Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between

by Diana Gabaldon

  He went in and shut the bedroom door behind him.

  “Who are you?” The doctor looked up, surprised. He was wiping out a freshly used bleeding-bowl, and his case lay open on the boudoir’s settee. Léonie’s bedroom must lie beyond; the door was open, and Michael caught a glimpse of the foot of a bed but could not see the bed’s inhabitant.

  “It doesn’t matter. How is she?”

  The doctor eyed him narrowly, but after a moment nodded.

  “She will live. As for the child …” He made an equivocal motion of the hand. “I’ve done my best. She took a great deal of the—”

  “The child?” The floor shifted under his feet, and the dream of the night before flooded him, that queer sense of something half wrong, half familiar. It was the feeling of a small, hard swelling pressed against his bum; that’s what it was. Lillie had not been far gone with child when she died, but he remembered all too well the feeling of a woman’s body in early pregnancy.

  “It’s yours? I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t ask.” The doctor put away his bowl and fleam and shook out his black velvet turban.

  “I want—I need to talk to her. Now.”

  The doctor opened his mouth in automatic protest but then glanced thoughtfully over his shoulder.

  “Well … you must be careful not to—” But Michael was already inside the bedroom, standing by the bed.

  She was pale. They had always been pale, Lillie and Léonie, with the soft glow of cream and marble. This was the paleness of a frog’s belly, of a rotting fish, blanched on the shore.

  Her eyes were ringed with black, sunk in her head. They rested on his face, flat, expressionless, as still as the ringless hands that lay limp on the coverlet.

  “Who?” he said quietly. “Charles?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was as dull as her eyes, and he wondered whether the doctor had drugged her.

  “Was it his idea—to try to foist the child off on me? Or yours?”

  She did look away then, and her throat moved.

  “His.” The eyes came back to him. “I didn’t want to, Michel. Not—not that I find you disgusting, not that …”

  “Merci,” he muttered, but she went on, disregarding him.

  “You were Lillie’s husband. I didn’t envy her you,” she said frankly, “but I envied what you had together. It couldn’t be like that between you and me, and I didn’t like betraying her. But”—her lips, already pale, compressed to invisibility—“I didn’t have much choice.”

  He was obliged to admit that she hadn’t. Charles couldn’t marry her; he had a wife. Bearing an illegitimate child was not a fatal scandal in high court circles, but the Galantines were of the emerging bourgeoisie, where respectability counted for almost as much as money. Finding herself pregnant, she would have had two alternatives: find a complaisant husband quickly, or … He tried not to see that one of her hands rested lightly across the slight swell of her stomach.

  The child … He wondered what he would have done had she come to him and told him the truth, asked him to marry her for the sake of the child. But she hadn’t. And she wasn’t asking now.

  It would be best—or at least easiest—were she to lose the child. And she might yet.

  “I couldn’t wait, you see,” she said, as though continuing a conversation. “I would have tried to find someone else, but I thought she knew. She’d tell you as soon as she could manage to see you. So I had to, you see, before you found out.”

  “She? Who? Tell me what?”

  “The nun,” Léonie said, and sighed deeply, as though losing interest. “She saw me in the market and rushed up to me. She said she had to talk to you—that she had something important to tell you. I saw her look into my basket, though, and her face … thought she must realize …”

  Her eyelids were fluttering, whether from drugs or fatigue, he couldn’t tell. She smiled faintly, but not at him; she seemed to be looking at something a long way off.

  “So funny,” she murmured. “Charles said it would solve everything—that the comte would pay him such a lot for her, it would solve everything. But how can you solve a baby?”

  Michael jerked as though her words had stabbed him.

  “What? Pay for whom?”

  “The nun.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Sister Joan? What do you mean, pay for her? What did Charles tell you?”

  She made a whiny sound of protest. Michael wanted to shake her hard enough to break her neck but forced himself to withdraw his hand. She settled into the pillow like a bladder losing air, flattening under the bedclothes. Her eyes were closed, but he bent down, speaking directly into her ear.

  “The comte, Léonie. What is his name? Tell me his name.”

  A faint frown rippled the flesh of her brow, then passed.

  “St. Germain,” she murmured, scarcely loud enough to be heard. “The Comte St. Germain.”

  * * *

  He went instantly to Rosenwald and, by dint of badgering and the promise of extra payment, got him to finish the engraving on the chalice at once. Michael waited impatiently while it was done and, scarcely pausing for the cup and paten to be wrapped in brown paper, flung money to the goldsmith and made for les Couvent des Anges, almost running.

  With great difficulty, he restrained himself while making the presentation of the chalice, and with great humility, he inquired whether he might ask the great favor of seeing Sister Gregory, that he might convey a message to her from her family in the Highlands. Sister Eustacia looked surprised and somewhat disapproving—postulants were not normally permitted visits—but after all … in view of Monsieur Murray’s and Monsieur Fraser’s great generosity to the convent … perhaps just a few moments, in the visitor’s parlor, and in the presence of Sister herself …

  * * *

  He turned and blinked once, his mouth opening a little. He looked shocked. Did she look so different in her robe and veil?

  “It’s me,” Joan said, and tried to smile reassuringly. “I mean … still me.”

  His eyes fixed on her face, and he let out a deep breath and smiled, as if she’d been lost and he’d found her again.

  “Aye, so it is,” he said softly. “I was afraid it was Sister Gregory. I mean, the … er …” He made a sketchy, awkward gesture indicating her gray robes and white postulant’s veil.

  “It’s only clothes,” she said, and put a hand to her chest, defensive.

  “Well, no,” he said, looking her over carefully, “I dinna think it is, quite. It’s more like a soldier’s uniform, no? Ye’re doing your job when ye wear it, and everybody as sees it kens what ye are and knows what ye do.”

  Kens what I am. I suppose I should be pleased it doesn’t show, she thought, a little wildly.

  “Well.… aye, I suppose.” She fingered the rosary at her belt. She coughed. “In a way, at least.”

  Ye’ve got to tell him. It wasn’t one of the voices, just the voice of her own conscience, but that was demanding enough. She could feel her heart beating, so hard that she thought the bumping must show through the front of her habit.

  He smiled encouragingly at her.

  “Léonie told me ye wanted to see me.”

  “Michael … can I tell ye something?” she blurted.

  He seemed surprised. “Well, of course ye can,” he said. “Whyever not?”

  “Whyever not,” she said, half under her breath. She glanced over his shoulder, but Sister Eustacia was on the far side of the room, talking to a very young, frightened-looking French girl and her parents.

  “Well, it’s like this, see,” she said, in a determined voice. “I hear voices.”

  She stole a look at him, but he didn’t appear shocked. Not yet.

  “In my head, I mean.”

  “Aye?” He sounded cautious. “Um … what do they say, then?”

  She realized she was holding her breath, and let a little of it out.

  “Ah … different things. But they now and then tell me something�
��s going to happen. More often, they tell me I should say thus-and-so to someone.”

  “Thus-and-so,” he repeated attentively, watching her face. “What … sort of thus-and-so?”

  “I wasna expecting the Spanish Inquisition,” she said, a little testily. “Does it matter?”

  His mouth twitched.

  “Well, I dinna ken, now, do I?” he pointed out. “It might give a clue as to who’s talkin’ to ye, might it not? Or do ye already know that?”

  “No, I don’t,” she admitted, and felt a sudden lessening of tension. “I—I was worrit—a bit—that it might be demons. But it doesna really … well, they dinna tell me wicked sorts of things. Just … more like when something’s going to happen to a person. And sometimes it’s no a good thing—but sometimes it is. There was wee Annie MacLaren, her wi’ a big belly by the third month, and by six lookin’ as though she’d burst, and she was frightened she was goin’ to die come her time, like her ain mother did, wi’ a babe too big to be born—I mean, really frightened, not just like all women are. And I met her by St. Ninian’s Spring one day, and one of the voices said to me, ‘Tell her it will be as God wills and she will be delivered safely of a son.’ ”

  “And ye did tell her that?”

  “Yes. I didna say how I knew, but I must have sounded like I did know, because her poor face got bright all of a sudden, and she grabbed on to my hands and said, ‘Oh! From your lips to God’s ear!’ ”

  “And was she safely delivered of a son?”

  “Aye—and a daughter, too.” Joan smiled, remembering the glow on Annie’s face.

  Michael glanced aside at Sister Eustacia, who was bidding farewell to the new postulant’s family. The girl was white-faced and tears ran down her cheeks, but she clung to Sister Eustacia’s sleeve as though it were a lifeline.

  “I see,” he said slowly, and looked back at Joan. “Is that why—is it the voices told ye to be a nun, then?”

  She blinked, surprised by his apparent acceptance of what she’d told him but more so by the question.

  “Well … no. They never did. Ye’d think they would have, wouldn’t ye?”

  He smiled a little.

  “Maybe so.” He coughed, then looked up, a little shyly. “It’s no my business, but what did make ye want to be a nun?”

  She hesitated, but why not? She’d already told him the hardest bit.

  “Because of the voices. I thought maybe—maybe I wouldna hear them in here. Or … if I still did, maybe somebody—a priest, maybe?—could tell me what they were and what I should do about them.”

  Sister Eustacia was comforting the new girl, half-sunk on one knee to bring her big, homely, sweet face close to the girl’s. Michael glanced at them, then back at Joan, one eyebrow raised.

  “I’m guessing ye havena told anyone yet,” he said. “Did ye reckon ye’d practice on me first?”

  Her own mouth twitched.

  “Maybe.” His eyes were dark but had a sort of warmth to them, as if they drew it from the heat of his hair. She looked down; her hands were pleating the edge of her blouse, which had come untucked. “It’s no just that, though.”

  He made the sort of noise in his throat that meant, “Aye, then, go on.” Why didn’t French people do like that? she wondered. So much easier. But she pushed the thought aside; she’d made up her mind to tell him, and now was the time to do it.

  “I told ye because—that man,” she blurted. “The Comte.” He squinted at her. “The Comte St. Germain?”

  “Well, I dinna ken his name, now, do I?” she snapped. “But when I saw him, one of the voices pops up and says to me, ‘Tell him not to do it. Tell him he must not.’ ”

  “It did?”

  “Aye, and it was verra firm about it. I mean—they are, usually. It’s no just an opinion, take it or leave it. But this one truly meant it.” She spread her hands, helpless to explain the feeling of dread and urgency. She swallowed.

  “And then … your friend. Monsieur Pépin. The first time I saw him, one o’ the voices said ‘Tell him not to do it.’ ”

  Michael’s thick red eyebrows drew together.

  “D’ye think it’s the same thing they’re not supposed to do?” He sounded startled. “Well, I don’t know, now, do I?” she said, a little exasperated. “The voices didn’t say. But I saw that the man on the ship was going to die, and I didna say anything, because I couldn’t think what to say. And then he did die, and maybe he wouldn’t have if I’d spoken … so I—well, I thought I’d best say something to someone.”

  He thought about that for a moment, then nodded uncertainly.

  “Aye. All right. I’ll—well, I dinna ken what to do about it, either, to be honest. But I’ll talk to them both and I’ll have that in my mind, so maybe I’ll think of something. D’ye want me to tell them, ‘Don’t do it’?”

  She grimaced and looked at Sister Eustacia. There wasn’t much time.

  “I already told the comte. Just … maybe. If ye think it might help. Now—” Her hand darted under her apron and she passed him the slip of paper, fast. “We’re only allowed to write to our families twice a year,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I wanted Mam to know I was all right. Could ye see she gets that, please? And … and maybe tell her a bit, yourself, that I’m weel and—and happy. Tell her I’m happy,” she repeated, more firmly.

  Sister Eustacia was now standing by the door, emanating an intent to come and tell them it was time for Michael to leave.

  “I will,” he said. He couldn’t touch her, he knew that, so bowed instead and bowed deeply to Sister Eustacia, who came toward them, looking benevolent.

  “I’ll come to Mass at the chapel on Sundays, how’s that?” he said rapidly. “If I’ve a letter from your mam, or ye have to speak to me, gie me a wee roll of the eyes or something—I’ll figure something out.”

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, Sister Gregory, postulant in the Convent of Angels, regarded the bum of a large cow. The cow in question was named Mirabeau and was of uncertain temper, as evidenced by the nervously lashing tail.

  “She’s kicked three of us this week,” said Sister Anne-Joseph, eyeing the cow resentfully. “And spilt the milk twice. Sister Jeanne-Marie was most upset.”

  “Well, we canna have that, now, can we?” Joan murmured in English. “N’inquiétez-vous pas,” she added in French, hoping that was at least somewhat grammatical. “Let me do it.”

  “Better you than me,” Sister Anne-Joseph said, crossing herself, and vanished before Sister Joan might think better of the offer.

  A week spent working in the cowshed was intended as punishment for her flighty behavior in the marketplace, but Joan was grateful for it. There was nothing better for steadying the nerves than cows.

  Granted, the convent’s cows were not quite like her mother’s sweet-tempered, shaggy red Hieland coos, but if you came right down to it, a cow was a cow, and even a French-speaking wee besom like the present Mirabeau was no match for Joan MacKimmie, who’d driven kine to and from the shielings for years and fed her mother’s kine in the byre beside the house with sweet hay and the leavings from supper.

  With that in mind, she circled Mirabeau thoughtfully, eyeing the steadily champing jaws and the long slick of blackish-green drool that hung down from slack pink lips. She nodded once, slipped out of the cowshed, and made her way down the allée behind it, picking what she could find. Mirabeau, presented with a bouquet of fresh grasses, tiny daisies, and—delicacy of all delicacies—fresh sorrel, bulged her eyes half out of her head, opened her massive jaw, and inhaled the sweet stuff. The ominous tail ceased its lashing and the massive creature stood as if turned to stone, aside from the ecstatically grinding jaws.

  Joan sighed in satisfaction, sat down, and, resting her head on Mirabeau’s monstrous flank, got down to business. Her mind, released, took up the next worry of the day.

  Had Michael spoken to his friend Pépin? And if so, had he told him what she’d said, or just asked whether he kent
the Comte St. Germain? Because if “tell him not to do it” referred to the same thing, then plainly the two men must be acquent with each other.

  She had got thus far in her own ruminations when Mirabeau’s tail began to switch again. She hurriedly stripped the last of the milk from Mirabeau’s teats and snatched the bucket out of the way, standing up in a hurry. Then she saw what had disturbed the cow.

  The man in the dove-gray coat was standing in the door to the shed, watching her. She hadn’t noticed before, in the market, but he had a handsome dark face, though rather hard about the eyes, and with a chin that brooked no opposition. He smiled pleasantly at her, though, and bowed.

  “Mademoiselle. I must ask you, please, to come with me.”

  * * *

  Michael was in the warehouse, stripped to his shirtsleeves and sweating in the hot, wine-heady atmosphere, when Jared appeared, looking disturbed.

  “What is it, cousin?” Michael wiped his face on a towel, leaving black streaks; the crew was clearing the racks on the southeast wall, and there were years of filth and cobwebs behind the most ancient casks.

  “Ye haven’t got that wee nun in your bed, have ye, Michael?” Jared lifted a beetling gray brow at him.

  “Have I what?”

  “I’ve just had a message from the Mother Superior of le Couvent des Anges, saying that one Sister Gregory appears to have been abducted from their cowshed, and wanting to know whether you might possibly have anything to do with the matter.”

  Michael stared at his cousin for a moment, unable to take this in.

  “Abducted?” he said stupidly. “Who would be kidnapping a nun? What for?”

  “Well, now, there ye have me.” Jared was carrying Michael’s coat over his arm and at this point handed it to him. “But maybe best ye go to the convent and find out.”

  * * *

  “Forgive me, Mother,” Michael said carefully. Mother Hildegarde looked as though a breath would make her roll across the floor, wizened as a winter apple. “Did ye think … is it possible that Sister J—Sister Gregory might have … left of her own accord?”