Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Papa…” she said, and then cried harder, because she’d never been able to say “Mama” and never would, and this tiny, helpless thing she carried would never know a father. She’d never felt so sad—but at the same time comforted.

He’d cared. He’d come for her after she was born. He’d loved her. He always would—that was what he was saying now, murmuring into her hair, sniffing back the tears. He’d never let her be persecuted and abused as her mother was, never let harm come to her or to her child.

“I know,” she said. Worn out, she rested her head on his chest, holding him as he held her. “I know.”





17





RED WAX AND EVERYTHING


HAL STRODE OUT OF Sir William Yonge’s office, boot heels brisk on the marble tiles and head held high. He nodded cordially to the soldier outside the door and made it down the stairs, along the hall, and out into the street, dignity intact. Harry was waiting across the street, anxious.

He saw Harry’s face break into an enormous grin at sight of him, and then Harry threw back his head and howled like a wolf, to the startlement of Lord Pitt and two companions, who were coming along the pavement at the moment. Hal just managed to bow to them and then was across the street, hammering Harry’s back and shoulders in joy. One-handed, because the other hand was clutching the precious certificate of commission to his bosom.

“God! We did it!”

“You did it!”

“No,” Hal insisted, and shoved Harry in exhilaration. “Us. We did it. Look!” He waved the document, covered and sealed with red wax, under Harry’s nose. “King’s signature and everything! Shall I read it to you?”

“Yes, every word—but not out here.” Harry gripped his elbow and hailed a passing cab. “Come on—we’ll go to the Beefsteak; we can get a drink there.”

Mr. Bodley, the club’s steward, viewed them benignly as they tumbled into the club, calling for champagne and steak and more champagne, and within moments they were installed in the deserted dining room—it being eleven o’clock in the morning—with a cold bottle to hand and steak ordered to follow.

“…commissioned this day by His Royal Majesty, by the grace of God, George the second…oh, my God, I can’t breathe…such a-a-thing…”

Hal laughed at that. His own chest had felt as though it were in a vise all the time he’d been in Sir William’s office—but the vise had burst when he’d seen the certificate, with its unmistakable royal seal at the bottom, and now he breathed as freely as a newborn babe.

“Isn’t it, though?” He could barely stand to have the certificate out of his hand and now reached out to trace the king’s signature with a possessive forefinger. “I was sure when I went in there that it was all up, that Sir William would give me some cock-and-bull story for refusal, all the time eyeing me in that way people do when they think you’re off your head and might just pick up an ax and brain them unexpectedly. Not that I haven’t often felt that way,” he added judiciously, and drained his glass. “Drink up, Harry!”

Harry did, coughed, and poured more.

“So what did happen? Was Yonge friendly, matter-of-fact…what did he say?”

Hal frowned, absently enjoying the fresh burst of dry bubbles on his tongue.

“Friendly enough…though I don’t think I could tell quite what his manner was. Not nervous at all. And not that wary way politicals often are with me when they’re thinking of Father.”

Harry made a low noise in this throat, indicating complete understanding and sympathy—he’d been by Hal’s side through his father’s suicide and all the bloody mess that came afterward. Hal smiled at his friend and half-lifted his glass in silent acknowledgment.

“As to what he said, he greeted me very affably, asked me to sit, and offered me a currant biscuit.”

Harry whistled.

“My God, you are honored. I hear he only gives biscuits to the king and the first minister. Though I imagine he’d give one to the queen, too, should she choose to visit his lair.”

“I think the contingency is remote.” Hal emptied the bottle and turned to call for another, but Mr. Bodley’s tray was already at his elbow. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Bodley.” He stifled a belch and realized that his head, while not swimming, was showing a slight disposition to float. “Do you think the steak will be long in coming?”

Mr. Bodley tilted his head from side to side in equivocation.

“A little time, my lord. But the cook has some wonderful small eel pies, just out of the oven—perhaps I could tempt you with a pair while you’re waiting?”

Harry sniffed the fragrant air drifting in from the kitchen and closed his eyes in anticipatory bliss. The Beefsteak made their eel pies with the usual onion, butter, and parsley but also with nutmeg and dry sherry.

“Oh, God, yes.”

Hal’s mouth watered a bit at the thought—but the thought also brought a tightening of his body. Harry opened his eyes and looked surprised.

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“Matter? Nothing.” Mr. Bodley had freed the cork from its lead seal and now loosed it deftly with a soft burp and a hiss of rising bubbles. “Thank you, Mr. Bodley. Yes, eel pies by all means!

“Eel pies,” he repeated, as Mr. Bodley faded discreetly toward the kitchen. “The mention just reminded me of Kettrick’s…and that young woman.”

The thought of her—God damn it, why had he not even thought to make her tell him her real name? Lady Bedelia Houghton, for God’s sake—caused its usual frisson of mixed emotions. Lust, curiosity, annoyance…longing? He didn’t know if he’d put it that strongly, but he did have an intense desire to see her again, if only to find out what the devil she’d actually been doing. A desire now greatly intensified by his meeting with the secretary.

“Kettrick’s?” Harry said, looking blank. “Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, you mean? And what young woman?”

Hal caught something in Harry’s voice and gave his friend a sharp look.

“The girl I caught magicking the drawer of my desk, the night of the ball.”

“Oh, that girl,” Harry murmured, and buried his nose in his glass.

Hal looked harder at Harry. He hadn’t told Harry everything—not by a long chalk, by God—but he had told him that he was satisfied with what she’d told him (actually, a long way from satisfied, but…) and that he’d sent her home in a coach and requested her address, which she’d given.

Only to discover that said address didn’t exist, and when he’d tracked down the coach driver, an Irish rapscallion, the man had told him that the girl had professed to be starving—she was; he’d heard her stomach growling when he…oh, Jesus—and had asked him to put her down for a moment at Kettrick’s. He had, and the girl had promptly walked through the house, out the back, and legged it down an alley, never to be seen again.