The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [323]
She had been beautiful, was handsome still, and quite accustomed to the admiration of men; sightless or not, I had seen her flirt skillfully with Andrew MacNeill, Ninian Bell Hamilton, Richard Caswell—even with Farquard Campbell. Perhaps she had been surprised, and even mildly discomfited, to provoke no apparent show of physical interest from Duncan.
Now she knew why, though, and drew in a deep breath, shaking her head slowly.
“My God, the poor man,” she said. “To suffer such a thing, and come to terms with it and then, all at once, to have it be dragged up afresh to worry him. Dear Bride, why cannot the past leave us be in what peace we have made with it?” She looked down, blinking, and I was both surprised and touched to see that her eyes were moist.
A large presence loomed up suddenly beyond her, and I glanced up to see Father LeClerc hovering over us, like a sympathetic thundercloud in his black habit.
“Is there trouble?” he said to me, in French. “Monsieur Duncan, he has suffered some injury?”
Jocasta didn’t speak more than “Comment allez-vous?” French, but was clearly able to understand the tone of the question, as well as to pick out Duncan’s name.
“Don’t tell him,” she said to me, with some urgency, putting her hand on my knee.
“No, no,” I assured her. I looked up at the priest, flicking my fingers in indication that there was nothing to worry about.
“Non, non,” I said in turn to him. “C’est rien.” It’s nothing.
He frowned at me, uncertain, then glanced at Jocasta.
“A difficulty of the marriage bed, is it?” he asked bluntly, in French. My face must have betrayed dismay at this, for he gestured discreetly downward, toward the front of his habit. “I heard the word ‘scrotum,’ Madame, and think you do not speak of animals.”
I realized—a good bit too late—that while Father LeClerc spoke no English, he most certainly spoke Latin.
“Merde,” I said under my breath, causing Jocasta, who had glanced up sharply at the word “scrotum” herself, to turn back toward me. I patted her hand reassuringly, trying to make up my mind what to do. Father LeClerc was regarding us with curiosity, but also with great kindness in his soft brown eyes.
“I’m afraid he’s guessed the general shape of things,” I said apologetically to Jocasta. “I think perhaps I had better explain.”
Her upper teeth fastened over her lower lip, but she made no demur, and I explained matters in French, as briefly as I could. The priest’s eyebrows rose, and he clutched automatically for the wooden rosary that hung from his belt.
“Oui, merde, Madame,” he said. “Quelle tragédie.” He crossed himself briefly with the crucifix, then quite unself-consciously wiped the grease from his beard onto his sleeve, and sat down beside Jocasta.
“Ask her, please, Madame, what is her desire in this matter,” he said to me. The tone was polite, but it was an order.
“Her desire?”
“Oui. Does she wish still to be married to Monsieur Duncan, even knowing this? For see you, Madame, by the laws of Holy Mother Church, such an impediment to consummation is a bar to true marriage. I ought not to administer the sacrament of matrimony, knowing this. However—” he hesitated, pursing his lips in thought as he glanced at Jocasta. “However, the purpose of such provision is the intent that marriage shall be a fruitful union, if God so wills. In this case, there is no question of God willing such a thing. So, you see . . .” He raised one shoulder in a Gallic shrug.
I translated this question to Jocasta, who had been squinting toward the priest, as though she could divine his meaning by sheer force of will. Enlightened, her face grew blank, and she sat back a little. Her face had assumed a MacKenzie look; that characteristic calm, still mask that meant a great deal of furious thinking was going on behind