Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [119]
“He’s Jared’s business rival, you said.”
“Oh, aye. But the Comte’s no interest in German wines, and I canna see him going to the trouble of killing me, only to ruin Jared’s new enterprise by bringing him back to Paris. That seems a trifle extreme,” he said dryly, “even for a man wi’ the Comte’s temper.”
“Well, do you think…” The idea made me mildly ill, and I swallowed twice before going on. “Do you think it might have been…revenge? For the Patagonia being burned?”
Jamie shook his head, baffled.
“I suppose it could be, but it seems a long time to wait. And why me, come to that?” he added. “It’s you annoyed him, Sassenach. Why not kill you, if that’s what he meant?”
The sick feeling got slightly worse.
“Do you have to be so bloody logical?” I said.
He saw the look on my face, and smiled suddenly, putting an arm around me for comfort.
“Nay, mo duinne. The Comte’s a quick temper, but I canna see him going to the trouble and expense of killing either of us, only for revenge. If it might get him his ship back, then yes,” he added, “but as it is, I expect he’d only think the price of three hired assassins throwing good money after bad.”
He patted my shoulder and stood up.
“Nay, I expect it was only a try at robbery, after all. Dinna trouble yourself about it. I’ll take Murtagh with me to the docks from now on, to be safe.”
He stretched himself, and brushed the last of the crumbling dirt from his kilt. “Am I decent to go in to supper?” he asked, looking critically down his chest. “It must be nearly ready by now.”
“What’s ready?”
He opened the door, and a rich, spicy scent wafted up at once from the dining room below.
“Why, the sausage, of course,” he said, with a grin over one shoulder. “Ye dinna think I’d let it go to waste?”
13
DECEPTIONS
Barberry leaves, three handfuls in a decoction, steeped overnight, poured over half a handful of black hellebore.” I laid the list of…ingredients down on the inlaid table as though it were slightly slimy to the touch. “I got it from Madame Rouleaux. She’s the best of the angel-makers, but even she says it’s dangerous. Louise, are you sure you want to do this?”
Her round pink face was blotched, and the plump lower lip had a tendency to quiver.
“What choice do I have?” She picked up the recipe for the abortifacient and gazed at it in repulsed fascination.
“Black hellebore,” she said, and shuddered. “The very name of it sounds evil!”
“Well, it’s bloody nasty stuff,” I said bluntly. “It will make you feel as though your insides are coming out. But the baby may come, too. It doesn’t always work.” I remembered Master Raymond’s warning—It is dangerous to wait too long—and wondered how far gone she might be. Surely no more than six weeks or so; she had told me the instant she suspected.
She glanced at me, startled, with red-rimmed eyes.
“You have used it yourself?”
“God, no!” I startled myself with the vehemence of my exclamation, and took a deep breath.
“No. I’ve seen women who have, though—at L’Hôpital des Anges.” The abortionists—the angel-makers—practiced largely in the privacy of homes, their own or their clients’. Their successes were not the ones that came to the hospital. I laid a hand unobtrusively over my own abdomen, as though for protection of its helpless occupant. Louise caught the gesture and hurled herself into the sofa, burying her head in her hands.
“Oh, I wish I were dead!” she moaned. “Why, why couldn’t I be as fortunate as you—to be bearing the child of a husband I loved?” She clutched her own plump stomach with both hands, staring down at it as though expecting the child to peek out between her fingers.
There were any number of answers to that particular question, but I didn’t think she really wanted to hear any of them. I took a deep breath and sat down beside her, patting a heaving damask shoulder.
“Louise,” I said. “Do you want the child?”
She lifted her head and stared at me in astonishment.
“But of course I want it!” she exclaimed. “It’s his—it’s Charles’s! It’s…” Her face crumpled, and she bowed her head once more