An echo in the bone - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги TXT) 📗

I did have one undeniably useful thing—or would, if this afternoon’s quest was successful. Nearly five years ago, Lord John Grey had sent me a glass bottle of vitriol and the pelican glassware necessary to distill ether using it. He’d procured those items from an apothecary in Philadelphia, I thought, though I couldn’t recall the name. But there couldn’t be many apothecaries in Phila delphia, and I proposed to visit all of them until I found what I was looking for.

Marsali had said there were two large apothecary’s shops in town, and only a large one would have what I needed to make ether. What was the name of the gentleman from whom Lord John Grey had acquired my pelican apparatus? Was he in Philadelphia at all? My mind was a blank, either from fatigue or from simple forgetfulness; the time when I had made ether in my surgery on Fraser’s Ridge seemed as distant and mythical as Noah’s Flood.

I found the first apothecary and got from him some useful items, including a jar of leeches—though I boggled a little at the thought of putting one inside Henri-Christian’s mouth; what if he managed to swallow the thing?

On the other hand, I reflected, he was a four-year-old boy with a very imaginative elder brother. He’d probably swallowed much worse things than a leech. With luck, though, I wouldn’t need them. I had also got two cautery irons, very small ones. It was a primitive and painful way of stopping bleeding—but, in fact, very effective.

The apothecary had not had any vitriol, though. He had apologized for the lack, saying that such things must be imported from England, and with the war… I thanked him and went on to the second place. Where I was informed that they had had some vitriol but had sold it some time previous, to an English lord, though what he wanted with such a thing, the man behind the counter couldn’t begin to imagine.

“An English lord?” I said, surprised. Surely it couldn’t be Lord John. Though, come to that, it wasn’t as though the English aristocracy was flocking to Philadelphia these days, save those members who were soldiers. And the man had said “a lord,” not a major or a captain.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained; I asked and was obligingly told that it was a Lord John Grey, and that he had requested the vitriol be delivered to his house on Chestnut Street.

Feeling a little like Alice down the rabbit hole—I was still a bit lightheaded from lack of sleep and the fatigues of the journey from Scotland—I asked the way to Chestnut Street.

The door to the house was opened by an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, dressed in a fashion that made it clear she was no servant. We blinked at each other in surprise; she plainly hadn’t been expecting me, either, but when I inquired for Lord John, saying I was an old acquaintance, she readily invited me in, saying that her uncle would be back directly, he had only taken a horse to be shod.

“You would think he’d send the boy,” the young woman—who gave her name as Lady Dorothea Grey—said apologetically. “Or my cousin. But Uncle John is most particular about his horses.”

“Your cousin?” I asked, my slow mind tracing the possible family connections. “You don’t mean William Ransom, do you?”

“Ellesmere, yes,” she said, looking surprised but pleased. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve met once or twice,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking—how does he come to be in Philadelphia? I… er… had understood that he was paroled with the rest of Burgoyne’s army and had gone to Boston in order to sail home to England.”

“Oh, he is!” she said. “Paroled, I mean. He came here, though, first, to see his father—that’s Uncle John—and my brother.” Her large blue eyes clouded a little at the mention. “Henry’s very ill, I’m afraid.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” I said, sincerely but briefly. I was much more interested in William’s presence here, but before I could ask anything further, there was a quick, light step on the porch and the front door opened.

“Dottie?” said a familiar voice. “Have you any idea where—oh, I beg your pardon.” Lord John Grey had come into the parlor and stopped, seeing me. Then he actually saw me, and his jaw dropped.

“How nice to see you again,” I said pleasantly. “But I’m sorry to hear that your nephew is ill.”

“Thank you,” he said, and, eyeing me rather warily, bowed low over my hand, kissing it gracefully. “I am delighted to see you again, Mrs. Fraser,” he added, sounding as though he actually meant it. He hesitated for a moment, but of course couldn’t help asking, “Your husband… ?”

“He’s in Scotland,” I said, feeling rather mean at disappointing him. It flickered across his face but was promptly erased—he was a gentleman, and a soldier. In fact, he was wearing an army uniform, which rather surprised me.

“You’ve returned to active duty, then?” I asked, raising my brows at him.

“Not exactly. Dottie, have you not called for Mrs. Figg yet? I’m sure Mrs. Fraser would like some refreshment.”

“I’d only just come,” I said hastily, as Dottie leapt up and went out.

“Indeed,” he said, courteously repressing the why? that showed plainly on his face. He motioned me to a chair and sat down himself, wearing a rather odd expression, as though trying to think how to say something awkward.

“I am delighted to see you,” he said again, slowly. “Did you—I do not wish to sound in any way ungracious, Mrs. Fraser, you must excuse me—but… did you come to bring me a message from your husband, perhaps?”

He couldn’t help the small light that sprang up in his eyes, and I felt almost apologetic as I shook my head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and was surprised to find that I meant it. “I’ve come to beg a favor. Not on my own behalf—for my grandson.”

He blinked at that.

“Your grandson,” he repeated blankly. “I thought that your daughter … oh! Of course, I was forgetting that your husband’s foster son—his family is here? It is one of his children?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Without more ado, I explained the situation, describing Henri-Christian’s state and reminding him of his generosity in sending me the vitriol and glass apparatus more than four years before.

“Mr. Sholto—the apothecary on Walnut Street?—told me that he had sold you a large bottle of vitriol some months ago. I wondered—do you by any chance still have it?” I made no effort to keep the eagerness out of my voice, and his expression softened.

“Yes, I do,” he said, and, to my surprise, smiled like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I bought it for you, Mrs. Fraser.”

A BARGAIN WAS struck at once. He would not only give me the vitriol but also purchase any other medical supplies I might require, if I would consent to perform surgery on his nephew.

“Dr. Hunter removed one of the balls at Christmas,” he said, “and that improved Henry’s condition somewhat. The other remains embedded, though, and—”

“Dr. Hunter?” I interrupted him. “Not Denzell Hunter, you don’t mean?”

“I do mean that,” he said, surprised and frowning a little. “You do not mean to say you know him?”

“I do indeed mean that,” I said, smiling. “We worked together often, both at Ticonderoga and at Saratoga with Gates’s army. But what is he doing in Philadelphia?”

“He—” he began, but was interrupted by the sound of light footsteps coming down the stair. I had been vaguely conscious of footsteps overhead as we talked but had paid no attention. I looked toward the doorway now, though, and my heart leapt at the sight of Rachel Hunter, who was standing in it, staring at me with her mouth in a perfect “O” of astonishment.

The next moment she was in my arms, hugging me fit to break my ribs.

“Friend Claire!” she said, letting go at last. “I never thought to see—that is, I am so pleased—oh, Claire! Ian. Has he come back with thee?” Her face was alive with eagerness and fear, hope and wariness chasing each other like racing clouds across her features.