Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [250]
“There was talk of an outbreak of the red measle in Cross Creek,” Lord John remarked, upon my reporting to Jamie the condition of our guest. “Is it true, Mrs. Fraser, that the savage is congenitally less able to withstand infection than are Europeans, while African slaves are yet more hardy than their masters?”
“Depends on the infection,” I said, peering into the cauldron and giving the stew bottle a cautious poke. “The Indians are a lot more resistant to the parasitic diseases—malaria, say—caused by organisms here, and the Africans deal better with things like dengue fever—which came with them from Africa, after all. But the Indians haven’t much resistance to European plagues like smallpox and syphilis, no.”
Lord John looked a bit taken aback, which gave me a small sense of satisfaction; evidently he had only asked out of courtesy—he hadn’t actually expected me to know anything.
“How fascinating,” he said, though, sounding truly interested. “You refer to organisms? Do you then subscribe to Mister Evan Hunter’s theory of miasmatical creatures?”
Now it was my turn to be taken aback.
“Er … not precisely, no,” I said, and changed the subject.
We passed a pleasant enough evening, Jamie and Lord John exchanging anecdotes of hunting and fishing, with remarks on the amazing abundance of the countryside, while I darned stockings.
Willie and Ian had a game of chess, which the latter won, to his evident satisfaction. His Lordship yawned hugely, then catching his father’s minatory eye, made a belated attempt to cover his mouth. He relaxed into a sleepy smile of contentment, brought on by repletion; he and Ian between them had demolished an entire currant cake, following their huge supper.
Jamie saw it, and cocked a brow at Ian, who obligingly rose and towed his Lordship away to share his pallet in the herb shed. Two down, I thought, keeping my eyes resolutely away from the bed—and three to go.
In the event, the delicate problem of bedtime was solved by my retiring, cloaked in modesty—or at least in my nightgown—while Jamie and Lord John took over the chess table, drinking the last of the brandy by firelight.
Lord John was a much better chess player than I—or so I deduced from the fact that the game took them a good hour. Jamie could normally beat me in twenty minutes flat. The play was mostly silent, though with brief spurts of conversation.
At last Lord John made a move, sat back and stretched, as though concluding something.
“I collect you will not see much disturbance in the political way, here in your mountain refuge?” he said casually. He squinted at the board, considering.
“I do envy you, Jamie, removed from such petty difficulties as afflict the merchants and gentry of the lowlands. If your life has its hardships—as cannot help but be the case—you have the not inconsiderable consolation of knowing your struggles to be significant and heroic.”
Jamie snorted briefly.
“Oh, aye. Verra heroic, to be sure. At the moment, my most heroic struggle is like to be with the pig in my pantry.” He nodded toward the board, one eyebrow raised. “Ye really mean to make that move?”
Grey narrowed his eyes at Jamie, then looked down, studying the board with pursed lips.
“Yes, I do,” he answered firmly.
“Damn,” said Jamie, and with a grin, reached out and tipped over his king in resignation.
Grey laughed, and reached for the brandy bottle.
“Damn!” he said in turn, finding it empty. Jamie laughed, and rising, went to the cupboard.
“Try a bit of this,” he said, and I heard the musical glug of liquid into a cup.
Grey lifted the cup to his nose, inhaled and sneezed explosively, scattering droplets over the table.
“It’s not wine, John,” Jamie observed mildly. “Ye’re meant to drink it, aye? not savor the bouquet.”
“So I noticed. Christ, what is it?” Grey sniffed again, more cautiously, and essayed a trial sip. He choked, but swallowed gamely.