Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [111]
I felt my own brows rising. “A urinoscopist?” I said unbelievingly. “There actually are such things?”
“Oui, Madame. And he said just what you said, about the poor thin lady. I have never seen a woman who knew about the science of urinoscopy,” Sister Angelique said, staring at me in frank fascination.
“Well, there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Sister,” I said graciously. She nodded seriously, making me feel rather ashamed of my facetiousness.
“That is true, Madame. Will you have a look at the gentleman in the end bed? He has a complaint of the liver, we believe.”
We continued, from one bed to another, making the complete circuit of the enormous hall. We saw examples of diseases I had seen only in textbooks, and every kind of traumatic injury, from head wounds inflicted in drunken brawls to a carter whose chest had been crushed by a rolling wine barrel.
I paused by some beds, asking questions of those patients who seemed able to answer. I could hear Mary breathing through her mouth behind my shoulder, but didn’t check to see whether she was in fact holding her nose.
At the conclusion of the tour, Sister Angelique turned to me with an ironic smile.
“Well, Madame? Do you still desire to serve the Lord by helping his unfortunates?”
I was already rolling up the sleeves of my gown.
“Bring me a basin of hot water, Sister,” I said, “and some soap.”
* * *
“How was it, Sassenach?” Jamie asked.
“Horrible!” I answered, beaming broadly.
He raised one eyebrow, smiling down at me as I lay sprawled on the chaise.
“Oh, enjoyed yourself, did ye?”
“Oh, Jamie, it was so nice to be useful again! I mopped floors and I fed people gruel, and when Sister Angelique wasn’t looking, I managed to change a couple of filthy dressings and lance an abscess.”
“Oh, good,” he said. “Did ye remember to eat, in the midst of all this frivolity?”
“Er, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t,” I said guiltily. “On the other hand, I forgot to be sick, too.” As though reminded of delinquency, the walls of my stomach took a sudden lurch inward. I pressed a fist under my breastbone. “Perhaps I should have a bite.”
“Perhaps ye should,” he agreed, a little grimly, reaching for the bell.
He watched as I obediently downed meat pie and cheese, describing L’Hôpital des Anges and its inmates in enthusiastic detail between bites as I ate.
“It’s very crowded in some of the wards—two or three to a bed, which is awful, but—don’t you want some of this?” I broke off to ask. “It’s very good.”
He eyed the piece of pastry I was holding out to him.
“If ye think ye can keep from telling me about gangrenous toenails long enough for a bite to make it from my gullet to my stomach, then yes.”
Belatedly, I noticed the slight pallor on his cheeks, and the faint pinching of his nostrils. I poured a cup of wine and handed it to him before picking up my own plate again.
“And how was your day, my dear?” I asked demurely.
* * *
L’Hôpital des Anges became a refuge for me. The blunt and unsophisticated directness of nuns and patients was a wonderful refreshment from the continual chattering intrigues of the Court ladies and gentlemen. I was also positive that without the relief of allowing my facial muscles to relax into their normal expressions at the Hôpital, my face would quickly have frozen into an expression of permanent simpering vapidity.
Seeing that I appeared to know what I was doing, and required nothing of them beyond a few bandages and linens, the nuns quickly accepted my presence. And after an initial shock at my accent and title, so did the patients. Social prejudice is a strong force, but no match for simple competence when skill is in urgent demand and short supply.
Mother Hildegarde, busy as she was, took somewhat more time to make her own assessment of me. She never spoke to me at first, beyond a simple “Bonjour, Madame,” in passing, but I often felt the weight of those small, shrewd eyes boring into my back as I stooped over the