Still smiling at the girl, he unstoppered the scent bottle and passed it gently under his nose.
"What is it, Professor? Arpège?" Not so shy, this student; dark-haired, like Frank, with gray eyes that held more than a hint of flirtation.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring over the mouth of the bottle.
"No. It's L'Heure Bleu. My favorite."
He turned back to the table, hair falling over his brow in concentration as his hand hovered over the row of miniatures.
"And then there's a special class of objects—portraits. A bit of art, and at the same time, as much as we can see of the people themselves. But how real are they to us?"
He lifted a tiny oval and turned it to face the class, reading from the small gummed label affixed to its back.
"A Lady, by Nathaniel Plimer, signed with initials and dated 1786, with curled brown hair piled high, wearing a pink dress and a ruffle-collared chemise, cloud and sky background." He held up a square beside it.
"A Gentleman, by Horace Hone, signed with monogram and dated 1780, with powdered hair en queue, wearing a brown coat, blue waistcoat, lawn jabot, and an Order, possibly the Most Honorable Order of the Bath."
The miniature showed a round-faced man, mouth rosily pursed in the formal pose of eighteenth-century portraits.
"The artists we know," he said, laying the portrait down. "They signed their work, or they left clues to their identity in the techniques and the subjects they used. But the people they painted? We see them, and yet we know nothing of them. The strange hairstyles, the odd clothes—they don't seem people that you'd know, do they? And the way so many artists painted them, the faces are all alike; pudding-faced and pale, most of them, and not a lot more you can say about them. Here and there, one stands out.…" Hand hovering over the row, he selected another oval.
"A Gentleman…"
He held up the miniature, and Jamie's blue eyes blazed out under the fiery thatch of his hair, combed for once, braided and ribboned into an unaccustomed formal order. The knife-edged nose was bold above the lace of his stock, and the long mouth seemed about to speak, half-curled at one corner.
"But they were real people," Frank's voice insisted. "They did much the same things you do—give or take a few small details like going to the pictures or driving down the motorway"—there were appreciative titters amongst the class—"but they cared about their children, they loved their husbands or wives…well, sometimes they did…" More laughter.
"A Lady," he said softly, cradling the last of the portraits in his palm, shielding it for the moment. "With brown hair curling luxuriantly to her shoulders, and a necklace of pearls. Undated. The artist unknown."
It was a mirror, not a miniature. My cheeks were flushed, and my lips trembled as Frank's finger gently traced the edge of my jaw, the graceful line of my neck. The tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks as I heard his voice, still lecturing, as he laid down the miniature, and I stared upward at the timbered ceiling.
"Undated. Unknown. But once…once, she was real."
I was having trouble breathing, and thought at first that I was being smothered by the glass over the miniature. But the material pressing on my nose was soft and damp, and I twisted my head away and came awake, feeling the linen pillow wet with tears beneath my cheek. Jamie's hand was large and warm on my shoulder, gently shaking me.
"Hush, lassie. Hush! You're but dreaming—I'm here."
I turned my face into the warmth of his naked shoulder, feeling the tears slick between cheek and skin. I clung tightly to his solidness, and the small night sounds of the Paris house came slowly to my ears, bringing me back to the life that was mine.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I was dreaming about…about…"
He patted my back, and reached under the pillow for a handkerchief.
"I know. Ye were calling his name." He sounded resigned.
I laid my head back on his shoulder. He smelled warm and rumpled, his own sleepy scent blending with the smell of the down-filled quilt and the clean linen sheets.
"I'm sorry," I said again.
He snorted briefly, not quite a laugh.
"Well, I'll no say I'm not wicked jealous of the man," he said ruefully, "because I am. But I can hardly grudge him your dreams. Or your tears." His finger gently traced the wet track down one cheek, then blotted it with the handkerchief.
"You don't?"
His smile in the dimness was lopsided.
"No. Ye loved him. I canna hold it against either of you that ye mourn him. And it gives me some comfort to know…" He hesitated, and I reached up to smooth the rumpled hair off his face.
"To know what?"
"That should the need come, you might mourn for me that way," he said softly.
I pressed my face fiercely into his chest, so my words were muffled.
"I won't mourn you, because I won't have to. I won't lose you, I won't!" A thought struck me, and I looked up at him, the faint roughness of his beard stubble a shadow on his face.
"You aren't afraid I would go back, are you? You don't think that because I…think of Frank.…"
"No." His voice was quick and soft, a response fast as the possessive tightening of his arms around me.
"No," he said again, more softly. "We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you." One large hand rose to stroke my hair. "D'ye mind the blood vow that I swore ye when we wed?"
"Yes, I think so. ‘Blood of my blood, bone of my bone…' "
"I give ye my body, that we may be one," he finished. "Aye, and I have kept that vow, Sassenach, and so have you." He turned me slightly, and one hand cupped itself gently over the tiny swell of my stomach.
"Blood of my blood," he whispered, "and bone of my bone. You carry me within ye, Claire, and ye canna leave me now, no matter what happens. You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wilna let ye go."
I put a hand over his, pressing it against me.
"No," I said softly, "nor can you leave me."
"No," he said, half-smiling. "For I have kept the last of the vow as well." He clasped both hands about me, and bowed his head on my shoulder, so I could feel the warm breath of the words upon my ear, whispered to the dark.
"For I give ye my spirit, 'til our life shall be done."
11
USEFUL OCCUPATIONS
Who is that peculiar little man?" I asked Jamie curiously. The man in question was making his way slowly through the groups of guests gathered in the main salon of the de Rohans' house. He would pause a moment, scanning the group with a critical eye, then either shrug a bony shoulder and pass on, or suddenly step in close to a man or woman, hold something to their face and issue some sort of command. Whatever he was doing, his actions appeared to be the occasion of considerable hilarity.
Before Jamie could answer, the man, a small, wizened specimen in gray serge, spotted us, and his face lit up. He swooped down on Jamie like a tiny bird of prey suddenly descending upon a large and startled rabbit.
"Sing," he commanded.
"Eh?" Jamie blinked down at the little figure in astonishment.
"I said ‘Sing,' " answered the man, patiently. He prodded Jamie admiringly in the chest. "With a resonating cavity like that, you should have a wonderful volume."
"Oh, he has volume," I said, amused. "You can hear him across three squares of the city when he's roused."
Jamie shot me a dirty look. The little man was circling him, measuring the breadth of his back and tapping on him like a woodpecker sampling a prime tree.
"I can't sing," he protested.
"Nonsense, nonsense. Of course you can. A nice, deep baritone, too," the little man murmured approvingly. "Excellent. Just what we need. Here, a bit of help for you. Try to match this tone."
Deftly whipping a small tuning fork from his pocket, he struck it smartly against a pillar and held it next to Jamie's left ear.
Jamie rolled his eyes heavenward, but shrugged and obligingly sang a note. The little man jerked back as though he'd been shot.
"No," he said disbelievingly.
"I'm afraid so," I said sympathetically. "He's right, you know. He really can't sing."
The little man squinted accusingly at Jamie, then struck his fork once more and held it out invitingly.
"Once more," he coaxed. "Just listen to it, and let the same sound come out."
Patient as ever, Jamie listened carefully to the "A" of the fork, and sang again, producing a sound wedged somewhere in the crack between E-flat and D-sharp.
"Not possible," said the little man, looking thoroughly disillusioned. "No one could be that dissonant even on purpose."
"I can," said Jamie cheerfully, and bowed politely to the little man. We had by now begun to collect a small crowd of interested onlookers. Louise de Rohan was a great hostess, and her salons attracted the cream of Parisian society.
"Yes, he can," I assured our visitor. "He's tone-deaf, you see."
"Yes, I do see," the little man said, looking thoroughly depressed. Then he began to eye me speculatively.