, bringing my choler under control with some difficulty. “No, I don’t think you’d better do that.”

The echo of our similar conversation regarding Phillip Wylie struck me. It struck Jamie, too; I saw one corner of his long mouth curl with wry humor.

“Damn,” I said ruefully.

“Aye,” he agreed, reluctantly taking his hand off his dirk. “It doesna look as though I shall be allowed to spill anyone’s blood today, does it?”

“You want to, do you?”

“Verra much,” he said, dryly. “So do you, Sassenach, from the looks of it.”

I couldn’t argue with that; I should have liked nothing better than to disembowel Dr. Fentiman with a blunt spoon. Instead, I rubbed a hand over my face, and took a deep breath, bringing my feelings back into some semblance of order.

“Is he likely to kill the woman?” Jamie asked, jerking his chin back toward the house.

“Not immediately.” Bleeding and purging were highly objectionable and possibly dangerous, but not likely to be instantly fatal. “Oh—you were probably right about the laudanum.”

Jamie nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“Well, then. The important thing is to speak wi’ Betty, once she’s in a condition to make sense. Ye dinna think Fentiman’s the sort to stand watch over a sick slave’s bed?”

Now it was my turn to think, but finally I shook my head.

“No. He
was
doing his best for her,” I admitted reluctantly. “But so far as I could tell, she’s in no great danger. She should be watched, but only in case she should vomit and choke in her sleep, and I doubt he’d hang about to do that, even if he thinks of it.”

“Well, then.” He stood in thought for a moment, the breeze lifting strands of red hair from the crown of his head. “I’ve sent Brianna and her man to poke about and see whether any of the guests is snoring in a corner. I’ll go and do the same for the slaves. Can ye maybe steal up to the attic when Fentiman’s gone, and talk to Betty as soon as she wakes?”

“I imagine so.” I would have gone up in any case, if only to assure myself of Betty’s welfare. “Don’t take too long, though; they’re almost ready for the wedding.”

We stood for a moment, looking at each other.

“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach,” he said softly, and tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. “The doctor’s a wee fool; dinna mind him.”

I touched his arm, thankful for his comfort and wishing to offer him the same solace for bruised feelings.

“I am sorry about Phillip Wylie,” I said. I realized at once that no matter what my intentions, the effect of this reminder had not been soothing. The soft curve of his mouth tightened, and he moved back, his shoulders stiffening.

“Dinna fash yourself about him, either, Sassenach,” he said. His voice was still soft, but there was nothing even slightly reassuring in it. “I shall settle wi’ Mr. Wylie, by and by.”

“But—” I broke off, helpless. Evidently there was nothing I could say or do that would make matters right again. If Jamie felt his honor offended—and he plainly did, regardless of what I said—then Wylie would pay for it, and that was all about it.

“You are the most pigheaded man I have ever met,” I said crossly.

“Thank you,” he said, with a small bow.

“That was not a compliment!”

“Aye, it was.” And with another bow, he turned on his heel and strode off on his errand.