Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [57]
“She is a thousand years old, at least,” she replied. “Pleasant to look at, indeed. Though I will say it was a handsome trinket about her neck,” she added grudgingly.
“Oh, quite,” said a deeper voice that I recognized as Lloyd Stanhope’s. “Though in my own opinion, it was the setting rather than the jewel that was striking.”
“Setting?” Miss Wylie sounded blank. “There was no setting; the jewel merely rested upon her bosom.”
“Really?” Stanhope said blandly. “I hadn’t noticed.” Wylie burst out laughing, breaking off abruptly as the door opened to release more guests.
“Well, if you didn’t, old man, there were others who did,” he said with sly intonation. “Come, here’s the carriage.”
I touched the ruby again, watching the Wylies’ handsome grays drive off. Yes, others had noticed. I could still feel the Baron’s eyes on my bosom, knowingly avaricious. I rather thought he was a connoisseur of more than gems.
The stone was warm in my hand; it felt warmer even than my skin, though that must be illusion. I did not normally wear jewelry beyond my wedding rings; had never cared much for it. It would be a relief to be rid of at least part of our dangerous treasure. And still I sat there holding the stone, cradling it in my hand, till I almost thought I could feel it beating like a small separate heart, in time with my blood.
There was only one carriage left, its driver standing by the horses’ heads. Some twenty minutes later, the occupant came out, adding to his goodbyes a good-humored “Gute Nacht” as he stepped into his coach. The Baron. He had waited till last, and was leaving in a good mood; that seemed a good sign.
One of the footmen, stripped of his livery coat, was extinguishing the torches at the foot of the drive. I could see the pale blur of his shirt as he walked back to the house through the dark, and the sudden flare of light onto the terrace as a door opened to admit him below. Then that too was gone, and a night silence settled on the grounds.
I had expected Jamie to come up at once, but the minutes dragged on with no sound of his step. I glanced at the bed, but felt no desire to lie down.
At last I stood up and slipped the dress back on, not bothering with shoes or stockings. I left the room, walking quietly down the hallway in my bare feet, down the stair, through the breezeway to the main house, and in through the side entrance from the garden. It was dark, save the pale squares of moonlight that came through the casements; most of the servants must have retired, along with household and guests. There was light glowing through the stairwell’s banister, though; the sconces were still alight in the dining room beyond.
I could hear the murmur of masculine voices as I tiptoed past the polished stair, Jamie’s deep soft Scots alternating with the Governor’s English tones, in the intimate cadences of a tête-à-tête.
The candles had burnt low in their sconces. The air was sweet with melted beeswax, and low clouds of fragrant cigar smoke hung heavy outside the dining room doors.
Moving quietly, I stopped just short of the door. From this vantage point I could see the Governor, back to me, neck stretched forward as he lit a fresh cigar from the candlestick on the table.
If Jamie saw me, he gave no hint of it. His face bore its usual expression of calm good humor, but the recent lines of strain around eyes and mouth had eased, and I could tell from the slope of his shoulders that he was relaxed and at peace. My heart lightened at once; he had been successful then.
“A place called River Run,” he was saying to the Governor. “Well up in the hills past Cross Creek.”
“I know the place,” Governor Tryon remarked, a little surprised. “My wife and I passed several days in Cross Creek last year; we made a tour of the colony, upon the occasion of my taking office. River Run is well up in the foothills, though, not in the town—why, it is halfway to the mountains, I believe.”
Jamie smiled and sipped