The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [28]
Somewhat depleted of the commoner herbs I had brought with me, my stock had been augmented by the good offices of Myers, who had brought me several rare and useful things from the Indian villages to the north, and by judicious trading with Murray MacLeod, an ambitious young apothecary who had made his way inland and set up shop in Cross Creek.
I bit the inside of my cheek, considering young Murray. He harbored the usual sort of nasty notions that passed for medical wisdom nowadays—and was not shy about asserting the superiority of such scientific methods as bleeding and blistering over the old-fashioned herbcraft that such ignorant crones as myself were prone to practice!
Still, he was a Scot, and thus possessed of a strong streak of pragmatism. He had given Jamie’s powerful frame one look and hastily swallowed the more insulting of his opinions. I had six ounces of wormwood and a jar of wild ginger root, and he wanted them. He was also shrewd enough to have observed that many more of the folk on the mountain who ailed with anything came to me than to him—and that most who accepted my cures were improved. If I had secrets, he wanted those, too—and I was more than happy to oblige.
Good, I had plenty of willow bark still left. I hesitated over the small rank of bottles in the upper right tray of the chest. I had several very strong emmenagogues—blue cohosh, ergot, and pennyroyal—but picked instead the gentler tansy and rue, setting a handful into a bowl and pouring boiling water on them to steep. Beyond its effects in easing menstruation, tansy had a reputation for calming nerves—and a more naturally nervous person than Lizzie Wemyss it would be difficult to imagine.
I glanced back at the fire, where Lizzie was shoveling the last of the strawberry preserves into Private Ogilvie, who appeared to be dividing his attention among Lizzie, Jamie, and his slice of toast—the greater proportion going to the toast.
Rue was quite a good anthelmintic, to boot. I didn’t know that Lizzie suffered from worms, but a good many people in the mountains did, and a dose would certainly do her no harm.
I eyed Abel MacLennan covertly, wondering whether to slip a quick slug of hellbrew into his coffee as well—he had the pinched, anemic look of one with intestinal parasites, in spite of his stocky build. Perhaps, though, the look of pale disquiet on his features was due more to his knowledge of thief-takers in the vicinity.
Baby Joan was wailing with hunger again. Marsali sat down, reached under her arisaid to unfasten her bodice, and set the baby to her breast, her lip clenched between her teeth with trepidation. She winced, gasped in pain, then relaxed a little, as the milk began to flow.
Cracked nipples. I frowned and returned to a perusal of the medicine chest. Had I brought any sheep’s-wool ointment? Drat, no. I didn’t want to use bear grease, with Joan suckling; perhaps sunflower oil . . .
“A bit of coffee, my dear?” Mr. MacLennan, who had been watching Marsali with troubled sympathy, extended his fresh cup toward her. “My own wife did say as hot coffee eased the pangs of nursing a wean. Whisky in it’s better”—his mournful jowls lifted a bit—“but all the same . . .”
“Taing.” Marsali took the cup with a grateful smile. “I’m chilled right through this morning.” She sipped the steaming liquid cautiously, and a small flush crept into her cheeks.
“Will you be going back to Drunkard’s Creek tomorrow, Mr. MacLennan?” she asked politely, handing back the empty cup. “Or are ye traveling to New Bern wi’ Mr. Hobson?”
Jamie looked up sharply, breaking off his conversation with Private Ogilvie.
“Hobson is going to New Bern? How d’ye ken that?”
“Mrs. Fowles says so,” Marsali