Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(191)

“I believe you.” Hal was feeling a bit flushed himself and looked away. Mr. Bodley was approaching with fresh plates and silver, followed by one of the club’s waiters, ceremoniously carrying a sizzling platter.

They sat quietly while the steak—accompanied by a heap of wild mushrooms, garnished with tiny boiled onions and glistening with butter—was served. Hal watched, smelled, made the appropriate noises of appreciation to Mr. Bodley, and asked for a bottle of good Bordeaux. All this was purely automatic, though; his mind was in the library, on the night of the ball.

“I didn’t want you to be hurt.” He could still see the look on her face when she’d said it, and he believed her now just as much as he had then, the firelight glowing in her eyes, on her skin, in the folds of her green dress. “Shall I prove it?”

And she had, after all, proved it. A violent shiver ran through him at the memory.

“Are you all right, old man?” Harry was looking at him anxiously, a forkful of steak halfway to his mouth.

“I—yes,” he said abruptly. “But she wasn’t stealing Esmé’s—I mean—the letters from my desk; she was putting them back. I know she was; I saw her close the drawer before she saw me. So she didn’t send them to Sir William, I’m sure of that.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I…don’t like to suggest such a thing,” he said, looking unhappy. “I mean—I trusted her, foolish as that likely was. But could she…copies, perhaps? Because the way you describe Yonge’s manner…”

Hal shook his head.

“I’d swear not. The way she…No. I’m sure not. If nothing else…” He hesitated, but it was, after all, Harry. He swallowed and went on, eyes fixed on his plate but his voice steady. “If Sir William had seen those letters, he couldn’t have looked me in the face, let alone have behaved as he did. No. Something convinced him that I had cause to challenge Twelvetrees, I’m sure of that—but God alone knows what it was. Perhaps the—the girl—did find someone who…knew about the affair…” Blood burned in his cheeks, and the pattern on the fork was digging into his palm where he clutched it. “If someone of good character swore to it…”

Harry let out a breath, nodding.

“You’re right. And—that was what I’d asked her to do. Er…ask about discreetly, I mean. Um…sorry.”

Hal nodded but couldn’t speak. He did forgive Harry, but the thought that someone—someone unknown to him—had known…He had a brief, vivid urge to seize a candle from the sconce and set his head on fire in order to obliterate the thought, but instead he closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments. The tightness in his chest began to loosen.

Well. Nothing to be done about it now. And the regiment was all right. He felt a bit of his earlier euphoria return and opened his eyes. Yes, by God, it was. There was the certificate, red wax seal and all, right there on the linen cloth.

He unclenched the fork, made himself pick up the knife, and cut into his steak. Hot red juice ran out, and he saw in memory the small bloodstain on the white hearthrug. Heat washed over him as though he had set his hair on fire.

“One thing you could do, Harry—if you’re of a mind…”

“Anything you like, old man.”

“Help me find her.”

Harry stopped, fork halfway to his half-opened mouth.

“Of course,” he said slowly, and lowered the fork. “But—” But, his face said, they’d both been looking for the past three weeks. Miss Rennie had vanished as surely as though she’d gone up in smoke.

Hal suddenly laughed. Mr. Bodley had materialized with the Bordeaux, and a brimming glass sat by his elbow.

“Confusion to all Twelvetrees!” Harry said, hoisting his own glass. Hal returned the salute and drank deep. It was a gorgeous wine, deep, strong, and smelling of cherries and buttered toast. Another bottle of this—well, maybe two—and he might just feel able to deal with things.

“One thing my father always said to me, Harry: ‘They can’t beat you if you don’t give up.’ And”—he lifted the glass to his friend—“I don’t.”

Harry’s face cleared and he gave Hal a lopsided smile, returning the toast. “No,” he said. “God help us all, you don’t.”





18





TAKING FLIGHT


Amsterdam, Kalverstraat 18

January 3, 1745

MINNIE CAREFULLY BRUSHED powdered sugar off the ledger. The early queasiness of pregnancy had mostly passed, replaced by the appetite of a ravening owl, according to her father.

“An owl?” she’d said, and he nodded, smiling. His shock had passed along with her queasiness, and his face took on a rapt look sometimes when she caught him watching her.

“You look at food, ma chère, and turn your head to and then fro, as though you expect it to bolt, and then you swoop on it and—gulp!—it’s gone.”

“Bah,” she said now, and looked to see if there were more oliebollen in the pottery jar, but, no, she’d finished them. Mortimer’s antics had abated and he’d fallen into a stupor, as he usually did when she ate, but she was still hungry.

“Is dinner nearly ready?” she called downstairs to her father. In the usual Amsterdam style, the house was long and narrow, the shop on the ground floor, living quarters above, and the kitchen in the basement. A savory smell of roasting chicken had been creeping up the steps for the last hour, and she was famished, in spite of the oliebollen.