Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [103]
He paused, and drew a deep breath before speaking. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, and he uncurled them with conscious effort.
“No,” he said. “No, I dinna forbid ye.” His voice shook slightly with the effort to control it. “But if I asked you?”
I looked down then, and stared at his reflection in the polished tabletop. At first, the idea of visiting L’Hôpital des Anges had seemed merely an interesting idea, an attractive alternative to the endless gossip and petty intrigues of Parisian society. But now…I could feel the muscles of my arms swell as I clenched my own fists. I didn’t just want to work again; I needed to.
“I don’t know,” I said at last.
He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“Will ye think about it, Claire?” I could feel his eyes on me. After what seemed a long time, I nodded.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” His tension broken, he turned restlessly away. He wandered round the drawing room, picking up small objects and putting them down at random, finally coming to roost by the bookshelf, where he leaned, staring unseeingly at the leather-bound titles. I came tentatively up beside him, and laid a hand on his arm.
“Jamie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He glanced down at me and gave me a sidelong smile.
“Aye, well. I didna mean to fight wi’ you, either, Sassenach. I’m short-tempered and over-touchy, I expect.” He patted my hand in apology, then moved aside, to stand looking down at his desk.
“You’ve been working hard,” I said soothingly, following him.
“It’s not that.” He shook his head, and reached out to flip open the pages of the huge ledger that lay in the center of the desk.
“The wine business; that’s all right. It’s a great deal of work, aye, but I dinna mind it. It’s the other.” He gestured at a small stack of letters, held down by an alabaster paperweight. One of Jared’s, it was carved in the shape of a white rose—the Stuarts’ emblem. The letters it secured were from Abbot Alexander, from the Earl of Mar, from other prominent Jacobites. All filled with veiled inquiry, misty promises, contradictory expectations.
“I feel as though I’m fighting feathers!” Jamie said, violently. “A real fight, something I could get my hands on, that I could do. But this…” He snatched up the handful of letters from the desk, and tossed them into the air. The room was drafty, and the papers zigzagged wildly, sliding under furniture and fluttering on the carpet.
“There’s nothing to get hold of,” he said helplessly. “I can talk to a thousand people, write a hundred letters, drink wi’ Charles ’til I’m blind, and never know if I’m getting on or not.”
I let the scattered letters lie; one of the maids could retrieve them later.
“Jamie,” I said softly. “We can’t do anything but try.”
He smiled faintly, hands braced on the desk. “Aye. I’m glad you said ‘we,’ Sassenach. I do feel verra much alone with it all sometimes.”
I put my arms around his waist and laid my face against his back.
“You know I wouldn’t leave you alone with it,” I said. “I got you into it in the first place, after all.”
I could feel the small vibration of a laugh under my cheek.
“Aye, you did. I wilna hold it against ye, Sassenach.” He turned, leaned down, and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “You look tired, mo duinne. Go up to bed, now. I’ve a bit more work to do, but I’ll join ye soon.”
“All right.” I was tired tonight, though the chronic sleepiness of early pregnancy was giving way to new energy; I was beginning to feel alert in the daytime, brimming with the urge to be active.
I paused at the door on my way out. He was still standing by the desk, staring down into the pages of the open ledger.
“Jamie?” I said.
“Aye?”
“The hospital—I said I’d think about it. You think, too, hm?”
He turned his head, one brow sharply arched. Then he smiled, and nodded briefly.
“I’ll come to ye soon, Sassenach,” he said.
* * *
It was still sleeting,