A Man's Home

"Castle" Leoch is anything but. As we approach I can see it is a magnificent house, quite impressive really, especially to someone like me. But a castle it is not. It's a wood-panel construction, like Uncle Lamb's manse. Tiled roofs. Pillared balconies. Row upon row of glass windows that catch the early morning sunlight with an almost overpowering dazzle. Sculpted trees and gardens lining the road the whole long way up to the elaborate iron gate, and beyond. But there isn't a turret or tower in sight, nor stone walls, nor the square saw-edge pattern across the tops of those walls that mark every castle I've ever seen.

Granted, I've only ever seen them in storybooks. . .

Maybe this does count as a castle here?

The main bulk of the building is three levels tall, with two wings making an open courtyard where the van and Rover pull in. Jamie, Murtagh and Dougal all leap from the van with as much or even more energy than Mr. Graham ever did. I try to stand and follow them, but my ankle is so sore after a night of inactivity that it can bear no weight. I sit back and wait, knowing they will remember me eventually.

By now there is a great clamour on the surrounding pavement, as what must be the entire household comes out to meet us. Young men and old - some dressed for business and some for hard labour, old women and young - some uniformed and official-looking, some impressively dressed-up for this early in the day, and all ages of children spill out of the house to welcome back their travelers. Dougal especially, seems to need to greet every one of the milling crowd, just as they all seem to need to greet him.

"Uncle Dougal, Uncle Dougal! What'd ye bring me?" A childish voice raises above the din, and then the man himself raises a boy, about seven or eight years old, into his arms, swings him around, and laughingly smacks a giant kiss onto his forehead.

"Ewwwww, Uncle DOUGAL!" The child screams indignantly, and furiously wipes his forehead as the nearest in the crowd laugh.

"Aye, that's all ye get, like it or no'," says Dougal, cheerily. He puts the squirming boy down, and bellows, "Mrs. Fitz!". A stout, extremely capable looking woman pushes through the crowd at his call. He jerks his head in my direction, "We have company!"

The woman makes her way towards me, as Dougal goes back to his welcome.

She leans into the van, her smooth plump arms and neatly permed grey head giving her an air of almost preternatural imperturbability and confidence, "Ah, greetings lassie!"

I reach out a hand, as much for support as for greeting, "Hello, I'm Claire - Claire Beauchamp."

She takes my hand, and half lifts, half leads me out into the courtyard, "I'm properly known as Mrs. FitzGibbons, but everyone calls me Mrs. Fitz, and ye may as well begin as ye'er certain to end up. Twisted ankle?"

"Y-yes," I say, wincing as I limp, "I was camping outside Inverness and turned it on a rock."

"Weel, 'tis only a few steps over to the guest wing - Ye are an official Guest of Clan Mackenzie?"

I swivel my head, surveying the dwindling crowd, looking for anyone familiar, but they're all going inside, and the five faces I know are nowhere to be seen. My spirits droop a little. I had expected Jamie to forget me, but I didn't expect it would be quite this quickly. "I. . . don't know, Mrs. Fitz. I assume so. Dougal said I'd earned an audience with the Laird."

"Earned it?" She hustles me inside the left wing of the house, and down a short passageway to an open living space.

"Yes, their Land Rover broke down, but I managed to fix it."

"Ah," she says, looking dubiously at my attire, even as she settles me comfortably on a couch, "Are ye with Beaton and Sons?"

I pause. I can hardly tell her I have no idea who or what that is. . .

"Something. . . along those lines. . ." I gesture at my clothes to change the subject, "Rupert had managed to redirect coolant into the wrong chamber, and before I could fix it, it got all over my dress." Her eyes soften as she recognizes the name. "Murtagh found these for me to travel in."

She smiles broadly, "Oh, aye. 'Each according too their nature', dearie."

That doesn't seem to mean anything, but I press on, rooting around in the plastic bag I thankfully remembered to grab as I left the van, "Here it is, actually. And my stained bra too. I doubt you can do anything with them, but, it might be worth a try. . ." I hand them over, adding my now very rumpled cloak to the pile.

"Aye, I'll send them too the laundry, dinnae fash," she says as she unrolls and shakes out the cloak, looking with distaste at the grass and mud stains, "Does yer wee ankle need tendin'?"

I wince again as I shift my foot more comfortably onto the couch, "Maybe it does, but. . ."

"But ye'll be wanting breakfast and a bath first? Aye, and I'll send for some extra clothes for ye - ye look tae be about our Annie's size, an' she has enough and tae spare. . ."

My heart warms at her simple kindness, "Thank you, Mrs. Fitz, that sounds lovely," I lift the pouch of forest vegetables out of the bag next, "I know it's not much to offer, but it's all I have - mushrooms, alisanders and chestnuts - I don't doubt they're in some disarray now, but. . . well, they mustn't go to waste."

She takes the bag somewhat gingerly, "Aye, I'll tell the kitchens. . . an' if ye'll pardon me, but ye do seem to have come tae this pass by the strangest road."

I can't help smiling at that, "You have no idea, Mrs. Fitz."

She smiles, either in pity or compassion, and leaves for, I suppose, the kitchens and laundry.

Breakfast arrives surprisingly quickly after that. A grinning girl of fifteen or sixteen appears almost out of nowhere, and sets a tray on my lap. A large pot of tea, and lavish portions of porridge and cream, fruit preserves and butter sit next to an egg on toast, a saucer of sliced lemons, and small bowl of sugar.

"Welcome to Castle Leoch!" the girl says, blithely, before scuttling away, as quickly as she came.

And quite a welcome it is indeed. As I eat, I try to get my bearings. On this world. On this time. On myself.

The semi-professional power-salvage peddler camping on the Rim of Skycity 15 seems eons ago, instead of less than a week. And if time is counted by the number of things that happen to you, then, surely, it has been an eon or two. The depressed, almost starving, last surviving Beauchamp on New Oxford, widowed, orphaned, made childless and destitute by World War IV - she very nearly no longer exists. Nor can she. Even the awed, curious, eager niece visiting her uncle on Cold Island 12 I must put far from me. Who I am now, who I must be, can bear almost no resemblance to those Claire Beauchamps.

I am in Scotland, the year is 2078. I have nothing but the clothes I wear, and the knowledge in my brain. Both of which are laughably inadequate for the time period I've landed in, so not only do I have less than nothing, what I do have is dangerous to me.

2078 is also in the middle of the British Col- no, I must call it the Second Scottish War of Independence. The Second Revolutionary Period is only just beginning. The Second Battle of Culloden won't happen for another three and half years. The Unity War hasn't happened yet. WWIII hasn't happened yet. Countries still exist. Most land is still habitable. The Earth has not been soaked in the radioactive poisons that drove us to the skies. Yet.

There are still horses, bees, boats, running water, castles, dogs and cats, fish in the ocean, and people on land.

And there are still political situations I don't understand, nor do I particularly wish to, but they will most likely have a massive impact on my life, so I must.

I have been taken in - however briefly or reluctantly - by one of the Clan Lairds who will very soon be ruling Scotland again.

And I have been attacked by one of Queen Victoria's Peace Agents and his men - the notorious Black Jack Randall, not a gambler as supposed, but a vicious, violent man - who, if Lamb is correct, and my eyes do not deceive me, is a forefather of Frank Randall, my late and dearly lamented husband. . . who is not due to be born for another hundred and fifty years. . .

It's enough to make my head whirl.

I need a story. As simple a one as possible. I've already used the camping explanation with Mrs. Fitz, so I have to keep that part. I also told her my name. Therefore, I must be Claire Beauchamp. That's something, at least - because I am Claire Beauchamp.

But where am I from? An island in the North Atlantic seems most unlikely. And if anyone asks me straight out where I'm from, I'm going to automatically say New Oxford, I know I will.

I decide must be from Oxford - not the city in southern England that was bombed into oblivion during WWIII, and certainly not the Skycity named in memorial of that city - but the city itself. The living, vibrant city I've never seen, on English soil that I've never trod, housing English people I've never met. That is where I must be from.

Me. Claire Beauchamp.

I must be an Englishwoman.

It feels very strange to think about myself that way. I wonder if I can pull it off.

I sigh a little, finishing the last bite of toast. I'll have to pull it off. I can't afford not to.

As for the rest of my back-story, I can't think of anything simpler than the almost-truth. I was born and educated in Oxford. My parents died eight years ago. My only uncle died when I was eleven. I am a currently jobless Farming Technician with a degree in Botany, on a camping trip, trying to reconcile herself to a life alone after her husband died in a. . . from a. . . because. . .

A house fire? A car crash? A pulmonary infarction? A stroke? Cancer? I can hardly say he was vaporized by an unexploded Blueblast charge. . . I have to pick some other way. . .

How on earth can I choose a way for Frank to die? If I'd had any real choice, he would never have died at all.

Needs must, Beauchamp. Make up your mind and do it.

Alright. An explosion at a sanitation plant seems the most supportable, and closest to the truth. The point is, I'm a widow. . .

I grip my teacup a good deal harder than necessary. Right, then. I'm a widow, who was on a camping trip, and I was set upon by ruffians at my campsite, and fled with nothing but what I was carrying at the time. I turned my ankle in the woods, and was trying to get to help when I ran across Black Jack.

I put down my teacup and lean back into the cushions. That's as simple as I'm going to get, I think. Whether or not it will stand up to scrutiny is another matter, but either way, I'll see soon.

"I see ye'ev enjoyed yer breakfast," says Mrs Fitz, returning without preamble, "Tha's encouragin'. I allus say there's nae much wrong wi' ye if ye can git 'round yer breakfast."

"Yes, thank you, it was delicious Mrs. Fitz."

She plumps down a pile of clothing on a nearby table, "Annie's given ye a good selection o' things tae start off with - an' she says tae tell her when ye need more and she'll take ye shoppin'.

"That's very kind of her. Will you tell her I'm deeply grateful?"

How funny. Lately it seems people are always giving me clothes. Mrs. Graham. Murtagh. Now Mrs. Fitz and Annie.

"Aye, that I will. But it's mostly an excuse tae go shoppin', ye ken. Annie'd gi' ye her whole left arm for a good excuse tae go inta town and spend money."

I laugh, "Well, she still has my thanks. Once I get cleaned up, you'll have to introduce me."

"Aye, that I will, dearie." She brings over a proper medical-grade crutch, "D'ye think ye'll be needing this, then?"

I flex my foot slightly, and consider. "I think it would be a good idea. My ankle isn't too bad, really, but I'll need to keep off of it for a few days."

She nods, and puts the crutch down on the couch beside me, "Aye. An' young Mr. MacTavish said tae tell ye he'll be in tae see tae yer foot in a hour or so."

Her face looks very bright and motherly when she mentions this Mr. MacTavish. He must be a personable young man, if she likes him that much. But not a doctor, I notice. Ah well. Not every castle in Scotland can have a live-in doctor. . .

"Tha's long enough for ye tae take a bath and freshen up first, if ye want," she says, with a peremptory gesture that says very clearly it's what she wants.

I smile. No use arguing with this kind, generous, utterly invincible person.

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Fitz. If you'll show me the way?"

It takes a second for me to find my balance with the new crutch, but when I do, she leads me down a short hallway and through two large wooden doors, to a small, but highly comfortable looking guest room. She points at the small white-painted door in the corner across from me.

"The washroom is in there, dearie, all ready for ye. I'll jus' go shift yer clothes."

She stumps off to bring them, and when she returns, I've just closed the door of the washroom behind me. I hear her shuffle about a bit, and then she leaves. I exhale fully, for the first time in what seems like years. For the first time on this crazy, wild journey of mine, I don't feel watched, or chased, or at all like I need to defend myself.

I lean the crutch up against the wall, and survey the 200 year old plumbing I'll have to deal with. Instantly, I'm grateful to Mrs. Graham and the manse, because here, the wash basin, tub and toilet all have running water. This is unprecedented for me. . . There is so much water here, they relieve themselves in it? I've heard of kitchens occasionally having a plumbed-in water spigot, but that's always meant for drinking or cooking purposes. And of course, water vats are essential to any Skycity farming station. I had forgotten people ever bathed in tubs of water until Mrs. Graham had showed me the one at the manse. That's the only preparation I have for. . . this. I go over and inspect the toilet more closely. Everything about it seems normal, except for the liter or two of water resting in the basin of it. It smells like perfectly clean, potable water too. . .

I've never even dreamed that people could. . . that people would. . . re-contaminate their clean water like this.

Biological waste re-contamination is bad enough when we're talking about plants on a hydroponic farming station. But Human biological waste? On Skycities, raw Human waste and potable water don't get within ten meters of each other, ever. The only vague exception is if you consider the greywater treatment plants that clean and filter the water used by steamshower stations.

I push the "clear" button on the toilet, and watch in somewhat stunned horror as the water almost instantly disappears, and who knows how much more actually sprays down the inside.

How much, in total? Two liters? Three? Four? Certainly enough to buy food and warmth for several days. Just. . . wasted.

And, what is more, commonly wasted far more literally than I could ever have imagined. I'm breathless with the sheer arrogance of it. . .

But, this is what they have here. And this is what I'm going to have to use, no matter if I like it or not.

This is going to take some getting used to. . .

I decide to take a shower first, and it's a good thing I do, because there is a fiendishly complicated set of mechanisms used to choose hot or cold water, where and how to direct it, and how strong or gentle that spray of water is to be. I would never have thought two knobs, three switches and one button could be so inconsistent and confusing, but, by the time I'm done, I've been doused in freezing water twice, nearly scalded once, sprayed in the face three times, and emerged more sodden and drippy than I've ever imagined a Human body could be.

And after I'm finally dry, it still takes another ten minutes for me to work up the impudence to use the toilet.

The liquid soap next to the handwashing basin smells wonderful though. There's a hand-inked label on it saying "Soapwort and Wintergreen", two herbs I know about, but have never seen or used until now. There was a bottle in the shower too, that I used on my hair and skin. It has left a wonderfully clean texture behind, and a soft, deep smell that I find both vaguely familiar, and inexplicably comforting.

When I finally emerge back into the main room, I find a full set of clothes laid out on the bed for me, including a pair of ridiculously fluffy house-slippers.

I laugh, even as I shake my head. I think I'm going to like this Annie person.

I dress as hastily as I can, hoping Mr. MacTavish won't mind me taking a good deal more than the hour he stipulated. . .

I tap-bump with my new crutch back into the main living room, and when I go though the big arched doorway, the first person I see is an utterly unmistakable tall, red-headed man.

"Jamie!" I say, grinning so wide I must look incredibly foolish, but I don't care.

"Ah, so ye've met Mr. MacTavish, have ye?" says Mrs Fitz.

The grin freezes on my face, "We've. . . been introduced," I say, evasively.

"Aye, ee's usually drivin' the horses, and ye were in the van, dearie, so I didnae ken if ye'd met. Himself has sent word - yer tae join the high table at supper."

"Is that good?"

"That's very good," she pats Jamie's arm as she passes by him, "Ye take care o' th'lass now, d'ye hear me, wee Jamie?" She turns and gives him a teasingly stern look that has a surprising amount of real steel behind it.

Jamie nods solemnly, "Aye Mrs. Fitz. I hear."

She nods, once at each of us, and goes back to her duties.

I've resettled my foot back on the same couch as before. Neither of us break the silence, and he doesn't turn to look at me.

If he's hoping I'll let this slide, he's dealing with the wrong woman.

"So. . ." I say, finally, "Mr. MacTavish, is it?"

At last, he turns and meets my gaze, a slightly abashed grin on his face, "Weel, when a man's on the run, he has to be somewhere, and he has to be someone. An' preferably that's no' at home, nor himself."

I raise my eyebrows and smile, "Well then. Mr. MacTavish," I gesture at my foot, "Are you going to play doctor with me now?"

Several emotions cross his face before he schools his expression to a mildly stern sort of abstraction, "Nae, I think ye'r quite capable of doctorin' yerself," he hands me the small pot of ointment I didn't notice he was holding until now, "I'll jus'. . ." he turns to leave.

"Don't go!" I say, all the teasing gone from my voice, "Stay and talk to me, at least." I pull my foot up into my lap, and begin to clumsily unwrap the long bandage.

For a long few seconds he just watches me. Then, he gives a soft, sighing "agch!" and says, resignedly, "Let me!"

I stop, and my eyes follow him as he pulls a chair over to my couch. Then, with infinite tenderness, he lifts my foot onto his thigh. He deftly rolls the bandage up as he removes it, then opens the jar, and starts to spread a cool, soothing cream on my still bruised and swollen ankle. His touch is so light it would tickle were it not for the thin layer of ointment.

That, and the electricity between us, of course. Physical contact with him like this feels totally different than either in the cupboard or the van. Here, we both chose our positions, both clearly want them. Just being in each other's presence is flirting, and as for his fingers taking care of my ankle. . . He is being quite businesslike and straightforward about it, but I can see his jaw is clenched tight, and there's more than delicacy behind his touch being so feather-light.

When he took up my leg, for just a moment, I felt him tremble.

He is finishing re-wrapping the bandage when I find the courage to say, "You have a very healing touch, Mr. MacTavish."

He puts my foot gently back on the couch, then slides off his chair to kneel down next to me, leaning on the cushions so we are eye to eye. "Is tha' so?"

I nod, and reach out to run my fingers down the collar of his shirt. He too has bathed and changed since we got here, his hair still damp and dark. "You didn't learn all that just by bandaging up your - what was it, three brothers? - now, did you?"

He shakes his head, "Nae. I didnae."

Somehow he's closer now, almost looming over me, but I could still put out a hand and easily push him away.

I don't.

His mouth is so much softer than I was expecting, so much warmer and cooler and more exciting, that I almost don't mind when he leaves my lips and kisses up my cheekbone to my ear.

"I was hopin' ye'd taste so sweet," he whispers, then starts down my neck.

"Were you?" I say, far more focused on what he's doing to me than what he's saying.

"Mmm," he hums against my collarbone, "Ye dinnae ken what ye did tae me in that cupboard, Claire. I wilnae be able tae muck out a stall ever again without thinkin' of the shape and smell of ye. . ."

His mouth is back over mine before I can agree. The fingers of one of his hands tangle in my hair, even as my fists take handfuls of his shirt, holding him to me. His other hand slowly caresses down my side, coming to rest cupping my hip, and finally I can't stand it. I moan. My suspicions were right about him. He's a perfect lover.

Lover.

The word dashes through my brain, turning my blood to ice water. I grip his wrists and fling his hands away from me. He starts back, shocked and hurt, but I can't deal with him now. Shame, fear and loss, three things I only rarely felt before Frank died, but have been my almost constant companions ever since, have risen up to engulf me. I've been thinking about Jamie since I met him, yes, but that word has never intruded until now.

Lover.

You are a horrible person, Claire Beauchamp.

My head is in my hands, and I am almost hyperventilating, my whole being focused on holding back a frantic storm of tears.

Lover.

You don't deserve anything but misery, Claire Beauchamp.

I hear Jamie stand, and start to back away.

Desperately, I reach out to him, but I catch only the knee of his trouser leg.

"Don't go! I have to explain!" I gasp.

"Ye dinnae have tae-"

"Please! Let me!"

Without a word, he shifts his chair closer to me, and sits down again.

Slowly, I push the feelings down, beat back the awful self-recriminatory things it is all too easy for me to tell myself, and gradually get my breathing under control.

Finally, I look up, eyes stinging, but dry.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, his face blank, his eyes more confused than hurt, "I. . . jus' thought ye were enjoying it."

"I was! I. . . mean, I am. I mean, I do!" I give a frustrated sigh, "Look, can I back up?"

He nods, and waits for me to speak.

Suddenly, I'm not quite sure where to back up to.

"You know that we. . . that everyone. . . has a past, right, Jamie?"

His brow knits up, sternly, "Aye."

"Well, my past includes a husband. And a child. Who both died."

He takes my hand, not in pity - which I can almost always detect, and always hate - but in a similar way that Lamb had gripped my shoulder. Supportive. Comforting. Almost like he also has a tragic past.

Stupid. He's wanted for murder, of course he has a tragic past. . .

"After we lost our baby-" I start, then stop. I've never actually said those words aloud before. They taste strange in my mouth. I have to say them again, if only to rid my tongue of the acrid bitterness of it. "After we lost our baby, our doctor said that. . . it was a problem caused by. . . well, the Y chromosome."

His runs his thumb across the ridge of my knuckles, "Meanin' it were yer husband's. . ." He stops, not wanting to say the obvious next word.

"Fault?" I finish for him, only just keeping back a vicious curse or two, "Yes. Genetically speaking, anyway. It would be dangerous for him to ever try to have children again. But I still loved him."

"A'course ye did."

"He told me that I was enough for him, but that if I wanted a child, we'd do whatever it took to get one. We could adopt. We could find a donor. Or. . ."

He grips my hand a little, spurring me on with his touch, "Yes? Or?"

"Or I could find a lover, if I wanted."

He is silent for a long few seconds, then shakes his head, "I take it yer husband had never heard of a certain Lady Chatterley, et. al.?"

"No. But I had."

And I've spent a considerable amount of time since Frank's death trying to banish the memory of the twisted, malformed, stunted soul that was the character of Sir Clifford Chatterley - the kind of man who would ever suggest such a thing to his wife in the first place, and who then became such a gross inversion of himself that he not only ensured his wife would leave him, he ruined what was left of his own life in the process.

"So, ye didnae do it?"

"I didn't have a chance," I say, forlornly. "We argued about it. I said some terrible things, so did he."

I pause, almost afraid to say what happened then, but I know I have to.

"And the next day, he died. I never got to apologize. And he never knew how much I loved him."

Jamie is silent a long time, working though all the implications of that.

"So. . . when I was kissin' ye. . ."

I shake my head, "No, the kisses were lovely." I briefly squeeze the hand that's holding mine, "I've been thinking about. . . you. . . what you'd. . . be like. . . ever since the cupboard too. Actually, even before that. And I'm fairly certain I dreamed about it last night."

"So then, why. . ."

"When you took hold of my hip, it was. . . it was like Frank was holding me again. And kissing you at the same time. . . it felt like. . . like. . ."

"Cheating?"

I nod, thankful he said the word so I don't have to.

"Even though he gave ye permission?"

"Especially since he gave me permission."

"I see. Ye are a woman of honour, Claire-"

He looks at me expectantly, and I realize I haven't told him my last name yet.

"Beauchamp."

He nods, "Ye are a woman of honour, Claire Beauchamp. I'm sorry I touched yer hip."

"Don't be sorry," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "Just. . . be patient?"

"Right then," he stands up and very slowly puts his hands behind his back, "Hands to meself." His face is mockingly serious, but his tone is so solemn, I know he's not making fun of me.

Then he kneels again, and with his hands still behind him, he leans forward to kiss me some more.