Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [503]
“Thank you,” she said. The frown was still there, but her eyes had lost that distant look; they were fixed on him with a disconcerting blue directness—the more disconcerting for being so familiar.
“When will they hang him?” She leaned forward a little, hand pressed against her side. Another swell rippled across her belly in apparent response to the pressure.
He sat back, eyeing her stomach uneasily.
“Friday week.”
“Is he in Wilmington now?”
Slightly reassured by her calm demeanor, he reached for his abandoned glass. He took a sip and shook his head, feeling the comfort of the warm liquor spread through his chest.
“No. He is still here; there was no need for trial, as he had been previously convicted.”
“So they’ll move him to Wilmington for the execution? When?”
“I have no idea.” The distant look was back; with deep misgiving, he recognized it this time—not motherly abstraction; calculation.
“I want to see him.”
Very deliberately, he swallowed the rest of the brandy.
“No,” he said definitely, setting down the glass. “Even if your state allowed of travel to Wilmington—which it assuredly does not,” he added, glancing sidelong at her dangerous-looking abdomen—“attendance at an execution could not but have the worst effects upon your child. Now, I am in complete sympathy with your feelings, my dear, but—”
“No you aren’t. You don’t know what my feelings are.” She spoke without heat, but with complete conviction. He stared at her for a moment, then got up and went to fetch the decanter.
She watched the amber liquid purl up in the glass and waited for him to pick it up before she went on.
“I don’t want to watch him die,” she said.
“Thank God for that,” he muttered, and took a mouthful of brandy.
“I want to talk to him.”
The mouthful went down the wrong way and he choked, spluttering brandy over the frills of his shirt.
“Maybe you should sit down,” she said, squinting at him. “You don’t look so good.”
“I can’t think why.” Nonetheless, he sat down, and groped for a kerchief to wipe his face.
“Now, I know what you’re going to say,” she said firmly, “so don’t bother. Can you arrange for me to see him, before they take him to Wilmington? And before you say no, certainly not, ask yourself what I’ll do if you do say that.”
Having opened his mouth to say “No, certainly not,” Lord John shut it and contemplated her in silence for a moment.
“I don’t suppose you are intending to threaten me again, are you?” he asked conversationally. “Because if you are …”
“Of course not.” She had the grace to blush slightly at that.
“Well, then, I confess I do not see quite what you—”
“I’ll tell my aunt that Stephen Bonnet fathered my baby. And I’ll tell Farquard Campbell. And Gerald Forbes. And Judge Alderdyce. And then I’ll go down to the garrison headquarters—that must be where he is—and I’ll tell Sergeant Murchison. If he won’t let me in, I’ll go to Mr. Campbell for a writ to make him admit me. I have a right to see him.”
He looked at her narrowly, but he could see it was no idle threat. She sat there, solid and immobile as a piece of marble statuary, and just as susceptible of persuasion.
“You do not shrink from creating a monstrous scandal?” It was a rhetorical question; he sought only to buy himself a moment to think.
“No,” she said calmly. “What have I got to lose?” She lifted one eyebrow in a half-humorous quirk.
“I suppose you’d have to break our engagement. But if the whole county knows who the baby’s father is, I think that would have the same effect as the engagement, in terms of keeping men from wanting to marry me.”
“Your reputation—” he began, knowing it was hopeless.
“Is not real hot to start with. Though come to that, why should it be worse for me to be pregnant because I was raped by a pirate than because I was wanton, as my father so charmingly put it?” There was a small