Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

by Diana Gabaldon

“Well…I thought…perhaps you could make the acquaintance of some of Esmé’s—that was her name, Esmé Grey, Countess Melton—some of her friends. And…er…perhaps some of…his…particular friends. The, um, man who…”

  “And the man’s name?” Picking up the quill, she wrote Countess Melton, then looked up expectantly.

  “Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”

  “Ah. Is he a soldier, too?”

  “No,” and here Quarry did blush, surprisingly. “A poet.”

  “I see,” Minnie murmured, writing it down. “All right.” She put down the quill and came out from behind the desk, passing him closely so that he was obliged to turn toward her—and toward the door. He smelled of bay rum and vetiver, though he didn’t wear a wig or powder in his hair.

  “I’m willing to undertake your inquiry, sir—though, of course, I can’t guarantee results.”

  “No, no. Of course.”

  “Now, I have a prior engagement at two o’clock”—he glanced at the clock, as did she: four minutes to the hour—“but if you would perhaps make a list of the friends you think might be helpful and send it round? Once I’ve assessed the possibilities, I can inform you of my terms.” She hesitated. “May I approach Mr. Twelvetrees? Very discreetly, of course,” she assured him.

  He made a grimace, half shock and half amusement.

  “Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him. I’ll send the list,” he promised, and, with a deep bow, left her.

  The door had barely closed behind him before there was another knock. The maid popped out of the boudoir, where she had been discreetly lurking, and glided silently over the thick red Turkey carpet.

  Minnie felt her stomach lurch and her throat tighten, as though she’d been dropped out of a high window and caught by the neck at the last moment.

  Voices. Men’s voices. Disconcerted, she hurried into the hall, to find the maid stolidly confronting a pair of what were not quite gentlemen.

  “Madam is—” the maid was saying firmly, but one of the men spotted Minnie and brushed past the maid.

  “Miss Rennie?” he inquired politely, and at her jerky nod bowed with surprising style for one dressed so plainly.

  “We have come to escort you to Mrs. Simpson,” he said. And, turning to the maid, “Be so kind as to fetch the lady’s things, if you please.”

  The maid turned, wide-eyed, and Minnie nodded to her. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh and her face felt numb.

  “Yes,” she said. “If you please.” And her fingers closed on the paper in her pocket, damp with handling.

  Do you think this is wise?

  THERE WAS A coach outside, waiting. Neither of the men spoke, but one opened the door for her; the other took her by the elbow and helped her politely up into the conveyance. Her heart was pounding and her head full of her father’s warnings about dealing with unvouched-for strangers—these warnings accompanied by a number of vividly detailed accounts of things that had happened to incautious persons of his own acquaintance as a result of unwariness.

  What if these men had nothing to do with her mother but knew who her father was? There were people who—

  With phrases like “And they only found her head…” echoing in her mind, it was several moments before she could take notice of the two gentlemen, both of whom had entered the coach behind her and were now sitting on the squabs opposite, watching her like a pair of owls. Hungry owls.

  She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her middle, as though to ease her stays. Yes, the small dagger was still reassuringly tucked inside her placket; the way she was sweating, it would be quite rusted by the time she had to use it. If, she corrected herself. If she had to use it…

  “Are you all right, madam?” one of the men asked, leaning forward. His voice cracked sharply on “madam,” and she actually looked at him properly for the first time. Sure enough, he was a beardless boy. Taller than his companion, and pretty well grown, but a lad nonetheless—and his guileless face showed nothing but concern.

  “Yes,” she said, and, swallowing, pulled a small fan from her sleeve and snapped it open. “Just…a little warm.”

  The older man—in his forties, slender and dark, with a cocked hat balanced on his knee—at once reached into his pocket and produced a flask: a lovely object made in chased silver, adorned with a sizable chrysoberyl, she saw with surprise.

  “Try this,” he said in a pleasant voice. “It is orange-flower water, with sugar, herbs, the juice of blood oranges, and just a touch of gin, for refreshment.”

  “Thank you.” She repressed the “drugged and raped” murmuring in her brain and accepted the flask. She passed it unobtrusively under her nose, but there was no telltale scent of laudanum. In fact, it smelled divine and tasted even better.

  Both of the men saw the expression on her face and smiled. Not with the smile of satisfied entrapment, but with genuine pleasure that she enjoyed their offering. She took a deep breath, another sip, and began to relax. She smiled back at them. On the other hand…her mother’s address lay in Parson’s Green, and she had just noticed that they were heading steadily in the opposite direction. Or at least she thought so…

  “Where are we going?” she asked politely. They looked surprised, looked at each other, eyebrows raised, then back at her.

  “Why…to see Mrs. Simpson,” the older gentleman said. The boy nodded and bowed awkwardly to her.

  “Mrs. Simpson,” he murmured, blushing.

  And that was all anyone said for the remainder of the journey. She occupied herself with sipping the refreshing orange drink and with surreptitious observation of her…not captors, presumably. Escorts?

  The gentleman who had given her the flask spoke excellent English, but with a touch of foreign sibilance: Italian, perhaps, or Spanish?

  The younger man—he didn’t really seem a boy, in spite of smooth cheeks and cracking voice—had a strong face and, regardless of his blushing, an air of confidence about him. He was fair and yellow-eyed, yet that brief glimpse when the two had looked at her in question had shown her a faint, vanishing resemblance between the two of them. Father and son? Perhaps so.

  She flipped quickly through the ledger she carried in her head, in search of any such pair among her father’s clients—or enemies—but found no one who met the description of her escorts. She took a deep breath, another sip, and resolved to think of nothing until they arrived at their destination.

  Half an hour later, the flask was nearly empty and the coach lurched to a stop in what she thought was possibly Southwark.

  Their destination was a small inn standing in a street of shops dominated by Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, this being evidently a successful eating place, judging by the crowds of people and the strong scent of jellied eels. Her belly rumbled as she got down from the carriage, but the sound was lost in the noises of the street. The boy bowed and offered her his arm; she took it, and putting on her most blandly pleasant face, she went with him inside.

  IT WAS SHADOWY inside, light coming through two narrow, curtained windows. She noticed the smell of the place—hyacinths, how odd—but nothing more. Everything was a blur; all she felt was the beating of her heart and the solidness of the boy’s arm.

  Then a hallway, then a door, and then…

  A woman. Blue dress. Soft-brown hair looped up behind her ears. Eyes. Pale-green eyes. Not blue like her own.

  Minnie stopped dead, not breathing. For the moment, she felt an odd disappointment; the woman looked nothing like the picture she had carried with her all her life. This one was tall and thin, almost lean, and while her face was arresting, it wasn’t the face Minnie saw in her mirror.

  “Minerva?” the woman said, in a voice little more than a whisper. She coughed, cleared her throat explosively, and, coming toward Minnie, said much louder, “Minerva? Is it truly you?”

  “Well, yes,” said Minnie, not sure quite what to do. She must be; she knows my real name. “That’s my name. And you are…Mrs….Simpson?” Her own voice broke quite
absurdly, the final syllable uttered like the squeak of a bat.

  “Yes.” The woman turned her head and gave the two who had brought her a brief nod. The boy vanished at once, but the older man touched the woman’s shoulder gently and gave Minnie a smile before following suit, leaving Minnie and Mrs. Simpson frankly staring at each other.

  Mrs. Simpson was dressed well but quietly. She pursed her lips, looked sidelong at Minnie, as though estimating the possibility that she might be armed, then sighed, her square shoulders slumping.

  “I’m not your mother, child,” she said quietly.

  Quiet as they were, the words struck Minnie like fists, four solid blows in the pit of her stomach.

  “Well, who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded, taking a step backward. Every cautionary word she’d ignored came flooding back in her father’s voice.

  “…kidnapped…sold to a brothel…shipped off to the colonies…murdered for sixpence…”

  “I’m your aunt, my dear,” Mrs. Simpson said. The nettle grasped, she had regained some of her starch. “Miriam Simpson. Your mother is my sister, Hélène.”

  “Hélène,” Minnie repeated. The name struck a spark in her soul. She had that much, at least. Hélène. A Frenchwoman? She swallowed.

  “Is she dead?” she asked, as steadily as she could. Mrs. Simpson pursed her lips again, unhappy, but shook her head.

  “No,” she said, with obvious reluctance. “She lives. But…”

  Minnie wished she’d brought a pocket pistol instead of a knife. If she had, she’d fire a shot into the ceiling right this minute. Instead, she took a step forward, so that her eyes were no more than inches from the green ones that didn’t look like hers.

  “Take me to her. Right now,” she said. “You can tell me the story on the way.”

  7

  ANNUNCIATION

  THE COACH CROSSED OVER the cobbles of a bridge with a great clattering of hooves and wheels. The racket was as nothing to the noise inside Minnie’s head.

  “A nun,” Minnie said, as they passed onto a dirt road and the noise decreased. She sounded as blank as she felt. “My mother…was a nun?”

  Mrs. Simpson—her aunt, Aunt Simpson, Aunt Miriam…she must get used to thinking of her that way—took a deep breath and nodded. With that bit of news out of the way, she had regained some of her composure.

  “Yes. A sister of the Order of Divine Mercy, in Paris. You know of them?”

  Minnie shook her head. She had thought she was prepared to hear anything, but she hadn’t been, by a long chalk.

  “What—what do they look like?” It was the first thing to come into her head. “Black, gray, white…?”

  Mrs. Simpson relaxed a little, bracing her back against the blue cushions to counter the jolting of the coach.

  “Their habit is white, with a gray veil. They are a contemplative order but not cloistered.”

  “What does that mean, contemplative?” Minnie burst out. “What are they contemplating? Not their vows of chastity, apparently.”

  Her aunt looked startled, but her mouth twitched a little.

  “Apparently not,” she said. “Their chief occupation is prayer. Contemplation of God’s mercy and His divine nature.”

  The day was cool enough, but Minnie felt hot blood rise from her chest to her ears.

  “I see. So she—my mother—had an encounter with the Holy Spirit during a particularly intense prayer, did she?” She’d meant it sarcastically, but perhaps…“Wait a moment. My father is my father, isn’t he?”

  Her aunt overlooked the gibe.

  “You are the daughter of Raphael Wattiswade, I assure you,” she said dryly, with a glance at Minnie’s face.

  One of the small knots of doubt in Minnie’s chest loosened. The possibility of this all being a hoax—if nothing more sinister—receded. Very few people knew her father’s real name. If this woman did, then perhaps…

  She sat back, crossed her arms, and fixed Mrs. Simpson with a hard look.

  “So. What happened? And where are we going?” she added belatedly.

  “To your mother,” her aunt said tersely. “As to what happened…it was a book.”

  “Of course it was.” Minnie’s confidence in the woman’s story moved up another small notch. “What book?”

  “A Book of Hours.” Mrs. Simpson waved away an inquisitive wasp that had flown in through the window. “I said that the order’s chief occupation is prayer. They have others. Some of the nuns are scribes; some are artists. Soeur Emmanuelle—that’s the name Hélène took when she entered the convent—was both,” she explained, seeing Minnie’s momentary confusion. “The order produces very beautiful books—things of a religious nature, of course, Bibles, devotionals—and sells them in order to support the community.”

  “And my father learned about this?”

  Her aunt shrugged. “It’s no secret. The order’s books are well known, as are their skills. I imagine Raphael had dealt with the convent before. He—”

  “He’s never dealt with them, so far as I know, or I would have heard of them.”

  “Do you think he would risk your finding out?” her aunt said bluntly. “Whatever his defects of character, I will say the man knows how to keep a secret. He severed all connection with the order, after…” Her mouth pressed tight and she made a flicking gesture with one hand that had nothing to do with the wasp.

  Minnie’s teeth were clenched, but she managed to get a few words out.

  “Bloody tell me what happened!”

  Her aunt looked at her searchingly, the frills on her cap trembling with the vibration of the coach, then shrugged.

  “Bon,” she said.

  What had happened (“in brief,” said Mrs. Simpson) was that Raphael Wattiswade had acquired a very rare Book of Hours, made more than a century before. It was beautiful but in poor condition. The cover could be repaired, its missing jewels replaced—but some of the illustrations had suffered badly from the effects of time and use.

  “And so Raphael came to the abbess of the order—a woman he knew well, in the course of business—and asked whether one of their more talented scribes might be able to restore the illustrations. For a price, of course.”

  Normally the book would simply be taken away to the scriptorium for examination and work, but in this case, some pages had been completely obliterated. Raphael, however, had discovered several letters from the original owner, rhapsodizing to a friend about his new acquisition and giving detailed descriptions of the more important illustrations.

  “And he couldn’t just give the letters to the abbess?” Minnie asked skeptically. Not that she could think why her father would purposely set out to seduce a nun he’d never heard of or set eyes on…

  Mrs. Simpson shook her head.

  “I said the book was from a previous age? The letters were written in German, and a very archaic form of that barbarous language. No one in the order was able to translate it.”

  Given that and the fragile state of the book, Soeur Emmanuelle was allowed to travel to Raphael’s workshop—“With a proper chaperon, to be sure,” Mrs. Simpson added, with a fresh pressing of the lips.

  “To be sure.”

  Her aunt gave a very Gallic shrug. “But things happen, don’t they?”

  “Evidently they do.” She eyed Mrs. Simpson, who, she thought, seemed tolerably free with her father’s Christian name.

  “C’est vrai. And what happened, of course, was you.”

  There was no good response to that, and Minnie didn’t try to find one.

  “She was only nineteen,” her aunt finally said, looking down at her clasped hands, and speaking in a voice so soft that Minnie hardly heard it over the rumble of the coach. And how old had her father been? she wondered. He was forty-five now…twenty-eight. Maybe twenty-seven, allowing for the length of a pregnancy.

  “Bloody old enough to know better,” Minnie muttered, but under her breath. “I suppose she—my mother”—she forced herself to say the words, wh
ich now felt shocking in her mouth— “was obliged to leave the order? I mean, you can’t be pregnant in a convent, surely.”

  “You might be surprised,” her aunt observed cynically. “But in this case, you’re right. They sent her away, to a sort of asylum in Rouen—a terrible place.” A flush had begun to burn on Mrs. Simpson’s high cheekbones. “I heard nothing of it until Raphael appeared at my door one night, very distraught, to tell me she was gone.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We went and got her,” her aunt said simply. “What else?”

  “You said ‘we.’ Do you mean you and…my father?”

  Her aunt blinked, shocked.

  “No, of course not. My husband and myself.” She breathed deep, clearly trying to calm herself. “It—she—it was most distressing.”

  Soeur Emmanuelle, torn from the community that had been her home since she entered the convent as a twelve-year-old novice, treated as an object of shame, having no knowledge or experience of pregnancy, without friend or family, and locked up in an establishment that sounded very like a prison, had been first hysterical, then had gradually withdrawn into a state of despair and finally of stone-like silence, sitting and staring all day at the blank wall, taking no notice even of food.

  “She was skin and bones when I found her,” Mrs. Simpson said, her voice shaking with remembered fury. “She didn’t even know me!”

  Soeur Emmanuelle had very gradually been brought back to a cognizance of the world—but not the world she had left.

  “I don’t know whether it was leaving her order—they were her family!—or the shock of being with child, but…” She shook her head, desolation draining the color from her face. “She lost her reason entirely. Took no notice of her state and believed herself to be back in the convent, going about her usual work.”

  They had humored her, given her a habit, provided her with paint and brushes, vellum and parchment, and she had shown some signs of being aware of her surroundings—would talk sometimes and knew her sister. But then the birth had come, inexorable.

  “She had refused to think about it,” Mrs. Simpson said, with a sigh. “But there you were…pink and slimy and loud.” Soeur Emmanuelle, unable to cope with the situation, lost her tentative grip on sanity and reverted to her earlier state of blank detachment.