A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [554]
“Ah.” Seeming somehow disappointed, he took up his quill, but didn’t write anything, just held it between his fingers, as though he had forgotten it was there.
“Were you expecting anyone, Your Excellency?” I asked politely, and his head jerked up, surprised to be directly addressed.
“Oh. No. That is . . .” His voice died away as he glanced once more at the doorway that led to the back of the house.
“My son,” he said. “Our darling Sam. He—died here, you know—late last year. Only eight years old. Sometimes . . . sometimes I think I see him,” he ended quietly, and bent his head once more over his paper, lips pressed tight.
I moved impulsively, meaning to touch his hand, but his tight-lipped air prevented me.
“I am sorry,” I said quietly, instead. He didn’t speak, but gave one quick, short nod of acknowledgment, not raising his head. His lips tightened further, and he went back to his writing, as did I.
A little later, the clock struck the hour, then two. It had a soft, sweet chime, and the Governor stopped to listen, a distant look in his eyes.
“So late,” he said, as the last chime died away. “I have kept you intolerably late, Mrs. Fraser. Forgive me.” He motioned to me to leave the papers I was working on, and I rose, stiff and aching from sitting so long.
I shook my skirts into some order and turned to go, realizing only then that he had made no move to put away his ink and quills.
“You should go to bed, too, you know,” I said to him, turning and pausing at the door.
The palace was still. Even the crickets had ceased, and only the soft snore of a sleeping soldier in the hall disturbed the quiet.
“Yes,” he said, and gave me a small, tired smile. “Soon.” He shifted his weight to the other buttock, and picked up his quill, bending his head once more over the papers.
NO ONE WOKE ME in the morning, and the sun was well up when I stirred on my own. Listening to the silence, I had a momentary fear that everyone had decamped in the night, leaving me locked in to starve. I rose hastily, though, and looked out. The red-coated soldiers were still patrolling the grounds, just as usual. I could see small groups of citizens outside the perimeter, mostly strolling past in twos or threes, but sometimes stopping to stare at the palace.
Then I began to hear small thumps and homely noises on the floor below, and felt relieved; I was not entirely abandoned. I was, however, extremely hungry by the time the butler came to let me out.
He brought me to Mrs. Martin’s bedchamber, but to my surprise it was empty. He left me there, and within a few moments, Merilee, one of the kitchen slaves, came in, looking apprehensive at being in this unfamiliar part of the house.
“Whatever is going on?” I asked her. “Where is Mrs. Martin, do you know?”
“Well, I know that,” she said, in a dubious tone indicating that it was the only thing she did know for certain. “She lef’ just afore dawn this mornin’. That Mr. Webb, he took her away, secret-like, in a wagon with her boxes.”
I nodded, perplexed. It was reasonable that she should have left quietly; I imagined the Governor didn’t want to give any indication that he felt threatened, for fear of provoking exactly the violence he feared.
“But if Mrs. Martin is gone,” I said, “why am I here? Why are you here?”
“Oh. Well, I know that, too,” Merilee said, gaining a bit of confidence. “I s’posed to hep you dress, ma’am.”
“But I don’t need any . . .” I began, and then saw the garments laid out on the bed: one of Mrs. Martin’s day gowns, a pretty printed floral cotton, done in the newly popular “polonaise” fashion, complete with voluminous petticoats, silk stockings, and a large straw hat to shade the face.
Evidently, I was meant to impersonate the Governor’s wife. There was no real point in protesting; I could hear the Governor and the butler talking in the hall, and after all—if it got me out of the palace, so much the better.
I was only two or three inches taller than Mrs. Martin, and my lack of a bulge made the gown hang lower. There was no hope of my fitting into any of her