Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(46)
The Jew looked surprised but, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded and turned to the young man, who introduced himself as one Michael Murray, partner in Fraser et Cie, the wine merchants.
“I believe you are acquainted with my cousin Jared Fraser?”
Rosenwald’s round face lighted at once. “Oh, to be sure, sir! A man of the most exquisite taste and discrimination. I made him a wine cistern with a motif of sunflowers, not a year past!”
“I know.” The young man smiled, a smile that creased his cheeks and narrowed his eyes, and that small bell of recognition rang again. But the name held no familiarity to Rakoczy—only the face, and that only vaguely.
“My uncle has another commission for you, if it’s agreeable?”
“I never say no to honest work, monsieur.” From the pleasure apparent on the goldsmith’s rubicund face, honest work that paid very well was even more welcome.
“Well, then—if I may?” The young man pulled a folded paper from his pocket but half-turned toward Rakoczy, eyebrow cocked in inquiry. Rakoczy motioned him to go on and turned himself to examine a music box that stood on the counter—an enormous thing the size of a cow’s head, crowned with a nearly naked nymph festooned with the airiest of gold draperies and dancing on mushrooms and flowers, in company with a large frog.
“A chalice,” Murray was saying, the paper laid flat on the counter. From the corner of his eye, Rakoczy could see that it held a list of names. “It’s a presentation to the chapel at le Couvent des Anges, to be given in memory of my late father. A young cousin of mine has just entered the convent there as a postulant,” he explained. “So Monsieur Fraser thought that the best place.”
“An excellent choice.” Rosenwald picked up the list. “And you wish all of these names inscribed?”
“Yes, if you can.”
“Monsieur!” Rosenwald waved a hand, professionally insulted. “These are your father’s children?”
“Yes, these at the bottom.” Murray bent over the counter, his finger tracing the lines, speaking the outlandish names carefully. “At the top, these are my parents’ names: Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray, and Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Now, also, I—we, I mean—we want these two names, as well: James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, and Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser. Those are my uncle and aunt; my uncle was very close to my father,” he explained. “Almost a brother.”
He went on saying something else, but Rakoczy wasn’t listening. He grasped the edge of the counter, vision flickering so that the nymph seemed to leer at him.
Claire Fraser. That had been the woman’s name, and her husband, James, a Highland lord from Scotland. That was who the young man resembled, though he was not so imposing as…But La Dame Blanche! It was her, it had to be.
And in the next instant, the goldsmith confirmed this, straightening up from the list with an abrupt air of wariness, as though one of the names might spring off the paper and bite him.
“That name—your aunt, she’d be? Did she and your uncle live in Paris at one time?”
“Yes,” Murray said, looking mildly surprised. “Maybe thirty years ago—only for a short time, though. Did you know her?”
“Ah. Not to say I was personally acquainted,” Rosenwald said, with a crooked smile. “But she was…known. People called her La Dame Blanche.”
Murray blinked, clearly surprised to hear this.
“Really?” He looked rather appalled.
“Yes, but it was all a long time ago,” Rosenwald said hastily, clearly thinking he’d said too much. He waved a hand toward his back room. “If you’ll give me a moment, monsieur, I have a chalice actually here, if you would care to see it—and a paten, too; we might make some accommodation of price, if you take both. They were made for a patron who died suddenly, before the chalice was finished, so there is almost no decoration—plenty of room for the names to be applied, and perhaps we might put the, um, aunt and uncle on the paten?”
Murray nodded, interested, and, at Rosenwald’s gesture, went round the counter and followed the old man into his back room. Rakoczy put the octofoil salver under his arm and left, as quietly as possible, head buzzing with questions.
JARED EYED MICHAEL over the dinner table, shook his head, and bent to his plate.
“I’m not drunk!” Michael blurted, then bent his own head, face flaming. He could feel Jared’s eyes boring into the top of his head.
“Not now, ye’re not.” Jared’s voice wasn’t accusing. In fact, it was quiet, almost kindly. “But ye have been. Ye’ve not touched your dinner, and ye’re the color of rotten wax.”
“I—” The words caught in his throat, just as the food had. Eels in garlic sauce. The smell wafted up from the dish, and he stood up suddenly, lest he either vomit or burst into tears.
“I’ve nay appetite, cousin,” he managed to say, before turning away. “Excuse me.”
He would have left, but he hesitated that moment too long, not wanting to go up to the room where Lillie no longer was but not wanting to look petulant by rushing out into the street. Jared rose and came round to him with a decided step.
“I’m nay verra hungry myself, a charaid,” Jared said, taking him by the arm. “Come sit wi’ me for a bit and take a dram. It’ll settle your wame.”