Voyager - Diana Gabaldon [451]
“I doubt it very much,” I said. My fingers were still icy, and I felt as though I had swallowed some large, cold object that pressed uncomfortably under my breastbone. I breathed deeply, trying to force it down, to no avail. “You didn’t know that Jamie was married?”
He blinked, but not in time to keep me from seeing a small grimace of pain, as though someone had struck him suddenly across the face.
“I knew he had been married,” he corrected. He dropped his hands, fiddling aimlessly with the small objects that littered his desk. “He told me—or gave me to understand, at least—that you were dead.”
Grey picked up a small silver paperweight, and turned it over and over in his hands, eyes fixed on the gleaming surface. A large sapphire was set in it, winking blue in the candlelight.
“Has he never mentioned me?” he asked softly. I wasn’t sure whether the undertone in his voice was pain or anger. Despite myself, I felt some small sense of pity for him.
“Yes, he did,” I said. “He said you were his friend.” He glanced up, the fine-cut face lightening a bit.
“Did he?”
“You have to understand,” I said. “He—I—we were separated by the war, the Rising. Each of us thought the other was dead. I found him again only—my God, was it only four months ago?” I felt staggered, and not only by the events of the evening. I felt as though I had lived several lifetimes since the day I had opened the door of the printshop in Edinburgh, to find A. Malcolm bending over his press.
The lines of stress in Grey’s face eased a little.
“I see,” he said slowly. “So—you have not seen him since—my God, that’s twenty years!” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “And four months? Why—how—” He shook his head, brushing away the questions.
“Well, that’s of no consequence just now. But he did not tell you—that is—has he not told you about Willie?”
I stared at him blankly.
“Who’s Willie?”
Instead of explaining, he bent and opened the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small object and laid it on the desk, motioning me to come closer.
It was a portrait, an oval miniature, set in a carved frame of some fine-grained dark wood. I looked at the face, and sat down abruptly, my knees gone to water. I was only dimly aware of Grey’s face, floating above the desk like a cloud on the horizon, as I picked up the miniature to look at it more closely.
He might have been Bree’s brother, was my first thought. The second, coming with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, was “My God in heaven, he is Bree’s brother!”
There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The boy in the portrait was perhaps nine or ten, with a childish tenderness still lingering about his face, and his hair was a soft chestnut brown, not red. But the slanted blue eyes looked out boldly over a straight nose a fraction of an inch too long, and the high Viking cheekbones pressed tight against smooth skin. The tilt of the head held the same confident carriage as that of the man who had given him that face.
My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it. I set it back on the desk, but kept my hand over it, as though it might leap up and bite me. Grey was watching me, not without sympathy.
“You didn’t know?” he said.
“Who—” My voice was hoarse with shock, and I had to stop and clear my throat. “Who is his mother?”
Grey hesitated, eyeing me closely, then shrugged slightly.
“Was. She’s dead.”
“Who was she?” The ripples of shock were still spreading from an epicenter in my stomach, making the crown of my head tingle and my toes go numb, but at least my vocal cords were coming back under my control. I could hear Jenny saying, He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone, aye? Evidently he wasn’t.
“Her name was Geneva Dunsany,” Grey said. “My wife’s sister.”
My mind was reeling, in an effort to make sense of all this, and I suppose I was less than tactful.
“Your wife?” I said, goggling at him. He flushed deeply and looked away. If I had been in any doubt about the nature of the look I had seen him give Jamie, I wasn’t any longer.
“I think you had better bloody well explain to