The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [23]
A visit from Raymond the apothecary saves her life, however, and a convalescent Claire is taken to Fontainebleau, where her friend Louise hopes that the country air will help restore her health and spirits.
While Claire’s body heals, though, her spirit languishes. There is no word from Jamie. He has gone to Spain, Claire thinks, forced by necessity to carry out their plan. Surrounded by a numbing gray fog of bereavement, she does not care if he returns.
The fog is lightened, if not relieved, by a chance discovery. She learns from Fergus what it was that made Jamie break his word to her and go to fight Jack Randall; completing his own business at the brothel, he had found Randall in the act of brutalizing Fergus, and in an excess of rage, challenged him. Claire understands—but cannot forgive. Too much has been lost.
Sometimes I found myself wondering when—or whether—I would see him again, and what—if anything—we might say to each other. But for the most part, I preferred not to think about it, letting the days come and go, one by one, avoiding thoughts of both the future and the past by living only in the present.
This walking trance is broken one day, though, by the arrival of a note at Fontainebleau—a note that makes it clear that Jamie is not in Orvieto, as Claire has thought. But then … where is he?
“He’s in the Bastille, ”Louise said, taking a deep breath. “For dueling.”
My knees felt watery, and I sat down on the nearest available surface.
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” I wasn’t sure what I felt at this news; shock, or horror—fear? or a small sense of satisfaction?
“I—I didn’t want to upset you, chérie,” Louise stammered, taken aback at my apparent distress. “You were so weak… and there was nothing you could do, after all. And you didn’t ask,” she pointed out.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, wishing I had something stronger to say.
“It is fortunate that le petit James did not kill his opponent,” Louise hastened to add. “In that case, the penalty would have been much more… eek!” She twitched her striped skirts aside just in time to avoid the cascade of chocolate and biscuits as I knocked over the newly arrived refreshments. The tray clanged to the floor unregarded as I stared down at her. My hands were clasped tightly against my ribs, the right protectively curled over the gold ring on my left hand. The thin metal seemed to burn against my skin.
“He isn’t dead, then?” I asked, like one in a dream. “Captain Randall… he’s alive?”
“Why, yes,” she said, peering curiously up at me. “You did not know? He is badly wounded, but it is said that he recovers. Are you quite well, Claire? You look…” But the rest of what she was saying was lost in the roaring that filled my ears.
There is no choice. Whatever Claire’s feelings for Jamie—and she herself is not sure what they are—she must free him from the Bastille. Only days remain; Charles Stuart’s ship will be sailing soon— and with it, all hope of stopping the disaster of the Rising.
Claire returns to Paris, frantically seeking help. Only one avenue presents itself, though—a personal appeal to the King himself. The King is susceptible to the charms of women—but such appeals have their price.
“He will expect to lie with you,” Mother Hildegarde said bluntly.
I stared down at the inlaid table, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.
At last I looked up, meeting the music master’s eyes. “I’ll have to,” I said softly. “There’s no other way.”
“I will pray for you,” Mother Hildegarde said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration.
“Though