“Not weal—I mean, not ree-lee,” she said, pronouncing it very distinctly. It had taken no little practice for her to be able to pronounce words correctly, after I had done the frenectomy that had freed her from being tongue-tied, and I could tell that it annoyed her to be slipping back into the lisp of her bondage.
“It jusst feels tight,” she said. “Like a fist squeezing me right there.” She pushed her own fists into her lower abdomen in illustration.
“That sounds quite normal,” I assured her. “It’s just your uterus waking up, so to speak. It hasn’t moved noticeably before, so you wouldn’t have been aware of it.” I’d explained the internal structure of the female reproductive system to her, with drawings, and while she’d seemed mildly repulsed at the word “uterus,” she had paid attention.
To my surprise, the back of her neck went pale at this, her shoulders hunching up again. I glanced over my shoulder, but Mandy was snoring in the quilts, dead to the world.
“Fanny?” I said, and ventured to touch her again, stroking her arm. “You’ve seen girls come into their courses before, haven’t you?” So far as we could estimate, she’d lived in a Philadelphia brothel since the age of five or so; I would have been astounded if she hadn’t seen almost everything the female reproductive system could do. And then it struck me, and I scolded myself for a fool. Of course. She had seen everything.
“Yess,” she said, in that cold, remote way. “It means two things. You can be got with child, and you can start to earn money.”
I took a deep breath.
“Fanny,” I said, “sit up and look at me.”
She stayed frozen for a moment, but she was used to obedience, and after a moment she turned over and sat up. She didn’t look at me, but kept her eyes fixed on her knees, small and sharp under the muslin.
“Sweetheart,” I said, more gently, and put a hand under her chin to lift her face. Her eyes met mine like a blow, their soft brown nearly black with fear. Her chin was rigid, her jaw set tight, and I took my hand away.
“You don’t really think that we intend you to be a whore, Fanny?” She heard the incredulousness in my voice, and blinked. Once. Then looked down again.
“I’m … not good for anything else,” she said, in a small voice. “But I’m worth a lot of money—for … that.” She waved a hand over her lap, in a quick, almost resentful gesture.
I felt as though I’d been punched in my own belly. Did she really think—but she clearly did. Must have thought so, all the time she had been living with us. She’d seemed to thrive at first, safe from danger and well fed, with the boys as companions. But the last month or so, she’d seemed withdrawn and thoughtful, eating much less. I’d seen the physical signs and reckoned them as due to her sensing the imminent change; had prepared the emmenagogue herbs, to be ready. That was apparently the case, but obviously I hadn’t guessed the half of it.
“That isn’t true, Fanny,” I said, and took her hand. She let me, but it lay in mine like a dead bird. “That’s not your only worth.” Oh, God, did it sound as though she had another, and that’s why we had—
“I mean—we didn’t take you in because we thought you … you’d be profitable to us in some way. Not at all.” She turned her face away, with an almost inaudible sniffing noise. This was getting worse by the moment. I had a sudden memory of Brianna as a young teenager, and spending hours in her bedroom, mired in futile reassurances—no, you aren’t ugly; of course you’ll have a boyfriend when it’s time; no, everybody doesn’t hate you. I hadn’t been good at it then, and clearly those particular maternal skills hadn’t improved with age.
“We took you because we wanted you, sweetheart,” I said, stroking the unresponsive hand. “Wanted to take care of you.” She pulled it away and curled up again, face in her pillow.
“Do, you didn.” Her voice came thick, and she cleared her throat, hard. “William made Mr. Fraser take me.”
I laughed out loud, and she turned her head from the pillow to look at me, surprised.
“Really, Fanny,” I said. “Speaking as one who knows both of them rather well, I can assure you that no one in the world could make either one of those men do anything whatever against his will. Mr. Fraser is stubborn as a rock, and his son is just like him. How long have you known William?”
“Not … long,” she said, uncertain. “But—but he tried to save J-Jane. She liked him.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her face back into the pillow.
“Oh,” I said, much more softly. “I see. You’re thinking of her. Of Jane.” Of course.
She nodded, her small shoulders hunched and shaking. Her plait had unraveled and the soft brown curls fell away, exposing the white skin of her neck, slender as a stalk of blanched asparagus.
“It’th the only t-time I ever thaw her cry,” she said, the words only half audible between emotion and muffling.
“Jane? What was it?”
“Her firtht—first—time. Wif—with—a man. When she came back and gave the bloody towel to Mrs. Abbott. She did that, and then she crawled into bed with me and cried. I held huh and—and petted huh—bu—I couldn’t make her thtop.” She pulled her arms under her and shook with silent sobs.
“Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, husky with sleep. “What’s amiss? I rolled over and found Jem in my bed, instead of you.” He spoke calmly, but his eyes were fixed on Fanny’s shivering back. He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, and moved his head slightly toward the doorjamb. Did I want him to leave?
I glanced down at Fanny and up at him with a helpless twitch of my shoulder, and he moved at once into the room, pulling up a stool beside Fanny’s bed. He noticed the blood streaks at once and looked up at me again—surely this was women’s business?—but I shook my head, keeping a hand on Fanny’s back.
“Fanny’s missing her sister,” I said, addressing the only aspect of things I thought might be dealt with effectively at the moment.
“Ah,” Jamie said softly, and before I could stop him, he had bent down and gathered her gently up into his arms. I stiffened for an instant, afraid of having a man touch her just now—but she turned in to him at once, flinging her arms about his neck and sobbing into his chest.
He sat down, holding her on his knee, and I felt the unhappy tension in my own shoulders ease, seeing him smooth her hair and murmur things to her in a Gàidhlig she didn’t speak but clearly understood as well as a horse or dog might.
Fanny went on sobbing for a bit but slowly calmed under his touch, only hiccuping now and then.
“I saw your sister just the once,” he said softly. “Jane was her name, aye? Jane Eleanora. She was a bonnie lass. And she loved ye dear, Frances. I ken that.”
Fanny nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, and I looked at the corner where Mandy lay on the trundle. She was still out, thumb plugged securely into her mouth. Fanny got herself under control within a few seconds, though, and I wondered whether she had been beaten at the brothel for weeping or displaying violent emotion.