Chapter 14: Trouble in Paradise
Disclaimer: Diana Gabaldon owns all rights to Outlander.
After the toast, we supped, then played our record, dancing until the song ended, heralding that it was time for Mr. Sandman to dust our eyelids. It had become a bedtime ritual—holding each other tightly as we swayed to the music—and our magical interlude, bringing to conclusion another tiring day.
I had the next day off; the clinic was closed on weekends. Jamie, though, now that he had the job at MacGregor's, worked four ten hour days, six on Friday, and four on Saturday. He left the house way before I did; cows apparently didn't enjoy waiting to be milked. I missed him when he wasn't here, but I kept busy.
Washing clothes with a washboard and wooden tub, and hanging the wet laundry on a rope that Jamie tied in between two trees in the back of the house, took up half of my morning. The other half I spent riding the coach into Inverness, and buying groceries at the market.
It was nerve-wracking during my visits at the store. I was always afraid someone from the police station would recognize me. So far, that hadn't happened. In contemporary clothing, most probably I could pass by them without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. Still, I kept a low profile, trying to minimize anything that would draw attention to my person.
When Frank and I were still together, I never cooked much, or catered to him, really. There were numerous evenings that we went out to dinner, simply because I didn't feel the desire to cook. But knowing that my Scotty was doing grueling physical labor, and putting in an exorbitant amount of hours, I felt it would be ungrateful of me not to have a hot meal to offer him.
Some days I would come home to find him, fully clothed, asleep in the bedroom. He must've been exhausted, and from what he told me about MacGregor, he got very little respite on the farm. According to Hannah, the owner was a crotchety, disagreeable taskmaster. Nonetheless … Jamie took it in stride, never complaining about doing what needed to be done.
One Saturday, I decided to put my camera to use. I snapped pictures of the cottage, the rooms, and Jamie. I then had him take a photograph of me.
I placed the camera in his large hands, and pulled it up in front of his eyes. "You look in the little window, and when you like what you see, you push down this button. The light bulb on top will flash, and woila … a moment frozen in time."
"Ah … simple enough. But when d'the portraits come out?"
"When the roll of film is used up, I'll take it to the apothecary shop, and they'll send it out to a film laboratory to be developed. It shouldn't take more than a week."
"That fast, aye?"
I winked. "That fast."
"Good."
# # # # #
I ken how much that bottle o' whiskey cost. MacGregor had one in his liquor cabinet, and Mairi warned me no to touch it, as it was verra expensive. Claire didna tell me how she could afford to buy it and my weapons as weel. I had an inklin' as to the way they came to be in her possession, so maybe it was best as I didna ken the facts straight out.
Drinkin' the whiskey wi' her, I tried no to feel diminished in her eyes. I'd promised in my private weddin' vows to keep her fed, and now, sorry I was to admit I'd been remiss in my duty as her husband, and it stung my pride sorely.
That night I noticed as my earnin's were still layin' there on the dresser, and hers were no to be seen. Did the lass no wanta embarrass me, and so she was hidin' her money away from my eyes?
On the ride to MacGregor's the next day, I had time to think on what I could do to make myself less o' a failure. While 'twas true as I was just as penniless in 1743, there was still game to hunt, and I could impose on my kin to house me, at Leoch, Lallybroch or elsewhere. Here, I was alone, Claire my only companion. Miles o' fences there were, to prevent my huntin', policemen to chase me about wi' pistols at the ready, and vehicles faster than I could run. I was beginin' to doubt my decision to follow my wife to her time. Perhaps Frank wouldha been willin' to take her back if I hadna come wi' her.
The gates o' the farm stood afore me, and nothin' had come to mind as to the solvin' o' my problem. My only recourse was to wait and see. I wouldna be a farmhand forever— leastways, I hoped as it wouldna be the case.
Another fortnight came and was gone, and agin, Claire wasna forthcomin' about how much money she'd brought home. Truth be told, I couldha just come out and asked her straightaway, but I was scairt to do it. I kent as this would drive a wedge betwixt us. Maybe in this time, men didna mind as their women were the breadwinners, but growin' op as I had in the highlands, this was a concern as was wrapped in shame.
E'en wi' my Sassenach by my side, I was findin' it verra difficult to be happy. It was festerin' in my guts, at no bein' able to provide for my wife. As the beginnin' o' the work week approached, I couldna sleep at night, and decided on talkin' to MacGregor in the morn.
. . . . .
Auld MacGregor had his fill o' breakfast, and was likely to be in the best mood I could be sure o' t'day.
"Aye, Laddie. What is it ye're wantin' to speak to me 'bout?"
"Ye ken as I have a wife whom I love dearly. I wanta give her ever'thin' I can. So … I was wonderin' if ye had any reservations 'bout sellin' off part o' yer land. I'd be only requirin' two acres or so, and I'd still be workin' here 'til ye find someone to replace me."
His eyes were steel-hard, starin' into mine as he considered the proposal. "My land is promised to my son, Cam, but I'll see if he has any objections to yer buyin' a parcel o' it. Sixty pounds to the acre, if he agrees to the bargain. I'll need half down, and payments for the rest. Would that satisfy ye?"
Stars and stones, that much? Ye couldha bowled me over wi' a chicken feather. I'd hafta work for roughly eight months, and save e'er last cent I earned. The task seemed insurmountable. I had my mind set on the two acres, but maybe I could get by on one? E'en at one acre, I would still havta buy seed, and tools, a house, a barn, animals. My head was threatenin' to explode wi' all the computations.
I hesitated to answer. Goin' into such debt was somethin' I mightily abhorred.
MacGregor, as was his wont, spoke impatiently. "Weel, Lad. What's it gonna be? D'ye want the land or no? Speak op!"
"I'll havta think on it for a bit."
"Do as ye please. I'll ask Cam in the meanwhile."
The more I thought on the matter, the more worrit I became. Ye ken, I was no scairt o' hard work, but at the same time, it would means hours away from Claire, and a grand monetary obligation hangin' o'er our heads. We scarcely got to see one another as was the case now. Could I bear the curse for the next several years? The answer was nay. Wi' nary a prospect in mind, I spent the dark hours o' the night, sleepless as afore.
Comin' home the following day, I was exhausted, as much from fashin' o'er my troubles as from physical wear. I'd explained to my employer in some detail, my concerns, and so buried my dreams in sad reality. During the night, I got op and went to the desk, drawing out a pen and paper. I hadta leave my Claire; there was nay other solution to what vexed me. She deserved someone better than a lowly farmhand. I took the pen in my hand and scribbled out my feelin's and reasons for leavin'. Determined I was, to be on my way the subsequent night.
I was in the process of sealin' the letter in an envelope, when Claire crept into the room holding a candle. Quickly, I slipped it into the top drawer, and turned to her.
"Jamie … whatever are you doing? It's the middle of the night."
"Och … Wide awake, I was. Sorry I am if I woke you as weel."
She padded closer to me, the candlelight flickerin' and illuminatin' her face, creased wi' concern. "Are you all right? Something on your mind?"
"Nay. I'll come to bed, now." I snuffed out the oil lamp, and followed her into the bedroom.
# # # # #
I was no one's fool. He'd been quiet lately, but I just supposed it was the long days catching up to him. As big and hardy as he was, it was bound to fell him sooner or later. I could see now though, that it was something else entirely.
Jamie did indeed wake me, and now I couldn't get back to sleep, the bloody rotter. When I entered the room, I saw the oil lamp casting its light onto an envelope he was attempting to hide. I kept on musing about the note. If he thought he could keep it from me, he had better think again. I'd find out for myself what he was writing, and to whom.
The first rays of a new dawn flit across the window casement, and Jamie was—as usual—already gone-a-milkin', as they say. Lifting my head, I muttered curses at the unrepentant sunlight, and shut my drooping eyelids at once, much to my detriment. With my traitorous eyes shut tight, I accidentally drifted back into oblivion. A veritable panic seized me, when jerked awake, I finally checked my watch laying on the night stand. I'd fully intended to read that blasted missive or whatever it was, but now, I was in a frenzied kerfuffle to make it on time to the coach stop.
Work went smoothly, but just the same, I scurried out of the building at the locking of the clinic entrance. I wanted to grab that note before Jamie had a chance.
I heard the sound of his soft snoring, and tiptoed into the bedroom to make sure he was sound asleep. Hopefully, he would be passed out. He was—literally … the bottle of Scotch half empty at his bedside. I'd never seen him totally sloshed before, tipsy on occasion, but never like this. My concern ratcheted up a notch. What was in that damned envelope?
Making a beeline to the desk, I pulled the drawer open. The note was missing. It had to be there … it had to. Did he hide it somewhere else?
I rifled though the contents, my fingers feeling along the bottom of the drawer … nothing resembling an envelope. With the bloody drawer pulled out of the desk, I checked the area behind, in the foolish notion that perchance the missive had fallen over the wooden lip? Again, my search afforded me nil.
In a state of agitation now, I began shaking each and every thing contained therein, and finally the search ended. The object of my obsession slipped out of the jacket of our Glenn Miller record. As I peered at the envelope I was stunned. My name shouted at me from off the white paper sleeve, written in Jamie's familiar scrawl.
My trembling fingers reached in and unfolded the sheet. It was scripted in perfect English, but I subconsciously heard the Scottish burr of his voice as I read:
Mo nighean donn …