Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [105]
“I wouldn’t mind knowing a few more people,” I admitted. “Not that I don’t find ample occupation here,” I assured Jocasta, “but—”
“But not of a sort that interests you,” she answered, though with enough of a smile to take the sting out of the remark. “Ye’ve no great fondness for needlework, I think.” Her hand went to the big basket of colored wools and plucked out a ball of green, to be attached to the shawl she was knitting.
The balls of wool were carefully arranged each morning by one of the maids, in a spiral spectrum, so that by counting, Jocasta could pick up a ball of the right color.
“Aye, well, not that sort of needlework,” Jamie put in, closing his book and smiling at me. “It’s more the stitching of severed flesh that appeals to Claire. I expect she’ll be getting restless these days, wi’ no more than a cracked head or a case of piles to be dealing with.”
“Ha ha,” I said tartly, but in fact he was quite right. While I was pleased to find that the inhabitants of River Run were on the whole healthy and well nourished, there was not a great deal of scope for a physician. While I certainly wished no ill to anyone, there was no denying that I was getting restless. So was Jamie, but I thought that was a matter better left unremarked for the moment.
“I do hope Marsali’s quite well,” I said, changing the subject. Convinced at last that Jamie would not require his aid for a little while, Fergus had left the day before, bound downriver for Wilmington, thence to take ship for Jamaica. If all went well, he would return in the springtime with Marsali and—God willing—their new child.
“So do I,” said Jamie. “I told Fergus that—”
Jocasta turned her head sharply toward the door.
“What is it, Ulysses?”
Absorbed by the conversation, I hadn’t noticed footsteps in the hallway. Not for the first time, I was struck by the acuteness of Jocasta’s hearing.
“Mr. Farquard Campbell,” the butler said quietly, and stood back against the wall.
It was an indication of Farquard Campbell’s familiarity with the household, I thought, that he should not have waited for Ulysses to return with an invitation for him to enter. He came into the drawing room on the butler’s heels, hat carelessly thrust beneath one arm.
“Jo, Mrs. Fraser,” he said with a quick bow to Jocasta and me, and “Your servant, sir,” to Jamie. Mr. Campbell had been riding, and riding hard; the skirts of his coat were thick with dust, and sweat streamed down his face beneath a wig crammed on askew.
“What is it, Farquard? Has something happened?” Jocasta sat forward on the edge of her chair, her face reflecting his obvious anxiety.
“Yes,” he said abruptly. “An accident at the sawmill. I’ve come to ask Mrs. Fraser—”
“Yes, of course. Let me get my box. Ulysses, will you have someone fetch a horse?” I rose hastily, searching for the slippers I had kicked off. I wasn’t dressed for riding, but from Campbell’s look, there wasn’t time to change. “Is it serious?”
He put out a hand to stop me, as I stooped to pull my slippers on.
“Aye, bad enough. But you needn’t come, Mrs. Fraser. If your husband might fetch along some of your medicines and such, though—”
“Of course I’ll come,” I said.
“No!” He spoke abruptly, and we all stared at him. His eyes sought Jamie’s, and he grimaced, lips tight.
“It’s not a matter for the ladies,” he said. “But I should be most grateful for your company, Mr. Fraser.”
Jocasta was on her feet before I could protest, gripping Campbell’s arm.
“What is it?” she said sharply. “Is it one of my Negroes? Has Byrnes done something?”
She was taller than he by an inch or two; he had to look up to answer her. I could see the lines of strain in his face, and she plainly sensed it as well; her fingers tightened on the gray serge of his coat sleeve.
He glanced at Ulysses, then back at Jocasta. As though he had received a direct order, the butler turned and left the room, soft-footed as ever.
“It is a matter of bloodshed, Jo,” he said to her quietly. “I do not know who, nor how, nor