The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(11)
“Nay, there’ll be food a-plenty at the house. They were expecting me this week, so everything will be ready.”
She stared longingly at the market for a brief moment, then turned obligingly in the direction he pointed, craning out the carriage window to see his house as they approached.
“That’s the biggest house I’ve ever seen!” she exclaimed.
“Och, no,” he said, laughing. “Lallybroch’s bigger than that.”
“Well … this one’s taller,” she replied. And it was—a good four stories, and a huge roof of lead slates and green-coppered seams, with what must be more than a score of glass windows set in, and …
She was still trying to count the windows when Michael helped her down from the carriage and offered her his arm to walk up to the door. She was goggling at the big yew trees set in brass pots and wondering how much trouble it must be to keep those polished, when she felt his arm go suddenly rigid as wood.
She glanced at Michael, startled, then looked where he was looking—toward the door of his house. The door had swung open, and three people were coming down the marble steps, smiling and waving, calling out.
“Who’s that?” Joan whispered, leaning close to Michael. The one short fellow in the striped apron must be a butler; she’d read about butlers. But the other man was a gentleman, limber as a willow tree and wearing a coat and waistcoat striped in lemon and pink—with a hat decorated with … well, she supposed it must be a feather, but she’d pay money to see the bird it came off. By comparison, she had hardly noticed the woman, who was dressed in black. But now she saw that Michael had eyes only for the woman.
“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Joan stood back a little and glanced at the gentleman in the lemon-striped waistcoat—the butler had tactfully withdrawn into the house.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.