“It was true, then?” Brianna asked hesitantly. “Everything was true?”
Roger felt the small shudder that ran through the girl’s body, and without thinking about it, reached up to take her hand. He winced involuntarily as she squeezed it, and suddenly in memory heard one of the Reverend’s texts: “Blessed are those who have not seen, and have believed.” And those who must see, in order to believe? The effects of belief wrought by seeing trembled fearful at his side, terrified at what else must now be believed.
Even as the girl tightened, bracing herself to meet a truth she had already seen, the lines of Claire’s tensed body on the sofa relaxed. The pale lips curved in the shadow of a smile, and a look of profound peace smoothed the strained white face, and settled glowing in the golden eyes.
“It’s true,” she said. A tinge of color came back into the pallid cheeks. “Would your mother lie to you?” And she closed her eyes once more.
Himself shaken by the events of the night, Roger leaves mother and daughter to recover quietly together. It is only the next day, when the police have come, made their futile enquiries, and left, that Roger faces his final decision.
It had taken some time, but he had found it—the short passage he remembered from his earlier search on Claire Randall’s behalf. Those results had brought her comfort and peace; this wouldn’t—if he told her. And if he were right? But he must be; it accounted for that misplaced grave, so far from Culloden …
“Claire?” His voice felt scratchy from disuse, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Claire? I … have something to tell you.”
She turned and looked up at him, no more than the faintest curiosity visible on her features. She wore a look of calm, the look of one who has borne terror, despair, and mourning, and the desperate burden of survival—and has endured. Looking at her, he felt suddenly that he couldn’t do it.
But she had told the truth; he must do likewise.
“I found something. ”He raised the book in a brief, futile gesture. “About … Jamie.”
Speaking that name aloud seemed to brace him, as though the big Scot himself had been conjured by his calling to stand solid and unmoving in the hallway, between his wife and Roger. Roger took a deep breath in preparation.
“What is it?”
“The last thing he meant to do. I think … I think he failed.”
Her face paled suddenly, and she glanced wide-eyed at the book.
“His men? But I thought you found—”
“I did,” Roger interrupted. “No, I’m fairly sure he succeeded in that. He got the men of Lallybroch out; he saved them from Culloden, and set them on the road home.”
“But then …”
“He meant to turn back—back to the battle—and I think he did that, too.” He was increasingly reluctant, but it had to be said. Finding no words of his own, he flipped the book open, and read aloud:
“After the final battle at Culloden, eighteen Jacobite officers, all wounded, took refuge in the old house and for two days, their wounds untended, lay in pain; then they were taken out to be shot. One of them, a Fraser of the Master of Lovat’s regiment, escaped the slaughter; the others were buried at the edge of the domestic park.”
“One man, a Fraser of the Master of Lovat’s regiment, escaped …” Roger repeated softly. He looked up from the stark page to see her eyes, wide and unseeing as a deer’s fixed in the headlights of an oncoming car.
“He meant to die on Culloden Field,” Roger whispered. “But he didn’t.”
VOYAGER
e was dead. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd in the circumstances. While he placed considerable trust in the understanding and mercy of his Creator, he harbored that residue of elemental guilt that made all men fear the chance of hell. Still, all he had ever heard of hell made him think it unlikely that the torments reserved for its luckless inhabitants could be restricted to a sore nose.
On the other hand, this couldn’t be heaven, on several counts. For one, he didn’t deserve it. For another, it didn’t look it. And for a third, he doubted that the rewards of the blessed included a broken nose, any more than those of the damned…
His hand struck something hard, and the fingers tangled in wet, snarled hair. He sat up abruptly, and with some effort, cracked the layer of dried blood that had sealed his eyelids shut. Memory flooded back, and he groaned aloud. He had been mistaken. This was hell. But James Fraser was unfortunately not dead, after all.
He isn’t dead, and he isn’t in hell. Where Jamie Fraser is is lying wounded on Culloden Moor, the body of his enemy, Jack Randall, on top of him, and the English army all around him, dispatching those Highlanders unlucky enough not to be already dead.
Rescued—temporarily—by friends, he takes refuge with other wounded Jacobite officers in a farmhouse by the moor. Here they wait for two days, hearing the crack of gunshots on the field, smelling the fires built to consume the bodies of the Highland dead—whom they will soon join.
The other Highlanders do indeed go to join their comrades in death, executed by the English. Jamie, though, is saved by chance; the commanding officer who visits the farmhouse is Harold, Lord Melton; elder brother of John William Grey, whose life Jamie had spared a few months earlier, during an encounter on the road to Prestonpans. Unable to disregard what he considers a debt of honor, Melton discharges his unwelcome obligation by removing Jamie secretly, sending him home to Lallybroch. He is badly wounded, and may die on the journey—but that, Melton thinks, is hardly his concern. For the moment, Jamie Fraser is alive.
MEANWHILE, BACK IN the future (1968) …
Claire Randall and her daughter, Brianna, have just learned from Roger Wakefield that, contrary to Claire’s long-held belief, Jamie Fraser survived the battle of Culloden. Claire is staggered by this news— but when Roger asks whether she wants him to find out what happened to Jamie Fraser, she agrees.
A detective hunt through history ensues, with Brianna Randall at first reluctant, but then increasingly absorbed in the story of the man who was her father—and the three-cornered love affair among her parents: Claire and Jamie, her real father— and Frank Randall, the man she has loved as her father all her life.
Given Brianna’s complex feelings about her two fathers, Claire cannot talk to her daughter about her two husbands—or her own complex feelings. She does talk to Roger, who is equally fascinated but lacks Brianna’s emotional involvement. As the hunt for Jamie Fraser goes on, Roger gradually learns more and more about what happened when Claire returned from the past, starving, half-demented with grief at the loss of her lover—and pregnant.
He hears the story of Claire’s struggle back to life, for the sake of Jamie’s child— and then of her struggle to fulfill the other half of her destiny, as a healer. Torn between the roles of mother and doctor, she finds a balance made possible only by the actions of her husband, Frank—who, torn between rage and love, finds it in himself to support a destiny he cannot share, for the sake of the woman who is—again—his wife; and for the sake of another man’s child, now his own.
Roger feels himself delicately balanced between two women he cares for: Claire, whose personality and story fascinate him—and Brianna, with whom he is falling ever more deeply in love. As he talks with Claire, and searches with Brianna, he feels more and more strongly the unseen presence of the third member of this family—Jamie Fraser.
MEANWHILE, JAMIE’S OWN story unwinds, punctuated by Claire’s memories, as told to Roger, and Roger’s own investigations with Bree.
Reaching Lallybroch safely, Jamie survives his wound but is forced to hide in a cave on the estate, to avoid the notice of the English patrols that cross the district after Culloden, looting, burning, and killing. Apart from his family, but near them, he survives hardship and loneliness, solitude and grief, taking some comfort in being able to provide for and protect those he loves, if only in a small way. He does not speak Claire’s name, and lets it be assumed that she is dead. Only in
his heart does he speak his daily prayer—Lord, that she may be safe. She and the child.
Life is perilous in the Highlands, and not only for those who fought with Charles Stuart. Between marauding English soldiers and near famine, hardship and danger are a way of life for the inhabitants of Lallybroch. When Jamie’s presence comes close to exposing his sister and his newborn nephew to English wrath, Jamie determines to carry out a bold course of action. He arranges to have one of his tenants “betray” his presence to the English, thus collecting the price on his head, the gold to be used to feed and care for the people of Lallybroch.
Trail to Jamie’s Cave.
Jenny rubbed her for hard against her lips. She was quick; he knew she had grasped the plan at once—and all its implications.
“But Jamie,” she whispered. “Even if they dinna hang ye outright—and that’s the hell of a risk to take—Jamie, ye could be killed when they take ye!”
His shoulders slumped suddenly, under the weight of misery and exhaustion.
“God, Jenny,” he said, “d’ye think I care?”
There was a long silence before she answered.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “And I canna say as I blame ye, either.” She paused a moment, to steady her voice. “But I still care.” Her fingers gently touched the back of his head, stroking his hair. “So ye’ll mind yourself, won’t ye, clot-heid?”
The ventilation panel overhead darkened momentarily, and there was the tapping sound of light footsteps. One of the kitchenmaids, on her way to the pantry, perhaps. Then the dim light came back, and he could see Jenny’s face once more.
“Aye,” he whispered at last. “I’ll mind.”
Lord John Grey is in disgrace. Exiled from London as the result of a scandalous affair, and sent to the wilds of the Scottish Highlands as governor of a small prison fortress, he finds his new surroundings remote, uncomfortable, and unpleasant. He finds the prisoners worse than unpleasant; among the roll of grim and dour Scots is a name he hoped never to hear again—that of Jamie Fraser, Laird of Broch Tuarach.
Writhing in shame at the memory of his encounter with Jamie Fraser during the Rising, Grey is torn between a desire for revenge and a sense of honor that makes revenge impossible. Fraser, once his enemy, is now his prisoner, a ward of his care. Abuse of his position and power is unthinkable—whatever else they may be, the Greys have always been men of honor. Grey resolves never to see Fraser alone, never to speak to him. With luck, the man will in time become one of the faceless mass of prisoners.
This scheme is short-lived; the appearance in the nearby village of a mysterious stranger, wet with seawater and raving of gold, forces Grey to summon James Fraser— the only man available who speaks both French and Gaelic, and who, as a prisoner, cannot make use of information for himself. The mention of gold is enough to prick any man’s ears in this part of the Highlands, where rumors abound of a fortune in French gold, sent—some say—by the French king, Louis, to aid his Stuart cousin; but sent too late, and lost in the final days of the Rising.
A bargain is struck; Grey will have Jamie’s irons removed, if Jamie will agree to translate the stranger’s ravings, and keep them secret between Grey and himself. Jamie abides by his bargain, but does not tell Grey that he recognizes the man— Duncan Kerr—nor that the man’s ravings hold a kind of sense beyond their words.
Duncan spoke of “the white witch.” To Jamie, the white witch is the woman he has lost: Claire, his wife. He cannot imagine what she might have to do with the islands or the treasure Kerr describes, and yet … he cannot ignore the man’s words. Three days following the stranger’s death, Jamie Fraser escapes from Ardsmuir Prison.
Recaptured, Jamie refuses to speak of his reasons—or of his discoveries, if any. Determined to find out whether the treasure exists, Grey overcomes his personal feelings and invites Jamie to resume the custom followed with the previous governor: weekly dinners, at which Jamie, as chief and spokesman for the prisoners, would present requests and problems. Grey learns little regarding the treasure— until he thinks of blackmailing Jamie with threats against his family. Forced to reveal the truth—or part of it—Jamie confesses that he did find a treasure: not French gold, but a small cache of ancient coins and gems. This treasure, he informs Grey, he threw into the sea; unable to make use of it himself, he saw no reason why the English should have it.
Grey reluctantly accepts Jamie’s story— but continues their meetings, gradually coming to the realization that his own feelings are changing; far from regarding Jamie Fraser with suspicion and anger, he is becoming attracted to the man, both physically and mentally. Worse—he is falling in love. When Grey steels himself to make a tentative approach, though, he is rejected with bruising finality, and all cordial relations between them are severed. The severance is made final when Jamie takes responsibility for possession of a bit of clan tartan—a crime, by the English law passed after Culloden. The penalty is flogging, and Grey—sick at the thought—is obliged to have it carried out.
ROGER IS GETTING CLOSER; he and Claire have found the proof of Jamie’s survival, found the record of his name on the prison rolls at Ardsmuir. He did survive, he was alive—for how long? What became of him then?
THE PRISONERS OF ARDSMUIR are transported to the American Colonies, there to serve as indentured labor—with one exception. As a convicted traitor, Jamie’s sentence cannot be commuted, save at the King’s pleasure. Instead of transportation, he is sent to Helwater, a farm in the Lake District, there to serve as a groom. At first convinced that this is Lord John’s revenge—to have him sentenced to menial work, where Grey can see him and gloat—Jamie finally comes to realize what Grey has really done: saved him from the deadly hardships of transportation and slave labor, and given him the nearest thing to freedom that could be managed.
If it is not true freedom, he does at least have light and air, free movement and the company of horses. For the first time since leaving Lallybroch, Jamie begins to find some small measure of content, living under an alias, as Alex MacKenzie.
This relative peace is threatened by the daughter of the house, Geneva Dunsany. A spoiled, headstrong girl with little regard for anyone’s feelings but her own, she has taken a liking to Jamie—much to his alarm. Alarm becomes outrage when Geneva informs him that she is to be married, against her will—but before submitting to a marriage with the elderly Earl of Ellesmere, she is determined to have her virginity taken by someone more attractive—Jamie.
Nothing, he informs Geneva, will induce him to come to her bed. Nothing? Nothing, save the threat she smilingly produces—an intercepted letter from his sister, containing information that would provoke an English inquiry into affairs at Lallybroch. Faced with the prospect of having his entire family questioned and imprisoned, and their property confiscated, Jamie takes a deep breath and agrees.
He held her against his chest, not moving until her breathing slowed. He was conscious of an extraordinary mixture of feelings. He had never in his life taken a woman in his arms without some feeling of love, but there was nothing of love in this encounter, nor could there be, for her own sake. There was some tenderness for her youth, and pity at her situation. Rage at her manipulation of him, and fear at the magnitude of the crime he was about to commit. But overall there was a terrible lust, a need that clawed at his vitals and made him ashamed of his own manhood, even as he acknowledged its power. Hating himself, he lowered his head and cupped her face between his hands.
With the deed well past, and Geneva safely married, Jamie breathes easier; until word comes from Ellesmere that the new Countess is with child. Jamie counts backward, curses Geneva, and tries to dismiss the thought; he was with her only a few days before her marriage; it’s impossible to say.
However, six months later, word comes to Helwater; the Countess is delivered. Further word; the Countess’s life is in danger, and her father and sister are summoned—Jamie being called to accompany the coach. Upon arrival, all is in chaos. Geneva is dead, the b
aby—a son—is alive and healthy, and the Earl of Ellesmere is in his study, drunk and raging. The servants know the reason; the Earl has claimed from the first that the child is not his.
Jeffries, well along with his second glass, snorted in contemptuous amusement. “Old goat with a young gel? I should think it like enough, but how on earth would his Lordship know for sure whose the spawn was? Could be his as much as anyone’s, couldn’t it, with only her Ladyship’s word to go by, eh?”
The cook’s thin mouth stretched in a bright, malicious smile. “Oh, I don’t say as ’e’d know whose it was now—but there’s one sure way ’e’d know it wasn’t ’is, now isn’t there?”
Jeffries stared at the cook, tilting back on his chair. “What?” he said. “You mean to tell me his Lordship’s incapable?” A broad grin at this juicy thought split his weatherbeaten face. Jamie felt the omelet rising, and hastily gulped more brandy.
A crisis occurs; Jamie and the coachman, Jeffries, are summoned to the study at once, to lend aid to their employer. Dunsany is wrestling with the Earl of Ellesmere, who has been casting aspersions on Geneva’s purity and her fathers honesty. The inopportune arrival of Lady Dunsany with the child affords the maddened Ellesmere a chance to vent his rage; he seizes the child and threatens to drop him from the window to the stones of the courtyard, thirty feet below. Jeffries, who has arrived with his coachman’s pistols, hesitates, unsure what to do.
Past all conscious thought or any fear of consequence, Jamie Fraser acted on the instinct that had seen him through a dozen battles. He snatched one pistol from the transfixed Jeffries, turned on his heel, and fired in the same motion.
The roar of the shot struck everyone silent. Even the child ceased to scream. Ellesmere’s face went quite blank, thick eyebrows raised in question. Then he staggered, and Jamie leapt forward, noting with a sort of detached clarity the small round hole in the baby’s trailing drapery, where the pistol ball had passed through it.
The Outlandish Companion Page 8
