The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [74]
Finished, she passed her hand lightly over his face and head, picked a dried leaf from his hair, then wiped his face with the damp cloth, surprising him. She dropped the cloth, then took his hand, wrapping her own fingers around his.
“There, now. Presentable once more! And now that ye’re fit for company, Mr. MacKenzie—did ye come to speak to me, or were ye only passing by?”
Phaedre put down a dish of tea and a saucer of cake by his side, but Jocasta continued to hold his left hand. He found that odd, but the unexpected atmosphere of intimacy made it slightly easier to begin his request.
He put it simply; he had heard the Reverend make such requests for charity before, and knew it was best to let the situation speak for itself, leaving ultimate decision to the conscience of the hearer.
Jocasta listened carefully, a small furrow between her brows. He’d expected her to pause for thought when he’d finished, but instead she replied at once.
“Aye,” she said, “I ken Joanie Findlay, and her brother, too. Ye’re right, her husband was carried off by the consumption, two year gone. Jamie Roy spoke to me of her yesterday.”
“Oh, he did?” Roger felt mildly foolish.
Jocasta nodded. She leaned back a little, pursing her lips in thought.
“It’s no just a matter of offering help, ye ken,” she explained. “I’m glad of the chance. But she’s a proud woman, Joan Findlay—she willna take charity.” Her voice held a slight note of reproval, as though Roger ought to have realized that.
Perhaps he should, he thought. But he had acted on the impulse of the moment, moved by the Findlays’ poverty. It hadn’t occurred to him that if she had little else, it would be that much more important to Joan Findlay to cling to her one valuable possession—her pride.
“I see,” he said slowly. “But surely—there must be a way to help that wouldn’t offer offense?”
Jocasta tilted her head slightly to one side, then the other, in a small mannerism that he found peculiarly familiar. Of course—Bree did that now and then, when she was considering something.
“There may be,” she said. “The feast tonight—for the wedding, aye?—the Findlays will be there, of course, and well-fed. It wouldna be amiss for Ulysses to make up a wee parcel of food for them to take for the journey home—’twould save it spoiling, after all.” She smiled briefly, then the look of concentration returned to her features.
“The priest,” she said, with a sudden air of satisfaction.
“Priest? Ye mean Father Donahue?”
One thick, burnished brow lifted at him.
“Ye ken another priest on the mountain? Aye, of course I do.” She lifted her free hand, and Phaedre, ever alert, came to her mistress’s side.
“Miss Jo?”
“Look out some bits from the trunks, lass,” Jocasta said, touching the maid’s arm. “Blankets, caps, an apron or two; breeks and plain shirts—the grooms can spare them.”
“Stockings,” Roger put in quickly, thinking of the little girls’ dirty bare feet.
“Stockings.” Jocasta nodded. “Plain stuff, but good wool and well-mended. Ulysses has my purse. Tell him to give ye ten shillings—sterling—and wrap it in one o’ the aprons. Then make a bundle of the things and take them to Father Donahue. Tell him they’re for Joan Findlay, but he’s no to say where they’ve come from. He’ll know what to say.” She nodded again, satisfied, and dropped her hand from the maid’s arm, making a little shooing gesture.
“Off wi’ ye, then—see to it now.”
Phaedre murmured assent and left the tent, pausing only to shake out the blue thing she had been sewing and fold it carefully over her stool. It was a decorated stomacher for Brianna’s wedding dress, he saw, done with an elegant lacing of ribbons. He had a sudden vision of Brianna’s white breasts, swelling above a low neckline of dark indigo, and returned to the conversation at hand with some difficulty.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“I said—will that do?” Jocasta was smiling at him, with a slightly knowing expression, as though she had been able to read his thoughts. Her eyes were blue, like Jamie’s and Bree’s, but not so dark. They were fixed on him—or