Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [128]
“Mphm.” This line of argument appeared to strike him as unconvincing.
“Oh, all right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Perhaps it was a bit unwise. But he really did seem entirely respectable, and I was in a hurry to get home—I knew you’d be worried.” Still, I was now wishing I had paid a little more attention to Fergus’s frantic mumblings and pluckings at my sleeve. At the time, I had been concerned only to reach home as soon as possible.
“You aren’t really going to beat him, are you?” I asked in some alarm. “It wasn’t his fault in the slightest—I insisted on going with Monsieur. Forez. I mean, if anyone deserves beating, it’s me.”
Turning in the direction of the kitchen, Jamie cocked a sardonic eyebrow at me.
“Aye, it is,” he agreed. “Having sworn to refrain from any such actions, though, I may have to settle for Fergus.”
“Jamie! You wouldn’t!” I stopped dead, yanking on his arm. “Jamie! Please!” Then I saw the smile hidden in the corner of his mouth, and sighed in relief.
“No,” he said, letting the smile become visible. “I dinna mean to kill him—or even beat him, for that matter. I may have to go clout him over the ear a time or two, though, if only to save his honor,” he added. “He thinks he’s committed a major crime by not following my orders to guard ye—I can hardly let it pass without some sign of official displeasure.”
He paused outside the baize door to the kitchens to fasten his cuffs and rewind the stock about his throat.
“Am I decent?” he inquired, smoothing back his thick, unruly hair. “Perhaps I should go and fetch my coat—I’m not sure what’s proper for administering rebukes.”
“You look fine,” I said, suppressing a smile. “Very severe.”
“Oh, that’s good,” he said, straightening his shoulders and compressing his lips. “I hope I don’t laugh, that wouldna do at all,” he muttered, pushing open the door to the kitchen stair.
The atmosphere in the kitchen was far from hilarious, though. At our entrance, the customary gabble ceased at once, and there was a hasty drawing up of the staff at one side of the room. Everyone stood stock-still for a moment, then there was a small stir between two kitchenmaids, and Fergus stepped out into the open space before us.
The boy’s face was white and tracked with tears, but he was not weeping now. With considerable dignity, he bowed, first to me and then Jamie, in turn.
“Madame, Monsieur, I am ashamed,” he said, low-voiced but distinct. “I am unworthy to be in your employment, but still I beg that you will not dismiss me.” His high-pitched voice quavered a little at the thought, and I bit my lip. Fergus glanced aside at the ranks of the servants, as though for moral support, and received a nod of encouragement from Fernand the coachman. Drawing a deep breath for courage, he straightened up and addressed Jamie directly.
“I am ready to suffer my punishment now, milord,” he said. As though this had been the signal, one of the footmen stepped out of the rigid crowd, led the boy to the scrubbed plank table, and passing on the other side, took hold of the lad’s hands, pulling him half across the surface of the table and holding him so extended.
“But…” Jamie began, taken aback by the speed of events. He got no further before Magnus, the elderly butler, stepped gravely up and presented him with the leather strop used for sharpening the kitchen knives, laid ceremonially atop the meat platter.
“Er,” Jamie said, looking helplessly at me.
“Um,” I said, and took one step back. Eyes narrowed, he grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.
“No, ye don’t, Sassenach,” he muttered in English. “If I have to do it, you have to watch it!”
Glancing desperately back and forth between his would-be victim and the proffered instrument of execution, he hesitated for a moment longer, then gave up.
“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath in English, grabbing the strop from Magnus. He flexed the broad strap dubiously between his hands; three inches wide and a quarter-inch thick, it was a