Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [134]
Phaedre had helped me to find Pollyanne not because she trusted or liked me—but because I was the master’s wife. Pollyanne must be found and hidden. And Jamie, she thought, would of course find Pollyanne and hide her—she was his property; or Jocasta’s, which in Phaedre’s eyes would amount to the same thing.
At last, the stranger lay clean, on the worn linen sheet I had brought for a shroud. Phaedre had combed her hair and braided it; I took up the big stone jar of herbs. I had brought them as much from habit as from reason, but now was glad of them; not so much for aid against the progress of decomposition, but as the sole—and necessary—touch of ceremony.
It was difficult to reconcile this clumsy, reeking lump of clay with the small, cold hand that had grasped mine; with the anguished whisper that had breathed “Tell …” in the smothering dark. And yet there was the memory of her, of the last of her living blood spilling hot in my hand, more vivid in my mind than this sight of her empty flesh, naked in the hands of strangers.
There was no minister nearer than Halifax; she would be buried without rites—and yet, what need had she of rites? Funeral rituals are for the comfort of the bereaved. It was unlikely that she had left anyone behind to grieve, I thought; for if she had had anyone so close to her—family, husband, or even lover—I thought she would not now be dead.
I had not known her, would not miss her—but I grieved her; her and her child. And so for myself, rather than for her, I knelt by her body and scattered herbs: fragrant and bitter, leaves of rue and hyssop flowers, rosemary, thyme and lavender. A bouquet from the living to the dead—small token of remembrance.
Phaedre watched in silence, kneeling. Then she reached out and with gentle fingers, laid the shroud across the girl’s dead face. Jamie had come to watch. Without a word, he stooped and picked her up, and bore her to the wagon.
He didn’t speak until I had climbed up and settled myself on the seat beside him. He snapped the reins on the horses’ backs, and clicked his tongue.
“Let us go and find the Sergeant,” he said.
There were, of course, a few things to be attended to first. We returned to River Run to leave Phaedre, and Jamie disappeared to find Duncan and change his stained clothing, while I went to check on my patient and to acquaint Jocasta with the morning’s events.
I needn’t have troubled on either account; Farquard Campbell was sitting in the morning room sipping tea with Jocasta. John Myers, his loins swathed in a Cameron plaid, was lounging at full length upon the green velvet chaise, cheerfully munching scones. Judging from the unaccustomed cleanliness of the bare legs and feet extending from the tartan, someone had taken advantage of his temporary state of unconsciousness the night before to administer a bath.
“My dear.” Jocasta’s head turned at my step, and she smiled, though I saw the twin lines of concern etched between her brows. “Sit you down, child, and take some nourishment; ye will have had no rest last night—and a dreadful morning, it seems.”
I might ordinarily have found it either amusing or insulting to be called “child;” under the circumstances, it was oddly comforting. I sank gratefully into an armchair, and let Ulysses pour me a cup of tea, wondering meanwhile just how much Farquard had told Jocasta—and how much he knew.
“How are you this morning?” I asked my patient. He appeared to be in amazingly good condition, considering his alcoholic intake of the night before. His color was good, and so was his appetite, judging from the quantity of crumbs on the plate by his side.
He nodded cordially at me, jaws champing, and swallowed with some effort.
“Astounding fine, ma’am, I thank ye kindly. A mite sore round the privates”—he tenderly patted the area in question—“but a sweeter job of stitchin’ I’ve not been privileged to see. Mr. Ulysses was kind enough to fetch me a lookin’ glass,” he explained. He shook his head in some awe. “Never seen my own behind before; as much hair as I got back there, ye’d think my