The pale, wan early light of sunrise streamed in the house, making it a wonderfully shadowy and suggestive place, but fortunately, the bright embers in the fire had defused it with a delightful warmth in the corner where she stood. Outside she could hear a chill wind tossing the bows of the trees about. There was a rare breeze from the south calling to her; the shadows she could see through the windows were long and clear-cut; the exquisite sky of early morning, gray-tinged pink which would turn to bright blue over the wind-winnowed hills. The sun would soon creep high enough to illuminate the long valley, and the purple hills would darken to a lush green. The faraway sound of birds twittering as they woke with the sun was a reminder that nature was forever in motion.
When it came to life on the Ridge, Claire had felt like she was living up to her nickname when they first arrived, a stranger in a strange land. Then suddenly everything fell into focus - the land, chores, family. How happy they would be here. It was enough for her and Jamie just to be together in their own home, with their gazes, their caresses, their conversations, their silences. All the color of the love pouring into their lives. Claire could face any struggle with Jamie looking at her with that smile in his blue eyes he kept for her alone. They managed to find every day a new way of saying, "I love you" and shared laughter as they had shared sorrow.
Life had a balance again.
Happiness and love did wonders, really. Better than Ponds Cold Cream ever could, anyway.
The morning sun washed her face in a glow of light, and Claire Fraser looked at her face in the quaint gilt-framed glass with a good deal of satisfaction. Her reflection smiled back in the dim light, and her clear blue eyes were shining softly. A mirror could not be tricked. It told her plainly that she wasn't as young as she once was, but it also told her that time hadn't tread as harshly on her features as it had on her heart. There was something in her eyes that had never been there before the loss of Little Faith and would never be absent from them again. The story of pain rested there, but her cheeks were still like smooth ivory, the white hollow in her throat was still kissable enough, and her great sky-blue eyes still looked out brilliantly from under dark brows.
She had kept her complexion quite well, with an inward glow that still shown through her. There was color in her cheeks, either from the bracing winds that raced up and down the valley or from the words that Jamie whispered huskily into her ear whenever he had the chance, but the ruddiness suited her. The face looking back at her was so very different than the one that gone pale under fluorescent hospital lights as she trod on linoleum floors.
She placed her hands on her hips and looked down with a critical eye. Her figure was tolerable as well; she was pleased to note. There was no denying that certain...cargo...had shifted over the years but, for the most part, everything where one would expect it to be. She could see the outline of her body through the thin warp of her shift and slowly began the ritual of dressing.
Laid out on the bench beside her was a new dress made in the new English style. A close-bodied gown with a fitted back meant to mold itself to her body. The skirt and bodice were cut separately and were open in the front to show the contrasting color of her underskirt. The cotton embroidered wool was a beautiful burgundy with saffron-colored leaves scattered across it. She ran her fingers over the material. It was a gorgeous thing to behold.
I'll just go throw something on was a phrase she had retired once she had gone through the stones. Before she had found herself here, she hadn't thought much about 18th-century fashion outside of the occasional fancy dress party. But zippers and polyester could hardly be compared to the clothes she hung about herself daily now. While her 20th-century self didn't understand the point or complexity of it all, she was amazed at the practicality of it all in practice.
Every layer had a purpose- beginning with the simple cotton shift, shapeless but indispensable, protecting delicate skin from friction and wicking away sweat from the body. She had learned the hard way why one never left it off. A corset on bare skin may have been deemed appropriate for heroines of the American cinema, but she learned it had no place in 1772. Jamie had help remedy her folly by applying the salve of plantain and beeswax on her open sores where her skin had been rubbed raw by her stays. It was a mistake she never made again.
The warm woolen hose was pulled on next, tied above the knee with wide blue ribbons not for decoration or enticement as lingerie may have done in the modern days but to keep her from having to struggle with saggy stockings under cumbersome petticoats since elastic was an invention a long way off. Sturdy shoes were a necessity on the uneven ground.
She pulled on her stays. And the stays themselves are what 20th century Claire would have turned her nose up to the most. But now she understood the comfort of lifting heavy objects with her back supported by study quilted fabric, cordage, and baleen. How wrong she had been, thinking that women must have needed a small army to kit themselves out every morning. She turned her laces to the front and began to thread them closed and, once finished, shifted the garment the right way with the closure at the back. She pulled the laces and watched as her bust was pushed up and peeked through the delicate fringe of handmade lace at the neckline of her shift. She approved of the swell of her breast as the tightening of laces resulted in an ample fullness at the bustline. Something about it made her feel singularly feminine. She reached for her laces one more and pulled them once more to enhance the effect. She watched how her breasts were emphasized with the rise and fall of every breath she took.
Panniers which she had never done without in France were impractical on the frontier. Instead, a bum roll held the skirts out to achieve the fashionable silhouette but also offered protection when steadying a heavy bucket of water against your hip. The opulent ornamentation of Paris had not been lost on her; Claire loved beautiful things, but she loved beautiful things that combined aesthetics with everyday function even more.
On the Ridge as at Castle Leoch, simplicity was key, and Claire preferred it that way. And yet something about the silhouette made her feel deeply connected to her femininity. Her small waist was emphasized, and her bosom high and on display, but everything she placed on her body was so very useful. Petticoats for warmth, her pocket was tied around her waist and covered by a wool overskirt. Then over the top was a front closing bodice that she swiftly pinned in place followed by the apron; a protective outer layer was most versatile for gathering, protecting the hands from heat or could wiping a sweaty brow or hands. Then a fichu would finish the ensemble, laid over her shoulders, and tucked into the front of her bodice, but she did so carefully so as not to dim the glory of her decolletage.
Claire paused and turned her head this way and that as she pinned her hair into place. The streaks of dove gray only gave dimension to her glossy curls, and she couldn't help but admire the effect the style had on emphasizing the long line of her neck. She was more than comfortable with her appearance, her pulse thrilling with sudden excitement. Anyone who observed her at that moment might have thought Claire Fraser a vain baggage, but she wasn't. She simply had a healthy appreciation for this body that had carried her through time and space. She knew what it could do, what it had endured, that it bowed but was never broken.
And now her body was clothed in new raiment. Who wouldn't be proud?
Jamie still found her staring dreamily at her reflection when he brought in an armful of firewood. He stamped his feet and laid down his load.
"You're up and awake! Good, can ye give me a hand?"
She turned towards him and smiled as he straightened up and set his eyes to hers.
"I want to lay in a good load of wood in today…" he stopped and looked her up and down. Claire crimsoned under his gaze and smiled back coquettishly. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes glowed with excitement at what his response would be.
"Hey, Sassenach. 'Tis a wee bit chilly out here. Ye might want a shawl to keep your top half warm. Now's not the time to be so...bare, especially with this wind." With that, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them before walking out again.
Claire stood stock-still with shock. She had expected a languid compliment whispered hotly into her ear or rough hands pawing at the front of her gown. What she had not expected was...whatever that exchange was.
Get a shawl? She thought indignantly. She thought about her husband and his reaction to her gown, but her meditations were far from being romantic or charitable. Claire knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not put it into words, nor was she inclined to bring it to Jamie's attention. She instead chose to ignore him- with a vengeance- until, after much thought, she tried to shake off her annoyance. Then she had an opportunity to indulge in a good laugh over the whole affair but an undercurrent of vexation still flowed. A shawl indeed.
And so the day went on. Claire was busy to-ing and fro-ing here and there. Fine feathers or no the work must be completed; plants must be gathered, concoctions made. And fires must be stoked. In the afternoon, Claire found herself taking her frustrations on a load of dried mushrooms in her mortar and pestle. It felt good to pulverize something into dust. She gritted her teeth and pounded with all her might. So engrossed in her work was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Is something bothering ye Sassenach?" Jamie said absently.
Speaking of fires that needed to be stoked...
She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned her hands on the table, not feeling ready to make eye contact.
"What? No, not at all." Claire did her best to keep any churlishness out of her voice. Her success was middling at best.
Jamie felt sure that he was wading in dangerous waters, although he couldn't determine the source of his unease. So he decided it was best to tread lightly if he could manage it.
"I'm getting the feeling you are none too pleased with me today, and to be honest, I canna figure out what I've done."
"That's it. You haven't done anything," she said cooly.
"So yer determined to be a sphinx then?"
Claire sighed deeply and decided just to be forthright. "I have a new dress. I thought you would notice it." She gestured to herself, and Jamie blinked, then opened his mouth and laughed heartily.
"Oh is that what has you worked up. Aye, I noticed, but I didn't think to comment. It's not what ye wear that matters, Claire." his blue eyes danced at her with impish glee. "I'm thinking about what's underneath it all."
This reaction, like this day, was not what she expected. She cocked her head to the side, and her brows knit in confusion. A feeling which was soon overtaken by curiosity.
"So what I wear doesn't matter to you at all?" she said slowly.
"No. An' why should it? Ye wear what every woman wears. Ye just wear it better, ye ken?" He walked over and squeezed her waist and kissed her cheek, nuzzling his nose to her hair for a brief moment. She thawed an infinitesimal amount and then relaxed into his embrace as he brought his arms around her.
It was at that moment that she realized that Jamie found her rather than her clothes appealing. To his eyes, this mode of dress was normal, workaday—the cut and shape pedestrian. Women young and old, thin or stout were all dressed the same with little variation. And even in Paris where more was always more, the opulent fabrics and dizzying decoration changed with the decades, but they were still carried off on the same basic patterns. Wide skirts held out by panniers were more architecture than habillement. And despite the fantastical aesthetics and artifice of court life, it still boiled down to the robes à la française with only the occasional robe de la cour thrown in for variation.
This revelation set her pondering a different time and place, her past and future. Claire remembered preparing for a rare night out at the dance hall during the war, dressing with special care, adjusting her skirt, and trying her best to cover the stain of iodine on her hands with a pair of borrowed gloves. And most of all, she remembered how she felt in that dress—beautiful, alluring, graceful yet powerful. The right dress with the right cut and drape could do that to a person. Then the spell had been broken when one of the nurses had joked not to worry about her appearance so much since, at the end of the day, men just liked naked. And disappointing as that idea was to her then, Jamie seemed to be proving that point in the present.
Suddenly an idea slipped like Italian silk over her mind. She wondered what this simple man would think of the more daring silhouettes of the modern era? Something designed to emphasize the natural shape of the body rather than distort it? Something soft that could cling to the figure rather than remain restrictive and tailored. Self-possession was restored when she was suddenly consumed by a challenge.
Could he be seduced by how a garment concealed rather than just by what it concealed?
Claire's arms held him tight before she stepped away. She drew a long breath and set her head up proudly as determination tingled over her, and she smiled a secret smile.
She was determined to find out the answer for herself.