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"It's the hya… hya… hyaCHOO!" – Jamie Fraser in Dragonfly In Amber by Diana Gabaldon
Whining and crying.
Fergus had learned long ago that those were the two things you should never do.
Even now, at ten years old, he could hear Madame Elise's voice in his head reminding him they were attention seeking behaviours that only resulted in severe punishment .
It was true, too – he still had the marks to prove it.
Hands balled into fists, he rubbed at his closed eyes willing them to not cry.
He had been feeling awful for days now and he was tired. Tired of the headaches, of the coughing and the itching to the point of hiding instead of just pretending like everything was fine.
The sound of a truck door closing filtered through his thoughts and he looked out the window to consider the position of the sun. If he timed things right, he should be able to sneak across the paddock, through the back garden–
"Fergus," Claire announced far too loudly, "I'm glad to have caught you."
–and not panic.
"I– I am sorry, Milady," Fergus said, his words running together as he spun around looking for the best exit. “I have to go help… in the stables! The, ah… the tack is in need of cleaning and I–”
Claire caught him by the sleeve and pulled him back.
He could feel her studying him and he averted his eyes, finding himself concerned with a nearby rotting fence post. He really ought to bring that to someone’s attention before it fell over completely.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Fergus cringed internally at the suspicion in her voice. “ Oui ,” he nodded, “ je suis bien .”
His words made little difference though and – just as he had anticipated – found himself unwillingly shepherded up to Claire’s surgery and subjected to the one thing he had been avoiding for days: poking and prodding and having someone look far too closely at all the things he had been trying to hide.
And the more she poked and the more she prodded, the more his defences fell and he found the truth spilling from his tired lips.
"Hmm…" Claire hummed as she ran her fingers behind his ears and down the sides of his throat. "Any aches or pains?"
"No, Milady."
"Sore throat?" He shook his head and Claire checked his temperature. "Your eyes are quite red. Are they itchy?"
" Oui , Mi–" Fergus sneezed into his elbow and cringed at the way his shirt sleeve chafed against his nose. " Aïe ."
"Here," Claire held out a little pot of goop and mimed placing some around his nostrils. Curiously, it smelled like nothing at all. "I believe… you are suffering from something called allergic rhinitis. Hay fever ."
Fergus pretended like he didn't notice Claire's face as he wiped the remaining goop onto his trouser leg. "Hay fever?"
"Also known as rhume des foins ."
While he appreciated Claire's translation, it did little to help him understand what exactly she was trying to tell him. "What does that mean?"
"Well, it means your body's immune system is reacting to something it thinks is harmful – ordinary things like dander, dust or pollen – and is trying to get rid of it but, unfortunately, all it does is make you feel terrible. I suspect, in your case, it's this warm and windy Scottish weather that's got you feeling this way."
"Can you cure it?"
"Unfortunately, no. It's just something we have to manage." Claire stood up and moved over to the shelves above the bookcase. She pulled out a cotton strip and a handful of glass bottles. She added a few drops from each – peppermint and... some kind of chamomile – to the cloth before handing it to him along with instructions on what to do with it. "Once upon a time, the known cure was to go to sea."
Fergus held the cloth close to his sore nose and took a deep breath. "To sea?"
"Mmhmm. And it often worked because, whether they knew it or not, it removed the person from the environment causing their problems and, depending on the length of time spent at sea, that environment might have changed by the time they returned. Hopefully, we shall not have to resort to such drastic measures."
Fergus thought of the last time they had travelled by sea and sniggered.
"You know…" Claire said thoughtfully, "acupuncture has been known to assist with hay fever–"
"Oh, no, no, no Milady. It is not necessary."
Considering how Jamie looked with a bunch of needles in his face, it was really was not necessary.
Claire smiled. She easily packed up the few items she had pulled out. "Until we get your symptoms under control, you aren't to do any work outside."
Fergus's heart leapt at the idea–
"Instead, you can help with the chores inside. There's more than enough to keep you busy, goodness knows I can't keep up even with Mrs Crook's help."
Fergus eyed the scene through the window and quickly began to weigh up his options.
A break from mucking out the barn, cutting the lawn and raking the leaves was a better outcome than he could have imagined but to be assigned women's work… he didn't want to imagine what Rabbie might say when he heard the news.
Or even worse, Murtagh .
He moved to shake his head, to deny something so drastic was necessary, when Claire encouraged him to stand up and gently pushed him towards the door.
"We shall start in the kitchen, I think. I've a fresh batch of rose water in the fridge and I could use your help trying out a new cookie recipe."
Fergus blinked. "Cookies?"
"Not very traditional, I know," Claire said, misinterpreting the source of his surprise. She rubbed a hand over her swollen stomach. "I'll need your help tasting the dough to make sure we get the balance right."
Tasting the dough , his mind echoed, fully aware he was gaping like an idiot and suddenly glad for Claire's guiding hand. He understood pregnant women shouldn't be consuming raw eggs but he couldn't quite understand why he should be allowed.
Or why he was now standing at the bottom of the staircase instead of the entrance to the kitchen.
"A quick shower and a change of clothes," Claire instructed. "Make sure to wash your hair."
Fergus did as he was told, afraid he would return downstairs to find the whole thing was a figment of his imagination, a fever induced delirium.
It was called Hay Fever, after all.
But there was Claire, in the middle of the kitchen with her favourite apron covering her dress and a soft smile that grew wider upon his arrival.
"Collect the butter on your way past, will you Fergus?"
Fergus added it to the collection on the kitchen bench. He easily recognised the main ingredients used in anything worth eating – flour, chocolate, sugar and eggs – and inspected the contents of the other containers. He opened the bottle of vanilla extract and gave it a sniff. He put it down quickly when he noticed Claire struggling to reach down and pull something out from one of the lower shelves.
“Here, Milady. Let me.”
Fergus collected everything else they needed and, under Claire’s careful supervision, watched as the butter melted in the saucepan they’d placed on the stove.
"That'll do. Now we want to tip that into the bowl, that's it. Let's add in the sugar…"
Step by step they added in the egg, the vanilla and the rose water. He sifted the flour and watched suspiciously as Claire "folded in" the chocolate. How it was any different to "mixing in" he didn't know and he wasn't inclined to ask.
"Now, the most important part..." Claire pulled off a small piece of dough and handed it to Fergus. "If we've made it right, you should be able to smell the rose water."
Fergus closed his eyes and made a show of smelling the dough before popping the piece in his mouth.
It was sweet and chewy and, oddly enough... rather than a bouquet roses, what came to mind was Saturday mornings spent in the garden with Jehu, Jenny and Ian's rat terrier, while the women drank tea and gossiped by the clothesline.
"What do you think? Enough?"
He swallowed. "Enough."
With trays in the oven, they cleaned up their mess, washing and drying the dishes quickly in an unspoken race to beat the timer tick-tick-ticking on the windowsill. With the freshly baked cookies set in the middle of the table to cool, Fergus watched from where he sat on one of the barstools as Claire plucked a small handful of dried rose petals and began to chop them finely.
A minute or two later she pushed the board as well as a small piece of stoneware towards Fergus.
"Here we go, a sprinkle of sea salt and petals on each please. Not too much salt, mind – we want to enhance the flavour not overpower it."
"What about the petals?" Fergus asked as he 'sprinkled' far too many on one. He wondered if he should try and blow off the excess or wait until it was cool enough to turn upside down and shake it off. "Do they do anything?"
"Roses typically represent love but they're good for many things… they're anti-inflammatory and are believed to bring harmony, protection and good fortune. I've been told they can even be used to heal trouble."
Fergus squinted as he sprinkled on a little on the next. "What other flowers can we eat?"
"All sorts. Pansies, marigold, chamomile..." Claire paused, "dandelions, lavender, fennel–"
"What does lavender do?" Fergus asked, interrupting Claire mid-sentence.
She hardly blinked though and he decided not to feel too guilty about his lack of manners.
"Lavender? Well, that's best known for relieving stress and anxiety, for promoting restful sleep. It's said to bring happiness and peace, and it goes well in all sorts of things. Scones, shortbread, ice-cream, honey… just about anything."
Fergus glanced at the open pantry. For something so versatile there was a noticeable lack of it.
"There's lavender in the garden," he ventured, though not entirely sure as to why. "I have seen it growing there."
"Jamie's not particularly fond of it," Claire explained. "I can't say I am either but, for all that we don't use, the bees certainly enjoy the nectar on offer."
“Are you talking about hyacinths?”
Jamie appeared in the open doorway that led outside, toeing off his boots before making his way across the threshold.
“Cannae stop sneezing when I’m around the blighters,” he wrapped his arms around his wife, one hand cradling her stomach the other reaching for one of the cookies. "Aya! Hot!"
Jamie juggled the cookie in his hand and bit into it quickly.
"Well, don't eat it!" Claire exclaimed, her words rounding into joyous laughter. She brushed some of his wayward crumbs off her shoulder. "Speaking of trouble…"
Jamie kissed her on the cheek before letting go to fetch a glass from one of the top cupboards and fill it with water from the tap. "Fergus, lad,” he paused to take a drink, “I'm in need of yer services, another pair of hands tae help put the quad back together."
Fergus looked between Jamie and Claire, trying to think of what to say. Murtagh was typically the only person he would dare say 'no' to and that was usually only to see his face turn red.
"Unfortunately,” Claire apologised on his behalf, “I've already secured Fergus's employment for the near future. You shall have to source your labour elsewhere, I'm afraid."
"Oh, aye?"
"Mmm. As it so happens, this seasonal weather has been causing us some problems of late and I thought our time might be best spent preparing what we can before the baby arrives.”
“Well, in that case, perhaps another biscuit to–”
Claire slapped his hand away from the cooling rack with the click of her tongue.
“There will be time for tea and biscuits later,” she softened the blow with a kiss – a proper one this time – and shuffled her husband none too gently out of the kitchen. “Right,” she threw a food cover over their freshly baked goods and took off her apron, “let’s go put fresh sheets on all the beds.”
Fergus trailed after her slowly, nose scrunched and a still warm rose chocolate chip cookie safely ensconced in his trouser pocket.