Jamie’s lips tightened at this, but he bowed in return and said, “My wife shares my honor at your attention, Your Majesty.” He glanced in my direction. “If she is well enough to attend the ball tomorrow evening, I am sure she will look forward to dancing with Your Majesty.” He turned without waiting for formal dismissal, and jerked his head toward the chair-bearers.
“Home,” he said.
* * *
Home at last after a hot, jolting ride through streets that smelled of flowers and open sewers, I shed my heavy dress and its uncomfortable frame in favor of a silk dressing gown.
I found Jamie sitting by the empty hearth, eyes closed, hands on his knees as though thinking. He was pale as his linen shirt, glimmering in the shadow of the mantelpiece like a ghost.
“Holy Mother,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Dear God and saints, so close. I came within a hairsbreadth of murdering that man. Do ye realize, Claire, if ye hadna fainted…Jesus, I meant to kill him, with every last morsel of will I had.” He broke off, shuddering again with reaction.
“Here, you’d better put your feet up,” I urged, tugging at a heavy carved footstool.
“No, I’m all right now,” he said, waving it away. “He’s…Jack Randall’s brother, then?”
“I should think it likely in the extreme,” I said dryly. “He could scarcely be anyone else, after all.”
“Mm. Did ye know he worked for Sandringham?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t—don’t—know anything about him other than his name and the fact that he’s a curate. F-Frank wasn’t particularly interested in him, as he wasn’t a direct ancestor of his.” The slight quaver of my voice as I spoke Frank’s name gave me away.
Jamie put down the flask and came toward me. Stooping purposefully, he picked me up and cradled me against his chest. The smell of the gardens of Versailles rose sharp and fresh from the folds of his shirt. He kissed the top of my head and turned toward the bed.
“Come lay your head, Claire,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long day for us both.”
* * *
I had been afraid that the encounter with Alexander Randall would set Jamie dreaming again. It did not happen often, but now and again, I would feel him wake beside me, body tensed in sudden battle. He would lurch out of bed then, and spend the night by the window as though it offered escape, refusing any form of solace or interference. And by the morning, Jack Randall and the other demons of the dark hours had been forced back into their box, battened down and held fast by the steel bands of Jamie’s will, and all was well again.
But Jamie fell asleep quickly, and the stresses of the day had already fled from his face, leaving it peaceful and smooth by the time I put out the candle.
It was bliss to lie unmoving, with the warmth growing about my cold limbs, the myriad small aches of back and neck and knees fading into the softness of oncoming sleep. But my mind, released from watchfulness, replayed a thousand times that scene outside the palace—a quick glimpse of a dark head and a high brow, close-set ears and a fine-edged jaw—that first harsh flash of mistaken recognition, which struck my heart with a blow of joy and anguish. Frank, I had thought. Frank. And it was Frank’s face I saw as I sank into sleep.
The lecture room was one of those at London University; ancient timbered ceiling and modern floors, lino scuffed by restless feet. The seats were the old smooth benches; new desks were saved for the science lectures. History could make do with sixty-year-old scarred wood; after all, the subject was fixed and would not change—why should its accommodation?
“Objects of vertu,” Frank’s voice said, “and objects of use.” His long fingers touched the rim of a silver candlestick, and the sun from the window sparked from the metal, as though his touch were electric.
The objects, all borrowed from the collections of the British Museum, were lined up along the edge of the table, close enough for the students in the front row to see the tiny cracks in the yellowed ivory of the French counterbox, and the stains of tobacco smoked long ago that browned the edges of the white clay pipe. An English gold-mounted scent bottle, a gilt-bronze inkstand with gadrooned lid, a cracked horn spoon, and a small marble clock topped with two swans drinking.
And behind the row of objects, a row of painted miniatures, laid flat on the table, features obscured by the light reflecting off their surfaces.
Frank’s dark head bent over the objects, absorbed. The afternoon sun picked up a stray reddish gleam in his hair. He lifted the clay pipe, cupped onehanded like an eggshell.
“For some periods of history,” he said, “we have history itself; the written testimony of the people who lived then. For others, we have only the objects of the period, to show us how men lived.”
He put the pipe to his mouth and pursed his lips around the stem, puffing out his cheeks, brows raised comically. There was a muffled giggle from the audience, and he smiled and laid the pipe down.
“The art, and the objects of vertu”—he waved a hand over the glittering array—“these are what we most often see, the decorations of a society. And why not?” He picked an intelligent-looking brown-haired boy to address. An accomplished lecturer’s trick; pick one member of the audience to talk to as though you were alone with him. A moment later, shift to another. And everyone in the room will feel the focus of your remarks.
“These are pretty things, after all.” A finger’s touch set the swans on the clock revolving, curved necks stately in twofold procession. “Worth preserving. But who’d bother keeping an old, patched tea cozy, or a worn-out automobile-tire?” A pretty blonde in glasses this time, who smiled and tittered briefly in response.
“But it’s the useful objects, the things that aren’t noted in documents, which are used and broken and discarded without a second thought, that tell you how the common man lived. The numbers of these pipes, for example, tell us something about the frequency and types of tobacco use among the classes of society, from high”—a finger tap on the lid of the enameled snuffbox—“to low.” The finger moved to stroke the long, straight pipestem with affectionate familiarity.
Now a middle-aged woman, scribbling frantically to catch every word, hardly aware of the singular regard upon her. The lines creased beside smiling hazel eyes.
“You needn’t take down everything, Miss Smith,” he chided. “It’s an hour’s lecture, after all—your pencil will never last.”
The woman blushed and dropped her pencil, but smiled shyly in answer to the friendly grin on Frank’s lean, dark face. He had them now, everyone warmed by the glow of good humor, attention attracted by the small flashes of gilt and glitter. Now they would follow him without flagging or complaint, along the path of logic and into the thickets of discussion. A certain tenseness left his neck as he felt the students’ attention settle and fix on him.
“The best witness to history is the man—or woman”—a nod to the pretty blonde—“who’s lived it, right?” He smiled and picked up the cracked horn spoon. “Well, perhaps. After all, it’s human nature to put the best face on things when you know someone will read what you’ve written. People tend to concentrate on the things they think important, and often enough, they tidy it up a bit for public consumption. It’s rare to find a Pepys who records with equal interest the details of a Royal procession, and the number of times each night that he’s obliged to use his chamber pot.”
The laugh this time was general, and he relaxed, leaning casually back against the table, gesturing with the spoon.
“Similarly, the lovely objects, the artful artifacts, are the ones most often preserved. But the chamber pots and the spoons and the cheap clay pipes can tell us as much or more about the people who used them.
“And what about those people? We think of historical persons as something different than ourselves, sometimes halfway mythological. But someone played games with this”—the slender index finger stroked the counter-box—“a lady used this”—nudged the scent bottle—“dabbing scent behind her ears, on her wrists�
��where else do you ladies dab scent?” Lifting his head suddenly, he smiled at the plump blond girl in the front row, who blushed, giggled, and touched herself demurely just above the V of her blouse.
“Ah, yes. Just there. Well, so did the lady who owned this.”
Still smiling at the girl, he unstoppered the scent bottle and passed it gently under his nose.
“What is it, Professor? Arpège?” Not so shy, this student; dark-haired, like Frank, with gray eyes that held more than a hint of flirtation.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring over the mouth of the bottle.
“No. It’s L’Heure Bleu. My favorite.”
He turned back to the table, hair falling over his brow in concentration as his hand hovered over the row of miniatures.
“And then there’s a special class of objects—portraits. A bit of art, and at the same time, as much as we can see of the people themselves. But how real are they to us?”
He lifted a tiny oval and turned it to face the class, reading from the small gummed label affixed to its back.
“A Lady, by Nathaniel Plimer, signed with initials and dated 1786, with curled brown hair piled high, wearing a pink dress and a ruffle-collared chemise, cloud and sky background.” He held up a square beside it.
“A Gentleman, by Horace Hone, signed with monogram and dated 1780, with powdered hair en queue, wearing a brown coat, blue waistcoat, lawn jabot, and an Order, possibly the Most Honorable Order of the Bath.”
The miniature showed a round-faced man, mouth rosily pursed in the formal pose of eighteenth-century portraits.
“The artists we know,” he said, laying the portrait down. “They signed their work, or they left clues to their identity in the techniques and the subjects they used. But the people they painted? We see them, and yet we know nothing of them. The strange hairstyles, the odd clothes—they don’t seem people that you’d know, do they? And the way so many artists painted them, the faces are all alike; pudding-faced and pale, most of them, and not a lot more you can say about them. Here and there, one stands out.…” Hand hovering over the row, he selected another oval.
“A Gentleman…”
He held up the miniature, and Jamie’s blue eyes blazed out under the fiery thatch of his hair, combed for once, braided and ribboned into an unaccustomed formal order. The knife-edged nose was bold above the lace of his stock, and the long mouth seemed about to speak, half-curled at one corner.
“But they were real people,” Frank’s voice insisted. “They did much the same things you do—give or take a few small details like going to the pictures or driving down the motorway”—there were appreciative titters amongst the class—“but they cared about their children, they loved their husbands or wives…well, sometimes they did…” More laughter.
“A Lady,” he said softly, cradling the last of the portraits in his palm, shielding it for the moment. “With brown hair curling luxuriantly to her shoulders, and a necklace of pearls. Undated. The artist unknown.”
It was a mirror, not a miniature. My cheeks were flushed, and my lips trembled as Frank’s finger gently traced the edge of my jaw, the graceful line of my neck. The tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks as I heard his voice, still lecturing, as he laid down the miniature, and I stared upward at the timbered ceiling.
“Undated. Unknown. But once…once, she was real.”
I was having trouble breathing, and thought at first that I was being smothered by the glass over the miniature. But the material pressing on my nose was soft and damp, and I twisted my head away and came awake, feeling the linen pillow wet with tears beneath my cheek. Jamie’s hand was large and warm on my shoulder, gently shaking me.
“Hush, lassie. Hush! You’re but dreaming—I’m here.”
I turned my face into the warmth of his naked shoulder, feeling the tears slick between cheek and skin. I clung tightly to his solidness, and the small night sounds of the Paris house came slowly to my ears, bringing me back to the life that was mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was dreaming about…about…”
He patted my back, and reached under the pillow for a handkerchief.
“I know. Ye were calling his name.” He sounded resigned.
I laid my head back on his shoulder. He smelled warm and rumpled, his own sleepy scent blending with the smell of the down-filled quilt and the clean linen sheets.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
He snorted briefly, not quite a laugh.
“Well, I’ll no say I’m not wicked jealous of the man,” he said ruefully, “because I am. But I can hardly grudge him your dreams. Or your tears.” His finger gently traced the wet track down one cheek, then blotted it with the handkerchief.
“You don’t?”
His smile in the dimness was lopsided.
“No. Ye loved him. I canna hold it against either of you that ye mourn him. And it gives me some comfort to know…” He hesitated, and I reached up to smooth the rumpled hair off his face.
“To know what?”
“That should the need come, you might mourn for me that way,” he said softly.
I pressed my face fiercely into his chest, so my words were muffled.
“I won’t mourn you, because I won’t have to. I won’t lose you, I won’t!” A thought struck me, and I looked up at him, the faint roughness of his beard stubble a shadow on his face.
“You aren’t afraid I would go back, are you? You don’t think that because I…think of Frank.…”
“No.” His voice was quick and soft, a response fast as the possessive tightening of his arms around me.
“No,” he said again, more softly. “We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you.” One large hand rose to stroke my hair. “D’ye mind the blood vow that I swore ye when we wed?”
“Yes, I think so. ‘Blood of my blood, bone of my bone…’ ”
“I give ye my body, that we may be one,” he finished. “Aye, and I have kept that vow, Sassenach, and so have you.” He turned me slightly, and one hand cupped itself gently over the tiny swell of my stomach.
“Blood of my blood,” he whispered, “and bone of my bone. You carry me within ye, Claire, and ye canna leave me now, no matter what happens. You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wilna let ye go.”
I put a hand over his, pressing it against me.
“No,” I said softly, “nor can you leave me.”
“No,” he said, half-smiling. “For I have kept the last of the vow as well.” He clasped both hands about me, and bowed his head on my shoulder, so I could feel the warm breath of the words upon my ear, whispered to the dark.
“For I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.”
11
USEFUL OCCUPATIONS
Who is that peculiar little man?” I asked Jamie curiously. The man in question was making his way slowly through the groups of guests gathered in the main salon of the de Rohans’ house. He would pause a moment, scanning the group with a critical eye, then either shrug a bony shoulder and pass on, or suddenly step in close to a man or woman, hold something to their face and issue some sort of command. Whatever he was doing, his actions appeared to be the occasion of considerable hilarity.
Before Jamie could answer, the man, a small, wizened specimen in gray serge, spotted us, and his face lit up. He swooped down on Jamie like a tiny bird of prey suddenly descending upon a large and startled rabbit.
“Sing,” he commanded.
“Eh?” Jamie blinked down at the little figure in astonishment.
“I said ‘Sing,’ ” answered the man, patiently. He prodded Jamie admiringly in the chest. “With a resonating cavity like that, you should have a wonderful volume.”
“Oh, he has volume,” I said, amused. “You can hear him across three squares of the city when he’s roused.”
Jamie shot me a dirty look. The little man was circling him, measuring the
breadth of his back and tapping on him like a woodpecker sampling a prime tree.
“I can’t sing,” he protested.
“Nonsense, nonsense. Of course you can. A nice, deep baritone, too,” the little man murmured approvingly. “Excellent. Just what we need. Here, a bit of help for you. Try to match this tone.”
Deftly whipping a small tuning fork from his pocket, he struck it smartly against a pillar and held it next to Jamie’s left ear.
Jamie rolled his eyes heavenward, but shrugged and obligingly sang a note. The little man jerked back as though he’d been shot.
“No,” he said disbelievingly.
“I’m afraid so,” I said sympathetically. “He’s right, you know. He really can’t sing.”
The little man squinted accusingly at Jamie, then struck his fork once more and held it out invitingly.
“Once more,” he coaxed. “Just listen to it, and let the same sound come out.”
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