A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [359]
Her thin brows arched high in question.
“From the pox,” I said baldly. Her mouth fell open.
For all her relative youth, Mrs. Sylvie was a hard customer, and no easy sell. While fear of the pox was a constant factor in the life of a whore, talk of spirochetes cut no ice with her, and my proposition that I inject her staff—there were only three girls, it appeared—with penicillin met with a firm refusal.
Jamie allowed the wrangling to go on until it became clear we had reached a stone wall. Then he came in on a different tack.
“My wife isna proposing such a course only from the goodness of her heart, ken?” he said. By now, we had been invited to sit, in a neat little parlor adorned with gingham curtains, and he leaned forward gingerly, so as not to strain the joints of the delicate chair he was sitting on.
“The son of a friend came to my wife, saying he’d contracted the syphilis from a whore in Hillsboro. She saw the sore; there is no question but that the lad is poxed. He panicked, though, before she was able to treat him, and ran. We have been looking for him ever since—and heard just yesterday that he had been seen here, in your establishment.”
Mrs. Sylvie lost control of her face for an instant. It was back in a moment, but there was no mistaking the look of horror.
“Who?” she said hoarsely. “A Scotch lad? What did he look like?”
Jamie exchanged a brief, quizzical glance with me, and described Manfred McGillivray. By the time he had finished, the young madam’s face was white as a sheet.
“I had him,” she said. “Twice. Oh, Jesus.” She took a couple of deep breaths, though, and rallied.
“He was clean, though! I made him show me—I always do.”
I explained that while the chancre healed, the disease remained in the blood, only to emerge later. After all, had she not known of whores who contracted syphilis, without any exhibition of a previous sore?
“Yes, of course—but they can’t have taken proper care,” she said, jaw set stubbornly. “I always do, and my girls, too. I insist upon it.”
I could see denial setting in. Rather than admit she might be harboring a deadly infection, she would insist it was not possible, and within moments would have talked herself into believing it and would throw us out.
Jamie could see it, too.
“Mrs. Sylvie,” he said, interrupting her flow of justifications. She looked at him, blinking.
“Have ye a deck of cards in the house?”
“What? I—yes, of course.”
“Bring them, then,” he said with a smile. “Gleek, loo, or brag, your choice.”
She gave him a long, hard look, her mouth pressed tight. Then it relaxed a little.
“Honest cards?” she asked, and a small gleam showed in her eye. “And for what stakes?”
“Honest cards,” he assured her. “If I win, my wife injects the lot of ye.”
“And if you lose?”
“A cask of my best whisky.”
She hesitated a moment longer, eyeing him narrowly, estimating the odds. There was still a blob of tar in his hair, and feathers on his coat, but his eyes were deep blue and guileless. She sighed, and put out a hand.
“Done,” she said.
“DID YOU CHEAT?” I asked, grasping his arm to keep from stumbling. It was well after dark by now, and the streets of Cross Creek were not lighted, save by starlight.
“Didna have to,” he said, and yawned hugely. “She may be a good whore, but she’s no hand at cards. She should have chosen loo; that’s mostly luck, while brag takes skill. Easier to cheat at loo, though,” he added, blinking.
“What, exactly, constitutes a good whore?” I asked curiously. I had never considered the question of qualifications anent that profession, but supposed there must be some, beyond possession of the requisite anatomy and a willingness to make it available.
He laughed at that, but scratched his head, considering.
“Well, it helps if she has a genuine liking for men, but doesna take them verra serious. And if she likes to go to bed, that’s as well, too. Ouch.” I had stepped on a rock, and tightening my grip on his arm, had got him on the patch of skin