Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(189)
Her father took a deep breath and very consciously relaxed his posture. He was still white, and his eyes creased with emotion, but he had himself under control.
“That,” he said softly, “is the last thing I would ever do. Ma chère. Ma fille.”
She saw that his eyes were full of tears and felt the blow in her heart. He’d come for her when she was born. Come for his child, cherished and kept her.
He saw her fists unclench and he took a step toward her, tentative, as though walking on ice. But she didn’t recoil and didn’t shout, and one more step and they were in each other’s arms, both weeping. She’d so missed the smell of him, tobacco and black tea, ink and sweet wine.
“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?”