Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Colonel Grey,” she said, waving him gracefully back to his seat as she took her own. “Would you be connected with the Greys of Ilford, in Sussex? Or perhaps your family are from the London branch…?”


“My brother has an estate in Sussex, yes,” he said hastily. Forbearing to add that it was his half-brother Paul, who was not in fact a Grey, having been born of his mother’s first marriage. Forbearing also to mention that his elder full brother was the Duke of Pardloe, and the man who had shot one Nathaniel Twelvetrees twenty years before. Which would logically expose the fact that Grey himself…

Philip Twelvetrees rather obviously did not want his sister alarmed by any mention of the present situation. Grey gave him the faintest of nods in acknowledgement, and Twelvetrees relaxed visibly, settling down to exchange polite social conversation.

“And what it is that brings you to Jamaica, Colonel Grey?” Miss Twelvetrees asked eventually. Knowing this was coming, Grey had devised an answer of careful vagueness, having to do with the Crown’s concern for shipping. Halfway through this taradiddle, though, Miss Twelvetrees gave him a very direct look and demanded, “Are you here because of the governor?”

“Nan!” said her brother, shocked.

“Are you?” she repeated, ignoring her brother. Her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks flushed.

Grey smiled at her.

“What makes you think that that might be the case, may I ask, ma’am?”

“Because if you haven’t come to remove Derwent Warren from his office, then someone should!”

“Nancy!” Philip was nearly as flushed as his sister. He leaned forward, grasping her wrist. “Nancy, please!”

She made as though to pull away, but then, seeing his pleading face, contented herself with a simple “Hmph!” and sat back in her chair, mouth set in a thin line.

Grey would dearly have liked to know what lay behind Miss Twelvetrees’s animosity toward the governor, but he couldn’t well inquire directly. Instead, he guided the conversation smoothly away, inquiring of Philip regarding the operations of the plantation and of Miss Twelvetrees regarding the natural history of Jamaica, for which she seemed to have some feeling, judging by the rather good watercolours of plants and animals that hung about the room, all neatly signed N. T.

Gradually, the sense of tension in the room relaxed, and Grey became aware that Miss Twelvetrees was focusing her attentions upon him. Not quite flirting—she was not built for flirtation—but definitely going out of her way to make him aware of her as a woman. He didn’t quite know what she had in mind—he was presentable enough but didn’t think she was truly attracted to him. Still, he made no move to stop her; if Philip should leave them alone together, he might be able to find out why she had said that about Governor Warren.

A quarter hour later, a mulatto man in a well-made suit put his head in at the door to the drawing room and asked if he might speak with Philip. He cast a curious eye toward Grey, but Twelvetrees made no move to introduce them, instead excusing himself and taking the visitor—who, Grey conceived, must be an overseer of some kind—to the far end of the large, airy room, where they conferred in low voices.

He at once seized the opportunity to fix his attention on Miss Nancy, in hopes of turning the conversation to his own ends.

“I collect you are acquainted with the governor, Miss Twelvetrees?” he asked, to which she gave a short laugh.

“Better than I might wish, sir.”

“Really?” he said, in as inviting a tone as possible.

“Really,” she said, and smiled unpleasantly. “But let us not waste time in discussing a…a person of such low character.” The smile altered, and she leaned towards him, touching his hand, which surprised him. “Tell me, Colonel, does your wife accompany you? Or does she remain in London, from fear of fevers and slave uprisings?”

“Alas, I am unmarried, ma’am,” he said, thinking that she likely knew a good deal more than her brother wished her to.

“Really,” she said again, in an altogether different tone.

Her touch lingered on his hand, a fraction of a moment too long. Not long enough to be blatant, but long enough for a normal man to perceive it—and Grey’s reflexes in such matters were much better developed than a normal man’s, from necessity.

He barely thought consciously but smiled at her, then glanced at her brother, then back, with the tiniest of regretful shrugs. He forbore to add the lingering smile that would have said, “Later.”

She sucked her lower lip in for a moment, then released it, wet and reddened, and gave him a look under lowered lids that said, “Later,” and a good deal more. He coughed, and out of the sheer need to say something completely free of suggestion asked abruptly, “Do you by chance know what an Obeah man is, Miss Twelvetrees?”

Her eyes sprang wide, and she lifted her hand from his arm. He managed to move out of her easy reach without actually appearing to shove his chair backwards and thought she didn’t notice; she was still looking at him with great attention, but the nature of that attention had changed. The sharp vertical lines between her brows deepened into a harsh eleven.

“Where did you encounter that term, Colonel, may I ask?” Her voice was quite normal, her tone light—but she also glanced at her brother’s turned back, and she spoke quietly.

“One of the governor’s servants mentioned it. I see you are familiar with the term—I collect it is to do with Africans?”

“Yes.” Now she was biting her upper lip, but the intent was not sexual. “The Koromantyn slaves—you know what those are?”

“No.”

“Negroes from the Gold Coast,” she said, and putting her hand once more on his sleeve, pulled him up and drew him a little away, toward the far end of the room. “Most planters want them, because they’re big and strong and usually very well formed.” Was it—no, he decided, it was not his imagination; the tip of her tongue had darted out and touched her lip in the fraction of an instant before she’d said “well formed.” He thought Philip Twelvetrees had best find his sister a husband, and quickly.

“Do you have Koromantyn slaves here?”

“A few. The thing is, Koromantyns tend to be intractable. Very aggressive and hard to control.”

“Not a desirable trait in a slave, I collect,” he said, making an effort to keep any edge out of his tone.

“Well, it can be,” she said, surprising him. She smiled briefly. “If your slaves are loyal—and ours are, I’d swear it—then you don’t mind them being a bit bloody-minded toward…anyone who might want to come and cause trouble.”

He was sufficiently shocked at her language that it took him a moment to absorb her meaning. The tongue tip flickered out again, and had she had dimples, she would certainly have employed them.

“I see,” he said carefully. “But you were about to tell me what an Obeah man is. Some figure of authority, I take it, among the Koromantyns?”