A special thanks to William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
After Claire leaves, closing the door behind her, I have a moment to think. This is the first I have been alone with my thoughts since I arrived. Where am I? I ken I am in Inverness. Lambert has told me that. My Inverness? The Inverness I ken, I grew up with? Maybe. I will have to wait for first light to see. All evidence points to no. None of what I have seen belongs to the Inverness I ken and love. So if Inverness is wrong, will Lallybroch be the same? Will it even be where it is supposed to be? Will Jenny be there, worrying for me? And Murtagh? What of Murtagh? Murtagh had come back with me from France. We had run into my Uncle Dougal and some MacKenzie men rustling cattle. That's why we were in the stramash with the British to start with. What of my Uncle Dougal and the rest of the MacKenzies, that we met up with? They would'na have left Murtagh and I to the British, even with the price on my head. Maybe they led them away. I think I need to go back to the stones when it is light. Things might be right there and this will all make sense. Perhaps this is all a dream. Or I am just confused. I had hit my head when the horse was shot and collapsed underneath me. It had been raining as well, which would hinder my sight. Still, I can make no sense of Lambert Beauchamp's coach or this flat. Wondrous things, both, but strange none the less.
I am tired but can not seem to sleep. My head will not rest. I need to think, to process all I have seen today. To try and make sense of it all. I think best when I walk. When I open the bedroom door, I hear voices. I follow the light and end up in the kitchen with Lambert and Randall. They are having a discussion about what, I do not ken. I clear my throat and they stop talking and look up at me.
"Are we too loud? Did we wake you?" Lambert asks.
"No," I reply. "I just could not sleep. Too many things going round in my head."
"Would you like a drink?" Frank asks and points to the whiskey by the 'sink'.
"Aye, don't mind if I do," I reply.
"We use teacups at this late hour. Claire would have our heads if she thought we were up all night drinking. Get a cup down and help yourself." Frank said as he pointed to one of the doors next to the window with his hand that held his cup.
I open the door and there are several cups neatly stacked. There is one cup, white with blue flowers painted around the rim. It is the only one with a matching saucer. None of the others are anywhere close to looking like it. I pick it up. It is verra fine bone china, verra pretty. I have seen cups like this at the King's court in Paris when I went once with my cousin Jared. I ken immediately who's cup it is.
"I would not use that one if I were you," Randall says. "That is, if you value your life. That one is Claire's. She does not like to share it; it is the last of her mother's teacups, you see.
"I like this one," I smile as I reply.
"Your funeral," Randall says and fills the cup almost to the rim. "Don't say I did not warn you." I take a large swallow and look at the table. The table we ate supper at an hour or so ago is covered with papers. Most has writing on it. There are some that are like tiny painting, paintings of smiling people, buildings or fields mostly. I pick up one of the paintings and it is smooth, no texture like my mother's paints have and these are verra small and not framed. All of them are black and white, no color to them at all. I turn the paper over and it is pure white and set it back down on the table. I do'na ken how you would hang one either. Some have writing on the back. One says Fort Williams and the year looks like 1939. It resembles the Fort Williams I ken, the one where I was flogged by Black Jack Randall in 1740. Someone does not ken how to write their numbers legibly. I set the paper back down and I shuffle through the rest on the table and find another piece of paper, this one is written in Gaelic.
I read the title:
The Song of the Clans (Oran Nam Fineachan Gaidhealach)
by Alexander MacDonald
1745
1745? That makes no sense I say to myself. It is 1742. I begin to read the poem in Gaelic:
Fchomuinn rìoghail rùnaich
Sàr-ùmhlachd thugaibh uaibh,
Biodh ur roisg gun smùirnein,
'S gach cridh' gun treas gin lùib ann;
Deoch-slàinte Sheumais Stiùbhairt
Gu mùirneach cuir mu'n cuairt!
Ach ma ta giamh air bith 'nur stamaig,
A' chailis naomh na truaill.
I notice both Lambert and Randall have stopped talking. I look up from the poem and notice they are both staring at me.
I look at them both, raise an eyebrow and ask, "Aye?"
"You can read that, Jamie? Gaelic I mean?" Randall asks me.
"Aye, all educated Scots can, and I am an educated Scot. Schooled in Paris. I translate the first verse for them:
Beloved loyal people
Now your true homage give,
Let your eyes be moteless,
Your hearts be true and fearless;
The health of King James Stewart,
Full gladly pass it round!
But if within you fault is hidden
Soil not the holy cup.
"Why?" I ask when I am finished.
"Since the bloody war I have not been able to locate anyone that can. I mean I am in Fucking Scotland, you think there would be plenty of Gaelic speaking Scots. But I guess they took King James at his word and stop speaking it as well as wearing tartans after Culloden. Would you be willing to help me, Jamie?" He asks. "I have need of a good translator. I am writing a book about the Jacobites and a lot of what I have found is in Gaelic. We could work out an arrangement. If you could, say, help me with the translations, then that would free me up to look for your Lallybroch. Deal?"
"Aye, I'd be happy to help, in exchange for finding my home, Lallybroch." I say.
"Look, I've got to go before Claire discovers that I'm still here. She'll be angry and banish me for a week or two if she finds I am here plying her uncle with alcohol." he states and starts to gather up his papers and place them in a leather satchel. "Lambert is meeting me at the library tomorrow. Would you come along? I would be very appreciative. I'll buy you a pint when we are done. Have we got a deal, Jamie?" and Randall holds out his hand for me to shake.
I nod and shake his hand. Lambert sees Randall to the door then walks back to the kitchen.
"I'm off to bed. Are you coming Jamie?" Lambert asks.
"No Lambert, not yet if you don't mind. I think I will stay up awhile longer. Finish my drink." I reply and raise my cup.
"Alright then, be sure to turn the lights out. Claire will not be happy if they are left on all night. I will leave the light on in the loo so you can find your way. Good night then." Lambert says, turns and goes to bed.
I turned off all the lights except a small lamp in the living room and take a seat at the kitchen table. I remove the shirt of the 'pajamas' Claire left for me. It rubs my back; I do not like it. Lambert had been nice enough to leave the bottle of whiskey out for me. I am on my second teacup, deep in thought, retracing every step I can remember I made today, when I heard someone clear their throat. I look up to see Claire leaning against the wall.
"Mind if I join you?" she asks.
"Fetch a cup and I'll pour you a dram," I say with a smile and stand up. I am really pleased she is up. She has a good mind. I enjoy talking to her.
"I see we have the same taste in cups," She nods her head at mine.
"The cup reminds me of the ones my mam had. We bairn were never allowed to touch them. My father had them shipped all the way from Paris as a present for her. I could not resist using this one now," Jamie said, felling his face turn red.
"No worries," she said. "I don't usually like to share it, for sentimental reasons, but I don't seem to mind your using it for some unexplainable reason. Are you sure I won't be disturbing your thoughts, if I stay?" she asks politely as she reached into the cabinet and takes down a cup. She hands it to me to fill.
"Aye, but that does not mean that the interruption is a bad thing." Jamie says. "The company of a very smart and bonnie lass is never one I would say 'no' to. What has you still up at this wee hour?"
"You." she answers directly. This lass has a glass face and does not hide behind her words either. As good as I give, she will give it back, I think to myself. Claire pulls a chair out, sits down and motions for me to do the same.
"Ouch," I reply and lift an eyebrow at her as I sit back down. "Whatever I have done for you to lose sleep? Please believe, I am truly sorry to cause you such distress."
"It's not any one thing I can put my finger on, Jamie." she starts. "I just feel a connection of sorts. From the moment I looked into your eyes. Like I know you, your soul, from somewhere. It's just a feeling. I wondered if you had the same response to our meeting. That's all. Do we know each other? Have we met?"
"I ken you are special Claire. Not like any lass I have met before. And I am drawn to ya, like a bee to a flower. I am a wee lost right now, ya ken. I am frustrated at not knowing where I am and how to get back home. But I ken I can trust ya. That your heart is good and that you will help me anyway ya can. I can'na tell ya how much I need that, what a comfort it is to me, ta have ya to talk to like this."
"As I said earlier, I am here to listen if you need to talk. I mean that Jamie. You can tell me anything, it will go no further. You can trust me," Claire says. "I hope I don't sound like I'm trying to pry. You just seem sad and lost."
"Where am I, Claire?" I ask simply. "I mean, where is this flat located?"
"Do you mean the actual address? It is No 21 Drumossie Avenue Apartment 3B Inverness, UK," Claire states. "Is that what you mean?"
"UK?" I ask.
"United Kingdom. England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Have you never heard the term before?" Claire asks.
"I don't remember ever hearing 'UK' or Northern Ireland either. England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, yes, but never UK or Northern Ireland. Does that mean there is a Southern Ireland as well?" I ask.
"Yes," Claire answers. "Simply put Northern Ireland is mostly Protestant and call themselves Brits. Southern Ireland is predominantly Catholic and see themselves as Irish. Somewhere around 1920. Frank is the one you should ask about history. He remembers every date and detail. I don't have the mind for it," she said. "Now, if you need to know anything about blood and germs, I'm your gal," she adds with a flourish.
"That helps." I say. "May I ask how old ya are? What year ya were born?"
Claire tilts her head to the side on that one. "You know, a gentleman should never ask a lady her age," she smiles and laughs at me, "but I don't mind. I am 28 years. I was born in 1918. Why?"
"So this 1946?" I ask.
"October 1946, yes" Claire replies. "Did you not remember that? Did you hit your head and not tell me?" she asks with concern in her voice. She leans forward and looks into my eyes. "Are you dizzy or nauseous? Are your ears ringing? Do you have a headache?" Claire is clearly concerned for me. She stands up and turns on the kitchen light, walks to me, tilts my head back and looks directly in each of my eyes.
"I'm fine Claire." I say and remove her hand from my forehead. "Aye, the date, it matters," I state still trying to process the information Claire has given me. "It matters to me," and I shake my head in disbelief. "Do you believe in God, Claire? Divine intervention?"
"Going for the philosophically tough ones first, are you?" Claire states with a stern look and then smiles and laughs. "I am going to need a more comfortable seat for that one." She grabs the bottle and her cup, walks into the 'living room' and takes a seat on the far end of the settee. "Come sit down," and she pats the settee with her hand. "I promise I don't bite. Do I believe in God? I was raised Catholic. But my parents died when I was 5 so I don't really believe that I am a Catholic, Jamie. After that I lived with Uncle Lamb until I was 18. We led a nomadic life, traveling the world, so I had the opportunity to explore loads of different beliefs and lifestyles. Not any one of which, singularly, really worked for me. With the war and the atroscities of Hitler, it has become harder to believe in God."
"Now divine intervention, sure, I guess. If I believe there is a God, and that we each serve a purpose for being here, then there must be a 'bigger plan', right? Then I would want that God to step in and, correct a wrong or, right a person who is headed down the wrong path. Sure. I can believe in that. Why, Jamie?" She asks with her face full of concern. "Do you believe you have made a mistake, a wrong choice?" She changes positions on the settee. She turns so she is now facing me directly, her back against the arm of the settee, bringing her feet up on the cushions by bending her knees. She sits up wraps her arms around her legs and sets her chin on top of her knees and waits for me to answer.
"I don't suppose I ken, Claire. I mean how am I supposed to ken if I made the wrong choice or, if it is the right choice, the choice God has made for me, and it just seems wrong to me?" Jamie asks her and watches her face to see what she thinks.
Claire takes a good pull from her teacup and then looks to the floor to think. Finally she looks up. "I don't see how you could know. At some point the one you think is the 'wrong choice' should start to feel 'right' though, don't you think? Otherwise you'd just go about thinking it was wrong the entire time," was her reply. "It's like you, Jamie. I cannot help feeling that you were sent to me, for a reason, I mean. That something put Lamb there, at just the right time, to find you. That he was meant to bring you to me. Maybe, maybe not, I just have this feeling, nothing more. I have this really strong connection, or attraction if you will, that I feel for you. I don't know why and I certainly cannot explain it. Is it God's will that you are here for me or just a fork in one of our paths?"
She is shaking her head along with me. We are both confused by all that is happening between us. Each of us, deep in thought trying to figure it out.
She reaches out and touches the fingertips of my hand that is lying on the back of the settee. She is right, I feel a connection; I have right from the first moment she touched me. I have the strongest urge to gather her into my arms and hold her. I want her. I don't want her to be with anyone else but me. I don't want to be anywhere else but near her.
I have never felt this way, not even with Yvette. I thought I loved Yvette but I ken now what I really felt was just lust; my body wanted her, badly, but not my heart, my soul or my mind like I want Claire. I was drunk, I saw Yvette and she ken how to make me want her. I laid with her and I loved her, I thought, because she was my first. She was my one and only time, just the once. The next time we were in town, some three weeks later, I went to her and she told me she was pregnant with my bairn and let me feel her round, pouching belly to prove it. I ken I must do the right thing, wed her and take her home to Lallybroch. I slept in the same bed with her after that but we never laid together as one again; Yvette would not allow it, said it would hurt the bairn. And then suddenly she and the bairn were dead.
And Claire? She feels the same pull; I can see it in her face. That's why she would have allowed me to kiss her when she first came in the 'kitchen'. Her fingers are gently stroking the back of my hand. I can feel my heart beat slow. My head is no longer pounding. I close my eyes. I can hear her heart beat in rhythm with mine. I feel it in my chest. Two hearts, one heartbeat. I open my eyes and look at her. Her eyes open and lock with mine. She feels the one heartbeat as well.
"Devine Intervention, Jamie?" she asks. "Are you here for me? I think I have been waiting for you all my life."
I slide over to the cushion next to hers. She slips her toes under my thigh. I raise the palm of my hand and she places her palm against mine and says...
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
I smile. The woman kens her Shakespeare. I reply...
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Claire replies...
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
I lean forward, my forehead touching hers and say...
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
And this amazing woman replies...
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
I tell her...
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
And I gently kiss her.
She whispers...
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
I whisper in return...
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
And I place another gentle kiss on her lips.
Claire, she sighs and says.
You kiss by the book.
and kisses me back.
"It is Devine Intervention, Claire. Of that I am now sure. I am meant to be here, with you. Why? I do not ken, but here I am, none the less," and so I make my decision right then and there. A decision I ken I would never regret. I told Claire everything, as I saw it. From the moment Murtagh and I landed in Edinburgh to sitting on the settee with her. She asked questions, lots of them. About me, Lallybroch, about the stones, about where I thought I was, about my time. The entire time we remained in constant contact with each other, touching, feeling, caressing. I am no ones fool, I ken she has a lot of questions she did not ask as well.
At some point we fall asleep, sitting on the settee. I wake with the mornings light and find I am lying on the settee with a blanket over me and a pillow underneath my head. I sit up. No Claire. She is gone. The cups and bottle of whiskey are gone. I stretch. It is the longest I have slept since that damn ship left France. I feel not content, not happy but at peace. Claire has made that happen. I smile to myself. It is a step forward, not a big step but a step none the less.
Lambert comes around the corner, stops and smiles. "Oh, there you are. I was wondering what became of you. You best get up and have your shower while there is still hot water. I will make breakfast. We need to get going if we are going to meet Frank at the library."
"Where is Claire?" I ask.
Lambert smiles. "I knew you two would hit it off. She left for work. There is a note here for you from her; the envelope on the table. She told me to remind you that she has taken your clothes to be cleaned, so you need to wear some of the borrowed ones, at least for today. She says she is off tomorrow and she will take you back to the stones, if that makes any sense to you. Shake a leg, young man. Get a move on. Shower. Just how many eggs can you eat?"