The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [313]
Jamie took the cup from her, frowning. He inserted his nose into the cup and took a deep sniff, then stuck a finger into the liquid and put it in his mouth.
“What is it?” she asked, seeing his face change.
“Punch,” he said, but ran the tip of his tongue back and forth over his teeth, as though to cleanse it. “With laudanum, I think.”
“Laudanum! Are you sure?”
“No,” he said frankly. “But there’s something in it beyond dried currants, or I’m a Dutchman.” He held the cup out to her, and she took it, sniffing furiously. She couldn’t make out much beyond but the sweet, burned smell of rum punch. Perhaps there was a sharper tang, something oily and aromatic . . . perhaps not.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, wiping the tip of her nose on the back of her hand. She glanced at the supine maid. “Shall I go look for Mama?”
Jamie squatted beside the maid and inspected her carefully. He lifted a limp hand and felt it, listened to her breathing, then shook his head.
“I canna say whether she’s drugged, or only drunk—but I dinna think she’s dying.”
“What shall we do with her? We can’t leave her lie.”
He looked down at the slave, frowning.
“No, of course not.” He stooped and—quite gently—gathered the woman into his arms. One worn shoe fell off, and Brianna retrieved it from the brick walk.
“D’ye ken where she sleeps?” Jamie asked, gingerly negotiating his stertorous burden round the edge of a cucumber frame.
“She’s a house slave; she must sleep in the attics.”
He nodded, tossing his head to dislodge a strand of red hair that had blown into his mouth.
“Verra well, then, we’ll go round the stables and see can we get up the back stair without bein’ seen. Go across, will ye, lass, and signal me when it’s clear.”
She tucked shoe and cup under her cloak to hide them, then ducked quickly out onto the narrow walk that led past the kitchen garden, branching to cookhouse and necessary. She glanced to and fro, feigning casualness. There were a few people within sight, near the paddock, but that was some distance away—and all of them had their backs to her, engrossed with Mr. Wylie’s black Dutch horses.
As she turned to signal to her father, she caught sight of Mr. Wylie himself, escorting a lady into the stable block. A gleam of gold silk—wait, it was her mother! Claire’s pale face turned momentarily in her direction, but her attention was fixed on something Wylie was saying, and she didn’t notice her daughter on the path.
Bree hesitated, wanting to call to her mother, but couldn’t do so without attracting unwanted attention. Well, at least she knew where Claire was. She could come and fetch her mother to help—once they had Betty safely tucked away.
WITH A FEW CLOSE alarms and near-misses, they managed to get Betty up to the long attic room she shared with the other female house servants. Jamie, panting, dumped her unceremoniously on one of the narrow beds, then wiped his sweating brow on his coat sleeve, and, long nose wrinkled, began fastidiously to dust manure crumbs from the skirts of his coat.
“So, then,” he said, a little grumpily. “She’s safe, aye? If ye tell one of the other slaves she’s taken ill, I suppose no one who matters will find out.”
“Thanks, Da.” She leaned close and kissed his cheek. “You’re a sweet man.”
“Oh, aye,” he said, sounding resigned. “My bones are filled wi’ honey, to be sure.” Still, he didn’t look displeased. “Have ye got that shoe, still?” He took off the maid’s remaining shoe, and placed it neatly beside its fellow beneath the bed, then drew the coarse woolen blanket gently over the woman’s feet, grimy white in their thick stockings.
Brianna checked the maid’s condition; so far as she could tell, everything seemed all right; the woman was still snoring wetly, but in a reassuringly regular manner. As they tiptoed cautiously back