After luncheon, Jamie would make his rounds of calls—social and business, and an increasing number of both—and then retire into his study for an hour or two with the ledgers and account books before dinner. He was busy.
I was not. A few days of polite skirmishing with Madame Vionnet, the head-cook, had left it clear who was in charge of the household, and it wasn’t me. Madame came to my sitting room each morning, to consult me on the menu for the day, and to present me with the list of expenditures deemed necessary for the provisioning of the kitchen-fruit, vegetables, butter, and milk from a farm just outside the city, delivered fresh each morning, fish caught from the Seine and sold from a barrow in the street, along with fresh mussels that poked their sealed black curves from heaps of wilting waterweed. I looked over the lists for form’s sake, approved everything, praised the dinner of the night before, and that was that. Aside from the occasional call to open the linen cupboard, the wine cellar, the root cellar, or the pantry with a key from my bunch, my time was then my own, until the hour came to dress for dinner.
The social life of Jared’s establishment continued much as it had when he was in residence. I was still cautious about entertaining on a large scale, but we held small dinners every night, to which came nobles, chevaliers, and ladies, poor Jacobites in exile, wealthy merchants and their wives.
However, I found that eating and drinking and preparing to eat and drink was not really sufficient occupation. I fidgeted to the point that Jamie at last suggested I come and copy ledger entries for him.
“Better do that than be gnawin’ yourself,” he said, looking critically at my bitten nails. “Beside, ye write a fairer hand than the warehouse clerks.”
So it was that I was in the study, crouched industriously over the enormous ledger books, when Mr. Silas Hawkins came late one afternoon, with an order for two tuns of Flemish brandy. Mr. Hawkins was stout and prosperous; an émigré like Jared, he was an Englishman who specialized in the export of French brandies to his homeland.
I supposed that a merchant who looked like a teetotaler would find it rather difficult to sell people wines and spirits in quantity. Mr. Hawkins was fortunate in this regard, in that he had the permanently flushed cheeks and jolly smile of a reveler, though Jamie had told me that the man never tasted his own wares, and in fact seldom drank anything beyond rough ale, though his appetite for food was a legend in the taverns he visited. An expression of alert calculation lurked at the back of his bright brown eyes, behind the smooth bonhomie that oiled his transactions.
“My best suppliers, I do declare,” he declared, signing a large order with a flourish. “Always dependable, always of the first quality. I shall miss your cousin sorely in his absence,” he said, bowing to Jamie, “but he’s done well in his choice of a substitute. Trust a Scotsman to keep the business in the family.”
The small, bright eyes lingered on Jamie’s kilt, the Fraser red of it bright against the dark wood paneling of the drawing room.
“Just over from Scotland recently?” Mr. Hawkins asked casually, feeling inside his coat.
“Nay, I’ve been in France for a time.” Jamie smiled, turning the question away. He took the quill pen from Mr. Hawkins, but finding it too blunted for his taste, tossed it aside, pulling a fresh one from the bouquet of goose feathers that sprouted from a small glass jug on the sideboard.
“Ah. I see from your dress that you are a Highland Scot; I had thought perhaps you would be able to advise me as to the current sentiments prevailing in that part of the country. One hears such rumors, you know.” Mr. Hawkins subsided into a chair at the wave of Jamie’s hand, his round, rosy face apparently intent on the fat leather purse he had drawn from his pocket.
“As for rumors—well, that’s the normal state of affairs in Scotland, no?” Jamie said, studiously sharpening the fresh quill. “But sentiments? Nay, if ye mean politics, I’m afraid I’ve little attention for such things myself.” The small penknife made a sharp snicking sound as the horny slivers shaved off the thick stem of the quill.
Mr. Hawkins brought out several silver pieces from his purse, stacking them neatly in a tidy column between the two men.
“ ’Strewth?” he said, almost absently. “If so, you’re the first Highlander I’ve met who hadn’t.”
Jamie finished his sharpening and held the point of the quill up, squinting to judge its angle.
“Mm?” he said vaguely. “Aye, well, I’ve other matters that concern me; the running of a business such as this is time-consuming, as you’ll know yourself, I imagine.”
“So it is.” Mr. Hawkins counted over the coins in his column once more and removed one, replacing it with two smaller ones. “I’ve heard that Charles Stuart has recently arrived in Paris,” he said. His round tippler’s face showed no more than mild interest, but the eyes were alert in their pockets of fat.
“Oh, aye,” Jamie muttered, his tone of voice leaving it open whether this was acknowledgment of fact, or merely an expression of polite indifference. He had the order before him, and was signing each page with excessive care, crafting the letters rather than scribbling them, as was his usual habit. A left-handed man forced as a boy to write right-handed, he always found letters difficult, but he seldom made such a fuss of it.
“You do not share your cousin’s sympathies in that direction, then?” Hawkins sat back a little, watching the crown of Jamie’s bent head, which was naturally rather noncommital.
“Is that any concern of yours, sir?” Jamie raised his head, and fixed Mr. Hawkins with a mild blue stare. The plump merchant returned the look for a moment, then waved a podgy hand in airy dismissal.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Still, I am familiar with your cousin’s Jacobite leanings—he makes no secret of them. I wondered only whether all Scots were of one mind on this matter of the Stuart pretensions to the throne.”
“If you’ve had much to do wi’ Highland Scots,” Jamie said dryly, handing across a copy of the order, “then ye’ll know that it’s rare to find two of them in agreement on anything much beyond the color of the sky—and even that is open to question from time to time.”
Mr. Hawkins laughed, his comfortable paunch shaking under his waistcoat, and tucked the folded paper away in his coat. Seeing that Jamie was not eager to have this line of inquiry pursued, I stepped in at this point with a hospitable offer of Madeira and biscuits.
Mr. Hawkins looked tempted for a moment, but then shook his head regretfully, pushing back his chair to rise.
“No, no, I thank you, milady, but no. The Arabella docks this Thursday, and I must be at Calais to meet her. And the devil of a lot there is to do before I set foot in the carriage to leave.” He grimaced at a large sheaf of orders and receipts he had pulled from his pocket, added Jamie’s receipt to the heap, and stuffed them back into a large leather traveling wallet.
“Still,” he said, brightening, “I can do a bit of business on the way; I shall call in at the inns and public houses between here and Calais.”
“If ye call in at all the taverns ’twixt here and the coast, you’ll no reach Calais ’til next month,” observed Jamie. He fished his own purse from his sporran and scooped the small column of silver into it.
“Too true, milord,” Mr. Hawkins said, frowning ruefully. “I suppose I must give one or two the miss, and catch them up on my way back.”
“Surely you could send someone to Calais in your place, if your time is so valuable?” I suggested.
He rolled his eyes expressively, pursing his jolly little mouth into something as close to mournfulness as could be managed within the limitations of its shape.
“Would that I could, milady. But the shipment the Arabella carries is, alas, nothing I can consign to the good offices of a functionary. My niece Mary is aboard,” he confided, “bound even as we speak for the French coast. She is but fifteen, and has never been away from her home before. I am afraid I could scarce leave her to find her way to Paris alone.”
“I shouldn’t
think so,” I agreed politely. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think why. Mary Hawkins. Undistinguished enough; I couldn’t connect it with anything in particular. I was still musing over it when Jamie rose to see Mr. Hawkins to the door.
“I trust your niece’s journey will be pleasant,” he said politely. “Does she come for schooling, then? Or to visit relatives?”
“For marriage,” said her uncle with satisfaction. “My brother has been fortunate in securing a most advantageous match for her, with a member of the French nobility.” He seemed to expand with pride at this, the plain gold buttons straining the fabric of his waistcoat. “My elder brother is a baronet, you know.”
“She’s fifteen?” I said, uneasily. I knew that early marriages were not uncommon, but fifteen? Still, I had been married at nineteen—and again at twenty-seven. I knew the hell of a lot more at twenty-seven.
“Er, has your niece been acquainted with her fiancé for very long?” I asked cautiously.
“Never met him. In fact”—Mr. Hawkins leaned close, laying a finger next to his lips and lowering his voice—“she doesn’t yet know about the marriage. The negotiations are not quite complete, you see.”
I was appalled at this, and opened my mouth to say something, but Jamie clutched my elbow tightly in warning.
“Well, if the gentleman is of the nobility, perhaps we shall see your niece at Court, then,” he suggested, shoving me firmly toward the door like the blade of a bulldozer. Mr. Hawkins, moving perforce to avoid my stepping on him, backed away, still talking.
“Indeed you may, milord Broch Tuarach. Indeed, I should deem it a great honor for yourself and your lady to meet my niece. I am sure she would derive great comfort from the society of a countrywoman,” he added with a smarmy smile at me. “Not that I would presume upon what is merely a business acquaintance, to be sure.”
The hell you wouldn’t presume, I thought indignantly. You’d do anything you could to squeeze your family into the French nobility, including marrying your niece to…to…
“Er, who is your niece’s fiancé?” I asked bluntly.
Mr. Hawkins’s face grew cunning, and he leaned close enough to whisper hoarsely into my ear.
“I really should not say until the contracts have been signed, but seeing as it is your ladyship.…I can tell you that it is a member of the House of Gascogne. And a very high-ranking member indeed!”
“Indeed,” I said.
Mr. Hawkins went off rubbing his hands together in a perfect frenzy of anticipation, and I turned at once to Jamie.
“Gascogne! He must mean…but he can’t, can he? That revolting old beast with the snuff stains on his chin who came to dinner last week?”
“The Vicomte Marigny?” Jamie said, smiling at my description. “I suppose so; he’s a widower, and the only single male of that house, so far as I know. I dinna think it’s snuff, though; it’s only the way his beard grows. A bit moth-eaten,” he admitted, “but it’s bound to be a hellish shave, wi’ all those warts.”
“He can’t marry a fifteen-year-old girl to…to…that! And without even asking her!”
“Oh, I expect he can,” Jamie said, with infuriating calmness. “In any case, Sassenach, it isna your affair.” He took me firmly by both arms and gave me a little shake.
“D’ye hear me? I know it’s strange to ye, but that’s how matters are. After all”—the long mouth curled up at one corner—“you, were made to wed against your will. Reconciled yourself to it yet, have ye?”
“Sometimes I wonder!” I yanked, trying to pull my arms free, but he merely gathered me in, laughing, and kissed me. After a moment, I gave up fighting. I relaxed into his embrace, admitting surrender, if only temporarily. I would meet with Mary Hawkins, I thought, and we’d see just what she thought about this proposed marriage. If she didn’t want to see her name on a marriage contract, linked with the Vicomte Marigny, then…Suddenly I stiffened, pushing away from Jamie’s embrace.
“What is it?” he looked alarmed. “Are ye ill, lass? You’ve gone all white!”
And little wonder if I had. For I had suddenly remembered where I had seen the name of Mary Hawkins. Jamie was wrong. This was my affair. For I had seen the name, written in a copperplate hand at the top of a genealogy chart, the ink old and faded by time to a sepia brown. Mary Hawkins was not meant to be the wife of the decrepit Vicomte Marigny. She was to marry Jonathan Randall, in the year of our Lord 1745.
* * *
“Well, she can’t, can she?” Jamie said. “Jack Randall is dead.” He finished pouring the glass of brandy, and held it out to me. His hand was steady on the crystal stem, but the line of his mouth was set and his voice clipped the word “dead,” giving it a vicious finality.
“Put your feet up, Sassenach,” he said. “You’re still pale.” At his motion, I obediently pulled up my feet and stretched out on the sofa. Jamie sat down near my head, and absently rested a hand on my shoulder. His fingers felt warm and strong, gently massaging the small hollow of the joint.
“Marcus MacRannoch told me he’d seen Randall trampled to death by cattle in the dungeons of Wentworth Prison,” he said again, as though seeking to reassure himself by repetition. “A ‘rag doll, rolled in blood.’ That’s what Sir Marcus said. He was verra sure about it.”
“Yes.” I sipped my brandy, feeling the warmth come back into my cheeks. “He told me that, too. No, you’re right, Captain Randall is dead. It just gave me a turn, suddenly remembering about Mary Hawkins. Because of Frank.” I glanced down at my left hand, resting on my stomach. There was a small fire burning on the hearth, and the light of it caught the smooth gold band of my first wedding ring. Jamie’s ring, of Scottish silver, circled the fourth finger of my other hand.
“Ah.” Jamie’s touch on my shoulder stilled. His head was bent, but he glanced up to meet my gaze. We had not spoken of Frank since I had rescued Jamie from Wentworth, nor had Jonathan Randall’s death been mentioned between us. At the time it had seemed of little importance, except insofar as it meant that no more danger menaced us from that direction. And since then, I had been reluctant to bring back any memory of Wentworth to Jamie.
“You know he is dead, do ye not, mo duinne?” Jamie spoke softly, his fingers resting on my wrist, and I knew he spoke of Frank, not Jonathan.
“Maybe not,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the ring. I raised my hand, so the metal gleamed in the fading afternoon light. “If he’s dead, Jamie—if he won’t exist, because Jonathan is dead—then why do I still have the ring he gave me?”
He stared at the ring, and I saw a small muscle twitch near his mouth. His face was pale, too, I saw. I didn’t know whether it would do him harm to think of Jonathan Randall now, but there seemed little choice.
“You’re sure that Randall had no children before he died?” he asked. “That would be an answer.”
“It would,” I said, “but no, I’m sure not. Frank”—my voice trembled a bit on the name, and Jamie’s grip on my wrist tightened—“Frank made quite a bit of the tragic circumstances of Jonathan Randall’s death. He said that he—Jack Randall—had died at Culloden Field, in the last battle of the Rising, and his son—that would be Frank’s five-times great-grandfather—was born a few months after his father’s death. His widow married again, a few years later. Even if there were an illegitimate child, it wouldn’t be in Frank’s line of descent.”
Jamie’s forehead was creased, and a thin vertical line ran between his brows. “Could it be a mistake, then—that the child was not Randall’s at all? Frank may come only of Mary Hawkins’s line—for we know she still lives.”
I shook my head helplessly.
“I don’t see how. If you’d known Frank—but no, I suppose I’ve never told you. When I first met Jonathan Randall, I thought for the first moment that he was Frank—they weren’t the same, of course, but the resemblance was…startling. No, Jack Randall was Frank’s ancestor, all right.”
“I see.” Jamie’s fingers had grown damp; he too
k them away and wiped them absently on his kilt.
“Then…perhaps the ring means nothing, mo duinne,” he suggested gently.
“Perhaps not.” I touched the metal, warm as my own flesh, then dropped my hand helplessly. “Oh, Jamie, I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”
He rubbed his knuckles tiredly on the crease between his eyes. “Neither do I, Sassenach.” He dropped his hand and tried to smile at me.
“There’s the one thing,” he said. “You said that Frank told you Jonathan Randall would die at Culloden?”
“Yes. In fact, I told Jack Randall that myself, to scare him—at Wentworth, when he put me out in the snow, before…before going back to you.” His eyes and mouth clamped shut in sudden spasm, and I swung my feet down, alarmed.
“Jamie! Are you all right?” I tried to put a hand on his head, but he pulled away from my touch, rising and going to the window.