Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(210)
“Is that you, me lord?” Tom Byrd, bless him, stood framed in the open doorway, lantern in hand and round face creased with worry.
“What’s left of me,” Grey said. He cleared his throat, clogged with dust, spat into the flowering bush by the portico, and limped into the house. “Get someone to see to the mule, will you, Tom?”
“Right away, me lord. What’s amiss with your foot, though?” Tom fixed an accusing gaze on Grey’s right foot.
“Nothing.” Grey made his way into the sala, dimly lit by a small candle before a holy picture of some sort—there were things with wings in it, which must be angels—and sat down with a sigh of relief. “The heel of my shoe came off whilst I was helping the mule out of a rocky ditch.”
“He fell into a ditch with you, me lord?” Tom was deftly lighting more candles with a spill and now lifted this in order to examine Grey more closely. “I thought mules was meant to be sure-footed.”
“There’s nothing wrong with his feet, either,” Grey assured him, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment. The candlelight made red patterns on the insides of his eyelids. “I’d stopped for a piss, and he took the opportunity of my inattention to walk down into said ditch, which he did without the slightest difficulty, by the way. There were some of these things growing on the bushes there that he wanted to eat.” Fumbling in his pocket, Grey produced three or four small, smooth green fruits.
“I tried to lure him out with a handful, but he was happy as he was, and eventually I was obliged to resort to force.” Said force being applied by two young black women passing by, who had laughed at Grey’s predicament but then resolved it, one of the women tugging at the reins and addressing the mule in what sounded like deeply pejorative terms while her friend prodded it sternly in the backside with a stick. Grey yawned hugely. At least he’d learned the word for mule—mula, which seemed very reasonable—along with a few other things that might come in handy.
“Is there any food, Tom?”
“Those are guavas, me lord,” Tom said, nodding at the little fruits, which Grey placed on a side table. “You make jelly from ’em, but they maybe won’t poison you if you eat ’em raw.” He’d knelt and got Grey’s shoes off in a matter of seconds, then stood and deftly plucked the battered wig off Grey’s head, viewing it with an expression of deep disapproval. “I mean, if you can’t wait while I go rouse the cook.”
“Don’t do that. It must be past midnight.” Grey dubiously prodded one of the guavas, which seemed unripe—it was hard as a golf ball.
“Never mind, me lord, there’ll be cold stuff in the larder,” Tom assured him. “Oh—” he added, stopping at the door, wig dangling from one hand, “I forgot to say as Her Grace is gone.”
“Her Gr—what? Where the devil has she gone?” Grey sat up straight, all thoughts of food, bed, and sore feet vanishing.
“A note came from a Se?ora Valdez late this morning, me lord, saying as how Mrs. Stubbs and her little girl was both ill with fever and asking would Her Grace please come. So she went,” he added unnecessarily, and vanished, too. “Chingado huevón!” Grey said, standing up.
“What did you say, me lord?” Tom’s voice came from somewhere down the hall.
“I don’t know. Never mind. Get the food, please, Tom. And beer, if there is any.”
A faint laugh, cut off by the muffled thump of a swinging door. He looked round the room, wanting to do something violent, but an ancient cat curled up on the back of a stuffed chair opened its great green eyes and glared at him out of the twilight, disconcerting him.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and turned away. So, not only were Olivia and family not headed back to Havana, his mother had decamped—how long ago had she left? She couldn’t have made it to the Valdez plantation before dark; she must be somewhere on the road—and as for Rodrigo and Azeel, God knew where they were. Had they even reached Olivia’s rural hideaway yet?
He strode restlessly to and fro, the stone-tiled floor cool through his stockings. He had no idea in which direction the Valdez plantation lay; how far might it be from Cojimar?
Not that it mattered, if Olivia and her daughter were too ill to travel. A moment ago, his mind had been as exhausted as his body, empty of thought. Now he felt as though his head were filled with ants, all rushing in different directions, each with tremendous determination.
He could find a wagon. But how sick were they? He couldn’t load desperately ill people into a wagon, drive them ten, twenty, thirty miles over rocky trails, and then decant them into a boat, which might take how long to reach a safe haven….—What about food and water? The peón—that’s what someone had called him, he had no idea what it meant—with whom he’d arranged to rent a small boat had promised water;—he could buy food, but—Jesus, how many people could he get aboard? Could he leave Rodrigo and Azeel, to be rescued later? No, he’d need them to talk with the boatman, and to help, if half his passengers were prostrate and heaving, needing to be tended. What if more of the party fell ill on the way? What if the boatman succumbed to fever? What if his mother caught the fever and died at sea?
He could all too easily envision himself making landfall on some godforsaken shore of the southern colonies with a boatload of his dead or dying family and servants…