Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Note: Lady Wilford’s party well supplied. Two engagements for next week, and a promising conversation with the Marquess of Tewksbury about hocus-pocus in House of Lords.

Note: Also met Duke of Beaufort at supper, chatted briefly over asparagus mayonnaise. Asked me to ride with him in Rotten Row next Tuesday. Declined on grounds that I have no horse, only to have him offer me one. Accepted. How hard can it be?





Friday, June 5


11:00—Baron Edgerly, to view French titles, elephant folio atlas

1:30—Visit Mr. Smethurst, bookseller in Piccadilly, worm list of clients out of him if poss.

4:30—Lady Buford, tea with Mrs. Randolph and her two daughters

Note: supper alone, thank God. Don’t want to hear one more word spoken. Randolph girls complete emmerdeuses.

Note: reply from Mrs. Simpson. Monday, two o’clock.





Saturday, June 6


Beginning to attract clients desiring information rather than books. Father’s work. Two this week. Said no to one, yes to Sir Roger Barrymore (request re character of man seeking to wed his daughter; met said man last week and could have told Sir Roger he’s a wrong ’un on the spot, but will give him news next week to justify bill).





Sunday, June 7


Morning service, St. George’s, Hanover Square, with Mr. Jaken (Exchange)—fond of organ music

4:00—tea, Lady Buford, review of progress

7:00—Evensong, St. Clement’s, Mr. Hopworth, banker





6





UNEXPECTED INTRODUCTIONS


Monday, June 8

MINERVA RUBBED HER HANDS nervously on her petticoat to dry them, then poked for the dozenth time at her hair, though knowing it to be pinned up as securely as hair could be pinned; the skin of her face felt stretched, her eyebrows ludicrously arched. She glanced into the glass quickly—for the dozenth time—to assure herself that this was in fact not the case.

Would Mrs. Simpson come? She’d dithered about her mother all the way to London and for the two weeks since her arrival—and she hated dithering above all things. Make up one’s mind and be done with it!

So she had, but for once, decision had not removed doubt. Maybe she should have gone to her mother’s residence, appeared on the doorstep without warning. That had been her first impulse, and it was still strong. She’d finally decided instead to send a note—phrased with the utmost simplicity and the barest of facts—requesting the pleasure of Mrs. Simpson’s company in her rooms in Great Ryder Street at two o’clock on Monday, the eighth of June.

She’d thought of sending a note asking permission to call upon Mrs. Simpson; that might have seemed more polite. But she feared the receipt of a rejection—or, still worse, silence—and so had issued an invitation instead. If her mother didn’t come this afternoon, the doorstep option was still open. And by God, she would do it…

The note crackled in her pocket, and she pulled it out—again—unfolding it to read the message, written in a firm round hand—presumably Mrs. Simpson’s—without salutation or signature, promise or rebuke.

Do you think this is wise? it said.

“Well, obviously not,” she said aloud, cross, and shoved it back into her pocket. “What does that matter?”

The knock on the door nearly stopped her heart. She was here! She was early—it lacked a quarter hour of two o’clock—but perhaps Mrs. Simpson had been as eager as herself for the meeting, despite the cool reserve of the note.

The maid—Eliza, a solid middle-aged woman in a high state of starch, who had been engaged with the rooms—glanced at her and, at her nod, went down the hall to answer the door. Minnie glanced in the looking glass again (God, I look quite wild), smoothed her embroidered overskirt, and assumed an aloof-but-cordial expression.

“Colonel Quarry, ma’am,” said the maid, coming in and stepping aside to admit the visitor.

“Who?” said Minnie blankly. The tall gentleman who had appeared in the doorway had paused to look her over with interest; she lifted her chin and returned his regard.

He was wearing his scarlet uniform—infantry—and was quite handsome in a blunt sort of way. Dark and dashing—and well aware of it, she thought, concealing an inward smile. She knew how to handle this sort and allowed the smile to blossom.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, with an answering flash of good teeth. He made her a very graceful leg, straightened, and said, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said, adding two years without hesitation. “And you, sir?”

He blinked. “Twenty-one. Why?”

“I have an interest in numerology,” she said, straight-faced. “Are you acquainted with the science?”

“Er…no.” He was still eyeing her with interest, but the interest was of a different type now.

“What is your date of birth, sir?” she asked, sidling behind the small gilt desk and taking up a quill. “If you please?” she added politely.

“The twenty-third of April,” he said, lips twitching slightly.

“So,” she said, scratching briskly, “that is two plus three, which is five, plus four—April being the fourth month, of course,” she informed him kindly. “Which makes nine, and then we add the digits of your year of birth, which makes…one plus seven plus two plus three? Yes, just so…totaling twenty-two. We then add both twos together and end with four.”

“Apparently so,” he agreed, coming round the desk to look over her shoulder at the paper, where she had written a large four, circling it. He emitted a noticeable amount of heat, standing so close. “What does this signify?”

She relaxed slightly against the tightness of her stays. Now she had him. Once they got curious, you could get them to tell you anything.

“Oh, the four is the most masculine of numbers,” she assured him—quite truthfully. “It designates an individual of marked strength and stability. Dependable, and exceedingly trustworthy.”

He’d put his shoulders back half an inch.

“You’re very punctual,” she said, giving him a sidelong look from beneath her lashes. “Healthy…strong…you notice details and are very good in controlling complex affairs. And you’re loyal—very loyal to those you care for.” She gave him a small but admiring smile to go with this.

Fours were capable and persistent but not swift thinkers, and, once again, she was surprised at just how often the numbers turned out to be right.

“Indeed,” he said, and cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed but undeniably pleased.

At this point, she heard the subdued ticking of the longcase clock behind her and a bolt of apprehension shot through her. She needed to get rid of him, and promptly.

“But I doubt that a desire to learn the science of numerology accounts for the pleasure of your visit, sir.”