Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [245]
I watched one of them, rising off the eggs in sudden motion as Louise clapped her hands. It buzzed in short, irritable circles before settling back to its feeding spot. The sound of hurrying footsteps came behind me, there was a sharp order from Louise, a submissive “Oui, Madame,” and the sudden thwap! of a flywhisk as the maid set about removing the flies, one by one. She dropped each small black corpse into her pocket, plucking it off the table and polishing the smear left behind with a corner of her apron.
Louise bent down, thrusting her face suddenly into my field of view.
“I can see all the bones in your face! If you won’t eat, at least go outside for a bit!” she said impatiently. “The rain’s stopped; come along, and we’ll see if there are any muscats left in the arbor. Maybe you’ll eat some of those.”
Outside or inside was much the same to me; the soft, numbing grayness was still with me, blurring outlines and making every place seem like every other. But it seemed to matter to Louise, so I rose obediently to go with her.
Near the garden door, though, she was waylaid by the cook, with a list of questions and complaints about the menu for dinner. Guests had been invited, with the intention of distracting me, and the bustle of preparation had been causing small explosions of domestic discord all morning.
Louise emitted a martyred sigh, then patted me on the back.
“You go on,” she said, urging me toward the door. “I’ll send a footman with your cloak.”
It was a cool day for August because of the rain that had been coming down since the night before. Pools of water lay in the graveled paths, and the dripping from the drenched trees was nearly as incessant as the rain itself.
The sky was still filled with gray, but it had faded from the angry black of water-logged cloud. I folded my arms around my elbows; it looked as though the sun might come out soon, but it was still cold enough to want a cloak.
When I heard steps behind me on the path, I turned to find François, the second footman, but he carried nothing. He looked oddly hesitant, peering as though to make sure I was the person he was looking for.
“Madame,” he said, “there is a visitor for you.”
I sighed internally; I didn’t want to be bothered with the effort of rousing myself to be civil to company.
“Tell them I’m indisposed, please,” I said, turning to continue my walk. “And when they’ve gone, bring me my cloak.”
“But Madame,” he said behind me, “it is le seigneur Broch Tuarach—your husband.”
Startled, I whirled to look at the house. It was true; I could see Jamie’s tall figure, already coming around the corner of the house. I turned, pretending I hadn’t seen him, and walked off toward the arbor. The shrubbery was thick down there; perhaps I could hide.
“Claire!” Pretending was useless; he had seen me as well, and was coming down the path after me. I walked faster, but I was no match for those long legs. I was puffing before I had covered half the distance to the arbor, and had to slow down; I was in no condition for strenuous exercise.
“Wait, Claire!”
I half-turned; he was almost upon me. The soft gray numbness around me quivered, and I felt a sort of frozen panic at the thought that the sight of him might rip it away from me. If it did, I would die, I thought, like a grub dug up from the soil and tossed onto a rock to shrivel, naked and defenseless in the sun.
“No!” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.” He hesitated for a moment, and I turned away from him and began to walk rapidly down the path toward the arbor. I heard his steps on the gravel of the path behind me, but kept my back turned, and walked faster, almost running.
As I paused to duck under the arbor, he made a sudden lunge forward and grasped my wrist. I tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight.
“Claire!” he said again. I struggled, but kept my face turned away; if I didn’t look at him, I could pretend he wasn