Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(43)
She made an inarticulate noise, and he glanced at her, alarmed to see what looked like tears slicking her cheeks.
“Joan,” he said more quietly, and handed her his fresh handkerchief. “Dinna be afraid. If ye need me, send for me, anytime; I’ll come. And I meant it about the letters.”
He would have said more, but just then the portress reappeared with Sister Eustacia, the postulant mistress, who greeted Joan with a kind motherliness that seemed to comfort her, for the girl sniffed and straightened herself and, reaching into her pocket, pulled out a little folded square, obviously kept with care through her travels.
“J’ai une lettre,” she said in halting French. “Pour Madame le…pour…Reverend Mother?” she said in a small voice. “Mother Hildegarde?”
“Oui?” Sister Eustacia took the note with the same care with which it was proffered.
“It’s from…her,” Joan said to Michael, having plainly run out of French. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Da’s…er…wife. You know. Claire.”
“Jesus Christ!” Michael blurted, making both the portress and the postulant mistress stare reprovingly at him.
“She said she was a friend of Mother Hildegarde. And if she was still alive…” She stole a look at Sister Eustacia, who appeared to have followed this.
“Oh, Mother Hildegarde is certainly alive,” she assured Joan, in English. “And I’m sure she will be most interested to speak with you.” She tucked the note into her own capacious pocket and held out a hand. “Now, my dear child, if you are quite ready…”
“Je suis prêt,” Joan said, shaky but dignified. And so Joan MacKimmie of Balriggan passed through the gates of the Convent of Angels, still clutching Michael Murray’s clean handkerchief and smelling strongly of his dead wife’s scented soap.
MICHAEL HAD DISMISSED his carriage and wandered restlessly about the city after leaving Joan at the convent, not wanting to go home. He hoped they would be good to her, hoped that she’d made the right decision.
Of course, he comforted himself, she wouldn’t actually be a nun for some time. He didn’t know quite how long it took, from entering as a postulant to becoming a novice to taking the final vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, but at least a few years. There would be time for her to be sure. And at least she was in a place of safety; the look of terror and distress on her face as she’d shot through the gates of the convent still haunted him. He strolled toward the river, where the evening light glowed on the water like a bronze mirror. The deckhands were tired and the day’s shouting had died away. In this light, the reflections of the boats gliding homeward seemed more substantial than the boats themselves.
He’d been surprised at the letter and wondered whether that had anything to do with Joan’s distress. He’d had no notion that his uncle’s wife had anything to do with le Couvent des Anges—though now he cast his mind back, he did recall Jared mentioning that Uncle Jamie had worked in Paris in the wine business for a short time, back before the Rising. He supposed Claire might have met Mother Hildegarde then…but it was all before he was born.
He felt an odd warmth at the thought of Claire; he couldn’t really think of her as his auntie, though she was. He’d not spent much time with her alone at Lallybroch—but he couldn’t forget the moment when she’d met him, alone at the door. Greeted him briefly and embraced him on impulse. And he’d felt an instant sense of relief, as though she’d taken a heavy burden from his heart. Or maybe lanced a boil on his spirit, as she might one on his bum.
That thought made him smile. He didn’t know what she was—the talk near Lallybroch painted her as everything from a witch to an angel, with most of the opinion hovering cautiously around “faerie,” for the Auld Ones were dangerous, and you didn’t talk too much about them—but he liked her. So did Da and Young Ian, and that counted for a lot. And Uncle Jamie, of course—though everyone said, very matter-of-fact, that Uncle Jamie was bewitched. He smiled wryly at that. Aye, if being mad in love with your wife was bewitchment.
If anyone outside the family kent what she’d told them—he cut that thought short. It wasn’t something he’d forget, but it wasn’t something he wanted to think about just yet, either. The gutters of Paris running with blood…He glanced down involuntarily, but the gutters were full of the usual assortment of animal and human sewage, dead rats, and bits of rubbish too far gone to be salvaged for food even by the street beggars.
He walked, making his way slowly through the crowded streets, past La Chapelle and the Tuileries. If he walked enough, sometimes he could fall asleep without too much wine.
He sighed, elbowing his way through a group of buskers outside a tavern, turning back toward the Rue Trémoulins. Some days, his head was like a bramble patch: thorns catching at him no matter which way he turned, and no path leading out of the tangle.
Paris wasn’t a large city, but it was a complicated one; there was always somewhere else to walk. He crossed the Place de la Corcorde, thinking of what Claire had told them, seeing there in his mind the tall shadow of a terrible machine.
JOAN HAD HAD her dinner with Mother Hildegarde, a lady so ancient and holy that Joan had feared to breathe too heavily, lest Mother Hildegarde fragment like a stale croissant and go straight off to heaven in front of her. Mother Hildegarde had been delighted with the letter Joan had delivered, though; it brought a faint flush to her face.