Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(80)

“Of course, I could not pose as an authority regarding any aspect of life on Jamaica,” she said, fixing Grey with an unreadable look. “We have lived here barely six months.”

“Indeed,” he said politely, a wodge of undigested Savoy cake settling heavily in his stomach. “You seem very much at home—and a very lovely home it is, Miss Twelvetrees. I perceive your most harmonious touch throughout.”

This belated attempt at flattery was met with the scorn it deserved; the eleven was back, hardening her brow.

“My brother inherited the plantation from his cousin, Edward Twelvetrees. Edward lived in London himself.” She levelled a look like the barrel of a musket at him. “Did you know him, Colonel?”

And just what would the bloody woman do if he told her the truth? he wondered. Clearly, she thought she knew something, but…No, he thought, watching her closely. She couldn’t know the truth but had heard some rumour. So this poking at him was an attempt—and a clumsy one—to get him to say more.

“I know several Twelvetrees casually,” he said very amiably. “But if I met your cousin, I do not think I had the pleasure of speaking with him at any great length.” You bloody murderer! and Fucking sodomite! not really constituting conversation, if you asked Grey.

Miss Twelvetrees blinked at him, surprised, and he realised what he should have seen much earlier. She was drunk. He had found the sangria light, refreshing—but had drunk only one glass himself. He had not noticed her refill her own, and yet the pitcher stood nearly empty.

“My dear,” said Philip, very kindly. “It is warm, is it not? You look a trifle pale and indisposed.” In fact, she was flushed, her hair beginning to come down behind her rather large ears—but she did indeed look indisposed. Philip rang the bell, rising to his feet, and nodded to the black maid who came in.

“I am not indisposed,” Nancy Twelvetrees said, with some dignity. “I’m—I simply—that is—” But the black maid, evidently used to this office, was already hauling Miss Twelvetrees toward the door, though with sufficient skill as to make it look as though she merely assisted her mistress.

Grey rose, perforce, and took Miss Nancy’s hand, bowing over it.

“Your servant, Miss Twelvetrees,” he said. “I hope—”

“We know,” she said, staring at him from large, suddenly tear-filled eyes. “Do you hear me? We know.” Then she was gone, the sound of her unsteady steps a ragged drumbeat on the parquet floor.

There was a brief, awkward silence between the two men. Grey cleared his throat just as Philip Twelvetrees coughed.

“Didn’t really like cousin Edward,” he said.

“Oh,” said Grey.

They walked together to the yard, where Grey’s horse browsed under a tree, its sides streaked with parrot droppings.

“Don’t mind Nancy, will you?” Twelvetrees said quietly, not looking at him. “She had…a disappointment, in London. I thought she might get over it more easily here, but—well, I made a mistake, and it’s not easy to unmake.” He sighed, and Grey had a strong urge to pat him sympathetically on the back.

In lieu of that, he made an indeterminate noise in his throat, nodded, and mounted.

“The troops will be here the day after tomorrow, sir,” he said. “You have my word upon it.”



GREY HAD INTENDED to return to Spanish Town, but instead paused on the road, pulled out the chart Dawes had given him, and calculated the distance to Rose Hall. It would mean camping on the mountain overnight, but they were prepared for that—and beyond the desirability of hearing firsthand the details of a maroon attack, he was now more than curious to speak with Mrs. Abernathy regarding zombies.

He called his aide, wrote out instructions for the dispatch of troops to Twelvetrees, then sent two men back to Spanish Town with the message and two more on ahead to discover a good campsite. They reached this as the sun was beginning to sink, glowing like a flaming pearl in a soft pink sky.

“What is that?” he asked, glancing up abruptly from the cup of gunpowder tea Corporal Sansom had handed him. Sansom looked startled, too, and stared up the slope where the sound had come from.

“Don’t know, sir,” he said. “It sounds like a horn of some kind.”

It did. Not a trumpet or anything of a standard military nature. Definitely a sound of human origin, though. The men stood quiet, waiting. A moment or two, and the sound came again.

“That’s a different one,” Sansom said, sounding alarmed. “It came from over there”—pointing up the slope—“didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did,” Grey said absently. “Hush!”

The first horn sounded again, a plaintive bleat almost lost in the noises of the birds settling for the night, and then fell silent.

Grey’s skin tingled, his senses alert. They were not alone in the jungle. Someone—someones—were out there in the oncoming night, signalling to each other. Quietly, he gave orders for the building of a hasty fortification, and the camp fell at once into the work of organising defence. The men with him were mostly veterans and, while wary, not at all panicked. Within a very short time, a redoubt of stone and brush had been thrown up, sentries were posted in pairs around camp, and every man’s weapon was loaded and primed, ready for an attack.