Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

The older man—in his forties, slender and dark, with a cocked hat balanced on his knee—at once reached into his pocket and produced a flask: a lovely object made in chased silver, adorned with a sizable chrysoberyl, she saw with surprise.

“Try this,” he said in a pleasant voice. “It is orange-flower water, with sugar, herbs, the juice of blood oranges, and just a touch of gin, for refreshment.”

“Thank you.” She repressed the “drugged and raped” murmuring in her brain and accepted the flask. She passed it unobtrusively under her nose, but there was no telltale scent of laudanum. In fact, it smelled divine and tasted even better.

Both of the men saw the expression on her face and smiled. Not with the smile of satisfied entrapment, but with genuine pleasure that she enjoyed their offering. She took a deep breath, another sip, and began to relax. She smiled back at them. On the other hand…her mother’s address lay in Parson’s Green, and she had just noticed that they were heading steadily in the opposite direction. Or at least she thought so…

“Where are we going?” she asked politely. They looked surprised, looked at each other, eyebrows raised, then back at her.

“Why…to see Mrs. Simpson,” the older gentleman said. The boy nodded and bowed awkwardly to her.

“Mrs. Simpson,” he murmured, blushing.

And that was all anyone said for the remainder of the journey. She occupied herself with sipping the refreshing orange drink and with surreptitious observation of her…not captors, presumably. Escorts?

The gentleman who had given her the flask spoke excellent English, but with a touch of foreign sibilance: Italian, perhaps, or Spanish?

The younger man—he didn’t really seem a boy, in spite of smooth cheeks and cracking voice—had a strong face and, regardless of his blushing, an air of confidence about him. He was fair and yellow-eyed, yet that brief glimpse when the two had looked at her in question had shown her a faint, vanishing resemblance between the two of them. Father and son? Perhaps so.

She flipped quickly through the ledger she carried in her head, in search of any such pair among her father’s clients—or enemies—but found no one who met the description of her escorts. She took a deep breath, another sip, and resolved to think of nothing until they arrived at their destination.

Half an hour later, the flask was nearly empty and the coach lurched to a stop in what she thought was possibly Southwark.

Their destination was a small inn standing in a street of shops dominated by Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, this being evidently a successful eating place, judging by the crowds of people and the strong scent of jellied eels. Her belly rumbled as she got down from the carriage, but the sound was lost in the noises of the street. The boy bowed and offered her his arm; she took it, and putting on her most blandly pleasant face, she went with him inside.



IT WAS SHADOWY inside, light coming through two narrow, curtained windows. She noticed the smell of the place—hyacinths, how odd—but nothing more. Everything was a blur; all she felt was the beating of her heart and the solidness of the boy’s arm.

Then a hallway, then a door, and then…

A woman. Blue dress. Soft-brown hair looped up behind her ears. Eyes. Pale-green eyes. Not blue like her own.

Minnie stopped dead, not breathing. For the moment, she felt an odd disappointment; the woman looked nothing like the picture she had carried with her all her life. This one was tall and thin, almost lean, and while her face was arresting, it wasn’t the face Minnie saw in her mirror.

“Minerva?” the woman said, in a voice little more than a whisper. She coughed, cleared her throat explosively, and, coming toward Minnie, said much louder, “Minerva? Is it truly you?”

“Well, yes,” said Minnie, not sure quite what to do. She must be; she knows my real name. “That’s my name. And you are…Mrs….Simpson?” Her own voice broke quite absurdly, the final syllable uttered like the squeak of a bat.

“Yes.” The woman turned her head and gave the two who had brought her a brief nod. The boy vanished at once, but the older man touched the woman’s shoulder gently and gave Minnie a smile before following suit, leaving Minnie and Mrs. Simpson frankly staring at each other.

Mrs. Simpson was dressed well but quietly. She pursed her lips, looked sidelong at Minnie, as though estimating the possibility that she might be armed, then sighed, her square shoulders slumping.

“I’m not your mother, child,” she said quietly.

Quiet as they were, the words struck Minnie like fists, four solid blows in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded, taking a step backward. Every cautionary word she’d ignored came flooding back in her father’s voice.

“…kidnapped…sold to a brothel…shipped off to the colonies…murdered for sixpence…”

“I’m your aunt, my dear,” Mrs. Simpson said. The nettle grasped, she had regained some of her starch. “Miriam Simpson. Your mother is my sister, Hélène.”

“Hélène,” Minnie repeated. The name struck a spark in her soul. She had that much, at least. Hélène. A Frenchwoman? She swallowed.

“Is she dead?” she asked, as steadily as she could. Mrs. Simpson pursed her lips again, unhappy, but shook her head.

“No,” she said, with obvious reluctance. “She lives. But…”

Minnie wished she’d brought a pocket pistol instead of a knife. If she had, she’d fire a shot into the ceiling right this minute. Instead, she took a step forward, so that her eyes were no more than inches from the green ones that didn’t look like hers.

“Take me to her. Right now,” she said. “You can tell me the story on the way.”





7





ANNUNCIATION


THE COACH CROSSED OVER the cobbles of a bridge with a great clattering of hooves and wheels. The racket was as nothing to the noise inside Minnie’s head.

“A nun,” Minnie said, as they passed onto a dirt road and the noise decreased. She sounded as blank as she felt. “My mother…was a nun?”

Mrs. Simpson—her aunt, Aunt Simpson, Aunt Miriam…she must get used to thinking of her that way—took a deep breath and nodded. With that bit of news out of the way, she had regained some of her composure.

“Yes. A sister of the Order of Divine Mercy, in Paris. You know of them?”

Minnie shook her head. She had thought she was prepared to hear anything, but she hadn’t been, by a long chalk.

“What—what do they look like?” It was the first thing to come into her head. “Black, gray, white…?”

Mrs. Simpson relaxed a little, bracing her back against the blue cushions to counter the jolting of the coach.

“Their habit is white, with a gray veil. They are a contemplative order but not cloistered.”

“What does that mean, contemplative?” Minnie burst out. “What are they contemplating? Not their vows of chastity, apparently.”

Her aunt looked startled, but her mouth twitched a little.

“Apparently not,” she said. “Their chief occupation is prayer. Contemplation of God’s mercy and His divine nature.”