The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [610]
“Laid sideways, the babe was, and the size of a six-month shoat . . .”
“Ha, Germain had a head like a cannonball, the midwife said, and he was facing backward, the wee rattan—”
“Jemmy had a huge head, but it was his shoulders that were the problem. . . .”
“. . . le bourse . . . the lady’s ‘purse,’ of course, is her—”
“Her means of making a living, aye, I see. Then the next bit, where her customer puts his fingers in her purse—”
“No, ye dinna get to move yet, it’s still my turn, for I’ve jumped your man there, and so I can go here—”
“Merde!”
“Germain!” Marsali bellowed. She glared at her offspring, who hunched his shoulders, scowling at the draughtboard, lower lip thrust out.
“Dinna fash yourself, man, for see? Now it’s your turn, ye can go there, and there, and there—”
“. . . Avez-vous ête a la selle aujourd’hui? . . . and what he is asking the whore, of course—”
“‘Have you—been in the saddle today?’ Or would it be, ‘Have you had a ride today?’ ”
Fergus laughed, the end of his aristocratic nose pinkening with amusement.
“Well, that is one translation, surely.”
Roger lifted a brow at him, half-smiling.
“Aye?”
“That particular expression is also what a French doctor says,” I put in, seeing his incomprehension. “Colloquially speaking, it means, ‘Have you had a bowel movement today?’ ”
“The lady in question being perhaps une specialiste,” Fergus explained cheerfully. “I used to know one who—”
“Fergus!” Marsali’s whole face was pink, though she seemed more amused than outraged.
“I see,” Roger murmured, eyebrows still raised as he struggled with the nuances of this bit of sophisticated translation. I did wonder how one would set it to music.
“Comment sont vos selles, grandpere?” Germain inquired chummily, evidently familiar with this line of social inquiry. And how are your stools, grandfather?
“Free and easy,” his grandfather assured him. “Eat up your parritch every morning, and ye’ll never have piles.”
“Da!”
“Well, it’s true,” Jamie protested.
Brianna was bright red, and emitting small fizzing noises. Jemmy stirred in her lap.
“Le petit rouge eats parritch,” Germain observed, frowning narrowly at Jemmy, who was nursing contentedly at his mother’s breast, eyes closed. “He shits stones.”
“Germain!” all the women shouted in unison.
“Well, it’s true,” he said, in perfect imitation of his grandfather. Looking dignified, he turned his back on the women and began building towers with the draughts-men.
“He doesna seem to want to give up the teat,” Marsali observed, nodding at Jemmy. “Neither did Germain, but he’d no choice—nor did poor wee Joanie.” She glanced ruefully down at her stomach, which was barely beginning to swell with Number Three.
I caught the barest flicker of a glance between Roger and Bree, followed by a Mona Lisa smile on Brianna’s face. She settled herself more comfortably, and stroked Jemmy’s head. Enjoy it while you can, sweetheart, her actions said, more vividly than words.
I felt my own eyebrows rise, and glanced toward Jamie. He’d seen that little byplay, too, and gave me the male equivalent of Brianna’s smile, before turning back to the draughtsboard.
“I like parritch,” Lizzie put in shyly, in a minor attempt to change the subject. “Specially with honey and milk.”
“Ah,” said Fergus, reminded of his original task. He turned back to Roger, lifting a finger. “Honeypots. The refrain, you see, where les abeilles come buzzing—”
“Aye, aye, that’s so,” Mrs. Bug neatly recaptured the conversation, when he paused to draw breath, “parritch wi’ honey is the best thing for the bowels, though sometimes even that fails. Why, I kent a man once, who couldna move his bowels for more than a month!”
“Indeed. Did he try a pellet of wax rolled in goose-grease? Or a tisane of grape leaves?” Fergus was instantly diverted. French to the core, he was a great connoisseur of purges, laxatives, and suppositories.
“Everything,” Mrs. Bug assured him. “Parritch, dried apples, wine mixed wi’ an ox’s gall,