The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [56]
They turned, as though some signal had been given, and started back toward the house. Grey swallowed, trying to quiet the thumping of his heart.
It was clear enough what she meant. The poem about the Wild Hunt might be a coded Jacobite document of some sort. And if it was, Fraser might have recognized that fact and deliberately suppressed it, perhaps to protect friends affiliated with the Stuart cause. If that were the case, it raised two questions, both of them disturbing.
To wit: had Siverly a Jacobite connection, and … what else might Jamie Fraser have left out?
“Only one way to find out,” he said. “I’ll ask him. Carefully.”
12
The Belly of a Flea
THE ICE HAD BEEN BROKEN BETWEEN GREY AND JAMES FRASER, but Grey still felt considerable delicacy about the resumption of what might be called normal relations. He hadn’t forgotten that conversation in the stables at Helwater, and he was damned sure Fraser hadn’t, either.
True, they would be in close company in Ireland and must find a way to ignore the past for the sake of working together—but no need to force the matter before time.
Still, he remained acutely aware of Fraser’s presence in the house. Everyone did. Half the servants were afraid of him, the others simply unsure what to do with him. Hal dealt with him courteously, but with a sense of wary formality; Grey thought that Hal might be having the occasional doubt about the wisdom of his decision to conscript Fraser, and smiled grimly at the thought. Minnie seemed the only member of the household able to talk to him with any sense of normality.
Tom Byrd had been terrified of the big Scot, having had an unsettling experience with him at Helwater—though Grey thought that was more a matter of Tom, who was quite sensitive to social nuance, picking up the violent vibrations occurring between himself and Fraser, than of personal interaction.
When informed that he would be attending to Captain Fraser’s valeting, in addition to Grey’s, though, Tom had grasped the nettle manfully and been very helpful in compiling the tailor’s list. He was passionate in the matter of male clothing and had lost quite a bit of his nervousness in the discussion of what might be suitable.
To Grey’s surprise, Tom Byrd was in the parlor when he came down in the morning, and the valet stuck his head out into the hall to hail him.
“The captain’s new clothes have come, me lord! Come see!”
Tom turned a beaming face on Grey as he entered the parlor. The furniture was draped with muslin-wrapped shapes, like small Egyptian mummies. Tom had unwrapped one of these and now laid out a bottle-green coat with gilt buttons, spreading the skirts lovingly over the settee.
“That bundle on the pianoforte is shirts,” he informed Grey. “I didn’t like to take them up, in case the captain was asleep.”
Grey glanced out the window, which showed the sun well up; it must be eight o’clock, at least. The notion that Fraser might be having a lie-in was ludicrous; he doubted the man had ever slept past dawn in his life, and he certainly hadn’t done it any time in the last fifteen years. But Tom’s remark indicated that the Scot hadn’t either appeared for breakfast or sent for a tray. Could he be ill?
He was not. The sound of the front door opening and closing turned Grey toward the hall in time to see Fraser stride past, face flushed fresh with the morning’s air.
“Mr. Fraser!” he called, and Fraser swung round, surprised but not disturbed. He came in, ducking automatically beneath the lintel. One brow was arched in inquiry, but there was no hint in his face of disquiet or of that closed expression that hid anger, fear, or calculation.
He’s only been for a walk; he hasn’t seen anyone, Grey thought, and was slightly ashamed of the thought. Who, after all, would he see in London?
“Behold,” Grey said, smiling, and gestured toward the muslin parcels. Tom had unwrapped a suit of an odd purplish brown and was stroking the pile.
“Would you look at this, sir?” Tom said, so pleased with the garments