The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [324]
I was slightly disturbed, and not only on Duncan’s behalf. It hadn’t occurred to me that this revelation could prevent the wedding. Jamie wanted his aunt protected, and Duncan provided for. The marriage had seemed the perfect answer; he would be perturbed if things should come unstuck at this late date.
After only a moment, though, Jocasta stirred, letting out her breath in a deep sigh.
“Well, thank Christ I’d the luck to get a Jesuit,” she said dryly. “One of them could argue the Pope out of his drawers, let alone deal wi’ a small matter of reading the Lord’s mind. Aye, tell him I do desire to be married, still.”
I conveyed this to Father LeClerc, who frowned slightly, examining Jocasta with great attention. Unaware of this scrutiny, she raised one brow, waiting for his reply.
He cleared his throat, and spoke, his eyes still on her, though he was speaking to me.
“Tell her this, Madame, if you please. While it is true that procreation is the basis of this law of the Church, that is not the only matter to consider. For marriage—true marriage of a man and woman—this . . . union of the flesh, it is important of itself. The language of the rite—the two shall become one flesh, it says, and there is reason for that. Much happens between two people who share a bed, and joy in each other. That is not all a marriage is, but it is something, truly.”
He spoke with great seriousness, and I must have looked surprised, for he smiled slightly, now looking directly at me.
“I have not always been a priest, Madame,” he said. “I was married once. I know what that is, as I know what it is to put aside forever that . . . fleshly . . . part of life.” The wooden beads of his rosary clicked softly together as he shifted.
I nodded, took a deep breath, and translated this directly as he had said it. Jocasta listened, but took no time for thought this time; her mind was made up.
“Tell him I thank him for his advice,” she said, with only the slightest edge in her voice. “I too have been married before—more than once. And with his help, I shall be married once again. Today.”
I translated, but he had already taken her meaning from her upright posture and the tone of her voice. He sat for a moment, rubbing his beads between his fingers, then nodded.
“Oui, Madame,” he said. He reached over and squeezed her hand in gentle encouragement. “Tally-ho, Madame!”
45
IF IT QUACKS . . .
WELL, THAT WAS ONE DOWN, I thought, mounting the stairs to the attic. Next on the agenda of pressing affairs, the slave Betty. Had she really been drugged? It had been more than two hours since Jamie had discovered her in the kitchen garden, but I thought I might still be able to discern symptoms, if she had been as badly affected as he had described her. I heard the muffled chime of the grandfather clock far below. One, two, three. An hour left before the wedding—though it could easily be postponed a bit, if Betty required more attention than I expected.
Given the undesirable position of Catholics in the colony, Jocasta would not offend her guests—mostly Protestants of one stripe or another—by obliging them to witness the Popish ceremony itself. The marriage would be performed discreetly, in her boudoir, and then the newlywed couple would descend the stairs arm-in-arm, to celebrate with their friends, all of whom could then diplomatically pretend that Father LeClerc was merely an eccentrically dressed wedding guest.
As I neared the attic, I was surprised to hear a murmur of voices above. The door to the female slaves’ dormitory stood ajar; I pushed it open, to discover Ulysses standing at the head of one narrow bed, arms folded, looking like an avenging angel carved in ebony. Obviously, he considered this unfortunate occurrence to be a grave dereliction of duty on Betty’s part. A small, dapper man in a frock coat and a large wig stooped by her side, some small object in his hand.
Before I could speak, he pressed this against the maid’s limp arm. There was a small, sharp click! and he removed the object, leaving a rectangle of welling blood, a rich dark