Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [129]
“All right, then,” he said, glaring ferociously round the room. “Ten strokes, and I don’t wish to hear a fuss about it.” Several of the female servants blanched visibly at this, and clung to each other for support, but there was dead silence in the big room as he raised the strap.
The resultant crack at impact made me jump, and there were small squeaks of alarm from the kitchenmaids, but no sound from Fergus. The small body quivered, and Jamie closed his eyes briefly, then set his lips and proceeded to inflict the remainder of the sentence, strokes evenly spaced. I felt sick, and surreptitiously wiped my damp palms on my skirt. At the same time, I felt an unhinged urge to laugh at the terrible farce of the situation.
Fergus endured everything in total silence, and when Jamie had finished and stepped back, pale and sweating, the small body lay so still that I was afraid for a moment that he had died—of shock, if not from the actual effects of the beating. But then a deep shudder seemed to run over the small frame, and the boy slid backward and raised himself stiffly off the table.
Jamie leaped forward to grasp him by an arm, anxiously smoothing back the sweat-drenched hair from his forehead.
“Are ye all right, man?” he asked. “God, Fergus, tell me you’re all right!”
The boy was white to the lips, and his eyes were the size of saucers, but he smiled at this evidence of goodwill on the part of his employer, buck teeth gleaming in the lamplight.
“Oh yes, milord,” he gasped. “Am I forgiven?”
“Jesus Christ,” Jamie muttered, and clasped the boy tightly against his chest. “Yes, of course ye are, fool.” He held the boy at arm’s length and shook him slightly. “I dinna want to do that ever again, d’ye hear me?”
Fergus nodded, eyes glowing, then broke away and fell to his knees before me.
“Do you forgive me also, Madame?” he asked, folding his hands formally in front of him, and looking trustfully up, like a chipmunk begging for nuts.
I thought I would expire on the spot of mortification, but mustered sufficient self-possession to reach down and raise the boy to his feet.
“There is nothing to forgive,” I told him firmly, my cheeks burning. “You’re a very courageous lad, Fergus. Why…er, why don’t you go and have some supper now?”
At this, the atmosphere of the kitchen relaxed, as though everyone had drawn a massive sigh of relief at once. The other servants pushed forward, babbling concern and congratulations, and Fergus was swept off to a hero’s reception, while Jamie and I beat a precipitous retreat back to our quarters abovestairs.
“Oh, God,” Jamie said, collapsing into his chair as though completely drained. “Sweet bleeding Jesus. Mary, Michael, and Bride. Lord, I need a drink. Don’t ring!” he exclaimed in alarm, though I hadn’t made a move toward the bell rope. “I couldna bear to face one of the servants just now.”
He got up and rummaged in the cupboard. “I think I’ve a bottle in here, though.”
He had indeed, a nice aged Scotch. Removing the cork unceremoniously with his teeth, he lowered the level of the spirit by an inch or so, then handed the bottle to me. I followed his example without hesitation.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, when I had recovered breath enough to speak.
“Yes,” he said, taking the bottle back and taking another gulp. Setting the bottle down, he clutched his head, running his fingers through his hair until it stood on end in wild disarray. He laughed weakly.
“I’ve never felt so foolish in my entire life. God, I felt a clot-heid!”
“So did I,” I said, taking my turn at the bottle. “Even more than you, I imagine. After all, it was all my fault. Jamie, I can’t tell you how sorry I am; I never imagined…”
“Ah, dinna worry yourself.” The tension of the last half-hour released, he squeezed my shoulder affectionately. “You couldna have any idea. Neither did I, for that matter,” he added reflectively. “I suppose he thought I’d dismiss him, and he’d be back in the streets…poor little bugger. No wonder he thought