Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(39)
“Lé—” he began, and choked it back. “Lé—Léonie. Léonie is her name. My wife’s sister.”
Joan looked sharp then, because from the look of Michael Murray, he’d just seen his wife’s ghost. But Léonie seemed flesh and blood, slender and pretty, though her own face bore the same marks of sorrow as did Michael’s, and her face was pale under a small, neat black tricorne with a tiny curled blue feather.
“Michel,” she said. “Oh, Michel!” And with tears brimming from eyes shaped like almonds, she threw herself into his arms.
Feeling extremely superfluous, Joan stood back a little and glanced at the gentleman in the lemon-striped waistcoat—the butler had tactfully withdrawn into the house.
“Charles Pépin, mademoiselle,” he said, sweeping off his hat. Taking her hand, he bowed low over it, and now she saw the band of black mourning he wore around his bright sleeve. “A votre service.”
“Oh,” she said, a little flustered. “Um. Joan MacKimmie. Je suis…er…um…”
“Tell him not to do it,” said a sudden small, calm voice inside her head, and she jerked her own hand away as though he’d bitten her.
“Pleased to meet you,” she gasped. “Excuse me.” And, turning, threw up into one of the bronze yew pots.
JOAN HAD BEEN afraid it would be awkward, coming to Michael’s bereaved and empty house, but had steeled herself to offer comfort and support, as became a distant kinswoman and a daughter of God. She might have been miffed, therefore, to find herself entirely supplanted in the department of comfort and support—quite relegated to the negligible position of guest, in fact, served politely and asked periodically if she wished more wine, a slice of ham, some gherkins…but otherwise ignored, while Michael’s servants, sister-in-law, and…she wasn’t quite sure of the position of M. Pépin, though he seemed to have something personal to do with Léonie—perhaps someone had said he was her cousin?—all swirled round Michael like perfumed bathwater, warm and buoyant, touching him, kissing him—well, all right, she’d heard of men kissing one another in France, but she couldn’t help staring when M. Pépin gave Michael a big wet one on both cheeks—and generally making a fuss over him.
She was more than relieved, though, not to have to make conversation in French, beyond a simple merci or s’il vous pla?t from time to time. It gave her a chance to settle her nerves—and her stomach, and she would say the wine was a wonder for that—and to keep a close eye on Monsieur Charles Pépin.
“Tell him not to do it.” And just what d’ye mean by that? she demanded of the voice. She didn’t get an answer, which didn’t surprise her. The voices weren’t much for details.
She couldn’t tell whether the voices were male or female; they didn’t seem either one, and she wondered whether they might maybe be angels—angels didn’t have a sex, and doubtless that saved them a lot of trouble. Joan of Arc’s voices had had the decency to introduce themselves, but not hers, oh, no. On the other hand, if they were angels and told her their names, she wouldn’t recognize them anyway, so perhaps that’s why they didn’t bother.
Well, so. Did this particular voice mean that Charles Pépin was a villain? She squinted closely at him. He didn’t look it. He had a strong, good-looking face, and Michael seemed to like him—after all, Michael must be a fair judge of character, she thought, and him in the wine business.
What was it Monsieur Charles Pépin oughtn’t to do, though? Did he have some wicked crime in mind? Or might he be bent on doing away with himself, like that poor wee gomerel on the boat? There was still a trace of slime on her hand, from the seaweed.
She rubbed her hand inconspicuously against the skirt of her dress, frustrated. She hoped the voices would stop once she was in the convent. That was her nightly prayer. But if they didn’t, at least she might be able to tell someone there about them without fear of being packed off to a madhouse or stoned in the street. She’d have a confessor, she knew that much. Maybe he could help her discover what God had meant, landing her with a gift like this, and no explanation what she was to do with it.
In the meantime, Monsieur Pépin would bear watching; she should maybe say something to Michael before she left. Aye, what? she thought, helpless.
Still, she was glad to see that Michael grew less pale as they all carried on, vying to feed him tidbits, refill his glass, tell him bits of gossip. She was also pleased to find that she mostly understood what they were saying, as she relaxed. Jared—that would be Jared Fraser, Michael’s elderly cousin, who’d founded the wine company, and whose house this was—was still in Germany, they said, but was expected at any moment. He had sent a letter for Michael, too; where was it? No matter, it would turn up…and Madame Nesle de La Tourelle had had a fit, a veritable fit, at court last Wednesday, when she came face-to-face with Mademoiselle de Perpignan wearing a confection in the particular shade of pea green that was de La Tourelle’s alone, and God alone knew why, because she always looked like a cheese in it, and had slapped her own maid so hard for pointing this out that the poor girl flew across the rushes and cracked her head on one of the mirrored walls—and cracked the mirror, too, very bad luck that, but no one could agree whether the bad luck was de La Tourelle’s, the maid’s, or de Perpignan’s.