Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [114]
“I can do that,” I assured him. “But what—”
A door opened onto the gallery above, and Jocasta’s voice floated down, giving last-minute orders to Phaedre. Hearing it, Jamie stooped quickly and kissed me, then whirled away in a swirl of crimson plaid and silver shoe-buckles, disappearing neatly between two slaves bringing trays of crystal goblets toward the drawing room. I stared after him in astonishment, barely getting out of the way in time to avoid being trampled by the servants.
“Is that you, sweet Claire?” Jocasta paused on the bottom step, head turned toward me, eyes trained just over my shoulder. She was quite uncanny.
“It is,” I said, and touched her arm to let her know more precisely where I was.
“I smelt the camphor from the dress,” she said in answer to my unspoken question, tucking her hand in the crook of my elbow. “I thought I heard Jamie’s voice; is he nearby?”
“No,” I said, quite truthfully, “I believe he’s gone out to greet the guests.”
“Ah.” Her hand tightened on my arm, and she sighed, somewhere between satisfaction and impatience. “I am not one to lament what cannot be mended, but I swear I should give one of my eyes, could the sight of the other be restored long enough to see the lad in his plaidie this night!”
She shook her head, dismissing it, and the diamonds in her ears flared with light. She wore dark blue silk, a foil to her shining white hair. The cloth was embroidered with dragonflies that seemed to dart among the folds as she moved under the lights of the wall sconces and candle-heavy chandeliers.
“Ah, well. Where is Ulysses?”
“Here, madame.” He had come back so quietly that I hadn’t heard him, appearing on her other side.
“Come then,” she said, and took his arm. I didn’t know if the order applied to him or me, but followed obediently in her shimmering wake, dodging to avoid two kitchen boys bearing in the centerpiece—a whole roasted boar, tusked head intact and fiercely glaring, succulent backside gleaming fatly, ready for the knife. It smelled divine.
I smoothed my hair and prepared to meet Jocasta’s guests, feeling rather as though I, too, were being presented on a silver platter, with an apple in my mouth.
The guest list would have read like the Who’s Who of Cape Fear River gentry, had there been such a thing. Campbell, Maxwell, Buchanan, MacNeill, MacEachern … names from the Highlands, names from the Isles. MacNeill of Barra Meadows, MacLeod of Islay … many of the plantation names carried the flavor of their owners’ origins, as did their speech; the high plastered ceiling echoed with the lilt of spoken Gaelic.
Several of the men came kilted, or with plaids wrapped over their coats and silk breeches, but I saw none as striking as Jamie—who was conspicuous by his absence. I heard Jocasta murmur something to Ulysses; he summoned a small serving girl with a clap of his hands and sent her zooming off into the lanterned half-dark of the gardens, presumably in search of him.
Nearly as conspicuous were the few guests who were not Scots; a broad-shouldered, gently smiling Quaker by the picturesque name of Hermon Husband, a tall, rawboned gentleman named Hunter, and—much to my surprise—Phillip Wylie, immaculately suited, wigged and powdered.
“So we meet again, Mrs. Fraser,” he remarked, holding on to my hand much longer than was socially correct. “I confess that I am ravished with enchantment to behold you again!”
“What are you doing here?” I said, rather rudely.
He grinned impudently.
“I was brought by mine host, the noble and puissant Mr. MacNeill of Barra Meadows, from whom I have just purchased an excellent pair of grays. Speaking of which, wild horses would have proved insufficient to restrain me from attendance this evening, upon my hearing that this occasion is held in your honor.” His eyes wandered slowly over me, with the detached air of a connoisseur appreciating some rare work of art.
“May I observe, ma’am, how most becoming is that shade of