Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

by Diana Gabaldon

  Agreeable, indeed—if dangerous. The prince had a good deal of power, a good deal of influence in military circles, including with the secretary at war. But he wasn’t the king. And king and prince most assuredly did not agree. The king and his heir had been estranged—if not actually at loggerheads—for several years, and to court the favor of the one was to invite coldness from the other.

  Still…it might be possible to tread the narrow line between the two and emerge with the support of both….

  But he knew he was in no sort of shape to undertake that kind of finesse, exhausted as he was in mind and body.

  Besides. It was time. He knew it. He cast a brief, regretful look into the library, then reached out and gently closed the door on his book-lined refuge.

  The house was quiet, and his footsteps made no sound on the thick rugs as he came back—at last—to Esmé’s room. He opened the door without hesitation and went in.

  There was no light and he left the door open behind him, crossing the room to draw back the drapes from the big double window. A pale wash of moonlight fell over him and he went back and closed the door, silently. Then slid the bolt.

  The room was cold, and clean. A faint smell of beeswax polish and fresh linen lingered. No trace of her perfume.

  He made his way half blind to the dressing table in her closet and felt about in the darkness until he found the chunky crystal bottle. He felt the smooth ground-glass stopper grate softly as he took it out and dabbed a drop of her scent inside his wrist—just as he’d seen her do it, a hundred times and more.

  It was a scent made just for her, and for the instant she lived again within it: complex and heady, spicy and bitter—cinnamon and myrrh, green oranges and oil of carnations. Leaving the bottle open, he walked back into the bedroom and came slowly to the curtained white bed. Put back the drapes and sat down.

  Everything in her chamber was white or blue; the room was filled with shadow. Even the Bible on her nightstand was covered in white leather. Only the glints of gold or silver in jewel box and candlestick caught the light of the moon.

  Without the hiss and crackle of a fire or the melting of candles, the air lay quiet. He could hear his own heart, beating slow and heavy. There was only him. And her.

  “Em,” he said softly, eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” And whispered, so low he barely heard the words, “I miss you. God, I miss you.”

  Finally, finally, he let grief take him and wept for her then, for a long time.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  And at last lay down upon her white bed and let sleep take him, too, to whatever dreams it would.

  10

  DOWN TO BUSINESS

  OVER THE NEXT TWO weeks, Minnie threw herself determinedly into the pursuit of business. She tried not to think of Soeur Emmanuelle, but thought of her mother hovered near her, like an angel on her shoulder, and after a bit she accepted this. There was, after all, nothing she could do about it, and at least now she knew her mother was alive. Perhaps even content.

  Between increasing business—of both kinds—and Lady Buford’s determined social agenda, Minnie scarcely had a minute to herself. When she wasn’t going to view a collection of moldy hymnals in a garret down by the Thames or accepting sealed documents from her father’s mysterious client in the Vauxhall Gardens, she was dressing for a card party in Fulham. The O’Higginses, faithful Irish wolfhounds, either accompanied or trailed her to every destination, their visibility depending on her errand.

  She was pleased, therefore, to be able to combine Colonel Quarry’s commission with Lady Buford’s husband-hunting. Rather to Minnie’s surprise, the latter involved a great deal of socializing with females.

  “To be desirable, it is necessary to be talked about, my dear,” Lady Buford told her over a glass of iced negus at Largier’s tea shop (Madame Largier was French and thought tea itself a distinctly second-class beverage). “But you must be talked about in the right way. You must not suggest any hint of scandal, and—just as important—you must not cause jealousy. Be sweet and unassuming, always admire your companions’ frocks and dismiss your own, and do not bat your eyes at their sons or brothers, should such be present.”

  “I’ve never batted my eyes at anyone in my life!” Minnie said indignantly.

  “It isn’t a difficult technique to master,” Lady Buford said dryly. “But I trust you take my point.”

  Minnie did, and as she had no intention whatever of attracting a potential husband, she was extremely popular with the young women of society. Which turned out to be an unexpectedly good thing, because most young women had no discretion whatever, very little judgment, and would tell you the most unspeakable things without batting a single one of their own eyes.

  They hadn’t the least hesitation in telling her all about Esmé Grey; the late Countess Melton was a prime subject of gossip. But it wasn’t the sort of gossip Minnie had expected to hear.

  After a week’s gentle prodding, Minnie had formed the distinct impression that women in general had not really liked Esmé—most of them had been afraid of her or envious of her—but that most men very definitely had liked her; hence, the envy. That being so, the lack of any hint of scandal was surprising.

  There was quite a bit of public sympathy for Esmé; she was dead, and the poor little baby, too….It was a tragic story, and people did love tragedy, as long as it wasn’t theirs.

  And certainly there was a good deal of talk (in lowered tones) about Lord Melton having shot poor Mr. Twelvetrees, which threw the countess into such a state of shock that she had gone into labor too early and died—but, surprisingly, there was no indication that Esmé’s affair with Nathaniel had been noticed.

  There was a great deal of speculation as to Lord Melton’s motive for assassinating Mr. Twelvetrees—but apparently Esmé had been more than discreet, and there was no talk at all about Mr. Twelvetrees having paid her attention or even having been seen alone with her on any occasion.

  There was a whisper of gossip to the effect that Lord Melton had killed Nathaniel because of an intrigue over an Italian singer, but the general opinion was that it had been over a matter of business; Nathaniel had been a failed curate who then became a stockbroker (“though he wrote the most divine poetry, my dear!”), and there had been a rumor of considerable losses incurred by the Grey family, attributed to Nathaniel’s incompetence.

  But as she continued to poke and prod, Minnie discovered an increasing sentiment along the lines that Colonel Quarry had mentioned: people were beginning to whisper that Lord Melton had killed Nathaniel in a fit of madness. After all, the duke (“though I’m told we mustn’t call him by his title; he won’t have it—and if that’s not proof of madness…”) had appeared nowhere in public since the death of his wife.

  Given that the countess’s death had occurred only two months earlier, Minnie thought this reticence perhaps reasonable, even admirable.

  But as Lady Buford had been present during one of these exchanges, Minnie took the opportunity in the carriage going home to ask her chaperone’s opinion of the Duke—or not—of Pardloe’s marriage.

  Lady Buford pursed her lips and tapped her closed fan against them in a considering manner.

  “Well, there was a great deal of scandal over the first duke’s death—had you heard about that?”

  Minnie shook her head, in hopes of hearing more than her father’s précis had provided, but Lady Buford was one who could tell the difference between facts and gossip, and her account of the first duke’s supposed Jacobite associations was even briefer than Minnie’s father’s had been.

  “It was quixotic at best—do you know that word, my dear?”

  “I do, yes. You’re speaking of—the second duke, would he be—Harold? He repudiated his title, is that what you mean?”

  Lady Buford gave a small sniff and put away her fan in her capacious sleeve.

  “It’s actually not possible to repudiate a title, unless the king should give one leave to do so. But he did decl
ine to use it, which amused some people, disgusted others who thought it affectation, and quite shocked society in general. Still…he’d been married a year before the first duke died, so Esmé had wed him with the expectation that he’d eventually succeed to the title. She hadn’t given any indication that she regretted his decision—or even that she’d noticed it. That girl knew the meaning of ‘aloof,’ ” Lady Buford added with approval.

  “Were they in love, do you think?” Minnie asked, with genuine interest.

  “Yes, I do,” Lady Buford said, without hesitation. “She was French, of course, and quite striking—exotic, you might say. And Harold Grey is certainly an odd—well, I shouldn’t say that, perhaps I merely mean unusual—young man. Their peculiarities seemed to complement each other. And neither one of them gave a single thought to what anyone else said or thought about them.”

  Lady Buford’s sharp eyes had softened slightly, looking into memory, and she shook her head, making the ring-necked dove on her hat bob precariously.

  “It really was a tragedy,” she said, with evident regret.

  And that, despite further discreet inquiry, was apparently that.

  SHE MET COLONEL Quarry, by arrangement, at a concert of sacred music in St. Martin-in-the-Fields. There were enough people there that it was possible to sit inconspicuously in one of the galleries; she could see the back of Quarry’s head at the far end of the gallery, bent in apparent rapt attention to the music being performed below.

  She normally enjoyed music of any kind, but as the vibration of the organ’s pipes ceased rumbling through the boards underfoot and a single high, pure voice rose from the silence in a Magnificat, she felt a sudden sense of acute sorrow, seeing in memory a room of shadows and candlelight, the dirty hem of a white habit, a bent head and a slender neck beneath a bell of hair as golden as clean straw.

  Her throat was tight and she bent her own head, shielding her face from view with a spread fan; it was a warm day, and whenever the music paused, the air in the gallery whispered with the movement of fans. No one noticed.

  At last it was over, and she stood with the others, lingering by the railing as people filed out in a buzz of conversation that rose above the last strains of the recessional.

  Quarry came strolling toward her—exaggeratedly casual, but, after all, he likely wasn’t used to intrigue, and if someone did notice, “intrigue” (in the vulgar meaning of the term) was exactly what they’d think it was.

  “Miss Rennie!” he said, as though surprised by her presence, and swept her a bow. “Your most obedient servant, ma’am!”

  “Why, Colonel Quarry!” she said, fluttering her fan coquettishly. “What a surprise! I’d no notion that you enjoyed sacred music.”

  “Can’t stand it,” he said amiably. “I’d have gone mad in another minute if they hadn’t stopped that caterwauling. What the devil have you found out?”

  She told him without preamble what her researches had discovered—or, rather, had not discovered.

  “Damn,” he said, then hunched his shoulders as two women going past gave him a shocked look.

  “I mean,” he said, lowering his voice, “my friend is quite certain that it actually happened. The, um…”

  “Affair. Yes, you said he had letters proving it but that he wouldn’t let anyone read them. Reasonably enough.” She wasn’t sure why she was interested in this business, but there was something oddly fascinating about it. She ought just to give him a bill for her time and leave it at that, but…

  “Do you know where he keeps these letters?” she asked.

  “Why…I suppose they’re in his father’s library desk. He usually keeps correspondence there. Wh—” He stopped abruptly, looking hard at her. She shrugged a little.

  “I told you what the talk is, about your friend’s state of mind. And if the letters are the only proof that he had a reason—and an honorable one—for what he did…” She paused delicately. Quarry’s face darkened, and she felt the shift in his body as his hands curled.

  “Are you suggesting that—that I take the—I could never do such a thing! It’s dishonorable, impossible! He’s my friend, dammit!” He looked aside, swallowing, and unclenched his fists.

  “For God’s sake, if he found that I’d done such a thing, I…I think he’d—” He stopped, all too clearly envisioning the possible results of such a discovery. The blood was draining from his cheeks, and a wash of pale-blue light from a stained-glass window made him look suddenly corpse-like.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, sir,” Minnie said, as meekly as possible. “Not at all! Naturally a gentleman such as yourself, and a devoted friend, couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever do such a thing.” And if you did, she thought, watching his face, he’d know it the second he looked at you. You couldn’t lie your way out of a children’s tea party, poor sod.

  “But,” she said, and glanced deliberately around, so that he could see they were now alone in the gallery, save for a group of women at the far side, leaning over the rail and waving to acquaintances in the nave below. “But,” she repeated in a low voice, “if the letters were simply to…be delivered anonymously to…?” She paused and cocked a brow.

  He swallowed again, audibly, and looked at her for a long moment.

  “The secretary at war,” he blurted, as though trying to get the words out before he thought better.

  “I see,” she said, relaxing inwardly. “Well. That does seem very…drastic. Perhaps I can think of some other avenue of inquiry. There must be some intimate friend of the late countess that I haven’t yet discovered.” She put a hand very lightly on his arm.

  “Leave the matter with me for another few days, Colonel. I’m sure something useful will occur to one of us.”

  11

  GARDEN PARTY

  1 June, AD 1744

  Paris

  My Dearest,

  Having heard nothing to the contrary, I assume that all is well with you. I’ve received a special Request, through a Friend; an English Collector by the Name of Mr. Bloomer wishes to discuss a special Commission. His Letter, with Details of his Requirements, a List of Resources with which to meet those Requirements, and a Note of acceptable Payment, will follow under separate Covers.

  Your most affectionate Father,

  R. Rennie

  “MR. BLOOMER” HAD SPECIFIED His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales’s residence at Kew for their meeting, on the twenty-first of June—Midsummer’s Day. Minnie’s diary carried a sketch of various flowers and fruits to mark the occasion; the White House (as it was casually known) had notable gardens, and a private tea (Admission by Invitation Only) was being held in said gardens by Princess Augusta, in support of one of that lady’s favorite charities.

  It was a little outré for an unmarried young woman to go alone to such an event, Minnie reflected, dressing for the occasion, but Mr. Bloomer had specified that the agent do just that, sending a single ticket of invitation with his letter. Of course, he probably hadn’t realized that the agent would be a young woman.

  It was a fine day out, and Minnie stepped down from the hansom at the end of the long avenue that led along the riverbank and up to the—quite large, if not quite palatial—house.

  “I’ll walk from here,” she said to Rafe O’Higgins, who had accompanied her. “You can watch ’til I get in to the house, if you think you really must.” A number of colored parasols, broad-brimmed hats, and belled silk skirts were swaying slowly along the walks that edged a huge reflecting pool in the distance, like a parade of animated flowers—very appropriate to a garden party, she thought, amused.

  “I’ll be picking ye up just here, then,” Rafe said, ignoring her gibe. He pointed to a carved-stone horse tank that stood in a small lay-by. “Just here,” he repeated, and looked at the sun. “It’s just gone two—will ye be done with your business by four, d’ye think?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she said, standing on tiptoe to look as far as she could over the sea of green surrounding the house. Ornamental dom
es and shiny bits that might be glass or metal were visible through the trees, and she heard faint strains of music in the distance. She meant to explore the delights of Their Highnesses’ royal residence and its gardens to the full, once she’d dealt with Mr. Bloomer.

  Rafe rolled his eyes but good-naturedly.

  “Aye, then. If ye’re not here at four, I’ll come back on the hour ’til I find you.” He leaned down to address her nose to nose, hazel eyes boring into hers. “And if ye’re not here by seven, I’m comin’ in after you. Got that, have ye, Lady Bedelia?”

  “Oh, piffle,” she said, but in a genial manner. She’d bought a modest parasol of ruffled green silk and now unfurled it with a flourish, turning her back on him. “I’ll see you anon.”

  “And’s when anon, then?” he shouted behind her.

  “Whenever I’m bloody ready!” she called back over her shoulder and strolled on, gently twirling.

  The crowd was funneling in to a large central hall, where Princess Augusta—or so Minnie assumed the pretty, bejeweled woman with the big blue eyes and the incipient double chin to be—was greeting her guests, supported by several other gorgeously dressed ladies. Minnie casually faded into the crowd and bypassed the receiving line; no need to call attention to herself.

  There were enormous refreshment tables at the back of the house, and she graciously accepted a glass of sherbet and an iced cake offered her by a servant; she nibbled as she wandered out into the gardens, with an eye to its design and the locations of various landmarks. She was to meet Mr. Bloomer at three o’clock, in the “first of the glasshouses.” Wearing green.

  Green she was, from head to toe: a pale-green muslin gown, with a jacket and overskirt in a printed French calico. And, of course, the parasol, which she erected again once outside the house.

  It was clever of Mr. Bloomer to choose green, she thought; she was very visible among the much more common pinks and blues and whites the other women wore, though not so uncommon as to cause staring. Green didn’t suit many complexions, but beyond that, green fabric tended to fade badly: Monsieur Vernet—an artist friend of her father’s, quite obsessed with whales—had told her once that green was a fugitive color, a notion that delighted her.