The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [73]
The contrasts between that lavishness and the recent poverty of the Findlay encampment were too much to be borne with complacence. He turned upon his heel with sudden decision, and began the short climb back to Jocasta’s tent.
Jocasta Cameron was at home, so to speak; he saw her mud-soaked boots outside the tent. Sightless as she was, she still ventured out to call upon friends, escorted by Duncan or her black butler, Ulysses. More often, though, she allowed the Gathering to come to her, and her own tent seethed with company throughout the day, all the Scottish society of the Cape Fear and the colony coming to enjoy her renowned hospitality.
For the moment, though, she seemed fortunately alone. Roger caught a glimpse of her through the lifted flap, reclining in her cane-bottomed chair, feet in slippers, and her head fallen back in apparent repose. Her body servant, Phaedre, sat on a stool near the open tent flap, needle in hand, squinting in the hazy light over a spill of blue fabric that filled her lap.
Jocasta sensed him first; she sat up in her armchair, and her head turned sharply as he touched the tent flap. Phaedre glanced up belatedly, reacting to her mistress’s movement rather than his presence.
“Mr. MacKenzie. It is the Thrush, is it no?” Mrs. Cameron said, smiling in his direction.
He laughed, and ducked his head to enter the tent, obeying her gesture.
“It is. And how did ye ken that, Mrs. Cameron? I’ve said not a word, let alone sung one. Have I a tuneful manner of breathing?” Brianna had told him of her aunt’s uncanny ability to compensate for her blindness by means of other senses, but he was still surprised at her acuity.
“I heard your step, and then I smelt the blood on you,” she said matter-of-factly. “The wound’s come open again, has it not? Come, lad, sit. Will we fetch ye a dish of tea, or a dram? Phaedre—a cloth, if ye please.”
His fingers went involuntarily to the gash in his throat. He’d forgotten it entirely in the rush of the day’s events, but she was right; it had bled again, leaving a crusty stain down the side of his neck and over the collar of his shirt.
Phaedre was already up, assembling a tray from the array of cakes and biscuits on a small table by Jocasta’s chair. Were it not for the earth and grass underfoot, Roger thought, he would scarcely know they were not in Mrs. Cameron’s drawing room at River Run. She was wrapped in a woolen arisaid, but even that was fastened by a handsome cairngorm brooch.
“It’s nothing,” he said, self-conscious, but Jocasta took the cloth from her maid’s hand and insisted on cleaning the cut herself. Her long fingers were cool on his skin, and surprisingly deft.
She smelled of woodsmoke, as everybody on the mountain did, and the tea she had been drinking, but there was none of the faintly camphorated musty odor he normally associated with elderly ladies.
“Tch, ye’ve got it on your shirt,” she informed him, fingering the stiff fabric disapprovingly. “Will we launder it for ye? Though I dinna ken d’ye want to wear it sopping; it’ll never dry by nightfall.”
“Ah, no, ma’am. I thank ye, I’ve another. For the wedding, I mean.”
“Well, then.” Phaedre had produced a small pot of medicinal grease; he recognized it as one of Claire’s, by the smell of lavender and goldenseal. Jocasta scooped up a thumbnail of the ointment and spread it carefully over his wound, her fingers steady on his jawbone.
Her skin was well-kept and soft, but it showed the effects not only of age but weather. There were ruddy patches in her cheeks, nets of tiny broken veins that from a slight distance lent her an air of health and vitality. Her hands showed no liver spots—of course, she was of a wealthy family; she would have worn gloves out-of-doors all her life—but the joints were knobbed and the palms slightly callused from the tug of reins. Not a hothouse flower, this daughter of Leoch, despite