He stood then rooted on the hearthrug, heedless of the fire scorching the backs of his legs, of the still-heaving body of Ellesmere at his feet, of the regular, hysterical shrieks of Lady Dunsany, piercing as a peacocks. He stood, eyes tight closed, shaking like a leaf, unable either to move or to think, arms wrapped tight about the shapeless, squirming squawking bundle that contained his son.
In gratitude for his saving her grandchild, Lady Dunsany offers to try to have Jamie pardoned. The thought of leaving the damp confinements of the Lake District for the free air of the Highlands is a temptation almost beyond bearing. But to leave would mean abandoning his child, likely never to see him again. Jamie declines Lady Dunsany’s offer—for the present.
The next several years are a time of surprising peace and contentment. If life is still lonely, there are compensations; chief among these being Jamie’s son, William. Adored and spoiled by his female relatives, Willie is still a bonny lad, and much attached to “Mac,” his groom, with whom he spends a great deal of time, riding or working in the stables.
All good things come to an end, though; as Willie grows, his face—at first round and pudding-shaped—begins to take on an alarming resemblance to Jamie’s own bold features. While a casual eye might still pass over it, it’s clear to Jamie that soon the resemblance will cause comment—and worse. It’s time to go.
A pardon is arranged, through the offices of Lady Dunsany and Lord John Grey, whose family has influence at Court.
Grey comes to bid farewell to Jamie—in the process revealing that he has guessed the secret of William’s parentage. Jamie’s alarm at the revelation is tempered by Lord John’s further news; he is marrying the Lady Isobel, Geneva’s younger sister, and will thus become William’s guardian.
Aware that Lord John’s chief reason for undertaking this marriage is his desire to guard the boy for Jamie’s sake, Jamie steels himself to offer—awkwardly—the only thing he has to give John Grey in return.
“I… would be obliged to you. ”Jamie sounded as though his collar were too tight, though in fact his shirt was open at the throat. Grey looked curiously at him, and saw that his countenance was slowly turning a dark and painful red.
“In return … If you want… I mean, I would be willing to … that is …”
Grey suppressed the sudden desire to laugh. He laid a light hand on the big Scot’s arm, and saw Jamie brace himself not to flinch at the touch.
“My dear Jamie,” he said, torn between laughter and exasperation. “Are you actually offering me your body in payment for my promise to look after Willie?”
Frasers face was red as the roots of his hair.
“Aye, I am,” he snapped, tight-lipped. “D’ye want it, or no?”
While strongly tempted, Lord John is entirely aware of Jamie’s feelings—or lack of them. Realizing that Jamie cannot give him a love he doesn’t possess, he is willing to settle instead for Jamie’s friendship; that, both men can share with sincerity.
Leaving Willie to the care of Lord John, Jamie takes a painful farewell from his son, and turns his face toward the mountains of Scotland—going home, at last, to Lallybroch.
In 1968, the year is drawing toward Samhain, the November Feast of All Souls—and Claire is drawing closer to the moment of decision. All through their search, she has asked herself—what if he is alive? What then? Now, Roger and Brianna have traced Jamie—they think—to a printer’s shop in Edinburgh, where an “A. Malcolm” printed commercial matter and political pamphlets that match handwritten documents in Jamie’s writing.
If time works as they think it does, then Claire may return to a time twenty years past her departure on the eve of Culloden; she may be able to find “A. Malcolm.” But should she? Her daughter is grown; a college student living on her own. But to leave, with no prospect of return through the perilous stones—not only to risk her life, but to accept never seeing her daughter again … is the chance of finding Jamie worth such a sacrifice?
Claire searches her heart, and the past, seeking an answer with Roger Wakefield’s help. Roger, in love with the daughter— and not a little with the mother— promises Claire that he will keep Brianna safe; she will not be left alone. Brianna urges her mother to go—but the bond between mother and child is strong, and cannot be broken easily.
In the end Claire is still undecided, even as she climbs the hill of Craigh na Dun. Should she go? Can she go? Her questions are answered by the sight of Roger and Brianna, waiting for her in the stone circle—Brianna dressed in eighteenth-century-style clothes. If Claire will not go, she firmly informs her mother, then she will. Someone must find Jamie, and tell him that his sacrifice was not in vain; his wife survived, his child was safely born.
She was holding my hands tight between her own, squeezing hard.
“He gave you to me,” she said, so low I could hardly hear her. “Now I have to give you back to him, Mama.”
The eyes that were so like Jamie’s looked down at me, blurred by tears.
“If you find him,” she whispered, “when you find my father—give him this.” She bent and kissed me, fiercely, gently, then straightened and turned me toward the stone.
“Go, Mama,” she said, breathless. “I love you. Go!”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Roger move toward her. I took one step, and then another. I heard a sound, a faint roaring. I took the last step, and the world disappeared.
The journey through the stones is dangerous and draining—but successful. Recovered from the passage, Claire makes her way to Edinburgh, filled with fear and anticipation. Is “A. Malcolm” truly James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser? And if he is …
Another minute and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”
“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”
Their reunion is both tender and joyous, tinged by shock, and enhanced by the pictures Claire has brought with her: photographs of Brianna, at every age from babyhood to young womanhood. Glancing around Jamie’s spartan rooms, Claire is reassured; no woman tends this house. Hours are spent, lost in the simple miracle of each other’s presence–until Jamie is brought to a realization of the time.
Exclaiming that he has forgotten “Mr. Willoughby,” he springs to his feet and rushes out with Claire, to a nearby local tavern. Here she meets Mr. Willoughby— a Chinese “associate,” whom Jamie had found on the Edinburgh docks two years earlier and rescued from freezing. Jamie’s explanation of the nature of the “association” is delayed when Mr. Willoughby’s appearance provokes a small riot at the tavern, causing Claire, Jamie, and Mr. Willoughby (aka Yi Tien Cho) to flee through the backstreets and wynds of the city, finding refuge at last in a brothel— whose female proprietor seems to be on very familiar terms with Jamie.
Alone at last in an upper room, partial explanations emerge; Jamie is a printer, indeed, but derives a good part of his income from smuggling liquor on the side; Madame Jeanne provides both a hiding place for the smuggled goods and an outlet for their sale. Claire still has questions— many of them—but further explanations can wait; the night is upon them, and they are alone, together.
After the blissful reunion of the night, Jamie rises early. He has urgent business, he explains, but will be back soon. Before Jamie can leave, though, an unexpected visitor arrives at the brothel—Jamie’s brother-in-l
aw, Ian.
“Wife?” Forgetting to look away, Ian goggled at Jamie in horror. “Ye’ve marrit a whore?” he croaked.
“I wouldn’t call it that, exactly,” I said. Hearing my voice, he jerked his head in my direction.
“Hullo,” I said, waving cheerily at him from my nest of bedclothes. “Been a long time, hasn’t it?”
I’d always thought the descriptions of what people did when seeing ghosts rather exaggerated, but had been forced to revise my opinions in light of the responses I had been getting since my return to the past. Jamie had fainted dead away, and if Ian’s hair was not literally standing on end, he assuredly looked as though he had been scared out of his wits.
Eyes bugging out, he opened and closed his mouth, making a small gobbling noise that seemed to entertain Jamie quite a lot.
“That’ll teach ye to go about thinkin’ the worst of my character,” he said, with apparent satisfaction. Taking pity on his quivering brother-in-law, Jamie poured out a tot of brandy and handed him the glass. “Judge not, and ye’ll no be judged, eh?”
Ian has come in search of his youngest son, Young Ian. Chafing under the restrictions of life at Lallybroch, and longing for adventure, Young Ian has run away, leaving word that he has gone to Edinburgh— presumably to join his adored uncle. Jamie disclaims knowledge of Young Ian’s whereabouts, but promises to go with his brother-in-law at once, to make inquiries and to carry out his own mysterious business. Claire’s dress was damaged in the riot at the tavern; with nothing to wear, she has little choice but to remain in bed, awaiting both breakfast and Jamie’s return.
Instead of breakfast, she receives more visitors: first Mr. Willoughby, who tells her the story of how “Tsei-mi” saved his life— and then a very unexpected Young Ian, Jamie’s fourteen-year-old nephew, in search of his uncle. Finding what he assumes is Jamie’s mistress abed, he blushes, stammers, and disappears.
In the wake of these visitations, Claire determines to find some clothes and venture forth; wrapped in a quilt, she has breakfast with a number of amiable prostitutes, who mistake her for Madame Jeanne’s newest recruit.
“Tsk!” murmured Mollie, seeing the proprietor. “An early customer. I hate it when they come in the middle o’ breakfast,” she grumbled. “Stop ye digesting your food proper, it does.”
“Ye needn’t worry, Mollie; it’s Claire’ll have to take him, ”Peggy said, tossing her dark plait out of the way. “Newest lass takes the ones no one wants,” she informed me.
“Stick your finger up his bum,” Dorcas advised me. “That brings ’em off faster than anything. I’ll save ye a bannock for after, if ye like.”
“Er… thanks,” I said. Just then, Madame Jeanne’s eye lit upon me, and her mouth dropped open in a horrified “O.”
Hastily removed to a small room to dress, Claire overhears a conversation between the Madame and her doorman; there has been a murder in Edinburgh—another murder. The Edinburgh Fiend has claimed another victim; this one, a chambermaid from the brothel, who has just been found beheaded in her lodgings nearby.
Hearing this, Claire is seized by uneasiness; Jamie still has not returned from his mysterious errand, and his nephew Ian is also evidently wandering about the city, alone. Meanwhile, an air of urgency pervades the brothel. Where is everyone, and what’s going on?
Her questions are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a handsome man with dark hair, a hook replacing his missing hand—and a very familiar face. Recognition comes to both of them, and Claire is overjoyed to be reunited with Fergus, whom she had last seen as a boy. The rapture is short-lived:
“There ye are! What in the name of God are ye doing up here, Fergus?” Jamie’s tall figure loomed suddenly in the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of me in my embroidered shift. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. “Never mind,” he said then, waving his hand impatiently as I opened my mouth to answer. “I havena time just now. Come along, Fergus, there’s eighteen ankers of brandy in the alleyway, and the excisemen on my heels!”
And with a thunder of boots on the wooden stairs, they were gone, leaving me alone once more.
Coming cautiously downstairs in her borrowed shift and a shawl, Claire meets a strange man in the doorway to the kitchen. He accosts her, asking about contraband and mentioning rewards; an exciseman, she thinks, and backs away from him, wondering how to escape and warn Jamie. The exciseman seizes her by the arm, but is in turn accosted by Mr. Willoughby, standing on the stairs—with a loaded pistol.
The Chinese, still much the worse for drink, shoots the supposed Customs agent, who promptly dies in Claire’s lap. Fergus reappears, followed by Jamie, who quickly takes charge of the situation, bundling the body into Claire’s shawl and leading Claire downstairs, into the cellar of the brothel, where a false wall conceals the site of Jamie’s brandy-smuggling operations.
A closer inspection of the supposed exciseman’s body leads to puzzlement; the man has no warrant of office, but instead—and more alarming—has a copy of the New Testament in his pocket: a copy printed at the shop of A. Malcolm. Someone has made the dangerous connection between the respectable A. Malcolm, printer, and the smuggler “Jamie Roy”— but who?
Leaving disposal of body and distribution of brandy to Fergus, Jamie and Claire seek a moment’s peace at Moubray’s, one of Edinburgh’s better eating establishments. Peace is momentary, though; their luncheon is interrupted by Sir Percival Turner, a local Crown official, who offers smiling congratulations on (what he assumes to be) their new marriage—and sinister warnings.
Sir Percival knows him as a smuggler, Jamie explains; however, Sir Percival assumes that Jamie—along with a good proportion of the population of Scotland—is dealing with contraband dry goods from Holland: cambric, velvet, and the like, rather than the much more profitable— and dangerous—liquor trade. A delivery from France is expected in the next few days; Sir Percival’s warning makes it apparent that the meeting place is known. However, there is a fallback system arranged; Jamie and his men will repair to the alternate location, on the cliffs above Arbroath.
Before Jamie can leave on this errand, though, there are a few loose ends to be attended to—Claire, and his nephew Young Ian. Young Ian’s whereabouts are revealed in dramatic manner; returning to the print shop after their “wedding” luncheon, Jamie and Claire discover it in flames, with Young Ian trapped inside.
Rescued from the conflagration, Young Ian is confronted by a wrathful father and uncle, back at the brothel. His father’s wrath is not assuaged by Young Ian’s refusal to accompany him home to Lallybroch at once; both infuriated and hurt by his son’s behavior, the elder Ian takes his leave, alone.
JAMIE IS SHOCKED and troubled by Ian’s treatment of his father, but more shocked by Ian’s revelations of his motives. The boy had spent the morning in shadowing a mysterious one-eyed seaman whom he had overheard in a tavern asking for Jamie—by his real name, which no one in Edinburgh should know, Jamie being known as “Malcolm the printer” under his legitimate cover, and “Jamie Roy” among the smugglers and brandy merchants.
Having lost the man, Ian had eventually made his way back to the print shop, only to find the one-eyed man in the back room, in the act of taking away some newly printed pamphlets—these of a deeply incriminating nature, having been printed for a small group of illegal seditionists. In his effort to stop the man from getting away, Ian set the shop on fire by overturning the lead-forge, and—he thinks—killed the one-eyed man in the process. Unable to face his father with the confession that he is a murderer, he thought perhaps his uncle Jamie would understand. Jamie, groping hastily in his sleeve for a handkerchief, looked up suddenly, struck by a thought.
“That’s why ye said ye must tell me, but not your da? Because ye knew I’ve killed men before?”
His nephew nodded, searching Jamie’s face with troubled, trusting eyes. “Aye. I thought… I thought ye’d know what to do.”
“Ah. ”Jamie drew a deep breath, and exchanged a glance w
ith me. “Well…” His shoulders braced and broadened, and I could see him accept the burden Young Ian had laid down.
Jamie recommends prayer for the moment, confession on the morrow—and the comfort of his reassurance that Ian had no choice in the matter, and is not damned as a murderer. The process of healing continues with supper, and bed. The latter, however, is complicated by Fergus, who has thoughtfully arranged with Madame Jeanne that Ian shall not be left to brood alone in bed. Horrified, Jamie is unable to prevent Ian’s retiring with a young prostitute; in resignation, he admits to Claire that in fact the best remedy for the soul-sickness of killing is often to be found in a woman’s arms.
Be that as it may, Jamie bustles his charge off to confession first thing in the morning, leaving Claire to reacquaint herself with Edinburgh, as she visits the apothecary’s shop for fresh herbs. While there, she meets another customer, a Free Church minister named Archibald Campbell, who—upon learning of her experience as a healer—begs her to come and see his sister, who suffers from strange silences and “fits.”
Miss Margaret Campbell does indeed have “fits,” staring and screaming—and when not so engaged, lives peacefully in the past, before the traumatic experience with English soldiers after Culloden that has deprived her of her wits. Claire is unable to offer more than nutrition and sedatives, but holds some hope that the Reverend’s intention to remove his sister to the Indies may make some difference in her condition.
Returning to the brothel, Claire finds Jamie and Fergus deep in conference. There is a fallback arranged for the rendezvous with the French smuggling ship; the details are arranged by letter between Jamie and Jared, with the smugglers informed only just before each rendezvous, so the secret seems safe. Jamie reluctantly decides to take Claire and Ian with him, as it is necessary to take Ian home to Lallybroch. However, he adds sternly, they are not to come anywhere near the actual rendezvous, but instead to remain safely at the inn on the road above the beach.
The Outlandish Companion Page 9
