Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(188)

He took two more deep breaths, opened his eyes, and said, with some semblance of his normal calm, “Come and sit down, ma chère. I’ll make us some tea.”

She nodded and followed him, leaving her bag where it had fallen. The back room seemed at once completely familiar and quite strange, as though she had left it years ago rather than months. It smelled wrong, and she felt uneasy.

She sat down, though, and put her hands on the worn wooden tabletop. There was a spinning sensation in her head, and when she took a deep breath to try to stop it, the sense of seasickness came back, the smell of dust and ancient silk, stewed tea and the nervous sweat of many visitors curling into a greasy ball in her stomach.

“How…how did you find out?” she asked her father, in an effort to distract herself from the sense of clammy apprehension.

His back was to her, as he chiseled a chunk from the battered brick of tea and dropped it into the chipped Chinese pot with its blue peonies. He didn’t turn around.

“How do you think?” he said evenly, and she thought suddenly of the spiders, the thousands of eyes, hanging motionless, watching…

“Pardonnez-moi,” she said, breathless, and, stumbling to her feet, blundered out into the corridor and to the alley door, where she threw up over the cobblestones outside.

She stayed outside for perhaps a quarter of an hour, letting the cold air in the shadows cool her face, letting the sounds of the city come back to her, the noise of the street a faint echo of normality. Then the bell of Sainte-Chapelle struck the hour, and all the others followed, the distant bong of Notre Dame de Paris telling Paris in a deep bronze voice that the hour was three o’clock.

“It’s almost time for None,” her aunt had said. “When she hears the bells, she won’t do anything until the prayer is done, and often she’s silent afterward.”

“None?”

“The hours,” Mrs. Simpson had said, pushing the door open. “Hurry, if you want her to speak with you.”

She wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt and went inside. Her father had finished making the tea; a fresh-poured cup sat by her place. She picked it up, took a mouthful of the steaming brew, swished it round her mouth, and spat it into the aspidistra.

“I saw my mother,” she blurted.

He stared at her, so shocked that he didn’t seem to breathe. After a long moment, he carefully unclenched his fists and laid his hands on the table, one atop the other.

“Where?” he said very quietly. His gaze was still fixed, intent on her face.

“In London,” she said. “Did you know where she was—is?”

He’d started to think; she saw the thoughts flying behind his eyes. What did she know? Could he get away with lying? Then he blinked, took a breath, and let it out through his nose in a sigh of…decision, she thought.

“Yes,” he said. “I…keep in touch with her sister. If you’ve met Emmanuelle, I imagine you’ve met Miriam, as well?” One of his unruly eyebrows went up, and she nodded.

“She said—said that you paid for her care. Have you seen her, though? Seen where they keep her, seen how she…is?” Emotion was rumbling through her like an approaching thunderstorm, and she had trouble keeping her voice steady.

“No,” he said, and she saw he’d gone white to the lips, whether with anger or some other emotion, she couldn’t tell. “I never saw her again, after she told me that she was with child.” He swallowed, and his eyes went to his folded hands.

“I tried,” he said, looking up as though she’d challenged him, even though she’d said nothing. “I went to the convent, spoke with the mother superior. She had me arrested.” He laughed, shortly but not with humor. “Did you know that debauching a nun is a crime punishable by exposure in the pillory?”

“I imagine you bought your way out of it,” she said, as nastily as she could.

“So would anyone capable of doing so, ma chère,” he said, keeping his temper. “But I had to leave Paris. I hadn’t met Miriam then, but I knew about her. I sent her word, and money, imploring her to find what they had done with Emmanuelle—to save her.”

“She did.”

“I know.” He’d got hold of himself now and gave her a sharp look. “And if you’ve seen Emmanuelle, you know what her state is. She went mad when the child—”

“When I was born!” She slapped a hand on the table, and the cups chimed in their saucers. “Yes, I know. Do you bloody blame me for her—for what happened to her?”

“No,” he said, with an obvious effort. “I don’t.”

“Good.” She took a breath and blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

He went dead white and she thought he might faint. She thought she might faint, too.

“No,” he whispered. His eyes dropped to her middle, and a deep qualm there made her feel she might be sick again.

“No. I won’t…I won’t let such a thing happen to you!”

“You—” She wanted to strike him, might have done so had he not been on the other side of the table.

“Don’t you dare tell me how I can get rid of it!” She swept the cup and saucer off the table, smashing them against the wall in a spray of Bohea. “I’d never do that—never, never, never!”