The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [353]
“I—has something happened, sir?”
“It is none of your concern, I assure you.” Fentiman bristled like a banty rooster, drawing himself upright. Rather grandly, he presented me with his arm.
“Come, Mrs. Fraser. You need not be exposed to the insulting gibes of this puppy.” He glared at Wylie, red-eyed. “Allow me to escort you back to your husband.”
Wylie’s face underwent an instant transformation at the word “puppy,” turning a deep, ugly red. So early in the morning, he was wearing neither paint nor powder, and the blotches of fury stood out like a rash on his fair skin. He seemed to swell noticeably, like an enraged frog.
I had a sudden urge to laugh hysterically, but nobly suppressed it. Biting my lip instead, I accepted the doctor’s proffered arm. He came up roughly to my shoulder, but pivoted on his bare heel and marched us away with all the dignity of a brigadier.
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Wylie still standing under the willow tree, staring after us. I lifted my hand and gave him a small wave of farewell. The light sparked from my gold ring, and I saw him stiffen further.
“I do hope we’ll be in time for breakfast,” Doctor Fentiman said cheerfully. “I believe I have quite recovered my appetite.”
51
SUSPICION
THE GUESTS BEGAN TO DEPART after breakfast. Jocasta and Duncan stood together on the terrace, the very picture of a happily united couple, bidding everyone farewell, as a line of carriages and wagons made its slow way down the drive. Those folk from downriver waited on the quay, the women exchanging last-minute recipes and bits of gossip, while the gentlemen lit pipes and scratched themselves, relieved of their uncomfortable clothes and formal wigs. Their servants, all looking considerably the worse for wear, sat openmouthed and red-eyed on bundles of luggage.
“You look tired, Mama.” Bree looked rather tired herself; she and Roger had both been up ’til all hours. A faint smell of camphor wafted from her clothes.
“Can’t imagine why,” I replied, stifling a yawn. “How’s Jemmy this morning?”
“He’s got a sniffle,” she said, “but no fever. He ate some porridge for breakfast, and he’s—”
I nodded, listened automatically, and went with her to examine Jemmy, who was cheerfully rambunctious, if runny-nosed, all in a slight daze of exhaustion. It reminded me of nothing so much as the sensation I had had now and then when flying from America to England. Jet lag, they called it; an odd feeling, of being conscious and lucid, and yet not quite solidly fixed within one’s body.
The girl Gussie was watching Jemmy; she was as pale and bloodshot as everyone else on the premises, but I thought her air of dull suffering derived from emotional distress rather than hangover. All the slaves had been affected by Betty’s death; they went about the chores of clearing up after the wedding festivities in near-silence, their faces shadowed.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked her, when I had finished looking in Jemmy’s ears and down his throat.
She looked startled, then confused; I wondered whether anyone had ever asked her that before.
“Oh. Oh, yes, Madam. Surely.” She smoothed down her apron with both hands, clearly nervous at my scrutiny.
“All right. I’ll just go and have a look at Phaedre, then.”
I had come back to the house with Dr. Fentiman and turned him over to Ulysses, to be fed and tidied up. I had then gone directly to find Phaedre, taking time only to wash and change my clothes—not wanting to come to her so visibly smeared with her mother’s blood.
I had found her in Ulysses’s pantry, sitting numb and shocked on the stool where he sat to polish silver, a large glass of brandy by her side, undrunk. One of the other slaves, Teresa, was with her; she breathed a short sigh of relief at my appearance and came to greet me.
“She’s none sae weel,” Teresa muttered to me, shaking her head with a wary glance back at her charge. “She’s no said a word, nor wept a drop.