Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(214)
“It will be fine,” he told Tom firmly. “Inocencia will provide an introduction to the ringleaders and establish my bona fides.” And if she failed to convince these men that Grey had any such qualifications, all of them would likely be for the chop within seconds: He’d seen machetes wielded with casually murderous ease yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—by field hands on his way to Cojimar.
“And Rodrigo and Azeel will be there to help me speak to them,” he added, with a little more confidence. To his surprise, when he had put the situation before them, the Sanchezes had shared a long marital look, then nodded soberly and said they would go.
“Rodrigo’s a good ’un,” Tom admitted reluctantly. “But he won’t be no good to you in a fight, me lord.” His own fists had been clenched throughout the conversation, and it was clear that he had a higher opinion of his own abilities in that regard.
Actually, Grey thought, he might be right. Used as he was to Tom’s constant presence, he hadn’t taken conscious notice, but his valet was no longer the pie-faced seventeen-year-old who had bluffed his way into Grey’s service. Tom had grown a few inches, and while not in Malcolm Stubbs’s class in the matter of bulk, he’d definitely filled out. His shoulders were square and his freckled forearms nicely muscled. However…
“If it comes to that sort of fight, it wouldn’t matter if I had an entire company of infantry with me,” he said. He smiled at his valet with true affection. “And besides, Tom:—I cannot depend on anyone but you to see to things here. You must go with Jacinto to find a doctor—cost is no consideration; I’m leaving you with all of our English money, and there’s enough gold there to buy half of Havana—and then take the man to the Valdez plantation, along with any medicines he thinks useful. I’ve written a note to my mother—” He reached into his bosom and withdrew a small folded square, sealed with smoky candle wax and stamped with his smiling half-moon signet. “See that she gets that.”
“Yes, me lord.” Tom glumly accepted the note and tucked it away.
“And then find someplace nearby to stay. Don’t stay in the house; I don’t want you to be exposed to the fever. But keep an eye on things: Visit twice a day, make sure the doctor does what he can, give Her Grace any assistance she’ll let you give, and send back reports every day as to the state of things. I don’t know when I’ll get them”—or if— “but send them anyway.”
Tom sighed but nodded.
Grey stopped, unable to think of anything else. The casa was well awake by now, and there was a muted sense of bustle in the distant patio, a rising scent of boiling beans and the sweetness of fried plantains. He hadn’t told the house servants anything of his own unspeakable mission—they couldn’t help, and to know anything at all of it would put both himself and them in danger. But they knew about the situation at Hacienda Valdez, and he’d heard the murmur of prayers and the clicking of rosary beads when he’d passed by the patio a few minutes ago. It was oddly comforting.
He reached out and clasped Tom’s hand, squeezing.
“I trust you, Tom,” he said softly.
Tom’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. His deft, sturdy fingers turned and squeezed back.
“I know, me lord,” he said. “You can.”
FOUR DAYS LATER—it had taken more time than anticipated to find what was needed—Lord John Grey stood naked in the middle of a grove of mangoes, on a hill overlooking the hacienda of the Mendez family.
He’d seen the big house as they rode into the plantation, a sprawling establishment of rooms added over the years, odd wings sprouting from unexpected places, outbuildings scattered near it in an untidy constellation. One of the complicated constellations, he thought, looking down on it. Cassiopeia, maybe, or Aquarius. One of the ones where you just take the ancient astronomer’s word for what you’re looking at.
The windows in the main house had been lighted, with servants passing to and fro like shadows in the dusk, but he had been too far away to hear any of the noises of the place, and he was left with a queer sensation of having seen something ghostly that might suddenly be swallowed by the night.
In fact, it had been, in the sense that the hacienda was invisible from his present situation—and a good thing, too. His traveling clothes lay puddled on the leaf mold in which his bare feet were sunk, and small insects were treating his private parts with an unseemly familiarity. This caused him to rummage his pack first for the bottle of coconut–mint elixir and apply this lavishly before getting dressed.
Not for the first time—nor, he was sure, the last—he deeply regretted the absence of Tom Byrd. He was actually capable of dressing himself, though both he and Tom acted on the tacit assumption that he wasn’t. But what he missed most at the moment was the sense of solemn ceremony that attended Tom’s dressing him in full uniform. It was as though he assumed a different persona with scarlet coat and gold lace, Tom’s respect giving him belief in his own authority, as though he put on not only uniform but armor and office.
He could bloody use that belief just now. He swore softly under his breath as he struggled into the moleskin breeches and brushed bits of leaf off each foot before pulling on his silk stockings and boots. It was a gamble, but he felt that the chances of these men taking him seriously, listening to him, and—above all—trusting him would be increased if he appeared not just as a standin for Malcolm Stubbs but as the incarnation of England, as it were: a true representative of the king. They had to trust that he could do what he said he would do for them, or it was all up. For the hacendados—and for him.