The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [275]
37
MAIL CALL
FERGUS UNDERTOOK his bimonthly trip to Cross Creek in mid-February, returning with salt, needles, indigo, a few more miscellaneous necessities, and a bag full of mail. He arrived in mid-afternoon, so anxious to get back to Marsali that he stayed only long enough for a quick mug of beer, leaving Brianna and me to sort through the parcels, gloating over the bounty.
There was a thick stack of newspapers from Wilmington and New Bern; a few from Philadelphia and Boston as well, sent by friends in the north to Jocasta Cameron, and thence forwarded on to us. I flipped through these; the most recent was dated three months prior. No matter; newspapers were as good as novels, in a place where reading material was almost literally scarcer than gold.
Jocasta had also sent two issues of Brigham’s Lady’s Book for Brianna, this being a periodical featuring drawings of fashionable London costumes, and articles of interest to women of such tastes.
“How to Clean Gold Lace,” Brianna read, arching one eyebrow as she opened one of these at random. “That’s something everybody ought to know how to do, for sure.”
“Look in the back,” I advised her. “That’s where they publish the articles about how to avoid catching gonorrhea and what to do about your husband’s piles.”
The other brow went up, making her look just like Jamie, presented with some highly questionable proposition.
“If my husband gave me gonorrhea, I think he could just worry about his own piles.” She turned several pages, and the eyebrows arched higher. “A Spur to Venus. This being a List of infallible Remedys for Fatigue of the Male Member.”
I peered over her arm, my own eyebrows rising.
“Goodness. A Dozen of Oysters, soaked overnight in a Mixture of Wine and Milk, to be baked in a Tart with Crushed Almonds and Lobstermeat, and served with Spiced Peppers. I don’t know what it would do for the male member, but it would probably give the gentleman attached to it violent indigestion. Of course, we haven’t got any oysters here anyway.”
“No loss,” she assured me, frowning at the page in concentration. “Oysters remind me of big plugs of snot.”
“That’s only the raw ones; they’re more or less edible when cooked. Speaking of snot, though—where’s Jemmy?”
“Asleep, or at least I hope so.” She cast a suspicious eye toward the ceiling, but no untoward noises manifested themselves, and she returned to the page.
“Here’s one we could do. The Testicles of a Male Animal—like you’d get them from a female animal—taken with six large Mushrooms and boyled in Sour Ale until tender, then both Testicles and Mushrooms to be sliced thin, well-pepper’d and seasoned with Salt, then sprinkl’d with Vinegar and brown’d before the Fire until crusty. Da hasn’t gotten around to castrating Gideon yet, has he?”
“No. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you the objects in question, if you want to try.”
She went very pink in the face, and cleared her throat with a noise that reminded me even more of her father. “I—um—don’t think we need that just yet.”
I laughed and left her to her fascinated perusal, turning back to the mail.
There was a wrapped object addressed to Jamie that I knew must be a book, sent from a bookseller in Philadelphia, but with Lord John Grey’s seal affixed—a daub of blue wax whimsically marked with a smiling half-moon and a single star. Half our library came from John Grey, who insisted that he sent us books primarily for his own satisfaction, as he knew no one in the Colonies other than Jamie who was capable of carrying on a decent discussion of literature.
There were several letters addressed to Jamie, too; I looked these over carefully, in hopes of seeing his sister’s characteristic spiky script, but no such luck. There was a letter from Ian, who wrote faithfully once a month, but nothing from Jenny; there had been no word from her in the past six months;