“It’s not that I dinna appreciate it,” he assured me hastily. “It’s only that havin’ come within a day’s length of being one of the ingredients myself, it makes me feel a bit queer.”
“Jamie!” I felt my voice rising. “What is that stuff?” I grabbed the towel, hastily swabbing my salve-coated hands.
“Hanged-men’s grease,” he answered reluctantly.
“H-h-h…” I couldn’t even get the word out, and started over. “You mean…” Goose bumps rippled up my arms, raising the fine hairs like pins in a cushion.
“Er, aye. Rendered fat from hanged criminals.” He spoke cheerfully, regaining his composure as quickly as I was losing mine. “Verra good for the rheumatism and joint-ill, they say.”
I recalled the tidy way in which Monsieur Forez had gathered up the results of his operations in L’Hôpital des Anges, and the odd look on Jamie’s face when he had seen the tall chirurgien escort me home. My knees were watery, and I felt my stomach flip like a pancake.
“Jamie! Who in bloody fucking hell is Monsieur Forez?” I nearly screamed.
Amusement was definitely getting the upper hand in his expression.
“He’s the public hangman for the Fifth Arondissement, Sassenach. I thought ye knew.”
Jamie returned damp and chilled from the stableyard, where he had gone to scrub himself, the required ablutions being on a scale greater than the bedroom basin could provide.
“Don’t worry, it’s all off,” he assured me, skinning out of his shirt and sliding naked beneath the covers. His flesh was rough and chilly with gooseflesh, and he shivered briefly as he took me in his arms.
“What is it, Sassenach? I don’t still smell of it, do I?” he asked, as I huddled stiff under the bedclothes, hugging myself with my arms.
“No,” I said. “I’m scared. Jamie, I’m bleeding.”
“Jesus,” he said softly. I could feel the sudden thrill of fear that ran through him at my words, identical to the one that ran through me. He held me close to him, smoothing my hair and stroking my back, but both of us felt the awful helplessness in the face of physical disaster that made his actions futile. Strong as he was, he couldn’t protect me; willing he might be, but he couldn’t help. For the first time, I wasn’t safe in his arms, and the knowledge terrified both of us.
“D’ye think-” he began, then broke off and swallowed. I could feel the tremor run down his throat and hear the gulp as he swallowed his fear. “Is it bad, Sassenach? Can ye tell?”
“No,” I said. I held him tighter, trying to find an anchorage. “I don’t know. It isn’t heavy bleeding; not yet, anyway.”
The candle was still alight. He looked down at me, eyes dark with worry.
“Had I better fetch someone to ye, Claire? A healer, one of the women from the Hôpital?”
I shook my head and licked dry lips.
“No. I don’t… I don’t think there’s anything they could do.” It was the last thing I wanted to say; more than anything, I wanted there to be someone we could find who knew how to make it all right. But I remembered my early nurse’s training, the few days I had spent on the obstetrical ward, and the words of one of the doctors, shrugging as he left the bed of a patient who’d had a miscarriage. “There’s really nothing you can do,” he’d said. “If they’re going to lose a child, they generally do, no matter what you try. Bed rest is really the only thing, and even that often won’t do it.”
“It may be nothing,” I said, trying to hearten both of us. “It isn’t unusual for women to have slight bleeding sometimes during pregnancy.” It wasn’t unusual – during the first three months. I was more than five months along, and this was by no means usual. Still, there were many things that could cause bleeding, and not all of them were serious.
“It may be all right,” I said. I laid a hand on my stomach, pressing gently. I felt an immediate response from the occupant, a lazy, stretching push that at once made me feel better. I felt a rush of passionate gratitude that made tears come to my eyes.
“Sassenach, what can I do?” Jamie whispered. His hand came around me and lay over mine, cupping my threatened abdomen.
I put my other hand on top of his, and held on.
“Just pray,” I said. “Pray for us, Jamie.”
23 THE BEST-LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN…
The bleeding had stopped by the morning. I rose very cautiously, but all remained well. Still, it was obvious that the time had come for me to stop working at L’Hôpital des Anges, and I sent Fergus with a note of explanation and apology to Mother Hildegarde. He returned with her prayers and good wishes, and a bottle of a brownish elixir much esteemed – according to the accompanying note – by les maîtresses sage-femme for the prevention of miscarriage. After Monsieur Forez’s salve, I was more than a little dubious about using any medication I hadn’t prepared myself, but a careful sniff reassured me that at least the ingredients were purely botanical.
After considerable hesitation, I drank a spoonful. The liquid was bitter and left a nasty taste in my mouth, but the simple act of doing something – even something I thought likely to be useless – made me feel better. I spent the greater part of each day now lying on the chaise longue in my room, reading, dozing, sewing, or simply staring into space with my hands over my belly.
When I was alone, that is. When he was home, Jamie spent most of his time with me, talking over the day’s business, or discussing the most recent Jacobite letters. King James had apparently been told of his son’s proposed investment in port wine, and approved it wholeheartedly as “…a very sounde scheme, which I cannot but feel will go a great way in providing for you as I should wish to see you established in France.”
“So James thinks the money’s intended merely to establish Charles as a gentleman, and give him some position here,” I said. “Do you think that could be all he has in mind? Louise was here this afternoon; she says Charles came to see her last week – insisted on seeing her, though she refused to receive him at first. She says he was very excited and puffed up about something, but he wouldn’t tell her what; just kept hinting mysteriously about something great he was about to do. ‘A great adventure’ is what she says he said. That doesn’t sound like a simple investment in port, does it?”
“It doesn’t.” Jamie looked grim at the thought.
“Hm,” I said. “Well, all things taken together, it seems a good bet that Charles isn’t meaning just to settle down upon the profits of his venture and become an upstanding Paris merchant.”
“If I were a wagering man, I’d lay my last garter on it,” Jamie said. “The question now is, how do we stop him?”
The answer came several days later, after any amount of discussion and useless suggestions. Murtagh was with us in my bedroom, having brought up several bolts of cloth from the docks for me.
“They say there’s been an outbreak of pox in Portugal,” he observed, dumping the expensive watered silk on the bed as though it were a load of used burlap. “There was a ship carrying iron from Lisbon came in this morning, and the harbor master was over it with a toothcomb, him and three assistants. Found naught, though.” Spotting the brandy bottle on my table, he poured a tumbler half-full and drank it like water, in large, healthy swallows. I watched this performance openmouthed, pulled from the spectacle only by Jamie’s exclamation.
“Pox?”
“Aye,” said Murtagh, pausing between swallows. “Smallpox.” He lifted the glass again and resumed his systematic refreshment.
“Pox,” Jamie muttered to himself. “Pox.”
Slowly, the frown left his face and the vertical crease between his eyebrows disappeared. A deeply contemplative look came over him, and he lay back in his chair, hands linked behind his neck, staring fixedly at Murtagh. The hint of a smile twitched his wide mouth sideways.