Dragonfly In Amber by Diana Gabaldon

Author:Diana Gabaldon [Gabaldon, Diana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: adventure

“You did too much, too soon,” Louise said severely, pulling back the curtains. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“I imagine so,” I said. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed, checking cautiously for any residual signs of faintness. No swimming of head, ringing of ears, double vision, or inclination to fall on the floor. Vital signs all right.

“I need my yellow gown, and then would you send for the carriage, Louise?” I asked.

Louise looked at me in horror. “You are not meaning to go out? Nonsense! Monsieur Clouseau is coming to attend you! I have sent a messenger to fetch him here at once!”

The news that Monsieur Clouseau, a prominent society physician, was coming from Paris to examine me, would have been sufficient grounds to get me on my feet, had I needed them.

The eighteenth of July was ten days away. With a fast horse, good weather, and a disregard for bodily comfort, the journey from Paris to Orvieto could be made in six. That left me four days to contrive Jamie’s release from the Bastille; no time to fiddle about with Monsieur Clouseau.

“Hmm,” I said, looking round the room thoughtfully. “Well, call the maid to dress me, at any rate. I don’t want Monsieur Clouseau to find me in my shift.”

Though she still looked suspicious, this sounded plausible; most ladies of the Court would rise from a deathbed in order to make sure they were dressed appropriately for the occasion.

“All right,” she agreed, turning to go. “But you stay in bed until Yvonne arrives, you hear?”

The yellow gown was one of my best, a loose, graceful thing made in the modish sacque style, with a wide rolled collar, full sleeves, and a beaded closure down the front. Powdered, combed, stockinged, and perfumed at last, I surveyed the pair of shoes Yvonne had laid out for me to step into. I turned my head this way and that, frowning appraisingly.

“Mm, no,” I said at last. “I don’t think so. I’ll wear the others, the ones with the red morocco heels, instead.”

The maid looked dubiously at my dress, as though mentally assessing the effect of red morocco with yellow moiré silk, but obediently turned to rummage in the foot of the huge armoire.

Tiptoeing silently up behind her in my stockinged feet, I shoved her headfirst into the armoire, and slammed the door on the heaving, shrieking mass beneath the pile of fallen dresses within. Turning the key in the door, I dropped it neatly into my pocket, mentally shaking hands with myself. Neat job, Beauchamp, I thought. All this political intrigue is teaching you things they never dreamt of in nursing school, no doubt about it.

“Don’t worry,” I told the shaking armoire soothingly. “Someone will be along to let you out soon, I imagine. And you can tell La Princesse that you didn’t let me go anywhere.”

A despairing wail from inside the armoire seemed to be mentioning Monsieur Clouseau’s name.

“Tell him to have a look at the monkey,” I called over my shoulder, “It’s got mange.

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