The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [380]
“Come on, Sassenach,” he said, sinking to his knees. “Whatever comes next . . . it can wait.”
I quite agreed. Though on the verge of unconsciousness, I couldn’t help drowsily asking, “Your aunt . . . do you trust her? What she said, about the gold and all?”
“Oh, aye, of course I do,” he mumbled in my ear. His arm was heavy where it lay over my waist. “At least as far as I could throw her.”
55
DEDUCTIONS
AT LAST FORCED FROM OUR REFUGE by thirst and hunger, we made our way out of the carriage shed and past the tactfully averted eyes of the yard slaves, still busy clearing up the debris from the wedding feast. At the edge of the lawn, I saw Phaedre, coming up from the mausoleum with her arms full of plates and cups that had been left in the shrubbery. Her face was swollen and blotched with grief, and her eyes were red, but she was not crying.
She saw us, and stopped.
“Oh,” she said. “Miss Jo be lookin’ for you, Master Jamie.”
She spoke dully, as though the words had little meaning for her, and appeared to find nothing odd in our sudden appearance or disheveled dress.
“Oh? Aye.” Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, nodding. “Aye, I’ll go up to her.”
She nodded, and was turning to go when Jamie reached out and touched her shoulder.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, lass,” he said quietly.
Sudden tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, but she didn’t speak. She dropped a brief curtsy, turned, and hurried away, moving so fast that a knife fell from the stack of crockery, bouncing on the grass behind her.
I stooped and picked it up, the feel of the knife’s handle reminding me suddenly and vividly of the blade I had used to open her mother’s body. For a disorienting moment, I was no longer on the lawn before the house, but in the dark confines of the shed, the scent of death heavy in the air and the proof of murder gritty in my hand.
Then reality readjusted itself, and the green lawn was covered with flocks of doves and sparrows, foraging peacefully for crumbs at the feet of a marble goddess, bright with sun.
Jamie was saying something.
“. . . . go and wash and rest a bit, Sassenach?”
“What? Oh . . . no, I’ll come with you.” I was suddenly anxious to have this business done with, and go home. I had had enough society for the moment.
WE FOUND JOCASTA, Duncan, Roger, and Brianna all together in Jocasta’s sitting room, digging into what looked like a substantial, if very late, breakfast. Brianna cast a sharp look at Jamie’s ruined clothes, but said nothing, and went back to sipping tea, her eyebrows still raised. She and Jocasta both wore dressing gowns, and while Roger and Duncan were dressed, they looked pale and scruffy after the adventures of the night. Neither had shaved, and Duncan sported a large blue bruise on the side of his face where he had hit the hearthstone in falling, but he seemed otherwise all right.
I assumed that Roger had told everyone about our tête-à-tête with Phillip Wylie, and the disappearance of Lucas. At least no one asked questions. Duncan silently shoved a platter of bacon in Jamie’s direction, and there was no sound for a bit save the musical tinkling of cutlery on plates and the sloshing noises of tea being drunk.
At last, replete and feeling somewhat restored, we sat back and began hesitantly to discuss the events of the day—and night—before. So much had happened that I thought perhaps it might be best to try to reconstruct events in a logical sort of way. I said as much, and while Jamie’s mouth twitched in an annoying manner that suggested he found the notion of logic incompatible with me personally, I ignored this and firmly called the meeting to order.
“It begins with Betty, don’t you think?”
“Whether it does or not, I suppose that’s as good a starting point as any, Sassenach,” Jamie agreed.
Brianna finished buttering a final slice of toast, looking amused.
“Carry on, Miss Marple,” she said, waving it at me before taking a bite. Roger made a brief choking noise,