The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [312]
“It’s a fine day out, lass,” she said. “Why not take your cloak and have a bit of air and company?”
She was right; the distant river gleamed silver through a lacework of green branches, and the air inside, so cozy a few moments ago, seemed now suddenly stale and frowsty.
“I think I will.” Brianna glanced toward the makeshift cradle. “Shall I call Phaedre to watch the baby?”
Jocasta waved a hand at her, shooing.
“Och, away wi’ ye. I’ll mind the bairnie. I dinna mean to go down yet a while.”
“Thanks, Auntie.” She kissed the old woman’s cheek, and turned to go—then, with a glance at her aunt, took a step back toward the hearth, and unobtrusively slid the cradle a little farther from the fire.
THE AIR OUTSIDE was fresh, and smelled of new grass and barbecue smoke. It made her want to skip down the brick paths, blood humming in her veins. She could hear the strains of music from the house, and the sound of Roger’s voice. A quick turn in the fresh air, and then she’d go in; perhaps Roger would be ready for a break by then, and they could—
“Brianna!” She heard her name, hissed from behind the wall of the kitchen garden, and turned, startled, to find her father’s head poking cautiously round the corner, like a ruddy snail. He jerked his chin at her and disappeared.
She cast a quick look over her shoulder to be sure no one was watching, and hastily whisked round the wall into the shelter of a sprouting carrot bed, to find her father crouched over the recumbent body of one of the black maids, who was sprawled atop a pile of aging manure with her cap over her face.
“What on earth—” Brianna began. Then she caught a whiff of alcohol, pungent among the garden scents of carrot tops and sun-ripened manure. “Oh.” She squatted next to her father, skirts ballooning over the brick path.
“It was my fault,” he explained. “Or some of it, at least. I left a cup under the willows, still half-full.” He nodded toward the brick path, where one of Jocasta’s punch cups lay on its side, a sticky drop of liquid still clinging to its rim. “She must have found it.”
Brianna leaned over and sniffed at the edge of the maid’s rumpled cap, now fluttering with heavy snores. Rum punch was the prevailing odor, but she also detected the richly sour scent of ale and the smooth tang of brandy. Evidently the slave had been thriftily disposing of any dregs left in the cups she collected for washing.
She lifted the ruffled edge of the cap with a cautious finger. It was Betty, one of the older maids, her face slack-lipped and drop-jawed in alcoholic stupor.
“Aye, it wasna the first half-cup she’d had,” Jamie said, seeing her. “She must have been reeling. I canna think how she walked so far from the house, in such condition.”
Brianna glanced back, frowning. The brick-walled kitchen garden was near to the cookhouse, but a good three hundred yards from the main house, and separated from it by a rhododendron hedge, and several flower beds.
“Not just how,” Brianna said, and tapped a finger against her lip in puzzlement. “Why?”
“What?” He had been frowning at the maid, but glanced up at her tone. She rose, and tilted her head at the snoring woman.
“Why did she walk out here? It looks like she’s been tippling all day—she can’t have been dashing out here with every cup; somebody would have noticed. And why bother? It’s not like it would be hard to do without being noticed. If I were drinking leftovers, I’d just stay there under the willows and gulp it.”
Her father gave her a startled look, replaced at once with one of wry amusement.
“Would ye, then? Aye, that’s a thought. But perhaps there was enough in the cup that she thought to enjoy it in peace.”
“Maybe so. But there are surely hiding places nearer the river than this.” She reached down and scooped up the empty cup. “What was it you were drinking, rum punch?”
“No, brandy.”
“Then it wasn’t yours that pushed her over the edge.” She held out the cup, tilting it so he could see the dark dregs at the bottom. Jocasta’s rum punch was made not only with the usual rum, sugar, and butter but also