The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [325]
“A scarificator,” the little man explained to Ulysses, with some pride, displaying his object. “A great improvement over such crudities as lancets and fleams. Got it from Philadelphia!”
The butler bent his head courteously, either in acceptance of the invitation to examine the instrument, or acknowledgment of its distinguished provenance.
“I am sure Mistress Cameron is most obliged for your kind condescension, Dr. Fentiman,” he murmured.
Fentiman. So, this was the medical establishment of Cross Creek. I cleared my throat and Ulysses lifted his head, eyes alert.
“Mistress Fraser,” he said, with a small bow. “Dr. Fentiman has just been—”
“Mistress Fraser?” Doctor Fentiman had swung round, and was eyeing me with the same sort of suspicious interest with which I was viewing him. Evidently he’d been hearing things, too. Manners triumphed, though, and he made me a leg, one hand to the bosom of his satin waistcoat.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, wobbling slightly as he came upright again. I smelled gin on his breath, and saw it in the blossoms of burst blood vessels in his nose and cheeks.
“Enchanted, I’m sure,” I said, giving him my hand to kiss. He looked at first surprised, but then bent over it with a deep flourish. I looked over his powdered head, trying to make out as much as I could in the dim light of the attic.
Betty might as well have been dead for a week, judging from the ashy cast of her skin, but such light as there was in the attic came through thick oiled paper nailed across the tiny gables. Ulysses himself looked gray, like charcoal frosted with ash.
The blood from the slave’s arm had already begun to clot; that was good—though I shuddered to think how many people Fentiman might have used his nasty little implement on since acquiring it. His case was open on the floor beside the bed, and I saw no indication that he thought of cleaning his instruments between usages.
“Your kindness does you great credit, Mrs. Fraser,” the doctor pronounced, straightening up, but keeping hold of my hand—to steady himself, I thought. “There is no need of your troubling yourself, however. Mrs. Cameron is an old and valued acquaintance; I am quite content to attend her slave.” He smiled benignly, blinking in an attempt to bring me into focus.
I could hear the maid’s breathing, deep and stertorous, but quite regular. I itched to get my hands on her pulse. I inhaled deeply, as unobtrusively as possible. Above the pungent scent of Dr. Fentiman’s wig, which had evidently been treated with nettle powder and hyssop against lice, and a strong fog of ancient sweat and tobacco from the doctor’s body, I caught the sharp copper scent of fresh blood, and the older reek of caked, decayed blood from the inside of his case. No, Fentiman didn’t clean his blades.
Beyond that, I could easily smell the alcoholic miasma that Jamie and Brianna had described, but I couldn’t tell how much of it came from Betty, and how much from Fentiman. If there was any hint of laudanum in the mix, I would have to get closer to detect it, and do it fast, before the volatile aromatic oils could completely evanesce.
“How exceedingly kind of you, Doctor,” I said, smiling insincerely. “I’m sure my husband’s aunt is most grateful for your efforts. But surely a gentleman such as yourself—I mean, you must have many more important demands upon your attention. I’m sure that Ulysses and myself can see to the woman’s nursing; you’ll surely be missed by your companions.” Especially those eager to win a few pounds off you at cards, I thought. They’ll want a chance before you sober up!
Rather to my surprise, the doctor did not at once succumb to the flattery of this speech. Releasing my hand, he smiled at me with an insincerity equal to my own.
“Oh, no, not at all, my dear. I assure you, no nursing is required here. It is no more than a simple case of overindulgence, after all. I have administered a strong emetic; as soon as it shall