Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [74]
“Er, has your niece been acquainted with her fiancé for very long?” I asked cautiously.
“Never met him. In fact”—Mr. Hawkins leaned close, laying a finger next to his lips and lowering his voice—“she doesn’t yet know about the marriage. The negotiations are not quite complete, you see.”
I was appalled at this, and opened my mouth to say something, but Jamie clutched my elbow tightly in warning.
“Well, if the gentleman is of the nobility, perhaps we shall see your niece at Court, then,” he suggested, shoving me firmly toward the door like the blade of a bulldozer. Mr. Hawkins, moving perforce to avoid my stepping on him, backed away, still talking.
“Indeed you may, milord Broch Tuarach. Indeed, I should deem it a great honor for yourself and your lady to meet my niece. I am sure she would derive great comfort from the society of a countrywoman,” he added with a smarmy smile at me. “Not that I would presume upon what is merely a business acquaintance, to be sure.”
The hell you wouldn’t presume, I thought indignantly. You’d do anything you could to squeeze your family into the French nobility, including marrying your niece to…to…
“Er, who is your niece’s fiancé?” I asked bluntly.
Mr. Hawkins’s face grew cunning, and he leaned close enough to whisper hoarsely into my ear.
“I really should not say until the contracts have been signed, but seeing as it is your ladyship.…I can tell you that it is a member of the House of Gascogne. And a very high-ranking member indeed!”
“Indeed,” I said.
Mr. Hawkins went off rubbing his hands together in a perfect frenzy of anticipation, and I turned at once to Jamie.
“Gascogne! He must mean…but he can’t, can he? That revolting old beast with the snuff stains on his chin who came to dinner last week?”
“The Vicomte Marigny?” Jamie said, smiling at my description. “I suppose so; he’s a widower, and the only single male of that house, so far as I know. I dinna think it’s snuff, though; it’s only the way his beard grows. A bit moth-eaten,” he admitted, “but it’s bound to be a hellish shave, wi’ all those warts.”
“He can’t marry a fifteen-year-old girl to…to…that! And without even asking her!”
“Oh, I expect he can,” Jamie said, with infuriating calmness. “In any case, Sassenach, it isna your affair.” He took me firmly by both arms and gave me a little shake.
“D’ye hear me? I know it’s strange to ye, but that’s how matters are. After all”—the long mouth curled up at one corner—“you, were made to wed against your will. Reconciled yourself to it yet, have ye?”
“Sometimes I wonder!” I yanked, trying to pull my arms free, but he merely gathered me in, laughing, and kissed me. After a moment, I gave up fighting. I relaxed into his embrace, admitting surrender, if only temporarily. I would meet with Mary Hawkins, I thought, and we’d see just what she thought about this proposed marriage. If she didn’t want to see her name on a marriage contract, linked with the Vicomte Marigny, then…Suddenly I stiffened, pushing away from Jamie’s embrace.
“What is it?” he looked alarmed. “Are ye ill, lass? You’ve gone all white!”
And little wonder if I had. For I had suddenly remembered where I had seen the name of Mary Hawkins. Jamie was wrong. This was my affair. For I had seen the name, written in a copperplate hand at the top of a genealogy chart, the ink old and faded by time to a sepia brown. Mary Hawkins was not meant to be the wife of the decrepit Vicomte Marigny. She was to marry Jonathan Randall, in the year of our Lord 1745.
* * *
“Well, she can’t, can she?” Jamie said. “Jack Randall is dead.” He finished pouring the glass of brandy, and held it out to me. His hand was steady on the crystal stem, but the line of his mouth was set and his voice clipped the word “dead,” giving it a vicious finality.
“Put your feet up, Sassenach,” he said. “You’re still pale.” At his motion, I obediently pulled up my feet and stretched out on the sofa. Jamie sat down