Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(69)
“A hat?”
“Yes. Oh—but of course you would not know. It is customary among the maroons, when some agreement of importance is made, that the persons making the agreement shall exchange hats. So you see—”
“Yes, I do,” Grey said, trying not to let annoyance show in his voice. “Will you be so kind, Mr. Dawes, as to send to Guthrie’s Defile, then—and to any other place in which you think Captain Cresswell might be discovered? Plainly I must speak with him, and as soon as possible.”
Dawes nodded vigorously, but before he could speak, the rich sound of a small gong came from somewhere in the house below. As though it had been signaled, Grey’s stomach emitted a loud gurgle.
“Dinner in half an hour,” Mr. Dawes said, looking happier than Grey had yet seen him. He almost scurried out the door, Grey in his wake.
“Mr. Dawes,” he said, catching up at the head of the stair. “Governor Warren. Do you think—”
“Oh, he will be present at dinner,” Dawes assured him. “I’m sure he is quite recovered now; these small fits of excitement never last very long.”
“What causes them?” A savoury smell, rich with currants, onion, and spice, wafted up the stair, making Grey hasten his step.
“Oh…” Dawes, hastening along as well, glanced sideways at him. “It is nothing. Only that His Excellency has a, um, somewhat morbid fancy concerning reptiles. Did he see a snake in the drawing room or hear something concerning one?”
“He did, yes—though a remarkably small and harmless one.” Vaguely, Grey wondered what had happened to the little yellow snake. He thought he must have dropped it in the excitement of the governor’s abrupt exit and hoped it hadn’t been injured.
Mr. Dawes looked troubled and murmured something that sounded like, “Oh, dear, oh, dear…” but then he merely shook his head and sighed.
GREY MADE HIS way to his room, meaning to freshen himself before dinner; the day was warm, and he smelled strongly of ship’s reek—this composed in equal parts of sweat, seasickness, and sewage, well marinated in salt water—and horse, having ridden up from the harbour to Spanish Town. With any luck, his valet would have clean linen aired for him by now.
King’s House, as all royal governors’ residences were known, was a rambling old wreck of a mansion, perched on a high spot of ground on the edge of Spanish Town. Plans were afoot for an immense new Palladian building, to be erected in the town’s centre, but it would be another year at least before construction could commence. In the meantime, efforts had been made to uphold His Majesty’s dignity by means of beeswax polish, silver, and immaculate linen, but the dingy printed wallpaper peeled from the corners of the rooms, and the dark-stained wood beneath exhaled a mouldy breath that made Grey want to hold his own whenever he walked inside.
One good feature of the house, though, was that it was surrounded on all four sides by a broad terrace and was overhung by large, spreading trees that cast lacy shadows on the flagstones. A number of the rooms opened directly onto this terrace—Grey’s did—and it was therefore possible to step outside and draw a clean breath, scented by the distant sea or the equally distant upland jungles. There was no sign of his valet, but there was a clean shirt on the bed. He shucked his coat, changed his shirt, and then threw the French doors open wide.
He stood for a moment in the centre of the room, mid-afternoon sun spilling through the open doors, and enjoyed the sense of a solid surface under his feet after seven weeks at sea and seven hours on horseback. Enjoyed even more the transitory sense of being alone. Command had its prices, and one of those was a nearly complete loss of solitude. He therefore seized it when he found it, knowing it wouldn’t last for more than a few moments, but valuing it all the more for that.
Sure enough, it didn’t last more than two minutes this time. He called out, “Come,” at a rap on the door frame and, turning, was struck by a visceral sense of attraction such as he had not experienced in months.
The man was young, perhaps twenty, and slender in his blue and gold livery, but with a breadth of shoulder that spoke of strength and a head and neck that would have graced a Greek sculpture. Perhaps because of the heat, he wore no wig, and his tight-curled hair was clipped so close that the finest modelling of his skull was apparent.
“Your servant, sah,” he said to Grey, bowing respectfully. “The governor’s compliments, and dinner will be served in ten minutes. May I see you to the dining room?”
“You may,” Grey said, reaching hastily for his coat. He didn’t doubt that he could find the dining room unassisted, but the chance to watch this young man walk…
“You may,” Tom Byrd corrected, entering with his hands full of grooming implements, “once I’ve put his lordship’s hair to rights.” He fixed Grey with a minatory eye. “You’re not a-going in to dinner like that, me lord, and don’t you think it. You sit down there.” He pointed sternly to a stool, and Lieutenant-Colonel Grey, commander of His Majesty’s forces in Jamaica, meekly obeyed the dictates of his twenty-one-year-old valet. He didn’t always allow Tom free rein but in the current circumstance was just as pleased to have an excuse to sit still in the company of the young black servant.
Tom laid out all his implements neatly on the dressing table, from a pair of silver hairbrushes to a box of powder and a pair of curling tongs, with the care and attention of a surgeon arraying his knives and saws. Selecting a hairbrush, he leaned closer, peering at Grey’s head, then gasped. “Me lord! There’s a big huge spider—walking right up your temple!”