Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(172)

“If you must know…” he said, and gulped air, “my father shot himself in the conservatory at our house. Three years ago…today. I…saw him. His body. Among the glass, all the plants, the—the light—” He looked up at the panes overhead, blinding with sun, then down at the gravel, patterned with the same light, and closed his eyes briefly. “It…disturbed me. I wouldn’t have come—” He paused to cough. “Pardon me. I wouldn’t have come here today, save that His Highness invited me, and I needed very much to meet him.” His eyes, bloodshot and watering, met hers directly. They were blue, pale blue.

“In the unlikely event that you haven’t heard the story: my father was accused of treason; he shot himself the night before they planned to arrest him.”

“That’s very terrible,” Minnie said, appalled. Terrible in a number of ways—not least in the realization that this must be the Duke of Pardloe, the one her father had in mind as a potential…source. She avoided even thinking the word “victim.”

“It was. He was not a traitor, as it happens, but there you are. The family was disgraced, naturally. His regiment—the one he had raised, had built himself—was disbanded. I mean to raise it again.” He spoke with a simple matter-of-factness and paused to mop his face with his hand again.

“Haven’t you got a handkerchief? Here, have mine.” She squirmed on the rough stones, digging for her pocket.

“Thank you.” He wiped his face more thoroughly, coughed once, and shook his head. “I need support—patronage from high quarters—in that endeavor, and a friend managed an introduction to His Highness, who was kind enough to listen to me. I think he’ll help,” he added, in a meditative sort of way. Then he glanced at her and smiled ruefully. “Wouldn’t help my cause to be found writhing on the ground like a worm directly after speaking to him, though, would it?”

“No, I can see that.” She considered for a moment, then ventured a cautious question. “The sal volatile—” She gestured at the vial, fallen to the ground a few feet away. “Do you often feel faint? Or did you just…think you might need it today?”

His lips pressed tight at that, but he answered.

“Not often.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’m quite all right now. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day. Would you…” He hesitated, looking toward the orchid house. “Would you like me to present you to His Highness? Or to Princess Augusta, if you like; I know her.”

“Oh. No, no, that’s quite all right,” Minnie said hastily, getting up, too. Regardless of her own desires, which didn’t involve coming to the notice of royalty, she could see that the very last thing he wanted to do was to go anywhere near people, disheveled, shaken, and wheezing as he was. Still, he was pulling himself together before her eyes, firmness straightening his body. He coughed once more and shook his head doggedly, trying to rid himself of it.

“Your friend,” he said, with the decisive air of one changing the subject, “do you know him well?”

“My fr—oh, the, um, gentleman I was talking to earlier?” Apparently Mr. Bloomer hadn’t been quite fast enough in his disappearing act. “He isn’t a friend. I met him by the euphorbias”—she gestured airily, as though she and the euphorbias were quite good chums—“and he began telling me about the plants, so we walked on together. I don’t even know his name.”

That made him look sharply at her, but it was, after all, the truth, and her look of innocence was apparently convincing.

“I see,” he said, and it was obvious that he saw a good deal more than Minnie did. He thought for a moment, then made up his mind.

“I do know him,” he said carefully, and wiped a hand under his nose. “And while I would not presume to tell you how to choose your friends, I don’t think he’s a good man with whom to associate. Should you meet him again, I mean.” He stopped, considering, but that was all he had to say on the subject of Mr. Bloomer. Minnie would have liked to know Bloomer’s real name but didn’t feel she could ask.

There was a short, awkward silence, in which they stared at each other, half-smiling and trying to think what to say next.

“I—” Minnie began.

“You—” he began.

The smiles became genuine.

“What?” she asked.

“I was going to say that I think the prince has likely left the orchids to their own devices by now. You ought to go along, before anyone comes in. You don’t want to be seen alone in my company,” he added, rather stiffly.

“I don’t?”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his voice softer, regretful but still firm. “Not if you have any desire to be accepted in society. I meant what I said about my father and the family. I mean to change that, but for now…” Reaching out, he took her hands and drew her toward him, turning so they faced the entrance to the orchids. He was right; the conversation there had subsided to the mildly threatening hum of bumblebees.

“Thank you,” he said, still more softly. “You’re very kind.”

There was a smudge of rice powder on his cheek; she stood a-tiptoe and wiped it off, showing him the white on her thumb.

He smiled, took her hand again, and, to her surprise, kissed the tip of her thumb.