The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [225]
I was pouring water into a kettle of wood ash, to make lye, and it was turning to lye even as I poured. Big clouds of poisonous smoke were coming up from the kettle; it was yellow, the smoke.
Da brought me a big bowl of suet, to mix with the lye, and there were babies’ fingers in it. I don’t remember thinking there was anything strange about this—at the time.
Brianna had been trying to ignore a series of crashing noises from upstairs, which sounded like several persons jumping up and down on a bedstead. These ceased abruptly, succeeded by a piercing scream, which in turn was followed by the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a loud slap, and several more screams of assorted pitches.
She flinched and shut her eyes tight, recoiling as the sounds of conflict escalated. A moment more, and they were thundering down the stairs. With a glance at Jemmy, who had been startled awake, but didn’t seem frightened—my God, he was getting used to it, she thought—she put down the quill and stood up, sighing.
Mr. Bug was there to tend the farm and livestock and repel physical threats; Mr. Wemyss was there to chop firewood, haul water, and generally maintain the fabric of the house. But Mr. Bug was silent, Mr. Wemyss timid; Jamie had left Brianna formally in charge. She was, therefore, the court of appeal, and judge in all conflicts. Herself, if you would.
Herself flung open the study door and glowered at the mob. Mrs. Bug, red in the face—as usual—and brimming with accusation. Mrs. Chisholm, ditto, overflowing with maternal outrage. Little Mrs. Aberfeldy, the color of an eggplant, clutching her two-year-old daughter, Ruth, protectively to her bosom. Tony and Toby Chisholm, both in tears and covered with snot. Toby had a red handprint on the side of his face; little Ruthie’s wispy hair appeared to be oddly shorter on one side than the other. They all began to talk at once.
“. . . Red savages!”
“. . . My baby’s beautiful hair!”
“She started it!”
“. . . Dare to strike my son!”
“We was just playin’ at scalpin’, ma’am . . .”
“. . . EEEEEEEEEEE!”
“. . . and torn a great hole in my feather bed, the wee spawn!”
“Look what she’s done, the wicked auld besom!”
“Look what they’ve done!”
“Look ye, ma’am, it’s only . . .”
“AAAAAAAAAAA!”
Brianna stepped out into the corridor and slammed the door behind her. It was a solid door, and the resultant boom temporarily halted the outcry. On the other side, Jemmy began to cry, but she ignored him for the moment.
She drew a deep breath, prepared to wade into the melee, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t face the thought of the interminable wrangling that would come of dealing with them as a group. Divide and conquer was the only way.
“I am writing,” she declared instead, and looked narrow-eyed from face to face. “Something important.” Mrs. Aberfeldy looked impressed; Mrs. Chisholm affronted; Mrs. Bug astonished.
She nodded coolly to each one in turn.
“I’ll talk to each of you about it later. Aye?”
She opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it very gently on the three pop-eyed faces, then pressed her back against it, closed her eyes, and let out the breath she had been holding.
There was silence outside the door, then a distinct “Hmp!” in Mrs. Chisholm’s voice, and the noise of footsteps going away—one set up the stairs, another toward the kitchen, and a heavier tread into the surgery across the hall. A rush of small footsteps out the front door announced Tony and Toby making their escape.
Jemmy ceased wailing when he saw her, and started sucking his thumb instead.
“I hope Mrs. Chisholm doesn’t know anything about herbs,” she told him, whispering. “I’m sure Grandma keeps poisons in there.” A good thing her mother had taken the box of saws and scalpels with her, at least.
She stood still a moment, listening. No sounds of breaking glass. Perhaps Mrs. Chisholm had merely stepped into the surgery in order to avoid Mrs. Aberfeldy and Mrs. Bug. Brianna sank down in the straight chair by the small table her father used as a desk. Or maybe Mrs. Chisholm was lying in wait,