The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [301]
Innes shook his head. He swallowed, and grimaced, as though something hard was stuck in his throat. He drew air through his nose then, and set his shoulders, steeling himself to something.
“No, Mac Dubh, it’s yourself I am needing. A bit of counsel, if ye might be so kind . . .”
“Aye, Duncan, surely.” More curious than alarmed now, he let go of Duncan’s arm. “What is it, man?”
“About—about the wedding night,” Duncan blurted. “I—that is, I have—” He broke off abruptly, seeing someone turning into the path before them, heading for the necessary.
“This way.” Jamie turned toward the kitchen gardens, which were safely enclosed in sheltering brick walls. Wedding night? he thought, both reassured and curious. Duncan had not been married before, he knew, and when they were in Ardsmuir together, Duncan had never spoken of women as some men did. He had thought it only a modest constraint at the time, but perhaps . . . but no, Duncan was well past fifty; surely the opportunity had occurred.
That left buggery or the clap, he thought, and he’d swear Duncan had no taste for boys. A bit awkward, to be sure, but he had full faith that Claire could deal with it. He did hope it was only drip, and not the French disease, though; that was a cruel plague.
“Here, a charaid,” he said, drawing Duncan after him into the shelter of the onion beds. “We’ll be quite private here. Now, then, what’s your trouble?”
40
DUNCAN’S SECRET
FATHER LECLERC SPOKE NO ENGLISH, with the exception of a jolly “Tally-ho!” which he used alternately as a greeting, an interjection of amazement, and an exclamation of approbation. Jocasta was still at her toilette, so I introduced the priest to Ulysses, then escorted him to the main parlor, saw him provided with suitable refreshment, and sat him down to make conversation with the Sherstons, who were Protestant and rather bug-eyed at meeting a Jesuit, but so eager to show off their French that they were willing to overlook Father LeClerc’s unfortunate profession.
Mentally wiping my brow after this bit of delicate social rapprochement, I made my excuses and went out to the terrace, to see whether Jamie had succeeded in retrieving Duncan. Neither man was in sight, but I met Brianna, coming up from the lawn with Jemmy.
“Hallo, darling, how are you?” I reached for Jemmy, who seemed restless, squirming and smacking his lips like someone sitting down to a six-course meal after a trek through the Sahara. “Hungry, are we?”
“Hak!” he said, then feeling this perhaps an insufficient explanation, repeated the syllable several times, with increasing volume, bouncing up and down by way of emphasis.
“He’s hungry; I’m about to explode,” Brianna said, lowering her voice and plucking gingerly at her bosom. “I’m just going to take him upstairs and feed him. Auntie Jocasta said we could use her room.”
“Oh? That’s good. Jocasta’s just gone up herself—to rest a bit and change, she said. The wedding’s set for four o’clock, now the priest is here.” I had just heard the case clock in the hall chime noon; I did hope Jamie had got Duncan safely in hand. Perhaps he should be shut up somewhere, to prevent his wandering away again.
Bree reached to take Jemmy back, sticking a prophylactic knuckle in his mouth to muffle his remarks.
“Do you know the Sherstons?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied warily. “Why, what have they done?”
She raised one eyebrow at me.
“They’ve asked me to paint a portrait of Mrs. Sherston. A commission, I mean. Evidently Auntie Jocasta sang my praises to them, and showed them some of the things I did when I stayed here last spring, and now they want a picture.”
“Really? Oh, darling, that’s marvelous!”
“Well, it will be if they have any money,” she said practically. “What do you think?”
It was a good question; fine clothes and appointments didn’t always reflect actual worth, and I didn’t know much about the Sherstons’ circumstances;