The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [326]
Before I could remonstrate, there came a heavy gagging noise from the bed, and Doctor Fentiman turned at once, snatching up the chamber pot from beneath the bed.
In spite of his own impairment, he was commendably attentive to the patient. I would myself have hesitated to administer an emetic to a comatose patient, but I had to admit that it wasn’t an unreasonable thing to do in a case of suspected poisoning, even if the poison was something as commonly accepted as alcohol—and if Dr. Fentiman had perhaps detected the same thing Jamie had . . .
The slave had eaten heavily; no surprise, with so much food available for the festivities. That in itself might have saved her life, I thought, slowing the absorption of alcohol—and anything else—into her bloodstream. The vomitus reeked of mingled rum and brandy, but I did think I smelled the ghost of opium as well, faint and sickly sweet, among the other odors.
“What sort of emetic did you use?” I asked, bending over the woman and thumbing open one eye. The iris stared upward, brown and glassy as an agate marble, the pupil shrunk to a pinpoint. Ha, definitely opium.
“Mrs. Fraser!” Dr. Fentiman glared at me in irritation, his wig fallen half askew over one ear. “Do you go, please, and cease interfering! I am greatly occupied, and have no time to indulge your fancies. You, sir—remove her!” He waved a hand at Ulysses and turned back to the bed, shoving his wig into place as he did so.
“Why, you little—” I choked off the intended epithet, seeing Ulysses take an uncertain step toward me. He clearly hesitated to remove me bodily, but it was just as clear that he would obey the Doctor’s orders in preference to mine.
Trembling with fury, I swept around and left the room.
Jamie was waiting for me at the foot of the stair. Seeing my face as I descended, he took my arm at once and led me out into the yard.
“That—that—” Words failed me.
“Officious worm?” he supplied helpfully. “Unsonsie sharg?”
“Yes! Did you hear him?! The gall of him, that jumped-up butcher, that bloody little . . . squirt! No time to indulge my fancies! How dare he?”
Jamie made a guttural noise, indicating sympathetic outrage.
“Shall I go up and knivvle him?” he inquired, hand on his dirk. “I could gut him for ye—or just beat his face in, if ye’d rather.”
Attractive as this prospect sounded, I was forced to decline.
“Well . . . no,” I said, bringing my choler under control with some difficulty. “No, I don’t think you’d better do that.”
The echo of our similar conversation regarding Phillip Wylie struck me. It struck Jamie, too; I saw one corner of his long mouth curl with wry humor.
“Damn,” I said ruefully.
“Aye,” he agreed, reluctantly taking his hand off his dirk. “It doesna look as though I shall be allowed to spill anyone’s blood today, does it?”
“You want to, do you?”
“Verra much,” he said, dryly. “So do you, Sassenach, from the looks of it.”
I couldn’t argue with that; I should have liked nothing better than to disembowel Dr. Fentiman with a blunt spoon. Instead, I rubbed a hand over my face, and took a deep breath, bringing my feelings back into some semblance of order.
“Is he likely to kill the woman?” Jamie asked, jerking his chin back toward the house.
“Not immediately.” Bleeding and purging were highly objectionable and possibly dangerous, but not likely to be instantly fatal. “Oh—you were probably right about the laudanum.”
Jamie nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
“Well, then. The important thing is to speak wi’ Betty, once she’s in a condition to make sense. Ye dinna think Fentiman’s the sort to stand watch over a sick slave’s bed?”
Now it was my turn to think, but finally I shook my head.
“No. He was doing his best for her,” I admitted reluctantly. “But so far as I could tell, she’s in no great danger. She should be watched, but only in case she should vomit and choke in her sleep, and I doubt he’d hang about to do