The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [93]
“Really, I am most impressed, Mrs. Fraser.” Lillywhite sniffed at the waft of cloves and whisky from Mr. Goodwin’s mouth, looking interested, and I saw the bulge of his cheek as his own tongue tenderly probed a back tooth.
“But what brings you up here, Mrs. Fraser?” Mr. Goodwin turned the beam of his joviality on me. “So late in the day—perhaps you will do me the honor of taking a bit of supper at my fire?”
“Oh, thank you, but I can’t, really,” I said, smiling as charmingly as possible. “I’ve just come to see another patient—that is—”
“She wants to see the priest,” Anstruther interrupted.
Goodwin blinked at that, taken only slightly aback.
“Priest. There is a priest here?”
“A Papist,” Mr. Lillywhite amplified, lips curling back a bit from the unclean word. “It came to my attention that there was a Catholic priest concealed in the assembly, who proposed to celebrate a Mass during the festivities this evening. I sent Mr. Anstruther to arrest him, of course.”
“Father Donahue is a friend of mine,” I put in, as forcefully as possible. “And he was not concealed; he was invited quite openly, as the guest of Mrs. Cameron. He is also a patient, and requires treatment. I’ve come to see that he gets it.”
“A friend of yours? Are you Catholic, Mrs. Fraser?” Mr. Goodwin looked startled; it obviously hadn’t occurred to him that he was being treated by a Popish dentist, and his hand went to his swollen cheek in bemusement.
“I am,” I said, hoping that merely being a Catholic wasn’t also against Mr. Lillywhite’s conception of the law.
Evidently not. Mr. Goodwin gave Mr. Lillywhite a nudge.
“Oh, come, Randall. Let Mrs. Fraser see the fellow, what harm can it do? And if he’s truly Jocasta Cameron’s guest . . .”
Mr. Lillywhite pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then stood aside, holding back the flap of canvas for me.
“I suppose there can be no harm in your seeing your . . . friend,” he said slowly. “Come in, then, madam.”
Sundown was at hand, and the tent was dark inside, though one canvas wall still glowed brightly with the sinking sun behind it. I shut my eyes for a moment, to accustom them to the change of light, then blinked and looked about to get my bearings.
The tent seemed cluttered but relatively luxurious, being equipped with a camp bed and other furniture, the air within scented not only by damp canvas and wool but with the perfume of Ceylon tea, expensive wine, and almond biscuits.
Father Donahue was silhouetted in front of the glowing canvas, sitting on a stool behind a small folding table, on which were arrayed a few sheets of paper, an inkstand, and a quill. They might as well have been thumbscrews, pincers, and a red-hot poker, judging from his militantly upright attitude, evocative of expectant martyrdom.
The clinking of flint and tinderbox came from behind me, and then the faint glow of a light. This swelled, and a black boy—Mr. Lillywhite’s servant, I supposed—came forward and silently set a small oil lamp on the table.
Now that I got a clear look at the priest, the impression of martyrdom grew more pronounced. He looked like Saint Stephen after the first volley of stones, with a bruise on his chin and a first-rate black eye, empurpled from browridge to cheekbone and swollen quite shut.
The nonblackened eye widened at sight of me, and he started up with an exclamation of surprise.
“Father Kenneth.” I gripped him by the hand and squeezed, smiling broadly for the benefit of whatever audience might be peeking through the flap. “I’ve brought your medicine. How are you feeling?” I raised my eyebrows and waggled them, indicating that he should play along with the deception. He stared at me in fascination for a moment, but then appeared to catch on. He coughed, then, encouraged by my nod, coughed again, with more enthusiasm.
“It’s . . . very kind of ye to . . . think of me, Mrs. Fraser,” he wheezed, between hacks.
I pulled off the top of the flask, and poured out a generous measure of whisky.
“Are you quite all right,