The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [34]
“No, he’s gone off, I’m afraid.” I gestured vaguely; Jamie could be anywhere. “I’ll tell him if I see him, though.”
She nodded and went on, each of the women behind her pausing to wish Brianna happiness on her wedding day, their woolen skirts and cloaks brushing small showers of rainwater from the bayberry bushes that lined the path here.
Brianna accepted their good wishes with gracious politeness, but I saw the small line that formed between her thick red brows. Something was definitely bothering her.
“What?” I said bluntly, as soon as the Campbells were out of earshot.
“What’s what?” she said, startled.
“What’s troubling you?” I asked. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because I see there is. Is it to do with Roger? Are you having second thoughts about the wedding?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, looking wary. “I want to marry Roger, I mean—that’s all right. It’s just . . . I just . . . thought of something . . .” She trailed off, and a slow flush rose in her cheeks.
“Oh?” I asked, feeling rather alarmed. “What’s that?”
“Venereal disease,” she blurted. “What if I have it? Not Roger, not him, but—from Stephen Bonnet?”
Her face was flaming so hotly that I was surprised not to see the raindrops sizzle into steam when they struck her skin. My own face felt cold, my heart tight in my chest. The possibility had occurred to me—vividly—at the time, but I hadn’t wanted even to suggest such a thing, if she hadn’t thought of it herself. I remembered the weeks of watching her covertly for any hint of malaise—but women often showed no symptoms of early infection. Jemmy’s healthy birth had been a relief in more ways than one.
“Oh,” I said softly. I reached out and squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry, lovey. You haven’t.”
She took a deep breath, and let it out in a pale misty cloud, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“You’re sure?” she said. “You can tell? I feel all right, but I thought—women don’t always have symptoms.”
“They don’t,” I said, “but men most certainly do. And if Roger had contracted anything nasty from you, I’d have heard about it long since.”
Her face had faded somewhat, but the pinkness came back at that. She coughed, mist rising from her breath.
“Well, that’s a relief. So Jemmy’s all right? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” I assured her. I had put drops of silver nitrate—procured at considerable cost and difficulty—in his eyes at birth, just in case, but I was indeed sure. Aside from the lack of any specific signs of illness, Jemmy had an air of robust health about him that made the mere thought of infection incredible. He radiated well-being like a potful of stew.
“Is that why you asked about contraception?” I asked, waving a greeting as we passed the MacRaes’ campsite. “You were worried about having more children, in case . . .”
“Oh. No. I mean—I hadn’t even thought about venereal disease until you mentioned syphilis, and then it just struck me as a horrible realization—that he might have—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Er, no. I just wanted to know.”
A slippery patch of trail put paid to the conversation at that point, but not to my speculations.
It wasn’t that a young bride’s mind might not turn lightly to thoughts of contraception—but under the circumstances . . . what was it? I wondered. Fear for herself, or for a new baby? Childbirth could be dangerous, of course—and anyone who had seen the attendees at my surgery or heard the women’s conversations round the campfires in the evening could be in no doubt as to the dangers to infants and children; it was the rare family that had not lost at least one infant to fever, morbid sore throat, or “the squitters”—uncontrolled diarrhea. Many women had lost three, four, or more babies. I remembered Abel MacLennan’s story, and a small shiver ran down my spine.
Still, Brianna was very healthy, and while we did lack important things like antibiotics and sophisticated medical facilities, I