A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [71]
“Mister Roger? I take him, shall I?” said a soft voice. He looked up from an examination of Jem’s hair, which had bits of bread pudding stuck in it, to see Phaedre, Jocasta’s body servant, stooping before him, hands held out to receive the boy.
“I wash him, put him to his bed, sir,” she said, her oval face as soft as her voice as she looked at Jem.
“Oh. Yes, sure. Thanks.” Roger sat up, Jem in his arms, and rose carefully, holding Jem’s considerable weight. “Here—I’ll carry him up for you.”
He followed the slave up the narrow stairs from the kitchen, admiring—in a purely abstract and aesthetic sort of way—the grace of her carriage. How old was she? he wondered. Twenty, twenty-two? Would Jocasta allow her to marry? She must have admirers, surely. But he knew how valuable she was to Jocasta, too—seldom out of her mistress’s presence. Not easy to reconcile that with a home and family of her own.
At the top of the stair, she stopped and turned to take Jem from him; he surrendered his limp burden with reluctance, but also with some relief. It was stifling-hot down below, and his shirt was damp with sweat where Jem had pressed against him.
“Mister Roger?” Phaedre’s voice stopped him, as he was about to take his leave. She was looking at him over Jem’s shoulder, eyes hesitant beneath the white curve of her head scarf.
“Aye?”
The thump of feet coming up the stairs made him move, narrowly avoiding Oscar, charging upstairs with an empty platter under his arm, evidently bound for the summer kitchen, where the fish were being fried. Oscar grinned at Roger as he passed, and blew a kiss toward Phaedre, whose lips tightened at the gesture.
She made a slight motion with her head, and Roger followed her down the hall, away from the bustle of the kitchen. She stopped near the door that led out to the stables, glancing round to be sure they were not overheard.
“I maybe shouldn’t say nothin’, sir—may be as it is nothin’. But I’m thinkin’ I should tell you, anyway.”
He nodded, shoving back the damp hair at his temple. The door stood open, and there was a little breeze here, thank God.
“We was in the town, sir, this morning, at Mr. Benjamin’s warehouse, you know the one? Down by the river.”
He nodded again, and she licked her lips.
“Master Jem, he got restless and went to pokin’ round, whilst the mistress talked with Mr. Benjamin. I followed him, seein’ as he falls into no trouble, and so I was right there when the man come in.”
“Aye? Which man was this?”
She shook her head, dark eyes serious.
“I dunno, sir. Was a big man, tall as you. Light-haired; he wasn’t wearin’ no wig. Was a gentleman, though.” By which, he assumed, she meant the man was well-dressed.
“And?”
“He looks round, sees Mr. Benjamin a-talkin’ with Miss Jo, and he takes a step to the side, like as he don’t want no one takin’ notice he there. But then he sees Mr. Jem, and he get a sharp kind of look on his face.”
She pulled Jem a little closer, recalling.
“I ain’t likin’ that look, sir, tell you truly. I see him start toward Jemmy and I go quick and pick the lad up, same as I got him now. The man look surprised, then like he think something’s funny; he smile at Jem and ax him who his daddy be?”
She gave a quick smile, patting Jem’s back.
“Folk ax him that all the time, sir, downtown, and he speak right up, say his daddy Roger MacKenzie, same as he always do. This man, he laugh and ruffle Jem’s hair—they all do that, sir, he gots such pretty hair. Then he say, ‘Is he, then, my wee maneen, is he indeed?’”
Phaedre was a natural mimic. She caught the Irish lilt of it perfectly, and the sweat turned cold on Roger’s skin.
“And then what happened?” he demanded. “What did he do?” Unconsciously, he glanced over her shoulder through the open door, searching the night outside for danger.
Phaedre hunched her shoulders, shivering slightly.
“He ain’t do nothin’, sir. But he look at Jem real close, and then at me, and he smile, right in my eyes. I ain’t likin’ that smile, sir, not one bit.” She shook her head. “But then I