A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [552]
The reason for her self-possession was the Governor, who came in midway through the packing, his face drawn with worry. She went at once to him, and put her hands affectionately on his shoulders.
“Poor Jo,” she said softly. “Have you had any supper?”
“No. It doesn’t matter. I’ll have a bite later.” He kissed her briefly on the forehead, his look of worry lightening a little as he looked at her. “You’re quite well now, Betsy? You’re sure of it?” I realized suddenly that he was Irish—Anglo-Irish, at least; he had no hint of an accent, but his unguarded speech held a faint lilt.
“Entirely recovered,” she assured him. She took his hand and pressed it to her bulge, smiling. “See how he kicks?”
He smiled back, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
“I’ll miss you, darling,” she said very softly. “You will take very great care?”
He blinked rapidly, and looked down, swallowing.
“Of course,” he said gruffly. “Dear Betsy. You know I could not bear to part with you, unless—”
“I do know. That’s why I fear so greatly for you. I—” At this point, she looked up, and realized suddenly that I was there. “Mrs. Fraser,” she said in quite a different tone. “Go down to the kitchen, please, and have a tray prepared for the Governor. You may take it to the library.”
I bobbed slightly, and went. Was this the chance I had been waiting for?
The halls and stairway were deserted, lit only by flickering tin sconces—burning fish oil, by the smell. The brick-walled kitchen was, course, in the basement, and the eerie silence in what should ordinarily be a hive of activity made the unlighted kitchen stairway seem like the descent into a dungeon.
There was no light in the kitchen now save the hearth fire, burning low—but it was burning, three servants clustered near it despite the smothering heat. They turned at my footsteps, startled and faceless in silhouette. With steam rising from the cauldron behind them, I had the momentary delusion that I was facing Macbeth’s three witches, met in dreadful prophecy.
“Double, double, toil and trouble,” I said pleasantly, though my heart beat a little faster as I approached them. “Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”
“Toil and trouble, that be right,” said a soft female voice, and laughed. Closer now, I could see that they had appeared faceless in the shadows because they were all black; slaves, likely, and thus unable to flee the house.
Unable also to carry a message for me. Still, it never hurt to be friendly, and I smiled at them.
They smiled shyly back, looking at me with curiosity. I had not seen any of them before—nor they me, though “downstairs” being what it was, I thought it likely they knew who I was.
“Governor be sendin’ his lady away?” asked the one who had laughed, moving to fetch down a tray from a shelf in response to my request for something light.
“Yes,” I said. I realized the value of gossip as currency, and related everything that I decently could, as the three of them moved efficiently about, dark as shadows, their darting hands slicing, spreading, arranging.
Molly, the cook, shook her head, her white cap like a sunset cloud in the fire’s glow.
“Bad times, bad times,” she said, clicking her tongue, and the other two murmured assent. I thought, from their attitude, that they liked the Governor—but then, as slaves, their fate was inextricably linked with his, regardless of their feelings.
It occurred to me, as we chatted, that even if they could not reasonably flee the house altogether, they might at least leave the premises now and again; someone had to do the marketing, and there seemed to be no one else left. In fact, this proved to be the case; Sukie, the one who had laughed, went out to buy fish and fresh vegetables in the mornings, and tactfully approached, was not averse to delivering my notes to the printshop—she said she knew where it was, the place with all the books in the window—for a small consideration.
She tucked