Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [378]
“Well, I dinna drink, lady, for I canna piss, and I’ve little wish to blow up like a pig’s bladder. And I dinna rest, for I rise a dozen times a night to make use of my pot, and damn little use it gets. So what have ye to say to that, Dame Aliset?”
“Father,” murmured Lady Frances, “really, I don’t think you should…”
“Could be an infection of the bladder, but it sounds like prostatitis to me,” I replied. I picked up my wineglass and took a mouthful, savoring it before letting it slide down my throat. I smiled demurely at his lordship across my glass as I set it down.
“Oh, it does?” he said, eyebrows raised high. “And what’s that, pray?”
I pushed back my sleeves and raised my hands, flexing my fingers like a magician about to perform some act of prestidigitation. I held up my left forefinger.
“The prostate gland in males,” I said instructively, “encircles the tube of the urethra—which is the passage that leads from the bladder to the outside.” I clasped two fingers of my right hand in a circle around my left forefinger, in illustration. “When the prostate becomes inflamed or enlarged—and that’s called prostatitis, when it does—it clamps down on the urethra”—I narrowed the circle of my fingers—“cutting off the flow of urine. Very common in older men. Do you see?”
Lady Frances, failing to make any impression on her father with her opinions of proper dinner conversation, was whispering agitatedly to her younger sister, both of them watching me with deeper suspicion than usual.
Lord Lovat watched my little demonstration in fascination.
“Aye, I see,” he said. The slanted cat-eyes narrowed, looking speculatively at my fingers. “What’s to do about it, then, if ye’ve so much learning on the subject?”
I thought, frowning as I searched my memory. I had never actually seen—much less treated—a case of prostatitis, as it wasn’t a condition that much afflicted young soldiers. Still, I had read medical texts where it was described; I remembered the treatment, because it had caused such hilarity among the student nurses, who had pored in fascinated horror over the rather graphic illustrations in the text.
“Well,” I said, “barring surgery, there are really only two things you can do. You can insert a metal rod through the penis and up into the bladder, to force the urethra open”—I jabbed my forefinger through the constricting circle—“or you can massage the prostate itself, to reduce the swelling. Through the rectum,” I added helpfully.
I heard a faint choking noise next to me, and glanced up at Jamie. His eyes were still fixed on his plate, but the tide of crimson was creeping upward from his collar, and the tips of his ears blazed red. He quivered slightly. I looked around the table, to find a phalanx of fascinated gazes fixed on me. The Lady Frances, Aline, and the other women were staring at me with varying expressions, ranging from curiosity to disgust, while the men all wore variations of revolted horror.
The exception to the general reaction was Lord Lovat himself, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully, eyes half-closed.
“Mmphm,” he said. “Hell of a choice, there. A stick up the cock, or a finger up the backside, eh?”
“More like two or three,” I said. “Repeatedly.” I gave him a small, decorous smile.
“Ah.” A similar small smile decorated Lord Lovat’s mouth, and he slowly lifted his gaze, fixing deep blue eyes on mine with an expression of mockery tinged with challenge.
“That sounds…diverting,” he observed mildly. The slanted eyes slid down over my hands, assessing.
“You’ve lovely hands, my dear,” he said. “Prettily kept, and such long white slender fingers, aye?”
Jamie brought both his own hands down on the table with a crash and stood up. He leaned across the table, bringing his face within a foot of his grandfather’s.
“And you’re needing such attentions, Grandsire,” he said. “I’ll see to it myself.” He spread out his hands on the tabletop,