“Yes,” Jacqui said, “she does like his hands, doesn’t she? Listen here: ‘For all I’ve never seen him wearing gloves, he keeps his hands as neat and clean as any gentleman’s.’ And later on she writes: ‘He did repair the broken watch with a dexterity that might befit a goldsmith, which I would not have believed had I not stood and watched him do it.’” Smiling, she remarked to Claudine, “So his hands are clean and dexterous.”
“These are both good things.” Claudine was smiling too, which led me to believe I’d missed some joke that had been obvious to them.
But Jacqui never let me stay outside the circle very long, and for my benefit she added, “He would be a very interesting lover.”
Then I understood. I told her, “If he let you live.”
“Well, yes, there is that.”
“Anyhow,” I said, “I don’t think Alistair will care much whether Mary Dundas likes MacPherson’s hands, and I don’t think her stories will be useful to his research either, but there’s still a lot of detail coming out about the fraud, and—”
Jacqui interrupted with, “Oh yes, her stories. Darling, why didn’t you tell me about those? They’re rather wonderful. A couple more and they would make a lovely little book all on their own. In fact, I know the perfect illustrator…she did Bridget Cooper’s books.” She had her tablet out already, taking notes and planning things. She told Claudine, “We ought to sit down soon and get the rights all sorted.”
“Rights?”
“Yes. This diary is much more than just a simple source of research, don’t you realize? It’s a very special thing. Not only is it going to give Alistair one amazing book—and I’d be very surprised if we don’t manage to get a television deal out of it for him—but it’s the whole package: intrigue, adventure, money, betrayal. It’s got the dramatic potential to make a good film, or a miniseries. And then there are the fairy tales.” She had the vibrant, lit-from-the-inside look that I knew meant she was honestly excited by a project, and it made me feel a little proud my work had helped her feel that way. She told Claudine, “The diary’s yours, you own it, so apart from whatever Alistair ends up making from his book, we need to make sure you get proper payment, too.”
Claudine sat back. “I don’t want money.”
To my ears it sounded as if she had placed an emphasis on that last word, as if she wanted something, just not money. But I often got things wrong.
“Well, want it or not,” Jacqui said, “you’ll be making some, once the transcription is finished.” She looked at me. “How much is left?”
“Eighty-three and a half pages. I’ve finished ninety-two, and there’s a half a page still on my desk that I worked on this morning before I went out, but I haven’t had time yet to enter it into the computer, so it’s not with those,” I said, giving a nod to the papers both she and Claudine had been reading. “But all they’ve been doing is traveling south from Lyon for a couple of days in their carriage, and so far they haven’t had any real problems apart from a stubborn lead horse.”
Jacqui curled deeper into the cushions and leaned on the arm of the sofa. “Well, Mary still wants to be careful,” she said. She was looking directly at me. “If she’d asked my advice, I’d have told her that going around with strange men—even ones with nice hands and good hair—only leads you to trouble.”
Chapter 29
Within that wood he has placed his chiefs; beware of the wood of death.
—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three
Valence
February 25, 1732
The woman was trying to push him away.
Mary saw what was happening almost as soon as she noticed the man and the young woman close by the stable door, hidden by shadows. At first she’d believed they’d been stealing a moment of private affection, but now she could see that the woman was trying to push him away, to get free of his hold, and the man wasn’t letting her loose.
Perhaps it was only in jest. Couples played, sometimes. She’d seen Aunt Magdalene try to recover a letter from Uncle Jacques’s hands, and their struggle had ended in laughter. Perhaps this would, too. But she couldn’t help feeling concern.
It was dark in the courtyard. They’d chosen this inn—the Saint-Jacques—for its being outside the walls of Valence, since that city was one of the staging points for any journey on this route by land or by water. They would have gone by it completely, but being unable to go past the city without changing horses regardless, and given that they were in want of a night’s rest, MacPherson had judged this to be an acceptable compromise. And being cautious he’d ordered the coachman to slow to a walk for the final leagues so they would make their approach to Valence under cover of darkness. It helped that tonight was the night of the new moon—a good night for hunted things.
Save for the glittering hard winter stars and the glow of a pierced lantern hung on a hook just within the wide door of the stable, there was little light to be seen beyond what could squeeze out through the thin jagged cracks in the inn’s tightly fastened black shutters.
The coachman was busy unhitching the horses with Thomson’s assistance while Madame Roy stayed in the coach with Frisque nestled beside her, but Mary, impatient for air, had already stepped out.
“Have a care,” Thomson warned when she stumbled against a loose stone in the yard. He was speaking in English. They all were now, having assumed new identities with the new traveling papers provided for them in Lyon.