Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [120]
“But it’s no good,” she said. “If I don’t…” She glanced at the recipe on the table and swallowed heavily. “Then Jules will divorce me—he’ll cast me out. There would be the most terrible scandal. I might be excommunicated! Not even Father could protect me.”
“Yes,” I said. “But…” I hesitated, then cast caution to the winds. “Is there any chance Jules might be convinced the child is his?” I asked bluntly.
She looked blank for a moment, and I wanted to shake her.
“I don’t see how, unless—oh!” Light dawned, and she looked at me, horrified.
“Sleep with Jules, you mean? But Charles would be furious!”
“Charles,” I said through my teeth, “is not pregnant!”
“Well, but he’s…that is…I couldn’t!” The look of horror was fading, though, being slowly replaced with the growing realization of possibility.
I didn’t want to push her; still, I saw no good reason for her to risk her life for the sake of Charles Stuart’s pride, either.
“Do you suppose Charles would want you to endanger yourself?” I said. “For that matter—does he know about the child?”
She nodded, mouth slightly open as she thought about it, hands still clenched together over her stomach.
“Yes. That’s what we quarreled about last time.” She sniffed. “He was angry; he said it was all my fault, that I should have waited until he had reclaimed his father’s throne. Then he would be king someday, and he could come and take me away from Jules, and have the Pope annul my marriage, and his sons could be heirs to England and Scotlan.…” She gave way once more, sniveling and wailing incoherently into a fold of her skirt.
I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
“Oh, do be quiet, Louise!” I snapped. It shocked her enough to make her stop weeping, at least momentarily, and I took advantage of the hiatus to press my point.
“Look,” I said, as persuasively as possible, “you don’t suppose Charles would want you to sacrifice his son, do you? Legitimate or not?” Actually, I rather thought Charles would be in favor of any step that removed inconvenience from his own path, regardless of the effects on Louise or his putative offspring. On the other hand, the Prince did have a marked streak of romanticism; perhaps he could be induced to view this as the sort of temporary adversity common to exiled monarchs. Obviously, I was going to need Jamie’s help. I grimaced at the thought of what he was likely to say about it.
“Well.…” Louise was wavering, wanting desperately to be convinced. I had a momentary pang of pity for Jules, Prince de Rohan, but the vision of a young servant-girl, dying in protracted, blood-smeared agony on a pallet spread in the stone hallway of L’Hôpital des Anges was brutally clear in my mind.
It was nearly sunset when I left the de Rohans’, footsteps dragging. Louise, palpitating with nervousness, was upstairs in her boudoir, her maid putting up her hair and arraying her in her most daring gown before she went down to a private supper with her husband. I felt completely drained, and hoped that Jamie hadn’t brought anyone home for supper; I could use a spot of privacy, too.
He hadn’t; when I entered the study, he was seated at the desk, poring over three or four sheets of close-written paper.
“Do you think ‘the fur merchant’ is more likely to be Louis of France, or his minister Duverney?” he asked, without looking up.
“Fine, thank you, darling, and how are you?” I said.
“All right,” he said absently. The cowlicks on the top of his head were sticking up straight; he massaged his scalp vigorously as I watched, scowling down his long nose at the paper.
“I’m sure ‘the tailor from Vendôme’ must be Monsieur Geyer,” he said, running a finger along the lines of the letter, “and ‘our mutual friend’—that could be either the Earl of Mar, or possibly the papal envoy. I think the Earl, from the rest of it, but the—”
“What on earth is that?” I peered over his shoulder,