Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(212)
“I said, that word you said—huevón?”
“Oh. Yes, I heard it from a young lady I met on the road from Cojimar. Do you know what it means?”
“Well, I know what Juanito says it means,” Tom replied, striving for accuracy. “He says it means a chap what’s lazy because his balls are too big to stir himself.” Tom gave Grey a sidelong glance. “A lady said that to you, me lord?”
“She was speaking to the mule—or at least I hope she was speaking to the mule.” Grey stretched himself, feeling the joints of his shoulders and arms pop, inviting the caress of sleep. “Go to bed, Tom. It will be a long day tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
He paused on his way out, to look at the painting of the things with wings. They were angels, rendered crudely but with a simplicity that made them oddly moving. Four of them hovered protectively over an infant Christ, lying in his manger of straw, asleep. And where was Stubbs sleeping tonight? In a cold spring field, a dim tobacco shed?
“God bless you, Malcolm,” he whispered, and went to seek his bed.
A MODEST COUGH woke him, well after dawn, to find Tom Byrd beside his bed, holding a tray containing breakfast, a steaming cup of the local equivalent of tea, and a note from his mother.
“Her Grace met Rodrigo and Azeel late last night,” Tom informed him. “Them being on the way back posthaste to fetch her, and happen as how she stopped at the same inn where they were stopping to water their horses.”
“She—my mother—isn’t traveling by herself, surely?” At this stage of her life, he wouldn’t put it past her, but…
“Oh, no, me lord,” Tom assured him, with a slightly reproachful look. “She took Eleana and Fatima and three good lads by way of escort. Her Grace ain’t afraid of things, but she’s no ways reckless, as you might say.”
Grey detected a certain emphasis on “she’s” that he might have taken personally but chose to ignore it in favor of reading his mother’s message.
Dear John,
I trust Tom Byrd has told you that Olivia sent Word asking me to come to her at Hacienda Valdez. I met your two Servants at a Hovel somewhere on the Road, they being on their Way back with a similar but more detailed Message, this one written by the local Priest.
Padre Cespedes says that nearly everyone in the House is affected by the Illness, which he—having seen many Occurrences of Fever during his Years serving God near the Zapata Swamp—is sure is not a relapsing Fever, like the tertian Ague, but is almost certainly the Yellow Jack.
A small shock ran through him. “Fever” was a vague word, which might mean anything from a touch of the sun to malaria. Even “ague” might be a passing ill, easily shaken off. But “yellow jack” was stark and definite as a knife in the chest. Most of his army career had involved postings in northern climes; the closest he had come to the dread disease was the sight of ships—now and then—in Kingston Harbor, flying the yellow quarantine flag. But he’d seen the corpses being carried off those ships, too.
His hands had gone cold, and he wrapped one around the hot pottery cup while he read the rest.
Don’t come here, unless I write to say so. There is one thing to be said for the Yellow Jack, which is that it is fearfully quick. All will likely be resolved—one Way or the Other—within a Week. That may leave enough Time in which to execute your original Intent. If not…not.
I think I will see you again, but should God will otherwise, tell Paul and Edgar, Hal and his family, that I love them, tell George—well, tell him that he knows my Heart and what I would say were we together. And for you, John…you are my dearest Son and I carry my Thought of you through all that lies before us.
Your Most Affectionate Mother
John swallowed several times before he could pick up the cup and drink from it. If she had ridden through the night, which seemed likely, she might be arriving at the plantation now. To meet…
Grey said something very obscene in German, under his breath. He put the cup back and swung out of bed, thrusting the letter at Tom; he couldn’t speak coherently enough to transmit the contents.
He had to piss, and did so. This elemental act gave him some semblance of control, and he shoved the utensil back under the bed and straightened up.
“Tom, go and ask where the nearest doctor is to be found. I’ll dress myself.”
Tom gave him a look, but not the look of profound doubt that might have been expected in response to his last statement. This was a very patient look, and one much older than Tom’s years.
“Me lord…” he said, very gently, and set the letter on the chest of drawers. “If Her Grace wanted you to send a doctor, she’d’ve said so, don’t you think?”
“My mother has very little faith in doctors.” Neither did Grey, but, dammit, what else was he to do? “That doesn’t mean one might not…help.”
Tom looked at him for a long moment, then nodded soberly and went.
John could indeed dress himself, though his hands shook so much that he decided to forgo shaving. Malcolm’s ghastly wig lay on the chest of drawers beside his mother’s letter, looking like a dead animal. Ought he wear it?
Why? he wondered. He couldn’t hide his Englishness from the doctor. He probably should send Jacinto to talk to the doctor, in any case. But he couldn’t bloody stand to stay in the house, doing nothing. He picked up the now-lukewarm cup and drained the bitter contents. Christ, what was this stuff?