Breakfast has never really been a quiet affair in a full Fraser household, Claire has learnt, be it by the warm hearth of Lallybroch, with Jenny, Ian and their many children, or here in America, with their own, and one too-many grandchild to keep watch over. The music of background chatter, the sharp crackling of the fire in the chimney of the more strident sound of silverware and plates, and somewhere in the back of it all, Adso's demanding mewls is something she has grown accustomed to over the years, and as she watches Jemmy narrowly miss Misses Bug as he and Germain chase each other out of the kitchen on their vrooms – weeks of blood, sweat and tears, but Roger has just finished carving them, and the children positively adore them – Lizzie having to step out of their way as they barrel through the door, the plate of warm rolls threatening be sent crashing to the ground. They smell heavenly, she thinks, stomach growling, as they are set at the centre of the table, all golden crust and the promise of warm melted butter makes her mouth water. Somewhere, Claire thinks she recognizes Marsali's distinctive intonation, something sharp and witty as she scolds her husband, catching Fergus red-handed trying to sneak his portion of rasher to Adso beneath the table, and if she pays close attention, she catches the barest whiff of Jamie and Brianna planning a hunting trip while Roger talks of trying to lend a hand with confession at church.
It's noisy and rambunctious, breakfast is something positively impossible to follow, but this little family is hers and it's happy, and Claire would not have it any other way.
The ceramic teapot is warm in her hands, her fingers curling around the elegant runes painted with care around it's circumference as she lifts it from the iron stove. It's something Brianna is trying to perfect still – Claire must confess, her matches are an absolute godsend to light the fire, and the teapot is fine for hot water, but Brianna still wishes she could come up with something with a little more heat in it to cook. Claire, of course, has complete faith in her.
Her heart feels full, as she cradles the pot close to her chest, echoes of chatter lovingly kiss her shoulders and a hint of something soft tickles the skin of her ankle as Adso runs between her legs, rasher in his mouth and firmly ignoring Jamie grumbling something about that blasted cat and people playing favourites. It is well-meaning however, for Claire would recognize the timbre of his laugh even a lifetime hence – his expressed happiness a joyous thing she is so attuned to she does not think she could ever not – and a smile pulls at the edge of her lips as she rises, turns to claim the empty seat by his side, wedged between he and Roger.
A dash of brilliant copper catches her eye before she can do so, and from the window, a stream of light rains a golden halo upon a mane of curls touches by fire as Brianna leans over to swipe the bread roll of Fergus' plate. Claire sees his indignant cry and his exaggerated outrage, but whatever he must say goes unheard for Claire has frozen, feels instead like Time's silver strands have slipped between her fingers once more and the clock must have rolled back thirty years and remembers a girl no older than six doing the very same to her father – to Frank, to another man – a lifetime ago in Boston.
The soft edges of a distinctly Scottish laugh barely reach her, but Claire hears them and her heart bleeds with want and regret, for she thinks, then – and not without a good deal of bitterness – that this is how things should have been, thinks, the hairline fracture upon her heart hurting acutely, that this is how things could have been with Jamie and her children had she not left him at Culloden and take along with her any hope for them to have been a true family.
The chamomile tea smells bitter and acrid as it burns her hands and itches her nose, for guilt and heartbreak make for an ugly tincture she adds to the blend as Claire stands there, frozen, unable to do anything but let bitter regret claw at her throat for a wrong she's done to her husband and children she does not think she can ever atone for. She watches them, happy and as whole as they can be, notices the crow's feet around Jamie's eyes as he smiles, his soul light and carefree - like he cannot feel the pain of the English mark she knows to be carved into his chest still, one he might have been spared had it not been for her. Brianna leans back and laughs heartily, and her face glows in the sunlight, her long red hair warms her heart and her eyes glitter with joy as she sits tall and strong – like her father, Claire thinks she might even be teasing him about it, threatens good-heartedly to out-grow him by the end of the year – finds it in her to accept an entire new life here in the past because of Claire's own selfishness, and then Claire catches a dash of dark hair, as Fergus so easily bends over to catch Adso between his hands, as if, for a moment, the brand she knows he bears upon his thigh since far too young does not exist.
She really ought to reprimand him, she thinks, as he whispers threats of retaliation against his sister into the kitten's ear and uses rather colourful language that might have had its place in a Parisian brothel, but not here on the Ridge, in the sanctuary of their home.
It is what good mothers should do, is it not?
Good mothers, Claire thinks, do not abandon their children, leave them to fend for themselves after deceiving them and hoarding the unearned love they give her still because she is too selfish to give it up.
Good mothers do not pretend to care for their children, make them live a life full of lies, lure herself into their hearts with promises of home, a family and love and then take it all away from them, leave them wondering if any of it had been real at all.
Good mothers do not feel guilt when they hear their children laugh, and yet this morning, Brianna's laughter shakes the crumbling foundations of her heart, Fergus's smile threatens to unmake her completely, and Claire wonders how her children can gift her such gentle things when she has wronged them so unforgivably.
Good mothers are not Claire Fraser, she thinks – knows, a notion that pains her oh so terribly, but one she must accept in her heart for Claire knows it to be true. Her bones turn brittle at the realization, something cold settles inside her, and perhaps, she thinks, she's deserved this.
Something loud and ugly shatters, an ugly sharpness rings around her, and it is only after Claire feels her heart skip a beat that she begins to feel the emptiness between her hands, looks down to find the delicate pieces of the ceramic teapot laying on the ground between her feet – Brianna's heard work now reduced to nothing but shattered pieces. There's an ugliness gnawing at the edges of her heart, feasting upon the regrets she harbours in her soul, the pungent resurgence of guilt an old friend she knows far too well paying her another impromptu visit. Claire cannot say she's missed him.
"Mama?" Brianna asks from the table, and when Claire feels like she can bare the shame of looking them in the eye, neither one of her children look older than seven right then.
There is a strain in Fergus' features, as he threatens to rise out of his chair, shows her the same concern an eight year-old orphaned pickpocket did at Milord's behest – because that child had loved her too of his own free will, loved her still and gifted her motherhood when Claire feels like she has done little else but fail him – both of them. The weight of their honest affection is far too much for her crooked heart to bear for it beats too fast and too loud in her breast, her chest is too tender still, to dare accept this unearned tenderness her children wish to gift her, and Claire feels her bones shatter and she turns them away, runs from them both – from them all – and flees to… Well, she's not quite sure, but anywhere else but their company seems too tempting an offer to resist, and so, wraith-like and a deafening silence left in her wake, Claire runs, thoughts of what a terrible mother they must think her darkening her every step.
There is a commotion behind her, she thinks, confusion and heartfelt concern strain their voices as they debate, for a moment, whether they ought to go after her of not. Claire swallows, must bite her lip lest she give voice to such an ugly weakness and swallows the embryo of a whimper down to where none but her can hear it. Her heart breaks a little further for hurting them so, for the care and distress she knows they must be feeling on her behalf – a care she has not yet earned, she deserves not such faith from them – and Claire wonders, sometimes, how much is left of it. If twenty years and an eternity between her and Jamie had not been enough to tear her apart at the seams, how could such a brittle thing bare, still, the weight of her sins past, how they have not unmade her completely and turned her to ash is a damned miracle. Claire believes not in the divine, has never lived with the thought of her every action being pre-ordained by something bigger than her, but some days, her convictions threaten to become undone, knows that Jamie's God would have likely turned her to ash and condemned her to perpetual purgatory for the extent of her crimes.
Claire does not doubt that she has done more than enough to deserve it.
Her kneels quiver, buckle under her weight and Claire sinks to the ground, the weight of something far bigger than her regrets too much for her already fragile soul to bear. She is no stranger to adversity, knows she has endured and survived far more than the tribulations of an ordinary woman, but she is still so achingly human, she cannot bear this amalgam of emotion for which she has no name, seeks to escape it as she curls in as small as she can, feels her body twist and coil around itself in a desperate attempt to escape. It pains her heart to beat, it hurts to be alive, and so there Claire stays, a steady pulse and thoughts of never being enough cradled in the palm of her trembling hands.
I am not enough, I can never be enough, not after what I have done to them, not after what I have put them through, she thinks, somewhere between stuttered heartbeats and rattled breaths, broken things Claire thinks must be so intrinsically part of her, she wonders how others do not see it. For what mother could she claim to be, when she so cruelly deprived her children of each other? What mother, could she claim to be when she can only see the daughter she has lost forever and laid to rest in a grave on the other side of the world when the one she still has turns her face to the sun and, pale-faced and copper-curled hair, committed little other crime but smiling. What twisted witch mush she be, to trick a lonely boy into thinking she loved him, to comb his unruly curls and open her arms to him and whisper promises of forever and leave him grow up motherless. Claire had wanted children, once, remembers still how ardently she'd desired them when Jamie's arm wrapped around her, their panting heartbeats a song learnt together, their naked bodies forever delicately intertwined in the sanctity of their home, whispers of a family they had promised each other expressed in gentle touches and the most ardent of passions.
When she looks at them now, a daughter and a son that had never really been granted a true childhood because she'd left them – because her heart had grieved too much still, for everything she'd left behind to are dote upon what remained of the love of her life, all Claire can feel is guilt for failing them so.
On the darkest of days, when her sins haunt her still, Claire thinks that perhaps motherhood should never have been hers to claim at all. Perhaps this realization she now has – how painful it feels, in the tendermost of her heart and shakes the world around her – is penance for her sins.
"Sassenach?"
It is a gentle question, a deep Scottish brogue punctuated by love and concern Claire knows by heart, yet feels woefully unworthy of when Jamie's hand touches her shoulder with gentle reverence. His skin is warm, his arms boast of safety and his heartbeat a faint whisper of home she can hear beating strongly, in his chest, and her eyes flutter closed to the scent of smoke, pine and something distinctly him she's never quite managed to grasp, but it's nice.
"Is everything all right? Bree is in a right state, she thinks yer havin' an… attack of panic? I dinna ken what it is exactly she said, but I wanted te make sure ye were all right." He says, brow creased in concern, distress she knows she is responsible for and wishes she could spare him.
Claire snorts, lightly, at his confusion however, cannot help herself when Jamie looks so genuinely sweet as he says so. He means well, she knows, and while she is touched at the interest and support he shows in her profession, she is well aware of how woefully difficult it seems for him to understand. Nonetheless, the hint of a smile pulls at her lips when she tell him, gently, "It's called panic attack, Jamie, we call it a panic attack. And no, I appreciate you concern, but it's not anything like that."
She wishes it was, Claire thinks her heart might hurt less. It looks rather enviable right then.
Beside her, she sees the way Jamie's shoulders slump, hears his palpable relief when he thanks God for keeping her safe and shares his relief at having lessened his concern. She knows she could choose to tell him nothing, to let her heart nurse her ills alone and he would let her – trusts her to know when she needs to come to him, and his respect means the world to her, truly – but Claire thinks it unfair to hurt him so, to deny him the comfort she knows he wishes to give her, and one she probably needs. Jamie promised her forever, she reminds herself as a golden glint around her finger catches her eye, promised her heart and soul and arms to run to whenever she needed them, and thinks it would be unfair to deprive them both of each other when they are all they need.
She has never liked lying to Jamie, and he's told her she'd never really made for a good liar anyway.
"Jamie," She says, his name hesitant upon her lips and hates the very sound if it, for never again does she wish for either of them to tarnish their names so. It lies heavily between them, and Claire licks her lips and clicks her tongue and feels the way her husband breathes, something sharp and unpleasant, like he's bracing himself – but he's strong, and her heart burst with love for him when Jamie gives her the slightest nod, the thought of him willing to share her burden when he does not have to touches something in her core. "Do… Do you ever think about the life we might have had, together, had we – I – done things differently?"
She dares not look at him as she says so, for she knows he understands what it is she means by that and the shame she feels for hurting him so unforgivably is a cross she bears still, on those dark nights when regrets torment her soul and taint her further than she already is. Her breath catches and her heart lurches in her chest, however, when she feels the warm pad of Jamie's hand come delicately rest against the skin of her cheek, the touch of fingers shaped by hard labour and love for his craft she knows by heart ever so gentle as they come up to trace the line of her cheekbone. Claire feels the way they curve, the way two of them have never set quite right – a night of horrors long behind them now, but the scars ones her lacking abilities weren't able to spare him. Claire knows the story for she has lived it by his side, loathes the times she remembers yet still thinks there is no other place she would call home but here, in the sanctuary between Jamie's arms, the tender feeling of his care as he wraps himself around her a thing she cherishes ever so deeply, will do so even long after she is laid to rest and will no longer have a body to do so, for her soul will love him still even then.
She feels it also, when he swallows, something thick and heavy, and sees it when he bites his lip with remorse, new lines of pain coming to pull at the edge of his eyes. "Ye blame yerself for it all?" He asks her, a lump of apprehension dancing in his throat and a vulnerability that feels so unnatural coming from him that it threatens to send her skin crawling. The Jamie she loves is a man of assurance, who has always known his place in the world, a man better than most no doubt, but still human beneath his many titles and occupations. Jamie has always known who he is and how to present himself to the world, and this question – this expression of pain and consternation is so divorced with who she knows him to be, she almost hates to have made him think so.
Yet… "How could I not?" She asks, bereft, for when she looks back at everything that has lead them up to this moment, Claire thinks it evident that she must forever bear the burden of guilt till the day she dies, it is but a small price to pay when she thinks of everything she has here, now.
Perhaps it is easier for her to be forceful, for her to present to him her guilt for Jamie's absolution is a thing she cannot comprehend – how could he ever free her of the twenty years of limbo she chose to put between them? Could one ever love another so much, they would be willing to forgive them of a lifetime of pain? Claire knows the heart might ease many a plight, but for a wrong this severe, she does not think even love could be enough to even it. "I…" She swallows, thinks of Boston and the life she lived there, and everything she left behind to have it, "I left Scotland, and Lallybroch, I abandoned you, and Jenny and Fergus, everyone. I did not live up to the promises I made them, to you – I was elfish, I took Brianna from you, I took myself away from you and I made you live with half a heart, knowing I was safe with another man while you were still here, in pain."
The words are heavy, as she feels them form upon her lips, a sentence Claire swings for herself for she thinks it better to pass judgment now, to not blind herself to what she really is and live a lie till the day she dies. "Twenty years, Jamie. For a lot of people, that's one life too many with not a whisper from me".
Her words linger in the air – in the here and now, for Claire has come back, has made a future for herself out of her past, and still, the time she has lost, the time gone they never again will claim as their own, is a cruel mistress to their romance, she thinks – as silence stretches between them. She wonders, sometimes, if Jamie hates her for it, somewhere in the darkest threads of his being he would never dare tell her about.
"Sassenach" He tells her, a name he has made a declaration of love only their souls could ever hope to understand – gifts her now the same passion is his words as he had over twenty years ago back in Scotland, and Claire is amazed still, at times, how resilient the human heart can be in the face of such hardships – the worn skin of his fingers a gentle balm as they wrap around their own, holds them gently in his grasp as, in the next heartbeat, he leans down to kiss them with a reverence Claire does not think she can ever deserve. "He couldna' have known, Fergus I mean, he doesna ken about the stones, what they are-"
What Jamie says is the truth, Claire feels it in her bones and knows in her heart that her husband would never lie to her – not for something like this – and wishes, somewhere, that it would just be that simple to believe herself guiltless in the tragic upbringing of her children, and nearly half a lifetime at the sides of a man she could not love. Jamie's words are gentle salvation perhaps, but so difficult for her fragile heart to believe when weighed against the magnitude of her sins. "But he doesn't know that, Jamie. For all intents and purposes, I left him, I chose to do that-"
"Saving Brianna wasna a choice – not fer either of us. She came first, she had te." He reminds her, a pained thickness to his voice, the elegance of his accent twisted slightly, at the grief he bears still for missing out on so much of his daughter's life. Yet Claire tastes the passion that belie his words, breathes the love Jamie has harboured for twenty years for a family he hadn't known until far too late, and for a moment, feels something tender at the thought of him loving them still, despite the centuries between them. It doesn't make him less of a father to Brianna, and something heavy feels stuck in her throat when Claire watches him, beaming, pride an aged wrinkle around his eyes she thinks she could spend her days falling in love with, "And look at her, Claire, what a fine lass she makes now because of it."
Claire swallows, her heartbeat stutters in her chest as, gently, Jamie touches two fingers to her chin and tilts her head towards Brianna – Brianna who is radiant, the smile at the edge of her lips one she remembers falling in love with nearly instantly when she'd seen it sported first upon her husband – feels how happy her daughter is as she nestles herself under Roger's arm, a loving glint of mischief she knows too well shining in her hazel eyes. They are lined now, Claire must oft remind herself these days that while she will forever be her baby girl, Brianna is a woman grown, with a loving husband and family of her own she adores very much, and Claire could not be more thrilled for her – and seeing her happy, content and alive as she sits with them, here and now, Claire thinks that, surely, all of that pain, misery and loneliness she has inflicted upon them with her choice that day, a battle crying around her as she crossed the stones of Craigh na Dun must have been worth it.
"Do you ever hate me for it?" She asks Jamie, her voice trembling, for she recalls still, how her heart broke that day, and is not sure, still, whether she ever wants to hear the answer. Claire understands – knows that Jamie probably should hate her. He has more right than most, after all, for it is the tender flesh of his heart that had done little else but cherish her with utter devotion that she had wounded so terribly – yet she dreads his wrath upon her soul, when he has taught her little else but unconditional love. "Do you ever resent me for-?" She tries to ask him when Jamie does not answer, but cannot finish. She wishes she had the courage to, for Claire thinks she would rather this truth be shared between them now than forever be a question lingering at the darkest edges of her soul, haunting her every moment of doubt till her grave.
Her answer comes, at long last, in a language not of words, but a touch she is well versed in when a pair of strong arms gently fold over her shoulders and the sound of a heartbeat that might as well share her own when Jamie pulls her to his breast, his hand coming to cradle the back of her head and strokes the silver strands with the same reverence she remembers him worshipping her with on their wedding night. Claire is no saint, and likes not to think of this as an act of godly veneration – her flawed foundations tremble, it is only Jamie's touch that grounds her and saves her from coming apart, and Claire, eager for whatever redemption he might bestow upon her, seeks every inch of comfort he can give her, devours his affections as she kisses the sensitive skin of his neck and breathes in a forgiveness for which Jamie has no words.
"I couldna ever resent ye for it, Sassenach. I dinna think my heart would ken how te either." Jamie tells her, eventually, a quiet confession he whispers into her ear for Claire alone to hear and judge, the hint of a kiss upon her skin the sealing of her absolution. Claire breathes – it sounds more like a sob, and neither one of them lingers upon it more than need be – and tickles her heart as she swallows, the knowledge that she is enough for Jamie (for him, and Brianna and Fergus and for all of the children that have become theirs out of affection), and that they will love her still, regardless of whatever sins she may have let darken her soul in days or years past, is a heavy thing indeed for her to carry. That, despite all that has happened, they choose to love her still – as a wife, as a mother, as a friend and doctor, as a woman, as Claire – that they remain here, by her side and make her days brighter and gift her a life worth living of their own volition is a blessing even a thousand of Jamie's butterfly kisses and her lips swollen and bloody upon the crest of her children's heads could never return.
"Then why," Claire cries around their compassion, for it is too touching a tenderness for her brittle heart right then, she knows not how to handle this boundless love that seems not to care for the wrongs she has done. The words she wishes to say feel ever so difficult to articulate as she tries to speak, "Why do I feels so damn guilty when I look at them, Jamie?"
Jamie's hands slides from her shoulder to trail up her neck – there is nothing sensual about it, it is not a touch that sets her skin alight and stokes the fires of some ardent desire in the pits of her very being – it feels feather-light, barely daring to touch her until he grazes her cheek with a softness she did not think him ever capable of as he rests it there, beneath her jaw for a heartbeat, cups then her face and tilts her up to look at him like a sinner seeking salvation. Jamie is no god, has said many times over he does not think himself above any other man, yet when Claire looks to him then – pale blue eyes, his face lined and marked by the years and the same eyes she remembers finding so striking when he'd still been naught but one Jamie McTavish – she can do little else but adore him then, would endure penitence a thousand years more if it meant him delivering her of her sins. Jamie is beautiful, time has taken nothing away from the man she loves, as he gifts her the same comfort and loving-kindness he had that very first night, when his hands had brushed her shoulders, as he'd draped a heavy tartan around her and the promise of a safe haven.
"Because yer a good mother, Claire, and a good woman." He tells her simply, thumbs away the dampness Claire only now feels rolling down her cheek, willingly takes along with it a little of her burden and offers her instead for them to carry it together until she learns, perhaps one day, to free herself of it and let go. "Ye feel guilty because yer heart is good, Claire. But that guilt, ye must let it go, lest it'll consume ye whole. Sinners we may be, aye, but I ken we dinna deserve such a fate. We did the best we could, and," He says, quietly, as he tilts her head just slightly, brings it close and nestles it under his chin and Claire feels safe once more, as her eyes flitter to the kitchen once more, "We have two wonderful children te show fer it."
From where she sits, Claire can see how Briana makes a show of smugly devouring the roll she swiped from her brother, manners just on that side of uncouth and juts her chin out and holds herself not unlike her father. Fergus must mumble something under his breath – what, exactly it is, Claire cannot hear, but it is undoubtedly some threat of using the skills he's honed as at picking pockets and finding a new home for one of Brianna's many pottery instruments – but it is all in good nature, however, and as she watches them, Adso making sure nothing comes to blows between them as he feasts upon the crumbs that fall between them, something akin to laughter tickles her chest, a hint of bliss begins to shape her lips.
She breathes, wonders if, perhaps, this is not redemption.
Behind her, Claire does not need to see how Jamie paints happiness upon his face, for the full beat of his heart in her back is knowledge enough. She breathes, something deep and strong and lets herself be in the here and now – content – sighs as his hands slides down her arm in a soothing gesture, bespeaking what it is he chooses not to utter aloud, his touch and her children's beatitude an unspoken atonement she welcomes into her heart.
Claire shifts. Outside, the tender rays of the sun brush the early autumn leaves. The world is golden once more.