The slow beat of the mingled pulses made me think suddenly of Roger’s throat—and of Brianna’s heart. And then of William. So she’d met her brother, at last.
That thought made me smile and at the same time experience a deep pang of regret. I’d have given a great deal to see that meeting.
From John’s carefully composed letter, it had been clear that that meeting was what he really wanted. Not that he wouldn’t want to help Bree to a fat commission, or have her there for the sake of her own company—but I recognized the commission as being merely the shimmering fly on the surface of his pond. Jamie, who probably knew John a lot better than I did, quite clearly saw that, too—and yet he’d simply picked up the baited hook, examined it, and then deliberately swallowed it.
Yes, he’d needed guns, urgently. Yes, he wanted to restore Germain to his parents. To some extent, he probably also wanted Roger to be ordained. But I knew what he wanted most, and knew that John wanted it just as badly. They wanted William to be happy.
Clearly, neither one was in a position to help William come to terms with the fact that they’d both lied to him. Let alone help him pick up the pieces of his identity. Nobody could do that but William. But Brianna was a part of his identity and possibly something for him to hang on to while he fitted the rest of his life together.
Even more than I would have wanted to see the meeting between William and Bree—each knowing who the other was—I longed to see Jamie’s face watching such a meeting.
I shook my head and let the vision fade, listening to Corporal Jackson’s body and the whisper of sand through the hourglass (Agnes and Fanny were meant to change places every two hours, but neither one could stay awake that long), letting the peace of the night surgery flow into me. And from me, with luck, into the young man under my hands. I’d thought him older when I first saw him, but with the lines of tension, fear, and pain smoothed out of his face, it was clear that he wasn’t more than twenty-five.
Moved by an impulse, I let go of his leg and fetched my medicine-bag amulet from the cupboard.
Nobody was watching, but I still felt self-conscious when I reached into the bag and withdrew the John-the-conqueror root. There must be some ritual connected with its use, but as I had no idea what that might be, I’d have to roll my own. I paused for a moment, holding the root in the palm of my hand, and thought of the woman who’d given it to him. His great-grandmother, he’d said. So she’d held this root herself, just as I did now.
“Bless your great-grandson,” I said softly, laying the root on his chest, “and help him to heal.”
I didn’t know why, but I felt I must stay—and I’d been at this business long enough to know when not to argue with myself. I roused Agnes and sent her upstairs to her bed, then sat down myself in the rocking chair and rocked gently, pressing down with the tips of my stockinged toes. After a time, I stopped and sat listening to the quiet of the room and the breathing of the man and the slow even beating of my own heart.
DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT roused me from my dozing trance. I got up, stiffly, and checked my patient. Still sleeping, though I could see dreams moving behind his closed eyelids; he was coming gradually to the surface. His skin was cool, though, and the flesh above and below the plaster was firm, no sense of puffiness or crepitation. The fire in the brazier had died to ash, and the air held a moving freshness.
“Thank you,” I murmured, plucking the conqueror root off Mr. Jackson’s chest and restoring it to my amulet. Man’s magic could be a useful thing, I thought, given recent events and the prospect of lots more like them.
I went out to the privy, then upstairs, where I washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed to a fresh shift, and put my work gown back on. The smell of bacon and fried potatoes was creeping enticingly into the room, and my stomach gurgled in anticipation. Perhaps there was time to grab a quick bite before Mr. Jackson rejoined the living …
Fanny and Agnes were giggling together over a slightly scorched pan of corn bread, but looked up guiltily when I came in.
“I forgot,” Fanny said, apologetic, “but then I remembered.”
“It will be fine,” I said, sniffing it. “Put out butter and a little honey with it and no one will notice. Have you seen Himself this morning?”
“Oh, yes’m,” Agnes said. “We went to the surgery a minute ago, to see if you were there or if the soldier wanted breakfast, and Mr. Fraser was there, with a, um, utensil in his hand. He told us to go and make up a plate whilst he talked to Corporal Jackson.” She nodded at a pewter plate on the end of the table, this holding two bannocks with jam, a heap of fried potatoes, and six rashers of bacon.
“I’ll take it,” I said, scooping up the plate and taking a fork from the yellow jar on the table. The metal was warm and the smell divine. “Thank you, girls. Keep the food warm until Mr. Fraser or I come back, will you?”
It was very thoughtful of Jamie to call on the corporal with a chamber pot, I thought, amused. That should go some way toward easing his mind. I paused outside the quilt that covered the surgery door, listening to be sure I wouldn’t interrupt Mr. Jackson at a delicate moment.
The quilt was red-side out. I couldn’t recall whether I’d pinned it up that way yesterday or not. It was a double-sided quilt that Jamie had bought me in Salem: two heavy woven wool pieces of cloth, elaborately fastened together with a beautiful quilting stitch that curled into leafy circles and zigzagged down the edges. The red cloth was the color of old brandy—or blood, as Jamie had observed more than once—and the other side was a deep golden brown, dyed with onion skins and saffron. It was my habit to put the quilt up red-side out when I was conferring privately with a patient or doing something embarrassingly intimate to them, as an indication to the household that they ought not to burst in without knocking.
I heard a last trickle, a deep sigh from Corporal Jackson, and the metallic scrape of a tin chamber pot sliding across wood, then the noise of Jamie—presumably—sliding it under the counter.
“I thank you, sir,” Jackson said, courteous but wary.
“Well, ye’re no my prisoner,” Jamie said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “But ye do seem to be my guest. As such, of course ye’re more than welcome to stay for as long as ye like—or need to. But I canna help but think ye might have other places ye’d rather be, once my wife is pleased wi’ your leg.”
Mr. Jackson made a brief sound in which surprise and amusement were mingled in equal proportion, and there was a rustling noise and the creak of my rocking chair as Jamie evidently made himself comfortable.
“I’m mos’ grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Jackson said. “And your wife’s care of me.”
“She’s a good healer,” Jamie said. “Ye’ll do fine. But your leg’s broken, so ye’re no walking out on your own. I’ll take ye in my wagon where ye want to go, so soon as Claire says ye’re fettled.”
Jackson seemed a bit taken aback by this, for he didn’t answer at once, but made a sort of low humming noise.
“I’m not your prisoner, you say,” he said, carefully.
“No. I’ve nay quarrel wi’ you, nor reason to do ye harm.”