The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(2)
A nudge at her elbow made her glance aside, to see Michael offering her a handkerchief. Well, so. If her eyes were streaming—aye, and her nose—it was no wonder, the wind so fierce as it was. She took the scrap of cloth with a curt nod of thanks, scrubbed briefly at her cheeks, and waved her kerchief harder.
None of his family had come to see Michael off, not even his twin sister, Janet. But they were taken up with all there was to do in the wake of Old Ian Murray’s death, and no wonder. No need to see Michael to the ship, either—Michael Murray was a wine merchant in Paris, and a wonderfully well-traveled gentleman. She took some comfort from the knowledge that he knew what to do and where to go and had said he would see her safely delivered to the Convent of Angels, because the thought of making her way through Paris alone and the streets full of people all speaking French—though she knew French quite well, of course. She’d been studying it all the winter, and Michael’s mother helping her—though perhaps she had better not tell the reverend mother about the sorts of French novels Jenny Murray had in her bookshelf, because …
“Voulez-vous descendre, mademoiselle?”
“Eh?” She glanced at him, to see him gesturing toward the hatchway that led downstairs. She turned back, blinking—but the quay had vanished, and her mother with it.
“No,” she said. “Not yet. I’ll just …” She wanted to see the land so long as she could. It would be her last sight of Scotland, ever, and the thought made her wame curl into a small, tight ball. She waved a vague hand toward the hatchway. “You go, though. I’m all right by myself.”
He didn’t go but came to stand beside her, gripping the rail. She turned away from him a little, so he wouldn’t see her weep, but on the whole she wasn’t sorry he’d stayed.
Neither of them spoke, and the land sank slowly, as though the sea swallowed it, and there was nothing round them now but the open sea, glassy gray and rippling under a scud of clouds. The prospect made her dizzy, and she closed her eyes, swallowing.
Dear Lord Jesus, don’t let me be sick!
A small shuffling noise beside her made her open her eyes, to find Michael Murray regarding her with some concern.
“Are ye all right, Miss Joan?” He smiled a little. “Or should I call ye Sister?”
“No,” she said, taking a grip on her nerve and her stomach and drawing herself up. “I’m no a nun yet, am I?”
He looked her up and down, in the frank way Hieland men did, and smiled more broadly.
“Have ye ever seen a nun?” he asked.
“I have not,” she said, as starchily as she could. “I havena seen God or the Blessed Virgin, either, but I believe in them, too.”
Much to her annoyance, he burst out laughing. Seeing the annoyance, though, he stopped at once, though she could see the urge still trembling there behind his assumed gravity.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss MacKimmie,” he said. “I wasna questioning the existence of nuns. I’ve seen quite a number of the creatures with my own eyes.” His lips were twitching, and she glared at him.
“Creatures, is it?”
“A figure of speech, nay more, I swear it! Forgive me, Sister—I ken not what I do!” He held up a hand, cowering in mock terror. The urge to laugh made her that much more cross, but she contented herself with a simple “mmphm” of disapproval.
Curiosity got the better of her, though, and after a few moments spent inspecting the foaming wake of the ship, she asked, not looking at him, “When ye saw the nuns, then—what were they doing?”
He’d got control of himself by now and answered her seriously.
“Well, I see the Sisters of Notre Dame, who work among the poor all the time in the streets. They always go out by twos, ken, and both nuns will be carrying great huge baskets, filled with food, I suppose—maybe medicines? They’re covered, though—the baskets—so I canna say for sure what’s in them. Perhaps they’re smuggling brandy and lace down to the docks—” He dodged aside from her upraised hand, laughing.
“Oh, ye’ll be a rare nun, Sister Joan! Terror daemonum, solatium miserorum …”
She pressed her lips tight together, not to laugh. Terror of demons—the cheek of him!
“Not Sister Joan,” she said. “They’ll give me a new name, likely, at the convent.”
“Oh, aye?” He wiped hair out of his eyes, interested. “D’ye get to choose the name yourself?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Well, though—what name would ye pick, if ye had the choosing?”
“Er … well …” She hadn’t told anyone, but, after all, what harm could it do? She wouldn’t see Michael Murray again once they reached Paris. “Sister Gregory,” she blurted.
Rather to her relief, he didn’t laugh.
“Oh, that’s a good name,” he said. “After St. Gregory the Great, is it?”
“Well … aye. Ye don’t think it’s presumptuous?” she asked, a little anxious.
“Oh, no!” he said, surprised. “I mean, how many nuns are named Mary? If it’s not presumptuous to be named after the mother o’ God, how can it be highfalutin to call yourself after a mere pope?” He smiled at that, so merrily that she smiled back.