The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [166]
Fraser’s hand closed on his forearm, startling Grey considerably.
“Ye ken where he is?” Fraser’s voice showed his excitement. “Can ye tell me where I might find him?”
Grey rummaged hastily through his scattered thoughts, trying to recall where Agnes had said: My new house … The end o’ Brydges Street.… Mrs. Donoghue …
“Yes,” he said, feeling his spirit rise a little. “I can find him for you, I’m sure.”
“I—thank ye, my lord,” Jamie said abruptly.
“Don’t call me that.” John felt a little better but suddenly unutterably tired. “If we share blood guilt and remorse for what we did to that bastard Twelvetrees, you can for God’s sake call me by my Christian name, can you not?”
Fraser paced in silence for a bit, thinking.
“I could,” he said slowly. “For now. But I shall go back to—to my place, and it willna do then. I … should find it disagreeable to become accustomed to such a degree of familiarity and then …” He made a small, dismissive gesture.
“You needn’t go back,” Grey said, reckless. He had no power to commute Fraser’s sentence nor pardon him and no business to suggest such a thing—not without Hal’s assent. But he thought it could be done.
He’d shocked the Scot, he saw; Fraser drew a little away, even as they walked together.
“I … am much obliged to your lordship for the thought,” he said at last. His voice sounded queer, Grey thought, and wondered why. “I … even if it should be possible … I—I do not wish to leave Helwater.”
Grey misunderstood for a moment and sought to reassure him. “I do not mean you should be committed to prison again, nor even released to a new parole in London. I mean, in light of your great service to—to the government … it might be possible to arrange a pardon. You could be … free.”
The word hung in the air between them, small and solid. Fraser drew a long, tremulous breath, but when he spoke, his words were firm.
“I take your meaning, my lord. And I am truly very much obliged for the kindness ye intend. But there is—I have … someone … at Helwater. Someone for whose sake I must return.”
“Who?” Grey asked, very startled by this.
“Her name is Betty Mitchell. One of the lady’s maids.”
“Really,” Grey said blankly, then, coming to the realization that this sounded very discourteous, hastened to make amends. “I—I congratulate you.”
“Aye, well, ye needna do that just yet,” Fraser said. “I havena spoken to her—formally, I mean. But there is … what ye might call an understanding.”
Grey felt rather as though he’d stepped on a garden rake which had leapt up and banged him on the nose. It was the last thing he would have expected—not only in light of the social differences that must exist between a lady’s maid and a laird (though a brief thought of Hal and Minnie drifted through the back of his mind, together with a vision of the scorched hearth rug), no matter how far the laird’s fortunes had fallen, but in light of what Grey had always assumed to be Fraser’s very exigent feelings toward his dead wife.
He knew the lady’s maid slightly, from his visits to Helwater, and while she was a fine-looking young woman, she was distinctly … well, common. Fraser’s first wife had been distinctly uncommon.
“Christ, Sassenach. I need ye.”
He felt shocked—and rather disapproving. He was more shocked still to realize this and did his best to dismiss the feeling; it wasn’t his business to be shocked, and even if it were … well, it had been a very long time since Fraser’s wife had died, and he was a man. And an honorable one. Better to marry than burn, they say, he thought cynically. I wouldn’t know.
“I wish you every happiness,” he said, very formal. They had come to a stop near the Alexandra Gate. The night air was soft, full of the scent of tree sap and chimney smoke and the distant reeks of the city. He realized with a