The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [322]
There were not so many kinds of trauma, short of outright castration, that would cause physical impotence. Surgery nowadays being the primitive affair it was, I supposed that it was possible that whatever doctor had attended the original injury—if one did—had in fact simply removed both testicles. If that were the case, though, would Duncan not have said so?
Well, perhaps not. Duncan was an intensely shy and modest man, and even a more extroverted personality might hesitate to confide a misfortune of that extent, even to an intimate friend. Could he have concealed such an injury in the close confines of a prison, though? I drummed my fingers on the inlaid marquetry of the table outside Jocasta’s door, considering.
It was certainly possible for men to go for several years without bathing; I’d seen a few who obviously had. On the other hand, the prisoners at Ardsmuir had been forced to work outdoors, cutting peat and quarrying stone; they would have had regular access to open water, and presumably would at least have washed periodically, if only to keep the itching of vermin at bay. I supposed one could wash without necessarily stripping naked, though.
I suspected that Duncan was still more or less intact. It was much more likely, I thought, that his impotence was psychological in origin; having one’s testes badly bruised or crushed was bound to give a man pause, after all, and an early experiment might easily have convinced Duncan that all was up with him—or rather, down.
I paused before knocking, but not for long. I had had some experience of giving people bad news, after all, and the one thing that experience had taught me was that there was no point in preparation, or worry over what to say. Eloquence didn’t help, and bluntness was no bar to sympathy.
I rapped sharply on the door, and entered at Jocasta’s invitation.
Father LeClerc was present, seated at a small table in the corner, dealing in a workmanlike manner with a large assortment of edibles. Two bottles of wine—one empty—stood on the table as well, and the priest looked up at my entrance with a greasily beaming smile that appeared to go round his face and tie together behind his ears.
“Tally-ho, Madame!” he said cheerfully, and brandished a turkey leg at me in greeting. “Tally-ho, Tally-ho!”
“Bonjour” seemed almost repressive by contrast, so I contented myself with a curtsy and a brief “Cheerio, then!” in reply.
There was clearly no way of dislodging the priest, and nowhere else to take Jocasta, as Phaedre was in the dressing room, making a great to-do with a pair of clothes brushes. Still, given the limits of Father LeClerc’s English, I supposed absolute privacy was not a requirement.
I touched Jocasta’s elbow, therefore, and murmured discreetly that perhaps we might sit down in the window seat, as I had something of importance to discuss with her. She looked surprised, but nodded, and with a bow of excuse toward Father LeClerc—who didn’t notice, being occupied with a stubborn bit of gristle—came to sit down beside me.
“Aye, niece?” she said, having adjusted her skirts over her knees. “What is it, then?”
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “it’s to do with Duncan. You see . . .”
And she did. Her face grew quite blank with astonishment as I began to talk, but I was conscious of a growing sense of something else in her attitude as she listened—almost . . . relief, I thought, surprised.
Her lips pursed in absorption, the blind blue eyes fixed in her usual unsettling way, a little over my right shoulder. There was concern in her manner, but no great distress. Her expression was altering, in fact, changing from startlement to the look of one who suddenly finds an explanation for a previously troubling circumstance—and is both relieved and satisfied to have discovered it.
It occurred to me that she and Duncan had been living under the same roof for more than a year, and had been engaged to be married for months. Duncan’s attitude toward her in public was always respectful—even deferential—and thoughtful,