59
IN WHICH MUCH IS REVEALED
They had taken Jamie somewhere. I, shaking and incoherent, had been put—with a certain amount of irony—in the Governor’s private office with Marsali, who insisted on trying to bathe my face with a damp towel, in spite of my resistance.
“They canna think Da had anything to do with it!” she said, for the fifth time.
“They don’t.” I finally pulled myself together enough to talk to her. “But they think Mr. Willoughby did—and Jamie brought him here.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed with horror.
“Mr. Willoughby? But he couldn’t!”
“I wouldn’t have thought so.” I felt as though someone had been beating me with a club; everything ached. I sat slumped on a small velvet love seat, aimlessly twirling a glass of brandy between my hands, unable to drink it.
I couldn’t even decide what I ought to feel, let alone sort out the conflicting events and emotions of the evening. My mind kept jumping between the grisly scene in the retiring room, and the tableau I had seen a half-hour earlier, in this very room.
I sat looking at the Governor’s big desk. I could still see the two of them, Jamie and Lord John, as though they had been painted on the wall before me.
“I just don’t believe it,” I said out loud, and felt slightly better for the saying.
“Neither do I,” said Marsali. She was pacing the floor, her footsteps changing from the click of heels on parquet to a muffled thump as she hit the flowered carpet. “He can’t have! I ken he’s a heathen, but we’ve lived wi’ the man! We know him!”
Did we? Did I know Jamie? I would have sworn I did, and yet…I kept remembering what he had said to me at the brothel, during our first night together. Will ye take me, and risk the man that I am, for the sake of the man ye knew? I had thought then—and since—that there was not so much difference between them. But if I were wrong?
“I’m not wrong!” I muttered, clutching my glass fiercely. “I’m not!” If Jamie could take Lord John Grey as a lover, and hide it from me, he wasn’t remotely the man I thought he was. There had to be some other explanation.
He didn’t tell you about Laoghaire, said an insidious little voice inside my head.
“That’s different,” I said to it stoutly.
“What’s different?” Marsali was looking at me in surprise.
“I don’t know; don’t mind me.” I brushed a hand across my face, trying to wipe away confusion and weariness. “It’s taking them a long time.”
The walnut case-clock had struck two o’clock in the morning before the door of the office opened and Fergus came in, accompanied by a grim-looking militiaman.
Fergus was somewhat the worse for wear; most of the powder had gone from his hair, shaken onto the shoulders of his dark blue coat like dandruff. What was left gave his hair a grayish cast, as though he had aged twenty years overnight. No surprise; I felt as though I had.
“We can go now, chèrie,” he said quietly to Marsali. He turned to me. “Will you come with us, milady, or wait for milord?”
“I’ll wait,” I said. I wasn’t going to bed until I had seen Jamie, no matter how long it took.
“I will have the carriage return for you, then,” he said, and put a hand on Marsali’s back to usher her out.
The militiaman said something under his breath as they passed him. I didn’t catch it, but evidently Fergus did. He stiffened, eyes narrowing, and turned back toward the man. The militiaman rocked up onto the balls of his feet, smiling evilly and looking expectant. Clearly he would like nothing better than an excuse to hit Fergus.
To his surprise, Fergus smiled charmingly at him, square white teeth gleaming.
“My thanks, mon ami,” he said, “for your assistance in this most trying situation.” He thrust out a black-gloved hand, which the militiaman accepted in surprise.
Then Fergus jerked his arm suddenly backward. There was a brief rip, and a pattering sound, as a small stream of bran struck the parquet floor.
“Keep it,” he told the militiaman graciously. “A small token of my appreciation.” And then they were gone, leaving the man slack-jawed, staring down in horror at the apparently severed hand in his grasp.
* * *
It was another hour before the door opened again, this time to admit the Governor. He was still handsome and neat as a white camellia, but definitely beginning to turn brown round the edges. I set the untouched glass of brandy down and got to my feet to face him.
“Where is Jamie?”
“Still being questioned by Captain Jacobs, the militia commander.” He sank into his chair, looking bemused. “I had no notion he spoke French so remarkably well.”
“I don’t suppose you know him all that well,” I said, deliberately baiting. What I wanted badly to know was just how well he did know Jamie. He didn’t rise to it, though; merely took off his formal wig and laid it aside, running a hand through his damp blond hair with relief.
“Can he keep up such an impersonation, do you think?” he asked, frowning, and I realized that he was so occupied with thoughts of the murder and of Jamie that he was paying little, if any, attention to me.
“Yes,” I said shortly. “Where do they have him?” I got up, heading for the door.
“In the formal parlor,” he said. “But I don’t think you should—”
Not pausing to listen, I yanked open the door and poked my head into the hall, then hastily drew it back and slammed the door.
Coming down the hall was the Admiral I had met in the receiving line, face set in lines of gravity suitable to the situation. Admirals I could deal with. However, he was accompanied by a flotilla of junior officers, and among the entourage I had spotted a face I knew, though he was now wearing the uniform of a first lieutenant, instead of an oversized captain’s coat.
He was shaved and rested, but his face was puffy and discolored; someone had beaten him up in the not too distant past. Despite the differences in his appearance, I had not the slightest difficulty in recognizing Thomas Leonard. I had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing me, either, violet silk notwithstanding.
I looked frantically about the office for someplace to hide, but short of crawling into the kneehole of the desk, there was no place at all. The Governor was watching me, fair brows raised in astonishment.
“What—” he began, but I rounded on him, finger to my lips.
“Don’t give me away, if you value Jamie’s life!” I hissed melodramatically, and so saying, flung myself onto the velvet love seat, snatched up the damp towel and dropped it on my face, and—with a superhuman effort of will—forced all my limbs to go limp.
I heard the door open, and the Admiral’s high, querulous voice.
“Lord John—” he began, and then evidently noticed my supine form, for he broke off and resumed in a slightly lower voice, “Oh! I collect you are engaged?”
“Not precisely engaged, Admiral, no.” Grey had fast reflexes, I would say that for him; he sounded perfectly self-possessed, as though he were quite used to being found in custody of unconscious females. “The lady was overcome by the shock of discovering the body.”
“Oh!” said the Admiral again, this time dripping with sympathy. “I quite see that. Beastly shock for a lady, to be sure.” He hesitated, then dropping his voice to a sort of hoarse whisper, said, “D’you think she’s asleep?”
“I should think so,” the Governor assured him. “She’s had enough brandy to fell a horse.” My fingers twitched, but I managed to lie still.
“Oh, quite. Best thing for shock, brandy.” The Admiral went on whispering, sounding like a rusted hinge. “Meant to tell you I have sent to Antigua for additional troops—quite at your disposal—guards, search the town—if the militia don’t find the fellow first,” he added.
“I hope they may not,” said a viciously determined voice among the officers. “I’d like to catch the yellow bugger myself. There wouldn’t be enough of him left to hang, believe me!”
A deep murmur of approval at this sentiment went through the men, to be sternly quelled by the Admiral.
“Your sentiments do you credit, gentlemen,” he said, “but the law will be observed in all respects. You will make that clear to the troops in your command; when the miscreant is taken, he is to be brought to the Governor, and justice will be properly executed, I assure you.” I didn’t like the way he emphasized the word “executed,” but he got a grudging chorus of assent from his officers.
The Admiral, having delivered this order in his ordinary voice, dropped back into a whisper to take his leave.
“I shall be staying in the town, at MacAdams’ Hotel,” he croaked. “Do not hesitate to send to me for any assistance, Your Excellency.”
There was a general shuffle and murmur as the naval officers took their leave, observing discretion for the sake of my slumbers. Then came the sound of a single pair of footsteps, and then the whoosh and creak of someone settling heavily into a chair. There was silence for a moment.
Then Lord John said “You can get up now, if you wish. I am supposing that you are not in fact prostrate with shock,” he added, ironically. “Somehow I suspect that a mere murder would not be sufficient to discompose a woman who could deal single-handedly with a typhoid epidemic.”
I removed the towel from my face and swung my feet off the chaise, sitting up to face him. He was leaning on his desk, chin in his hands, staring at me.
“There are shocks,” I said precisely, smoothing back my damp curls and giving him an eyeball, “and then there are shocks. If you know what I mean.”
He looked surprised; then a flicker of understanding came into his expression. He reached into the drawer of his desk, and pulled out my fan, white silk embroidered with violets.
“This is yours, I suppose? I found it in the corridor.” His mouth twisted wryly as he looked at me. “I see. I suppose, then, you will have some notion of how your appearance earlier this evening affected me.”
“I doubt it very much,” I said. My fingers were still icy, and I felt as though I had swallowed some large, cold object that pressed uncomfortably under my breastbone. I breathed deeply, trying to force it down, to no avail. “You didn’t know that Jamie was married?”
He blinked, but not in time to keep me from seeing a small grimace of pain, as though someone had struck him suddenly across the face.
“I knew he had been married,” he corrected. He dropped his hands, fiddling aimlessly with the small objects that littered his desk. “He told me—or gave me to understand, at least—that you were dead.”
Grey picked up a small silver paperweight, and turned it over and over in his hands, eyes fixed on the gleaming surface. A large sapphire was set in it, winking blue in the candlelight.
“Has he never mentioned me?” he asked softly. I wasn’t sure whether the undertone in his voice was pain or anger. Despite myself, I felt some small sense of pity for him.
“Yes, he did,” I said. “He said you were his friend.” He glanced up, the fine-cut face lightening a bit.
“Did he?”
“You have to understand,” I said. “He—I—we were separated by the war, the Rising. Each of us thought the other was dead. I found him again only—my God, was it only four months ago?” I felt staggered, and not only by the events of the evening. I felt as though I had lived several lifetimes since the day I had opened the door of the printshop in Edinburgh, to find A. Malcolm bending over his press.
The lines of stress in Grey’s face eased a little.
“I see,” he said slowly. “So—you have not seen him since—my God, that’s twenty years!” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “And four months? Why—how—” He shook his head, brushing away the questions.
“Well, that’s of no consequence just now. But he did not tell you—that is—has he not told you about Willie?”
I stared at him blankly.
“Who’s Willie?”
Instead of explaining, he bent and opened the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small object and laid it on the desk, motioning me to come closer.
It was a portrait, an oval miniature, set in a carved frame of some fine-grained dark wood. I looked at the face, and sat down abruptly, my knees gone to water. I was only dimly aware of Grey’s face, floating above the desk like a cloud on the horizon, as I picked up the miniature to look at it more closely.
He might have been Bree’s brother, was my first thought. The second, coming with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, was “My God in heaven, he is Bree’s brother!”
There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The boy in the portrait was perhaps nine or ten, with a childish tenderness still lingering about his face, and his hair was a soft chestnut brown, not red. But the slanted blue eyes looked out boldly over a straight nose a fraction of an inch too long, and the high Viking cheekbones pressed tight against smooth skin. The tilt of the head held the same confident carriage as that of the man who had given him that face.
My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it. I set it back on the desk, but kept my hand over it, as though it might leap up and bite me. Grey was watching me, not without sympathy.
“You didn’t know?” he said.
“Who—” My voice was hoarse with shock, and I had to stop and clear my throat. “Who is his mother?”
Grey hesitated, eyeing me closely, then shrugged slightly.
“Was. She’s dead.”
“Who was she?” The ripples of shock were still spreading from an epicenter in my stomach, making the crown of my head tingle and my toes go numb, but at least my vocal cords were coming back under my control. I could hear Jenny saying, He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone, aye? Evidently he wasn’t.
“Her name was Geneva Dunsany,” Grey said. “My wife’s sister.”
My mind was reeling, in an effort to make sense of all this, and I suppose I was less than tactful.
“Your wife?” I said, goggling at him. He flushed deeply and looked away. If I had been in any doubt about the nature of the look I had seen him give Jamie, I wasn’t any longer.
“I think you had better bloody well explain to me just what you have to do with Jamie, and this Geneva, and this boy,” I said, picking up the portrait once more.
He raised one brow, cool and reserved; he had been shocked, too, but the shock was wearing off.
“I cannot see that I am under any particular obligation to do so,” he said.
I fought back the urge to rake my nails down his face, but the impulse must have shown on my face, for he pushed back his chair and got his feet under him, ready to move quickly. He eyed me warily across the expanse of dark wood.
I took several deep breaths, unclenched my fists, and spoke as calmly as I could.
“Right. You’re not. But I would appreciate it very much if you did. And why did you show me the picture if you didn’t mean me to know?” I added. “Since I know that much, I’ll certainly find out the rest from Jamie. You might as well tell me your side of it now.” I glanced at the window; the slice of sky that showed between the half-open shutters was still a velvet black, with no sign of dawn. “There’s time.”
He breathed deeply, and laid down the paperweight. “I suppose there is.” He jerked his head abruptly at the decanter. “Will you have brandy?”
“I will,” I said promptly, “and I strongly suggest you have some, too. I expect you need it as much as I do.”
A slight smile showed briefly at the corner of his mouth.
“Is that a medical opinion, Mrs. Malcolm?” he asked dryly.
“Absolutely,” I said.
This small truce established, he sat back, rolling his beaker of brandy slowly between his hands.
“You said Jamie mentioned me to you,” he said. I must have flinched slightly at his use of Jamie’s name, for he frowned at me. “Would you prefer that I referred to him by his surname?” he said, coldly. “I should scarcely know which to use, under the circumstances.”
“No.” I waved it away, and took a sip of brandy. “Yes, he mentioned you. He said you had been the Governor of the prison at Ardsmuir, and that you were a friend—and that he could trust you,” I added reluctantly. Possibly Jamie felt he could trust Lord John Grey, but I was not so sanguine.
The smile this time was not quite so brief.
“I am glad to hear that,” Grey said softly. He looked down into the amber liquid in his cup, swirling it gently to release its heady bouquet. He took a sip, then set the cup down with decision.
“I met him at Ardsmuir, as he said,” he began. “And when the prison was shut down and the other prisoners sold to indenture in America, I arranged that Jamie should be paroled instead to a place in England, called Helwater, owned by friends of my family.” He looked at me, hesitating, then added simply, “I could not bear the thought of never seeing him again, you see.”
In a few brief words, he acquainted me with the bare facts of Geneva’s death and Willie’s birth.
“Was he in love with her?” I asked. The brandy was doing its bit to warm my hands and feet, but it didn’t touch the large cold object in my stomach.
“He has never spoken to me of Geneva,” Grey said. He gulped the last of his brandy, coughed, and reached to pour another cup. It was only when he finished this operation that he looked at me again, and added, “But I doubt it, having known her.” His mouth twisted wryly.
“He never told me about Willie, either, but there was a certain amount of gossip about Geneva and old Lord Ellesmere, and by the time the boy was four or five, the resemblance made it quite clear who his father was—to anyone who cared to look.” He took another deep swallow of brandy. “I suspect that my mother-in-law knows, but of course she would never breathe a word.”
“She wouldn’t?”
He stared at me over the rim of his cup.
“No, would you? If it were a choice of your only grandchild being either the ninth Earl of Ellesmere, and heir to one of the wealthiest estates in England, or the penniless bastard of a Scottish criminal?”
“I see.” I drank some more of my own brandy, trying to imagine Jamie with a young English girl named Geneva—and succeeding all too well.
“Quite,” Grey said dryly. “Jamie saw, too. And very wisely arranged to leave Helwater before it became obvious to everyone.”
“And that’s where you come back into the story, is it?” I asked.
He nodded, eyes closed. The Residence was quiet, though there was a certain distant stir that made me aware that people were still about.
“That’s right,” he said. “Jamie gave the boy to me.”
The stable at Ellesmere was well-built; cozy in the winter, it was a cool haven in summer. The big bay stallion flicked its ears lazily at a passing fly, but stood stolidly content, enjoying the attentions of his groom.
“Isobel is most displeased with you,” Grey said.
“Is she?” Jamie’s voice was indifferent. There was no need any longer to worry about displeasing any of the Dunsanys.
“She said you had told Willie you were leaving, which upset him dreadfully. He’s been howling all day.”
Jamie’s face was turned away, but Grey saw the faint tightening at the side of his throat. He rocked backward, leaning against the stable wall as he watched the curry comb come down and down and down in hard, even strokes that left dark trails across the shimmering coat.
“Surely it would have been easier to say nothing to the boy?” Grey said quietly.
“I suppose it would—for Lady Isobel.” Fraser turned to put up the curry comb, and slapped a hand on the stallion’s rump in dismissal. Grey thought there was an air of finality in the gesture; tomorrow Jamie would be gone. He felt a slight thickening in his own throat, but swallowed it. He rose and followed Fraser toward the door of the stall.
“Jamie—” he said, putting his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. The Scot swung round, his features hastily readjusting themselves, but not fast enough to hide the misery in his eyes. He stood still, looking down at the Englishman.
“You’re right to go,” Grey said. Alarm flared in Fraser’s eyes, quickly supplanted by wariness.
“Am I?” he said.
“Anyone with half an eye could see it,” Grey said dryly. “If anyone ever actually looked at a groom, someone would have noticed long before now.” He glanced back at the bay stallion, and cocked one brow. “Some sires stamp their get. I have the distinct impression that any offspring of yours would be unmistakable.”
Jamie said nothing, but Grey fancied that he had grown a shade paler than usual.
“Surely you can see—well, no, perhaps not,” he corrected himself, “I don’t suppose you have a looking glass, have you?”
Jamie shook his head mechanically. “No,” he said absently. “I shave in the reflection from the trough.” He drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“Aye, well,” he said. He glanced toward the house, where the French doors were standing open onto the lawn. Willie was accustomed to play there after lunch on fine days.
Fraser turned to him with sudden decision. “Will ye walk with me?” he said.
Not pausing for an answer, he set off past the stable, turning down the lane that led from the paddock to the lower pasture. It was nearly a quarter-mile before he came to a halt, in a sunny clearing by a clump of willows, near the edge of the mere.
Grey found himself puffing slightly from the quick pace—too much soft living in London, he chided himself. Fraser, of course, was not even sweating, despite the warmth of the day.
Without preamble, turning to face Grey, he said, “I wish to ask a favor of ye.” The slanted blue eyes were direct as the man himself.
“If you think I would tell anyone…” Grey began, then shook his head. “Surely you don’t think I could do such a thing. After all, I have known—or at least suspected—for some time.”
“No.” A faint smile lifted Jamie’s mouth. “No, I dinna think ye would. But I would ask ye…”
“Yes,” Grey said promptly. The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched.
“Ye dinna wish to know what it is first?”
“I should imagine that I know; you wish me to look out for Willie; perhaps to send you word of his welfare.”
Jamie nodded.
“Aye, that’s it.” He glanced up the slope, to where the house lay half-hidden in its nest of fiery maples. “It’s an imposition, maybe, to ask ye to come all the way from London to see him now and then.”
“Not at all,” Grey interrupted. “I came this afternoon to give you some news of my own; I am to be married.”
“Married?” The shock was plain on Fraser’s face. “To a woman?”
“I think there are not many alternatives,” Grey replied dryly. “But yes, since you ask, to a woman. To the Lady Isobel.”
“Christ, man! Ye canna do that!”
“I can,” Grey assured him. He grimaced. “I made trial of my capacity in London; be assured that I shall make her an adequate husband. You needn’t necessarily enjoy the act in order to perform it—or perhaps you were aware of that?”
There was a small reflexive twitch at the corner of Jamie’s eye; not quite a flinch, but enough for Grey to notice. Jamie opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head, obviously thinking better of what he had been about to say.
“Dunsany is growing too old to take a hand in the running of the estate,” Grey pointed out. “Gordon is dead, and Isobel and her mother cannot manage the place alone. Our families have known each other for decades. It is an entirely suitable match.”
“Is it, then?” The sardonic skepticism in Jamie’s voice was clear. Grey turned to him, fair skin flushing as he answered sharply.
“It is. There is more to a marriage than carnal love. A great deal more.”
Fraser swung sharply away. He strode to the edge of the mere, and stood, boots sunk in the reedy mud, looking over the ruffled waves for some time. Grey waited patiently, taking the time to unribbon his hair and reorder the thick blond mass.
At long last, Fraser came back, walking slowly, head down as though still thinking. Face-to-face with Grey he looked up again.
“You are right,” he said quietly. “I have no right to think ill of you, if ye mean no dishonor to the lady.”
“Certainly not,” Grey said. “Besides,” he added more cheerfully, “it means I will be here permanently, to see to Willie.”
“You mean to resign your commission, then?” One copper eyebrow flicked upward.
“Yes,” Grey said. He smiled, a little ruefully. “It will be a relief, in a way. I was not meant for army life, I think.”
Fraser seemed to be thinking. “I should be…grateful, then,” he said, “if you would stand as stepfather to—to my son.” He had likely never spoken the word aloud before, and the sound of it seemed to shock him. “I…would be obliged to you.” Jamie sounded as though his collar were too tight, though in fact his shirt was open at the throat. Grey looked curiously at him, and saw that his countenance was slowly turning a dark and painful red.
“In return…If you want…I mean, I would be willing to…that is…”
Grey suppressed the sudden desire to laugh. He laid a light hand on the big Scot’s arm, and saw Jamie brace himself not to flinch at the touch.
“My dear Jamie,” he said, torn between laughter and exasperation. “Are you actually offering me your body in payment for my promise to look after Willie?”
Fraser’s face was red to the roots of his hair.
“Aye, I am,” he snapped, tight-lipped. “D’ye want it, or no?”
At this, Grey did laugh, in long gasping whoops, finally having to sit down on the grassy bank in order to recover himself.
“Oh, dear God,” he said at last, wiping his eyes. “That I should live to hear an offer like that!”
Fraser stood above him, looking down, the morning light silhouetting him, lighting his hair in flames against the pale blue sky. Grey thought he could see a slight twitch of the wide mouth in the darkened face—humor, tempered with a profound relief.
“Ye dinna want me, then?”
Grey got to his feet, dusting the seat of his breeches. “I shall probably want you to the day I die,” he said matter-of-factly. “But tempted as I am—” He shook his head, brushing wet grass from his hands.
“Do you really think that I would demand—or accept—any payment for such a service?” he asked. “Really, I should feel my honor most grossly insulted by that offer, save that I know the depth of feeling which prompted it.”
“Aye, well,” Jamie muttered. “I didna mean to insult ye.”
Grey was not sure at this point whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he reached a hand up and gently touched Jamie’s cheek, fading now to its normal pale bronze. More quietly, he said, “Besides, you cannot give me what you do not have.”
Grey felt, rather than saw, the slight relaxation of tension in the tall body facing him.
“You shall have my friendship,” Jamie said softly, “if that has any value to ye.”
“A very great value indeed.” The two men stood silent together for a moment, then Grey sighed and turned to look up at the sun. “It’s getting late. I suppose you will have a great many things to do today?”
Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye, I have. I suppose I should be about my business.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Grey tugged down the points of his waistcoat, ready to go. But Jamie lingered awkwardly a moment, and then, as though suddenly making up his mind to it, stepped forward and bending down, cupped Grey’s face between his hands.
Grey felt the big hands warm on the skin of his face, light and strong as the brush of an eagle’s feather, and then Jamie Fraser’s soft wide mouth touched his own. There was a fleeting impression of tenderness and strength held in check, the faint taste of ale and fresh-baked bread. Then it was gone, and John Grey stood blinking in the brilliant sun.
“Oh,” he said.
Jamie gave him a shy, crooked smile.
“Aye, well,” he said. “I suppose I’m maybe not poisoned.” He turned then, and disappeared into the screen of willows, leaving Lord John Grey alone by the mere.
The Governor was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up with a bleak smile.
“That was the first time that he ever touched me willingly,” he said quietly. “And the last—until this evening, when I gave him the other copy of that miniature.”
I sat completely motionless, the brandy glass unregarded in my hands. I wasn’t sure what I felt; shock, fury, horror, jealousy, and pity all washed through me in successive waves, mingling in eddies of confused emotion.
A woman had been violently done to death nearby, within the last few hours. And yet the scene in the retiring room seemed unreal by comparison with that miniature; a small and unimportant picture, painted in tones of red. For the moment, neither Lord John nor I was concerned with crime or justice—or with anything beyond what lay between us.
The Governor was examining my face, with considerable absorption.
“I suppose I should have recognized you on the ship,” he said. “But of course, at the time, I had thought you long dead.”
“Well, it was dark,” I said, rather stupidly. I shoved a hand through my curls, feeling dizzy from brandy and sleeplessness. Then I realized what he had said.
“Recognized me? But you’d never met me!”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Do you recall a dark wood, near Carryarrick in the Scottish Highlands, twenty years ago? And a young boy with a broken arm? You set it for me.” He lifted one arm in demonstration.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” I picked up the brandy and took a swallow that made me cough and gasp. I blinked at him, eyes watering. Knowing now who he was, I could make out the fine, light bones and see the slighter, softer outline of the boy he had been.
“Yours were the first woman’s breasts I had ever seen,” he said wryly. “It was a considerable shock.”
“From which you appear to have recovered,” I said, rather coldly. “You seem to have forgiven Jamie for breaking your arm and threatening to shoot you, at least.”
He flushed slightly, and set down his beaker.
“I—well—yes,” he said, abruptly.
We sat there for quite some time, neither of us having any idea what to say. He took a breath once or twice, as though about to say something, but then abandoned it. At last, he closed his eyes as though commending his soul to God, opened them and looked at me.
“Do you know—” he began, then stopped. He looked down at his clenched hands, then, not at me. A blue stone winked on one knuckle, bright as a teardrop.
“Do you know,” he said again, softly, addressing his hands, “what it is to love someone, and never—never!—be able to give them peace, or joy, or happiness?”
He looked up then, eyes filled with pain. “To know that you cannot give them happiness, not through any fault of yours or theirs, but only because you were not born the right person for them?”
I sat quiet, seeing not his, but another handsome face; dark, not fair. Not feeling the warm breath of the tropical night, but the icy hand of a Boston winter. Seeing the pulse of light like heart’s blood, spilling across the cold snow of hospital linens.
…only because you were not born the right person for them.
“I know,” I whispered, hands clenched in my lap. I had told Frank—Leave me. But he could not, no more than I could love him rightly, having found my match elsewhere.
Oh, Frank, I said, silently. Forgive me.
“I suppose I am asking whether you believe in fate,” Lord John went on. The ghost of a smile wavered on his face. “You, of all people, would seem best suited to say.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said bleakly. “But I don’t know, any more than you.”
He shook his head, then reached out and picked up the miniature.
“I have been more fortunate than most, I suppose,” he said quietly. “There was the one thing he would take from me.” His expression softened as he looked down into the face of the boy in the palm of his hand. “And he has given me something most precious in return.”
Without thinking, my hand spread out across my belly. Jamie had given me that same precious gift—and at the same great cost to himself.
The sound of footsteps came down the hall, muffled by the carpet. There was a sharp rap at the door, and a militiaman stuck his head into the office.
“Is the lady recovered yet?” he asked. “Captain Jacobs has finished his questions, and Monsieur Alexandre’s carriage has returned.”
I got hastily to my feet.
“Yes, I’m fine.” I turned to the Governor, not knowing what to say to him. “I—thank you for—that is—”
He bowed formally to me, coming around the desk to see me out.
“I regret extremely that you should have been subjected to such a shocking experience, ma’am,” he said, with no trace of anything but diplomatic regret in his voice. He had resumed his official manner, smooth and polished as his parquet floors.
I followed the militiaman, but at the door I turned impulsively.
“When we met, that night aboard the Porpoise—I’m glad you didn’t know who I was. I…liked you. Then.”
He stood for a second, polite, remote. Then the mask dropped away.
“I liked you, too,” he said quietly. “Then.”
* * *
I felt as though I were riding next to a stranger. The light was beginning to gray toward dawn, and even in the dimness of the coach, I could see Jamie sitting opposite me, his face drawn with weariness. He had taken off the ridiculous wig as soon as we drove away from Government House, discarding the facade of the polished Frenchman to let the disheveled Scot beneath show through. His unbound hair lay in waves over his shoulders, dark in that predawn light that robs everything of color.
“Do you think he did it?” I asked at last, only for something to say.
His eyes were closed. At this, they opened and he shrugged slightly.
“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded exhausted. “I have asked myself that a thousand times tonight—and been asked it even more.” He rubbed his knuckles hard over his forehead.
“I canna imagine a man I know to do such a thing. And yet…well, ye ken he’ll do anything when he’s drink taken. And he’s killed before, drunk—you’ll mind the Customs man at the brothel?” I nodded, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, sinking his head into his hands.
“This is different, though,” he said. “I canna think—but maybe so. Ye ken what he said about women on the ship. And if this Mrs. Alcott was to have toyed wi’ him—”
“She did,” I said. “I saw her.”
He nodded without looking up. “So did any number of other people. But if she led him to think she meant more than she maybe did, and then perhaps she put him off, maybe laughed at him…and him fu’ as a puggie wi’ drink, and knives to hand on every wall of the place…” He sighed and sat up.
“God knows,” he said bleakly. “I don’t.” He ran a hand backward through his hair, smoothing it.
“There’s something else about it. I had to tell them that I scarcely knew Willoughby—that we’d met him on the packet boat from Martinique, and thought it kindly to introduce him about, but didna ken a thing of where he came from, or the sort of fellow he truly was.”
“Did they believe it?”
He glanced at me wryly.
“So far. But the packet boat comes in again in six days—at which point, they’ll question the captain and discover that he’s never laid eyes on Monsieur Etienne Alexandre and his wife, let alone a wee yellow murdering fiend.”
“That might be a trifle awkward,” I observed, thinking of Fergus and the militiaman. “We’re already rather unpopular on Mr. Willoughby’s account.”
“Nothing to what we will be, if six days pass and they havena found him,” he assured me. “Six days is also maybe as long as it will take for gossip to spread from Blue Mountain House to Kingston about the MacIvers’ visitors—for ye ken the servants there all know who we are.”
“Damn.”
He smiled briefly at that, and my heart turned over to see it.
“You’ve a nice way wi’ words, Sassenach. Aye, well, all it means is that we must find Ian within six days. I shall go to Rose Hall at once, but I think I must just have a wee rest before setting out.” He yawned widely behind his hand and shook his head, blinking.
We didn’t speak again until after we had arrived at Blue Mountain House and made our way on tiptoe through the slumbering house to our room.
I changed in the dressing room, dropping the heavy stays on the floor with relief, and taking out the pins to let my hair fall free. Wearing only a silk chemise, I came into the bedroom, to see Jamie standing by the French door in his shirt, looking out over the lagoon.
He turned when he heard me, and beckoned, putting a finger to his lips.
“Come see,” he whispered.
There was a small herd of manatees in the lagoon, big gray bodies gliding under the dark crystal water, rising gleaming like smooth, wet rocks. Birds were beginning to call in the trees near the house; besides this, the only sound was the frequent whoosh of the manatees’ breath as they rose for air, and now and then an eerie sound like a hollow, distant wail, as they called to each other.
We watched them in silence, side by side. The lagoon began to turn green as the first rays of sun touched its surface. In that state of extreme fatigue where every sense is preternaturally heightened, I was as aware of Jamie as though I were touching him.
John Grey’s revelations had relieved me of most of my fears and doubts—and yet there remained the fact that Jamie had not told me about his son. Of course he had reasons—and good ones—for his secrecy, but did he not think he could trust me to keep his secret? It occurred to me suddenly that perhaps he had kept quiet because of the boy’s mother. Perhaps he had loved her, in spite of Grey’s impressions.
She was dead; could it matter if he had? The answer was that it did. I had thought Jamie dead for twenty years, and it had made no difference at all in what I felt for him. What if he had loved this young English girl in such a way? I swallowed a small lump in my throat, trying to find the courage to ask him.
His face was abstracted, a small frown creasing his forehead, despite the dawning beauty of the lagoon.
“What are you thinking?” I asked at last, unable to ask for reassurance, fearing to ask for the truth.
“It’s only that I had a thought,” he answered, still staring out at the manatees. “About Willoughby, aye?”
The events of the night seemed far away and unimportant. Yet murder had been done.
“What was that?”
“Well, I couldna think at first that Willoughby could do such a thing—how could any man?” He paused, drawing a finger through the light mist of condensation that formed on the windowpanes as the sun rose. “And yet…” He turned to face me.
“Perhaps I can see.” His face was troubled. “He was alone—verra much alone.”
“A stranger, in a strange land,” I said quietly, remembering the poems, painted in the open secrecy of bold black ink, sent flying toward a long-lost home, committed to the sea on wings of white paper.
“Aye, that’s it.” He stopped to think, rubbing a hand slowly through his hair, gleaming copper in the new daylight. “And when a man is alone that way—well, it’s maybe no decent to say it, but making love to a woman is maybe the only thing will make him forget it for a time.”
He looked down, turning his hands over, stroking the length of his scarred middle finger with the index finger of his left hand.
“That’s what made me wed Laoghaire,” he said quietly. “Not Jenny’s nagging. Not pity for her or the wee lassies. Not even a pair of aching balls.” His mouth turned up briefly at one corner, then relaxed. “Only needing to forget I was alone,” he finished softly.
He turned restlessly, back to the window.
“So I am thinking that if the Chinee came to her, wanting that—needing that—and she wouldna take him…” He shrugged, staring out across the cool green of the lagoon. “Aye, maybe he could have done it,” he said.
I stood beside him. Out in the center of the lagoon, a single manatee drifted lazily to the surface, turning on her back to hold the infant on her chest toward the sunlight.
He was silent for several minutes, and I was as well, not knowing how to take the conversation back to what I had seen and heard at Government House.
I felt rather than saw him swallow, and he turned from the window to face me. There were lines of tiredness in his face, but his expression was filled with a sort of determination—the sort of look he wore facing battle.
“Claire,” he said, and at once I stiffened. He called me by my name only when he was most serious. “Claire, I must tell ye something.”
“What?” I had been trying to think how to ask, but suddenly I didn’t want to hear. I took half a step back, away from him, but he grabbed my arm.
He had something hidden in his fist. He took my unresisting hand and put the object into it. Without looking, I knew what it was; I could feel the carving of the delicate oval frame and the slight roughness of the painted surface.
“Claire.” I could see the slight tremor at the side of his throat as he swallowed. “Claire—I must tell ye. I have a son.”
I didn’t say anything, but opened my hand. There it was; the same face I had seen in Grey’s office, a childish, cocky version of the man before me.
“I should ha’ told ye before.” He was searching my face for some clue to my feelings, but for once, my giveaway countenance must have been perfectly blank. “I would have—only—” He took a deep breath for strength to go on.
“I havena ever told anyone about him,” he said. “Not even Jenny.”
That startled me enough to speak.
“Jenny doesn’t know?”
He shook his head, and turned away to watch the manatees. Alarmed by our voices, they had retreated a short distance, but then had settled down again, feeding on the water weed at the edge of the lagoon.
“It was in England. It’s—he’s—I couldna say he was mine. He’s a bastard, aye?” It might have been the rising sun that flushed his cheeks. He bit his lip and went on.
“I havena seen him since he was a wee lad. I never will see him again—except it might be in a wee painting like this.” He took the small picture from me, cradling it in the palm of his hand like a baby’s head. He blinked, head bent over it.
“I was afraid to tell ye,” he said, low-voiced. “For fear ye would think that perhaps I’d gone about spawning a dozen bastards…for fear ye’d think that I wouldna care for Brianna so much, if ye kent I had another child. But I do care, Claire—a great deal more than I can tell ye.” He lifted his head and looked directly at me.
“Will ye forgive me?”
“Did you—” The words almost choked me, but I had to say them. “Did you love her?”
An extraordinary expression of sadness crossed his face, but he didn’t look away.
“No,” he said softly. “She…wanted me. I should have found a way—should have stopped her, but I could not. She wished me to lie wi’ her. And I did, and…she died of it.” He did look down then, long lashes hiding his eyes. “I am guilty of her death, before God; perhaps the more guilty—because I did not love her.”
I didn’t say anything, but put up a hand to touch his cheek. He pressed his own hand over it, hard, and closed his eyes. There was a gecko on the wall beside us, nearly the same color as the yellow plaster behind it, beginning to glow in the gathering daylight.
“What is he like?” I asked softly. “Your son?”
He smiled slightly, without opening his eyes.
“He’s spoilt and stubborn,” he said softly. “Ill-mannered. Loud. Wi’ a wicked temper.” He swallowed. “And braw and bonny and canty and strong,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him.
“And yours,” I said. His hand tightened on mine, holding it against the soft stubble of his cheek.
“And mine,” he said. He took a deep breath, and I could see the glitter of tears under his closed lids.
“You should have trusted me,” I said at last. He nodded, slowly, then opened his eyes, still holding my hand.
“Perhaps I should,” he said quietly. “And yet I kept thinking—how should I tell ye everything, about Geneva, and Willie, and John—will ye know about John?” He frowned slightly, then relaxed as I nodded.
“He told me. About everything.” His brows rose, but he went on.
“Especially after ye found out about Laoghaire. How could I tell ye, and expect ye to know the difference?”
“What difference?”
“Geneva—Willie’s mother—she wanted my body,” he said softly, watching the gecko’s pulsing sides. “Laoghaire needed my name, and the work of my hands to keep her and her bairns.” He turned his head then, dark blue eyes fixed on mine. “John—well.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “I couldna give him what he wanted—and he is friend enough not to ask it.
“But how shall I tell ye all these things,” he said, the line of his mouth twisting. “And then say to you—it is only you I have ever loved? How should you believe me?”
The question hung in the air between us, shimmering like the reflection from the water below.
“If you say it,” I said, “I’ll believe you.”
“You will?” He sounded faintly astonished. “Why?”
“Because you’re an honest man, Jamie Fraser,” I said, smiling so that I wouldn’t cry. “And may the Lord have mercy on you for it.”
“Only you,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him. “To worship ye with my body, give ye all the service of my hands. To give ye my name, and all my heart and soul with it. Only you. Because ye will not let me lie—and yet ye love me.”
I did touch him then.
“Jamie,” I said softly, and laid my hand on his arm. “You aren’t alone anymore.”
He turned then and took me by the arms, searching my face.
“I swore to you,” I said. “When we married. I didn’t mean it then, but I swore—and now I mean it.” I turned his hand over in both mine, feeling the thin, smooth skin at the base of his wrist, where the pulse beat under my fingers, where the blade of his dirk had cut his flesh once, and spilled his blood to mingle with mine forever.
I pressed my own wrist against his, pulse to pulse, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“Blood of my blood…” I whispered.
“Bone of my bone.” His whisper was deep and husky. He knelt quite suddenly before me, and put his folded hands in mine; the gesture a Highlander makes when swearing loyalty to his chieftain.
“I give ye my spirit,” he said, head bent over our hands.
“’Til our life shall be done,” I said softly. “But it isn’t done yet, Jamie, is it?”
Then he rose and took the shift from me, and I lay back on the narrow bed naked, pulled him down to me through the soft yellow light, and took him home, and home, and home again, and we were neither one of us alone.