Chapter Fifty One
"Wumma?"
Faith pokes her head into my office, just at the worst moment. Well, the best, from one point of view. . . I'm on hold, in the middle of an important business call.
"Come in dear," I say, brightly, and dig quickly in a side drawer, "Sit down."
All the girls know my Business Mode voice by now, and mostly understand that when they come to me without warning during the day, I may be quite a different person for a little while, for very good reasons that are not their fault. They mostly understand. . . Wee Joanie still struggles with the concept, and so does Sal, a bit, but Jamie is helping them, and so are the twins. We've also instituted a trick or two to help smooth down the process for everyone. . . Faith clambers meekly into the chair opposite my desk, just as I manage to extract the twist-timer from the drawer. I hand it to her, urgently, not knowing when things will begin to happen on the other end of the line.
"Set it for ten minutes, Fay, dear. Either way, I should have a moment then to-", the line pops, and the connection I've been waiting for is finally made, "Yes, hello? Yes, this is Claire Beauchamp, I'm calling on behalf of Leoch Foods. . ."
I descend into the depths of my job.
Some interminable amount of time later, a small but insistent *ding!* recalls me.
I blink at the e-mail I am composing, decide it can wait an hour or two, and save it to drafts. Then, I turn to the small figure waiting patiently across from me. I smile, and force myself out of Business Mode, and into being Wumma.
It was hard to do, that first week, especially at random times during the day, and multiple times a day, but it's getting easier and easier, the more practice I have. . .
"Thank you for being so quiet and polite, Fay darling," I hold out a hand for the timer, "What did you want to ask me?"
She hands the timer back, then looks away a little, and blushes softly. I come around my desk, and sit on the ottoman next to her.
"Do you have a surprise for me?"
She nods.
"Would you like to whisper it?"
She nods again.
I cup my hand around my ear, and she leans forward-
"I have something to show you in the schoolroom."
"Alright then, lead the way!" I stand, and take her hand.
At that moment, Wee Rabbie comes out from underneath my desk, purring and mewling, and arching against Fay's legs.
She grins at the sight of him, and coaxes him to follow us. He does, and she leads us down the hall, to one corner of the schoolroom, and seats me at the tiny play dining table next to the mini play kitchen. Rabbie curls up on one miniature dining chair and falls asleep. My knees barely fit under the table, and the chairs are almost painfully small for me, but Faith is dancing with excitement, so I have no trouble ignoring my own discomfort. She hops up and down, and gestures excitedly at Sal, who has danced up too, and who now hands her a big sheaf of stacked up construction-type paper – each sheet quite stiff, but rather wobbly in texture, like they have all been wet, and dried warped. . .
Faith takes the top one off the pile, and turns it over, sliding it towards me, half-grinning, bashfully but hopefully.
I smile at her, and then look down at a plain, crude, rather disproportionate, but still quite recognizable portrait of Annalise. Faith's technique is still quite untrained, even I can tell that, and her materials are of the usual schoolroom quality, but she has still managed to convey the form and colouring of her mother very well, particularly the shape of her mouth, and the posturing of her hands. I have, of course, only seen Annalise one time, and a photo at that, and so I am even more impressed I can so easily recognize her in Faith's rendition.
"Why, it's marvelous, darling!" I say, holding it up to look at it from a few different angles, "Have you been practicing?"
She grins, and nods, and starts turning over several other sheets of the thick white cardstock. She takes me through all the problems she's had – and indeed, none of the other renderings are nearly as good. The shapes are far cruder, the proportions are even more off, and the coloring is what you might expect from any ordinary nine year old, playing with schoolroom paints and brushes. Then, she shows me the children's art books she's been learning from, and one college-level reference book she can't actually read yet. But I can tell she has practically inhaled the many helpful illustrations. Proportions of the face, the importance of structural line work, light quality, direction, and temperature, how shadows function, the basics of colour theory, etc. She eagerly takes me through the majority portion of the chapter on hands – which happens to be particularly well-illustrated – and I can see quite clearly that she's picked up a lot, just by observation and practice.
Bree and Joanie join us at this point – Bee-bee with an armful of snacks, and Jo-Jo with a persistent case of the fussy snuffles. No one seems to know what set her off, but now she doesn't want her bear, her blanket, her pretzels, or her apple juice, and neither Sal's singing, nor Bee's pretending to be a dinosaur - complete with sound effects - nor even Fay's emergency deployment of Jo's favorite game of "make it rainbow" using colorful crystal beads and a big paper crown can distract her from her loud, extremely damp difficulty, whatever it is. Eventually, I tell the other girls to have their snacks, and go settle poor wee Jo down for her nap. It's a little early for her, but she is clearly tired. If anything else is wrong, we can address it when she wakes up. I get her comfortable on one of the mini futon cushions here in the school room, and only manage to get halfway through A Very Hungry Caterpillar before tiny, hissing snores finally replace her worked-up crying. I give her face a quick clean-up with a hand wipe, and cover her snugly with her favorite crocheted blanket, and then return to the mini kitchen, so Faith can resume where she left off.
Bree and Sal braid each others hair with different coloured ribbons while Faith explains paint layering to me, and her multi-media use of crayons to make highlights and borders easier with watercolours. I'm genuinely interested in all of it, and thoroughly impressed.
At this point, we all hear the front door open and close downstairs, and big striding footsteps coming up the stairs.
We all know it's Jamie, even before his cheery - "Where are my girlies, now?" - reaches us from down the hall.
If I thought I was impressed before, it is nothing to the clearly rehearsed routine I see the girls suddenly swing into.
"Da! Da!" calls Sal, and she runs out into the hall, after a big, wide-eyed look at each of the twins.
Bree hops up, and quickly scoops all the dress-up clothes out of one big built-in wall drawer. At the same moment, Faith shuffles all the sketches of Annalise together with quick, almost desperate grabs, and with almost the same motion dumps them all into the bottom of the drawer Bree just emptied. Then, together, they shovel the frilly, fluffly skirts and scarves and things back into the drawer, covering the paintings as if they were never there.
"Ah, there's my bonnie pink princess!" comes Jamie's voice, still in the hall, "Where are yer sisters, chickadee?"
Quickly Bree and Faith stomp back to our little table, where there are still some of Faith's pictures, all still stacked neatly to the side. Faith hastily flips some over, and pushes them around a little, and Bree grabs one and holds it up, as though examining some ancient artifact, her expression one of almost cartoonish concentration.
I am caught, speechless, somewhere in between incredulous laughter and effusive praise.
I'm not entirely shocked – I have seen them do something similar with several piles of things a few times over the past week, but never, seemingly, for any substantial reason. I thought they were just playing one of their ingenious made-up games, probably having something to do with Bree's love of mystery and adventure, and Sally's obsession with the dress-up clothes.
But it is clear now that they were practicing. . .
Practicing in tandem with Faith, so she could paint her mother, and Jamie could be protected at the same time.
I knew Jamie had talked to Faith about allowing her to paint Annalise, the very morning after he and I had discussed it, but this is the first I've heard or seen any more about it.
And impressed simply isn't the word. . .
I look down at the new sketches now laid out in from of me – all of white flowers, this time, clearly meant to be roses, but none quite managing it yet.
The one Bree is holding is one of the better ones, which is fortuitous for Jamie, as he strides up behind us, carrying Sal.
"Entering a floral phase, m'annsachd?" he asks, brightly, "Weel, tha's a grand wee'un, that is."
He pecks Sal on the temple, and puts her down, leaning forward onto the table to survey the other sketches, "All white flowers then, mo chridhe?"
Faith nods vigorously, "Aye. Did ye ken that ta make a flower look white, ye cannae use hardly any white paint?"
"Really?"
"Aye. A white flower s'more colors than a colored one – there's green an' pink and purple and violet an' yellow an' orange and blue!" She points eagerly to several relevant points on one of her sketches, "See?"
Jamie turns the paper around, picks it up, and looks at it closely, "Yes, I see."
He puts it down, and gives Bree a quick hug, and Faith a kiss to the top of her head, "I'm goin' ta shower before dinner tanight – t'was a long day taday. But I've brought home mac-n-cheese pies for dinner, wi' rainbow crunch salad."
All the girls grin at that. They love his mac-n-cheese pies – though I admit they are often a mite too rich and stodgy for me – and we all love Jamie's colorful red-orange-and-yellow bell pepper, cucumber, snap-pea, red cabbage, golden beet, black bean, and purple carrot salad, with pumpernickel croutons, blue cheese crumbles, toasted pistachios, and citrus, cranberry, and purple basil dressing.
And then, finally, he turns to me, pulls me to my feet, and gives me a chaste, but very long kiss on the mouth.
I can feel the tiredness in his arms as they go around me, and see it in the circles around his eyes. . .
"Go play in the living room, girls," I say, speaking to the whole room, but looking at Jamie, "So Mrs. Bug can look after you. I need to take care of your Da right now, okay?" The girls all nod quietly, and start gathering up the things they want to take with them, "And tell her Jo-Jo is up here napping, and might cry when she wakes up."
Jamie wrinkles his forehead at me, concerned.
"Fussy spell," I say, checking up on Joanie briefly. She's sleeping soundly, and breathing smoothly. "Best we can tell, she stubbed her toes, but couldn't figure out how to say that. Worked herself into a proper lather, poor dear. She might fuss some more if she wakes up alone."
"I'll tell her," says Faith, "And if she comes up here to sit with her, can we come back in here ta play?"
She asks while biting her lips, and a highly unsubtle look at the dress-up drawer.
I smile, and forestall Jamie's slightly confused look with a pat to his arm, "Of course darling. Just play safe, wherever you are, okay?"
"Yes Wumma."
The girls file downstairs, and I half lead, am half led by Jamie into our bedroom. As soon as the door is closed behind us, he sinks down onto the bed, more worn out than I have ever seen him before.
"Ahhhgch. That's nice."
I pull an ottoman over to the bedside, sit down, and lift his legs one by one into my lap. Slowly, I untie his heavy kitchen shoes, and remove them, and also massage his calves and knees a little before letting his legs down again. Then I sit next to him on the bed, snuggling my hip into his side. He raises an arm heavily, and very, very slowly, strokes up and down my spine.
"Mmmthankee Sorcha," he says, yawning, "So good ta come home ta ye, tha' i' t'is. . ."
"What's wrong, Jamie?"
"Mmm?"
"I've never seen you as tired as this. What's wrong?"
"Mmnothin'. S'jus' inspection time at R&D again. Workplace certifications, safety stuff – y'know."
"Ohh," I nod, understanding, "Yes, I know."
He grunts, "Hmmphm. Stressful when s'kitchen. Lot c'n go wrong," he yawns again, "Good team tho. No' bad time. Jus' a lot. . ." He drapes an arm over his eyes, "T'morrow las' day. Than'fully. . ."
His voice trails off, and his breathing starts to deepen. But before he falls asleep, I lean over and kiss him, then stand up and lift his feet into the bed, swiveling him around at the same time.
"You'd better sleep some before you shower, my love."
"Mmmgoo' idea," he mumbles, curling onto his side, then stretching out like a cat, "Lov ye."
"I love you too." I kiss him again, and stroke his hair a little.
He's asleep almost before I know what I must do.
Almost. . .
When his breathing is securely deep and regular, I get up, and go back to my office, but not to do any work – oh no. Quite the opposite. I've been planning something for weeks now, and it's finally time. . .
Chapter Fifty Two
Jamie sleeps for eleven hours straight. I let him. When he does resurface, it is the middle of the night, and he wakes up with such a jolt he wakes me up too. He jumps to his feet, half-tottering with disorientation and shock.
"Wwhhha. Whatimsit?" he grunts, almost incoherently, "Whatimsit, Sorcha?"
"Mph," I turn to my bedside clock, "Fff-i-v'fif'een. Com' bac t'bed."
"Mmcant. Gotta go do-"
"Nno y'dont."
"Mmeh?"
"Callld in sic f'you las' night. Me to. Mmday off. Com bac t'bed."
He manages to push the covers back before flopping down next to me.
"Mmmmwhut?"
"Day. Off. Both'v'us. Mmsleep mor nao."
"Whait Sorcha. . . what? . . . Mhow-"
"Phone. Called in, sick day. PTO. Fr'both'v'us."
". . . but. . ."
"Goo' team, y'said, yes?"
"A-aye."
"Mee to. An' so le'um tak it, J'mie. One. Fr'th'team. Tak one fr'th'team. Thay c'n do it. 'N we c'n sleep. Yes? Yes."
I drape one arm over his chest, and suit actions to words so quickly, I don't even know if he replies.
The next time we wake up, it is much more slowly, and far less confrontationally. We grunt and hum pleasantly to each other, and stretch, and yawn, and snuffle ourselves awake in a highly comfortable fashion. I'm just putting on my bathrobe and slippers when Jamie looks up sharply,
"The girl's breakfast?"
I smile, and shake my head lightly, "Told Mrs. Bug last night. She got here early today. The girls are fine."
"Ah."
He relaxes. Then tenses again.
"Our breakfast?"
I scoff playfully, "I might not be a chef, James Fraser, but I can just about manage a few fried eggs on toast - you know I can – with butter, and sour cream, and slices of fried ham. And there's plenty left of that pineapple and mango salsa you made two days ago to top everything off. And I think I've proven myself by now on how well I can make coffee, yes?"
He grins, "Many times."
"Right. So have a nice long shower and a shave, and come down when you're ready."
"Mm," he yawns lazily, and scratches his ear, "An' then?"
"Why don't we talk about it then?"
"Hah," he laughs, kisses me, and turns towards the bathroom, "You win, Sassenach."
I watch him go, and then make my way down to the kitchen.
Breakfast and hot coffee are waiting for him when he comes down, three-quarters of an hour later, while I'm sipping on my third cup, lounging comfortably at the counter bar, and scrolling idly through my phone. He looks infinitely perked up – a glint in his eyes, and spring in his step once more.
"Mm. Smells good, Sorcha," he says, sitting down at the bar next to me, and drawing his plate over to him, "Three eggs, jus' like I like 'em. You're a treasure." He kisses me – a hearty smack on the cheek, and then he doesn't talk anymore, digging into his breakfast with quite complimentary gusto.
I smile fondly at him, "What's that line from Tom Sawyer? "It is remarkable what a sauce the open air, a free heart, and healthy hunger make"? Something like that?"
He shrugs, mouth full, "Smmthin' lik," he swallows, "S'true, however ye say it." He takes a long drink of coffee, and I actually see the tension start to release from his shoulders.
I wait until his first hunger slows, and then scootch my barstool a little closer to his, and show him my phone,
"There are three different Farmer's Markets in operation today – two with vendors we've worked with at Leoch, so we know they're good quality. Take a look at this map and tell me if you think you'd be interested in going to one. Or two. Or all of them. And if you don't want to go to any of them, I've brought up a map of all our local libraries too – I bet you haven't explored one of those in an age and a half – so pick one and we'll go. And I have an appointment at one P.M. for both of us at my father's country club – where I am also a member. We can get you signed up – if you want to join, that is – and either way we'll have lunch there in the visitor's lounge. They make an excellent roast beef on rye. . . and their chicken piccata isn't half bad either, in my opinion. And then we can stop by Himeko's on the way home and pick up some of their big sushi roll burritos to go. Or a couple of sashimi and hand-roll platters if you want those for dinner instead. Or some udon. Whatever, really. And then there's this new little Basque bakery and sweets place I'd like to check out, called Gozoa, and it's in walking distance from Himeko's, so we could. . ."
I trail off, noticing at last that Jamie has been doing nothing but staring at me, his eyes soft, his mouth a little open, for most of the past three and half minutes.
"Orrrrr, if you don't want to do any of those, we can lounge on the couch all day watching Rocky movies?"
His eyes go wide, and he throws back his head and laughs, long, and wonderfully, and so incredibly beautifully I can hardly believe I get to be the one to make him laugh like this. Eventually, he draws me to him, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me gently.
"Ye're a wonder and a marvel and a blessing, Sorcha, an' every time I think I canna love ye more, I turn around, and find I've just begun." His thumb swipes across my lips, "Ye'er a hundred-thousand times the woman of my dreams, that ye are."
I lean into him, and kiss his chin, "But, it's only what you would have done for me if I'd ever come home as tired as you were last night. . ."
"Mm. True. Bu' that doesna take away from how wonderful it is ta be married ta ye, Sorcha. How lovely ye are. The most delightful, the most beautiful woman in the world."
I look him in the eyes. And it's true there. That's all I need. . .
I kiss him, softly, and slowly, and then lean back onto my own barstool. I gesture at my phone, which he is still holding, "So. What do you want to do today?"
He grins, puts my phone down, and turns back to his breakfast, "How about all of it?"
I gape a little, ". . . all o-"
"Weel. As much as we can reasonably do wi'out tiring me out too much again, aye?"
"Right."
"That first Farmer's Market looked nice."
"It's the biggest one too. Let's check it out and then see what we want to do next?"
"Sounds like a plan."
I finish the last of my coffee, "I need to go to shower and change. I'll meet you in the car in half an hour?"
"Count on it, Sorcha."
We take my car, since all the info is on my phone, and the proper apparatus to hold it is in my car. Jamie adjusts the driver's seat, as I put in the GPS targets.
It's a lovely spring day – enough clouds in the sky to be picturesque, but not enough wind to be chilly, and all the grass and trees dressed in their whites and pinks and pale greens and yellows of the season. I roll down the passenger side window, and relax in the softly warm air.
The Farmer's Market is everything I hoped it might be. For Jamie, and for me, and for both of us. It isn't quite the weekend yet, so there aren't too many people around at this hour, and we make a round of all the stalls, inspecting and taste-testing all kinds of fruit and vegetables, and honey, and baked goods, and popcorn, and spice blends, and olives, and cheese, and even wine. We spend far more than even I predicted we might. Jamie looks alarmed at the bill for a second, but I laugh it off, as only someone born into wealth can. He trusts me, shrugs, and doesn't mention it again. Truth be told, I have a great deal more saved up from just these last years working for Leoch than I think most people would reasonably guess. I can afford a splurge or two, and Jamie is more than worth it.
We drop most of our purchases off at the car, and then saunter down past a few historical buildings, and end up at a tiny memorial library, dedicated to one of the victims of the Boston Marathon tragedy, who, apparently, loved all things poetry. We browse in the cool, solemn quiet, holding hands, and stroking each other's fingers. I check out one book of Dickinson, and one of Nash, and Jamie buys one of the complete sets of Shakespeare's sonnets on display at the checkout counter.
We remain quiet on our way back to the car, and on towards our next destination, the only sounds between us the impersonal instructions of the GPS on my phone. We're halfway to the country club – and a good ten minutes early for our appointment, at that – when I finally emerge out of our sweet, companionable silence.
"Faith showed me some sketches of Annalise yesterday."
He surfaces out of silence too, with a long, deep breath, "Yes, I know."
I blink, "You do?"
"Aye."
"But how?"
He smiles, ruefully, "Annalise and my wedding photo useda be in the hall, where all the girls would look at it. She carried a bouquet of white peonies that day, and Faith in particular has allus loved that bouquet. That was the flower she was tryin' ta paint in white, an' showed ye yesterday. Stands ta reason she'd be paintin' aught else she's been wantin' ta for such a long time, now she's allowed ta."
I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to keep up with him, "Wait. . . peonies? Faith said roses, and I thought she was painting roses. . ."
He shakes his head, and sighs, "I hadta start calling 'em roses, because Bree wouldna stop makin' a "pee on me" joke every time I said the real name."
Somewhat indelicately, I snort. Jamie only grins.
"Aye. An' then Faith picked up on calling them roses, an' I've hadta wait until Joanie is old enough ta understand before I c'n set things straight."
"I see. . ." I pause a bit, making sure I phase this next bit carefully, "Jamie, if you don't mind telling me, what exactly was the deal you made with Faith about her being allowed to paint her mother?"
He gives me a brief, slightly confused look, but then shrugs, "She could paint her mam as much as she wanted, jus' so long as she didna show me, or let me see any of them, until I asked her to show me, which I will eventually, because seein' her mam hurts me right now, but it probably won't always."
"And she agreed to that?"
"Aye. Gladly too."
"Were any of the other girls there when you made that agreement?"
"Bree was, aye. But why?"
I smile grimly, and tell him about the little rehearsed routine of hiding the paintings that I witnessed yesterday. He barks a laugh,
"Hah! So that was what I saw them doin' a few days ago. They were shiftin' books about, in and out of drawers in their bedroom. Didnae seem tae make sense, but t'was so harmless, I let it go."
"Yes. They must have been. . . well, practicing." I tell him about the times I saw them practicing too.
"The sleekit wee beasties! An' ye say Sal was in on it?"
"Yes. She was a very calculated distraction."
"Braw wee thing."
"I. . . I suppose so. . ." I hesitate again, "But do you think we ought to let them think they're hiding things from you?"
He shrugs, "Why no'? I've asked them to."
"I know, it's just. . . and I am impressed, don't get me wrong. . . but it sets a precedent, Jamie. Should we let them have something like this, where they feel like they're. . . getting away with something all the time?"
He frowns contemplatively, "I see what ye mean. But they were happy ta show off the whole thing in front of ye, ye say?"
"Oh yes. They didn't even try to distract me."
"An' they havena hid that routine they worked out either, if we both saw them before they did it for real. Dinna see why they shouldn't feel like they're getting away with something, Sorcha – especially when they aren't. I mean, didn't ye ever do somethin' just to feel like ye were getting' away wi' it? Readin' under the covers? Watchin' an R-rated movie at a friend's house? Lookin' up dirty words in the dictionary?"
I giggle and nod, "Oh yes, and then falling asleep before chapter two, but with the flashlight still on and wasting your batteries, or really not liking the blood and guts of that action movie you thought you'd love, or getting distracted by all the interesting definitions of things you like, and forgetting to even look up what "fuck" meant?"
He snorts, and laughs at my frankness, "Aye."
"But none of those things took this kind of concerted effort to do, either."
"True enough. But then, in this case they are "getting away" with helping me, Sorcha. An' that's no small thing. Changes the whole aspect of it, wouldnae ye say?"
"I would, of course," I nod, "I'm just worried about the precedent, is all. What if they know that smoking pot, or somesuch thing would make Da sad, and so they should hide it, and then it's okay?"
"I was verrah clear that I would want ta see the pictures one day, Sorcha. I'm no' tellin' them' it's okay ta keep secrets of bad things – or, at least, I very specifically tried no' ta tell them that – I am sayin' please consider my feelings about this one good thing, an' if ye do, ye can have it."
I nod, slowly, "Alright. But I think both of us should check in sometime soon, and make sure they understand that distinction. And reinforce it, either way"
"Aye. Agreed," he takes my hand briefly, and grips it tight. "I never kent jus' how much I'd love co-parenting with someone who cares just as much about the girls as I do, Sorcha. But I do. Love it, I mean. It's such a comfort, knowin' ye're there, backing me up, but also coming at things from yer own angle, and thinkin' your own thoughts. I've felt alone everywhere these past ten years, but never so much so as when I kent there were four wee chicks relying on me, an' only me, an' there was quite literally no other option within the realms of decency." He draws his brows together for a second, "Mrs. Bug did help a lot wi' that, a'course. But I canna talk to her like I can ta ye, an' she doesna challenge me like you do, Sorcha."
I grin mischievously, "Like a bit of a challenge, do you, my lad?"
His voice lowers, and his eyes sparkle, "Oh aye, ye ken I do."
"Well, the sixth hole is par four, so that ought to do it."
He blinks at me, somewhere between confusion and incredulity, until the GPS tells us to turn in to the country club.
Then, he laughs so long, we almost miss our appointment.
After a short, but very nice little tour, Jamie decides not to sign up for membership just yet, and retaining his visitor status, we go to the lounge to have lunch. He scrolls on his phone, relaxing and eating, and laughing with me in between times. We linger in the classically paneled, pleasantly scented room, enjoying the views of lawn and trees, and relaxed, happy people. I tell him a few stories about coming here with my dad, and he comes back with stories of the actual Royal and Ancient golf course at St. Andrews.
"An' I promise I'll take ye there sometime, Sassenach."
"I look forward to it," I say, and take his arm, and let him escort me back to the car.
We decide to get a big order of vegetable and seafood tempura at Himeko's, and leave the Basque bakery for next time.
Back home, we sneak in quietly, and manage to make it upstairs without disturbing the girls in the living room, or interrupting their viewing of, from the sounds of it, Moana.
We hunch over the coffee table in our room, eating wonderfully savoury, crunchy, deep-fried food, dipped in delicious sauce, and accompanied by Himeko's signature bright and delightful seaweed and sesame salad, and try not to giggle at each other too much. If anyone has "gotten away" with things today, it is certainly us.
Eventually, we snuggle up on our couch, replete and satisfied with a wonderful day off.
Jamie is running his fingers through my hair, and sighing occasionally, in such obvious pleasure I haven't wanted to interrupt him. But I'm starting to get sleepy, and I really do need to do this now. . .
"Jamie love?"
"Aye, Sorcha?"
"I have a very important few questions to ask you."
"Oh aye? Weel, go ahead then."
"Okay. Are you happy with today, Jamie?"
"Happy? Taday was a delight, Sassenach. I havenae had such a good time in my own home city for ages."
I smile, "Good. And we did just as you wanted today, yes? You didn't feel pushed or prodded or obligated to go anywhere, or do anything that you weren't one-hundred percent up for?"
I hear slight confusion in his voice, "Aye, but. . ."
"So, you would be comfortable describing today as for you, yes? About you, even?"
"Aye."
I sit up, and turn in his arms, so I can look him full in the eyes, "Alright. Now, this is the important one. Tell me, Jamie – do you feel like a pig?"
Chapter Fifty Three
"I. . ." Jamie gapes at me for a second, in wild confusion, "I. . . weel. No' especially. I mean, I havena overeaten or anything. . ." he tilts his head, "B. . . but. . ."
I nod, and pat his arm reassuringly, "Good. Now then. Your birthday is in three days." He tenses, but I shake my head quickly, "And I have not planned anything for it, don't worry. But I just couldn't let you go on thinking that wanting a day to yourself is a selfish thing, Jamie. It isn't. Or, it doesn't have to be. Today was all about you, and we both had fun, and the girls are happy and taken care of, and you don't feel like a pig. If all that is true after being given a day all to yourself, then you don't have to feel like one for wanting a day all to yourself either. Your birthday, or any other day." I kiss him, lightly, on the cheek, "That's all."
I turn around again, and snuggle into his side like I was before, "And besides - I love giving you attention. I can hardly wait until you need a day off again. Seeing you happy is one of the most wonderful things I've ever witnessed, my love. I'm wild to give you so much more than a day it's not even funn-"
I break off as his arms go around me like two collapsing sides of a wave at the beach, enfolding and surrounding, not just holding. His face burrows into my hair, and I feel his chest shudder, even as I realize I didn't think of water accidentally – for a distinct dampness has now reached the side of my head, and starts running down my neck. . .
"Oh! Jamie!" I twist, and hold him to me, my own chest shuddering a few times in self-reproach, "I didn't mean to make you cry, oh darling. . ."
He splutters a laugh into my check, "Will ye jus' stop, Claire? I dinnae ken how much more perfection I c'n take. . ." He swallows, then pulls me as close as I can physically get without one of us taking our clothes off, "Just hold me, woman. Remind me I'm Human, and no' some auld faery god, given new life and breath and power by his druid witch of a wife. Hold me, an' let me find myself in your arms, Claire. Hold me close, an' let me forget. An' remember. An' forget. An' be. . ."
He stretches out full-length on the couch, and I settle myself atop him, pressing my legs, and arms, and body to his, then sliding our palms together and holding all his fingers between my own. I snuggle my face against his collarbone, and kiss what I can reach of his neck.
Strange, almost otherworldly silence settles around us.
Into it, he speaks, with a voice not unlike his own, but with a sort of wonder and strength behind it so that it is also not in the least my Jamie's voice.
Or, perhaps it is. . .
Another Jamie. . . but still mine. . .
Another me. . . but still his. . .
Another time. . . but still ours. . .
"For ten years, I was dead. So small I could hide underneath a blade of grass, mo duinne. Such a shadow of a man I could slip into the earth an' no' be missed. I was fog. I was air. A ghost in all but name. If no' for my wee flock of chicks, I'd have faded, dissipated, been forgotten by everyone, including myself. An' there, in the dark, ye found me. T'was so sudden – so bright! What a light there is in ye – Sorcha, my Sorcha! A golden, summer light, all flourishing an' free. So bold, an' unafraid. So pure, and clear, and strong. . . an' all I ever wanted. . ."
He presses several kisses to my forehead.
"For ye, I'll no' longer be a man of mist, but become as sure as stone. I'll roar, when all I think I can manage is a whisper. When my soul wants ta hide, I'll fly. When my heart fades, I'll breath fire. I'll move mountains. I'll stand an' fight all the horrors of Hell. I'll curse Heaven wi' my last breath, an' still come back from the dead. All for one more moment in your light."
Now he's made me cry, but I try to hide it. . .
"I canna help but heal in your presence, Sorcha. I've stopped askin' why. I don' know. It's too much for me. It's beyond my ken. All I say now is thank ye, god or fate or the whole universe all together, for sending me the rarest of women."
He tilts my chin up to his, and smooths away my tears with the lightest, sweetest touch, and then kisses me, like the first cool breeze after a hot day, just as the light turns from mirror-bright to copper gold. His arms go around me again, this time like swathes of long, sweet grass, rich and soft and welcoming.
And the warm, dear earth opens up into a glade on either side of us, and trees grow all around, beech, and fir, and rowan, and oak, and ash, and larch. Herbs carpet the soil, thyme, and lady's smock, and clover, and primroses, and mint. A wild profusion of forget-me-nots spring up in a circle around us, carrying us gently away into their scent.
And then the world is dark. One by one, in the soft, velvet blankness, appear points of silver light, and then ruby, and sapphire, and jade, and aquamarine, and topaz, and opal, and citrine, and amethyst and garnet. We float among them, jewels in the heavens, ourselves neither planets nor stars, but something new, and glowing, and good.
And then we are ourselves again, in our bedroom, on our couch, and my husband is kissing me, thankful for a good day, better memories, and the best of meanings.
He pulls back, then settles me close against him, holding my head, and stroking my back, up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing, reassuring rhythm.
We don't speak.
For just a little while, there is nothing left to say.
Chapter Fifty Four
As Jamie and I pull up to the Boston branch of the U.S. Immigration Office, finally on our way to our Green Card interview, and hopefully making our lives together fully official at last, I am struck by the very distinct feeling of something being missing.
My mind scrambles to figure out what it could possibly be. . .
We are both neatly dressed and fully caffeinated – two things I positively insist on being before I interact with even the slightest portion of the U.S. government – so that isn't it.
We are both in possession of all the official paperwork we have been instructed to bring, and a good deal more that we haven't, but brought just in case. We've even got the few of the girls' official documents we've had time to get me listed on as second Legal Guardian, and my updated and Jamie's new country club membership cards – which he only finished making up his mind about getting two days ago – and upon which we are listed as married.
So that isn't it either.
We have spent a very significant portion of the week since Jamie's not-birthday studying up particularly heavily on all the questions we're likely to be asked today - and from toothbrushes to t-shirts, from travel to tonsillitis, we now know just about all of each other's preferences, histories, plans, wants, needs, and physical and financial capabilities. We've talked about Michigan, movies, malt vinegar and moon landings. Potted plants, peripatetics, ping-pong and Plantagenets. Allspice, androgyny, alt-rock and antediluvian mammals. Basket weaving, bolero ties, bongo drums, and badminton. Neither of us like licorice, we both would like to visit Peru, and Jamie prefers American women's soccer to American men's football, while I don't much like either of them. I like pesto on pizza and he doesn't. He likes squid ink pasta and I don't. He often sleeps on his side, but never on his stomach. I sometimes sleep on my stomach, but most commonly on my left side. Jamie uses a shampoo marketed to women, in the scent Lemon Zest Curl Care. I use a leave-in conditioner marketed to men, in the scent Thyme Out Frizz. We would both gladly adopt a dog. He would like an herb and vegetable garden - I am ambivalent. I am fascinated by the historical implications of so called "bog butter" – he is ambivalent. Neither of us like using grocery store plastic bags.
There might be some details we've missed – no doubt there are – but on the whole, I can't think of anything which would make me feel as if something – let alone something important – was actually missing. . .
So that can't be it.
We're here in good time, the weather is good, the line we have to wait in is good – or good enough – and the office is clean, and cool, and not at all noisy or crowded.
But it can't possibly be crowds I'm missing, can it? I've never even been to these offices before, and while they are not unlike Leoch's office spaces, those were hardly ever crowded either.
So what do I feel is missing?
We slept alright last night, got up on time, and had a perfectly ordinary breakfast with the girls this morning. Nothing is the matter with the cats, or Mrs. Bug.
I told the girls all about my parents and Lamb three days ago, and they are all excited to meet them – except for Joanie, who is only meh, but mostly because she only half understands what the word "grandparents" means. Both Jamie and I think she'll warm up the minute she meets my mother. Bree in particular is absolutely wild to meet Lamb, and especially his libraries.
We both also told them that Da might need to take a long trip to Scotland after today, and if he did, we would have to go to Scotland if we wanted to see him, and we might have to stay there. . .
Bree and Fay had only shrugged. They were born in Scotland, and still have a few memories of it. It's another home to them, and the prospect of Jamie going there before them, and us joining him later was not any kind of a shock or a stretch to them. They were sorry they might not see Jamie for a little while, but time is still a very flexible concept to them, so there was hardly any pushback.
For Sal it was a little rougher – life without Da every single day is a bit more difficult to understand when you're very-nearly six, but a trip and visiting she did understand, and was mostly okay with.
Wee Jo just clung to me, and to Jamie when he told them in his turn, the sweet dear-heart understanding the idea of leaving, but without understanding any of the reasons why, or being able to look forward to a reunion.
But nevertheless, the girls are as prepared as we can make them for either outcome of today's interview.
So that's not what's missing either.
I sigh a little as Jamie seats me in the waiting area, and goes up to the nearest vaguely relevant-looking counter and says we have an appointment.
I suppose it doesn't really matter what I feel is missing, just so long as nothing actually is. . .
Jamie pays for something, and brings a numbered receipt back to where I'm sitting. He settles into the chair next to mine, to wait alongside me, twitching his knee and twining and untwining his fingers with mine in nervous fits and starts. I pat his thigh and peck his chin, but I can't bring myself to actually say I know things will be alright, because I don't know that, do I? The seconds lengthen, stretching out until they seem like hours, and minutes feel like days. Very soon, I am entirely unsure how long we've been here. Inside my head, it feels almost like weeks already. . .
I'm just about to bring up an audiobook on my phone, if for no other reason than a much-needed distraction, when a woman comes out from a little side door, and calls out the numbers on Jamie's receipt.
We rise and follow her, back through some highly dreary hallways, until we reach a long double row of closed off cubicles, branching in either direction. The woman gestures for Jamie to go to the first open door down the left side, and she murmurs for me to follow her down the right side.
With a nervous half-smile and a nod to each other, Jamie and I part.
My guide leaves me in a small and almost oppressively bleak little room, with no more than a desk, two chairs, a computer and a filing cabinet in it. There is a calendar pinned to the wall, with an utterly anonymous landscape pictured on it. I don't have too much time to lament the horrid aesthetics of this place though, because my guide left me with an impressive and quite intimidating pile of forms I must now fill out.
I pull a pen out of my pocket, and sigh. Was the world a better place before we wasted half a cord's worth of wood pulp every time someone wanted to do something officially? Is this starkly monumental, overbearingly civilized way of doing things really better than the seat-of-your-pants swords and shotguns, blood and guts and gore and murder and action and adventure of times gone by?
Yes, very probably it is.
In ages past, Jamie and I would have been married by blood vow or something, and no one would care about my birthdate, or current weight, or at all about my gender identity, only that I was a virgin, or if I was not, that Jamie knew he was purchasing previously used goods, and whether or not he had been properly compensated for his loss. What countries we were born in would have mattered far less than what lords or kings our fathers had pledged allegiance to, and if those distant mighty ones were currently in conflict with each other. It wouldn't have mattered if I wanted to sleep with him on our wedding night or not, and he very probably wouldn't even have thought to offer me the option not to.
It would have been a hard bargain, cruel, and cold, and harsh, and not at all concerned with whether or not we loved each other.
Even being born into wealth might not have saved me. In some eras of history, it very likely would not have.
In virtually all eras of history there was nothing that could have saved Jamie. What the man thought or felt about his marriage was so clearly always assumed to be positive, or if not, that he would exercise his agency for divorce as a matter of course. Any situation at all like his with Annalise would not even have been on the books as a possibility.
But I'm sure it happened. I'm sure there were women back then who used and manipulated and mutilated feelings, and used men just as cruelly as some men used women. People are just the same as they ever were. Some good, some bad, and some very, very ugly. It is the world that has changed, not us Humans.
Now, the process is cold, to be sure, and the surroundings not nearly as cheerful as they might be, but at least both Jamie and I have a recourse. At least if we did not love each other, we wouldn't be stuck with each other.
At least there is hope.
No one will die today - not even if the worst happens. No one's soul will be crushed, and no one's heart torn out or torn open.
At the very worst, all that will happen is we must wait. Just that. Wait to see each other again. It would be hard. Very hard. But not cruel. Not horrifying.
Not deadly.
And since in this time the entire matter hinges on whether or not Jamie and I love each other, I have every hope we needn't be separated at all.
I sign my name three times and initial twice on the last of the almost interminable forms, and, like magic, my interviewer appears. She takes the pile of papers with a cheerful, but somehow still flat smile, and puts them to one side.
Then, she starts talking to me, I'm sure in a way that was supposed to sound reassuring and natural, but to my sensibilities, is anything but. She sounds like she is reading off a teleprompter, but has also memorized the script. So little of her mind or heart is engaged in what she is saying that her words slide right off me – like they are the beeps and whirrings of some machine I do not know the use for, and cannot operate.
Eventually, she winds down, "And so, miss, you see, we must take your opinions, see your knowledge, all that kind of thing you see. Just to make sure, as you know, that you didn't marry the man for convenience, you see?"
I nod, quite bemusedly, "Yes. I understand. That's. . . what the appointment was for, yes? A Green Card interview?
"Yes. But we must ask. . . indelicate things. You see."
"Of course."
She looks blankly at me, as though still slightly dubious of my understanding the full weight of the questions she must ask.
I sigh.
"Six inches soft, nine inches hard."
She blinks.
"What?"
"Six inche-"
"I heard you, miss, but what do you mean?"
"What do you think I mean?"
She blinks again, but her eyes are so dull about it I know she's heard brides say such things before. Many, many times.
I feel a little bit of pity for her.
Not much.
But a little. . .
I sigh again, "They're my husband's rules for how to properly proportion the fillings in seaweed-wrapped sushi rolls. Hard things like carrot or cucumber are easier to control, so you can lay out the full nine inches of them – always remembering that a little bit should poke out of each end – and soft things like avocado or chopped spicy tuna will squish quite a bit as you roll, so spread them out in two three-inch long heaps a little nearer to the center of the sheet than the edges. Six inches total. Never overfill, grip lightly while rolling, and add sauce to finish."
She blinks again, and doesn't even smile. . .
I sigh once more, "I don't care about indelicate questions. Let's just move the process along, shall we?"
"Very well."
She takes up a pen and a clipboard, and then the interview questions begin in earnest.
Most of the questions are easy. Some I have to think about for a minute or two. A few I simply do not know. For an interview which will direct the course of our lives, this has been shockingly dull so far. . .
And then, finally, an impossible question.
"What was the name of Jamie's first pet?"
I smile a little. "Jamie grew up on a farm. He had whole barns full of horses and pigs and cows and ducks and chickens and sheep. And the house was full of dogs and cats and frogs and turtles and birds and mice. Which animal among them all you could call "first" is quite impossible to say." My voice goes a little dreamy as I recall several of the wonderful stories Jamie has told me about his childhood, "His first horse was called Thora, if that helps. But he'd had a dozen or so dogs and cats by that time, and helped to bottle-feed who knows how many lambs. They call them pet lambs when they're bottle fed, you know. And they're often given names. Clover and Savory were two, as I recall. He said they lived until he was fourteen, and came to him when he called their names, like dogs do. And his family are the main hosts of the local mouse show-breeding club. He'd had at least three show-winners by the time he was seventeen. They maintain five best-in-breed bloodlines of mice in his hometown. I'm told that's quite noteworthy."
Once again, my interviewer only blinks, but I get the feeling that this unconventional answer went over at least a little better than the previous one.
She opens her mouth to ask the next question, but suddenly, she is interrupted by a hard, reverberating shout from down the hall, only a little muffled by all the intervening cubicle walls -
"I dinna ken how often I mus' tell ye – I. LOVE. MY. WIFE!"
Then there is a clattering thump, and a series of protesting door hinges, followed by a succession of viciously slammed doors.
**squeek**BANG**
**squeeeeek**BANG**
**squeeek**BANG**
The sounds keep getting closer and closer, and I just know – Jamie is looking for me.
I look apologetically at my interviewer, and, with a deep sigh, get to my feet.
**squeeeek**BANG**
That one was only a few doors down. . .
I suddenly realize exactly what it was that I felt was missing about today. . .
Of course. Of course. Stupid of me not to have thought of it first thing, really.
Drama.
Everything was going along so officially, so dully, there wasn't any drama.
**squeeeeeeek**BANG**
Well. There's plenty of it on its way now, isn't there, Beauchamp?
I set my jaw, and stand right in front of the cubicle door as it opens.
**squeee-
Chapter Fifty Five
"James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser - that is enough!"
I jerk to a halt, and look down at the firmly set chin, tight lips, and stern eyes of my wife.
I've never seen her look so implacable.
Then again, I've never felt quite so violently wild as I do at this moment. A little implacability might not be a bad thing. . .
I reach out and grab her to me, speaking all in rush into the wild tangle of her hair,
"They keep asking me. . . over and over again. . . they keep implying. . . my god Sorcha – that I'm using ye – that. . . that I only wed ye for. . . for. . . that I'd. . ."
My voice breaks, and I can't even let myself think what some of the questions implied I was using my wife for. . .
At the mere thought that anyone, anywhere, would think I could treat anyone at all like Annalise, or Geneva, or Duke, or Jack treated me, my stomach churns, and my vision goes red. I know it is a trauma response, but I still cannot stop it. Long ago, I swore, before God, heaven and earth, the devil, and hell itself, that I would never become my abusers. I would never be like them in any way. And through it all, I've clung to that vow - even when it worked against me - even when breaking it would have been fully justified, I've clung to it, closer than I've held any lover. . .
Until Claire, of course. . .
The vows I've taken with her are more important to me now.
But the other vow is still there, and still happened first, and still drives my mind and heart in so many deep and important ways. . .
Claire's arms are steady around me, and her voice is cool and logical,
"And if someone was using me like that, you'd be pretty darn glad someone was asking those questions, wouldn't you? Over and over again? In an official setting, with legal consequences in the offing? Wouldn't you, Jamie?"
My whole self shudders, and I hold her tighter, "I. . . of course, Sorcha. . . I mean, I. . . I mean yes, but. . ."
"Jamie, has anyone asked you anything really untoward? Or has everyone around you simply been doing their job?"
My face blazes, because I know the answer. One half of my mind cowers in shame, while the other half screams in self-reproach. But my insulted pride isn't ready to give up on imperious rage just yet. . .
I sigh deeply, "Oh, I dinnae ken what all annyun is aimin' at. . . I. . . it's all such a muddle o' nonsense. . . I. . . I cannae. . ."
She raises her head, and gives me a long look, right in my eyes, straight through to my soul. She knows what's going on. I cannot hide from her, and frankly, I don't even want to try to do so.
"You can, Jamie."
It wasn't true until she said it. But it is now.
The boiling, churning fury inside me doesn't stop, but now I am able to float to the top of it, and ride the swells. I go a little queasy – a little muzzy and irritable and sneeringly rude – but it is leagues better than drowning in the depths of vicious revenge.
Her arms twitch tighter around me for a second, "You must. And you will. They're only fulfilling their responsibilities, my love. Now. Go see to yours."
Instead of the hateful faces of Jack, and Geneva, and Duke, and Annalise, I bring up memories of the faces of Joanie, and Brianna, and Marsali, and Faith. Giving the girls a good life - that is the very best revenge. And the best way to give them a good life, is to give them two parents who love them.
And the best way to do that is to swallow my pride, and go quietly back into my interview cubical, and be straightforward and calm and businesslike about whatever it is I am asked.
I sigh, and shake my head.
"I wish there was a different way, Sorcha."
"I know, my love."
"I want ta go home."
"I know."
"I hate bein' poked an' prodded at."
"I know."
I take a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of her hair.
"I dinnae want ta stop holdin' ye."
"I know."
Somehow, her knowing is more than my knowing. When she knows what is wrong, I can do something about it.
Finally, my fierce, needy rage retreats, leaving behind only tired, sorrowful me. I cup my wife's face in my hands for a minute, and kiss her, softly, and long. Too long for it to be a chaste kiss, but with far too much restraint for it to be anything else.
It's the kind of kiss I could only ever give my soulmate.
I am fortunate, then, that this is exactly what she is. . .
I sigh again, draw myself up, set my jaw firmly, and stride back to my interview cubicle.
I sit down, and send a look over to the officious little punter behind the desk, just daring him to say anything. I'll admit I may have overreacted, but this slimy little shite is a big reason why. He knows I could flatten him with one fist - and I am certain that's at least part of where the sneering little smirk he's been asking the questions with has been coming from – but we both know that's not any sort of an excuse. He's been trying to tick me off this whole time. We both know that too. A little squirt like him isn't usually handed power over someone like me – and I don't know that in his place I wouldn't be reveling in my discomfiture just as much as he is - but shite's gotten real now. Just let him ask one more thing about Claire, and responsibilities be damned, I'm going to teach this bawheid a thing or two about the Scottish temper, and its relationship to Scottish honour – and exactly why it is that we've practically made up the entire front line of every British army since the eighteenth century. We generally have two settings – pissed off, and "let's get the feckin' bastard". Currently, this particular feckin' bastard has no clue how lucky he is that Claire was both within my reach, and deeply personally invested in getting me back down to merely pissed off. He's dealing with a Fraser, and a Laird, and he has no idea how close he's gotten to a hospital visit a half dozen times already.
But now he does seem to know he's pushed me as far as it is safe to do - and very probably a little further – and the rest of the interview goes about as well as it can. I give clipped, emotionless answers most of the time, but we get through them with a minimum of annoyance to either of us.
Then he leaves at last, and I sit in the ugly, fluorescent-lit, uncomfortably stuffy silence for a lot longer than I thought I would. I don't want to be here, but I also don't want to move.
Eventually, I make it back out to the check-in counter, where we wait even longer for our assessment and results.
After a while, Claire says she can't take it anymore, and will wait in the car. I squeeze her hand, and watch her go.
I stare blankly at a water stain on the ceiling for approximately seventeen years.
Or twenty minutes. It's genuinely difficult to tell. . .
In the end, they call me back to the counter, and show me the results. I blink at them, hardly believing what they say.
Then they hand me two printouts, two receipts, and several folders of paperwork, and, dazed, I make my way out to the parking lot.
The heat and position of the sun tells me it is still an hour or two before lunchtime.
All of that took three hours, at most. Three hours. That's all.
You could tell me right now it had taken two hundred years, and I would heartily believe you.
I get into the car, and sit heavily. I stare at the driver's side sun-visor, not knowing how to start.
I have to tell Claire, of course I do, but. . .
It's such an. . . impossible thing to say out loud.
I twist my eyes tightly closed, and run a hand across my forehead.
"Weel. We passed."
My voice is so flat, she doesn't react, knowing there's more to come.
"But a violent outburst is an automatic fail."
Chapter Fifty Six
I stare at my husband, in blank-faced, stunned disbelief for a good deal longer than I think either of us expects me to.
Then, I do what I know is the last thing either of us expected.
I burst out laughing.
It is very slightly manic, but mostly, it is genuine, heartfelt laughter. It takes me several minutes to get a hold on myself. When I finally do, I gesture, vaguely mockingly, "It was the best of times – it was the worst of times – at the same time!" I snort, and shake my head, "Well, this is why we made several backup plans, yes?"
"Aye," he hands me a quite impressive armload of paperwork, and begins to buckle himself in, "I'm to be issued a valid US passport, but they intend on sending it tae my contact address in Scotland. I will, at the very least, need ta fly there ta properly claim it. There's a whole load of temporary an' provisional an' probationary things in that pile there, ta make it all possible. And while we do meet all the requirements for a Green Card, there is an active impediment in the way now – an official black mark, requiring some combination of reassessment, stamps from judges, and payment of fines, and possibly including temporary deportation." He starts the car, and pulls out of the parking lot, "I'm to report back in four days with a valid Boston to Edinburgh plane ticket, just in case this is deemed necessary."
I nod, "Right. Sounds like Plan C, mostly. With all the improbable bits from Plans A and B still left in," I chuckle some more, "This is wild stuff, Jamie – who would believe it?"
He smirks, "Charles Dickens? Like ye said? Granted Boston and Edinburgh aren't the Two Cities he meant, but there's quite a Tale to be told of them regardless, wouldn't ye say?"
"I'd say th-"
I break off abruptly.
"Sorcha?"
I blink, and shake my head, trying to clear it, "I. . . Jamie. . . A Tale Of Two Cities. . . it takes place in Paris and London, right?"
"Aye."
"During the French Revolution?"
"A good deal of it, aye."
"'Tis a far, far better thing a do now than I have ever done, and a far, far better death I go to. . ." etc?"
"Aye. But what. . . ?"
"I don't know. Only. . ."
I look down at the palms of my hands, "It's only that. . . something about that story. A revolution. England. Paris. A doomed king. Two men who look almost exactly like each other, but are deeply, fundamentally different. An adult daughter a father has never seen. Treason, heroism, romance, self-sacrifice, tragedy, fate. . . bloody death and miraculous escape. . . survival. . . hope. . . separation. . . reunion. . . and. . . I. . . I don't know. It feels like. . . like the memory of a dream. A different story entirely, and yet. . . not a story at all."
He shrugs, "Daresay we've all had déjà-vu from time to time."
I remember what Mrs. Graham said about soulmates, and the fabric of history. . .
"Yes. That's probably all it is."
I give myself a shake, and shift my focus to all the paperwork on my lap.
It takes many minutes of intense reading, but as far as I can tell from the general look of it, if we just went with things as they are now, we'd be apart six months. . .
I sigh a little, somewhat lost in the legal-speak. I'm very glad we've settled on Plan C. . . I'm very glad we made Plan C. I'm very glad we-
"Sorcha?" Jamie's small, quiet voice interrupts my musings.
"Yes, love?"
"If. . . if ye'er going ta shout at me, would ye do it before we get home?"
My jaw drops, "Shout at you? Jamie! I'd never. . . not for. . . Jamie! My love! Why would I-"
"Because it's my fault we-"
I roll my eyes, "We're a bit beyond attributing fault here, don't you think? We both went into this knowing hard questions would be asked, and your somewhat erratic emotional state. You could make it just as much my fault, maybe, for not seeing to it you were adequately prepared!"
He scoffs, "But that wasnae your responsibility, Sorcha!"
"Oh no? When I know how much of an emotional tangle you've been in, and for how long, and just how much our marriage is a keystone point in your current emotional identity? You don't think I bear some responsibility for making sure you're ready for a highly stressful situation?"
"Weel. Mebbe some, but-"
"When I'm the one who has more strength and flexibility in this area for the moment? Who can take - and survive - a hit or two? I'm your emotional bodyguard right now, Jamie, and I take that position very seriously. You do your internal work – that's your responsibility. I protect you from whatever outside forces might disturb that work, how-ever, and where-ever I can – that's my responsibility. Together, we reinforce each other. There will be times I'll need to do some internal work, and you'll be my bodyguard – that's how these things go, my love. There' no point in putting any energy into whose fault something is, just like there's no point in owing each other. We're past that. Have we both made mistakes? Very probably. Will we both make mistakes in future? Absolutely. Anger and blame won't fix them."
His jaw and eyes relax a little, but he is still gripping the steering wheel terribly hard. . .
"And besides all of that, I am not the shouting kind, Jamie. I thought you knew that by now? Cold fury when it's called for, sure. Biting sarcasm on occasion, perhaps. But am I likely to say anything in those sorts of ways to you, here, now, when I know what hells you've been through?"
"No. Ye wouldna." He takes a deep breath, and slowly loosens his death-grip on the steering wheel. He nods at the pile of paper in my lap. "I just have a hard time believing ye're so accepting of this, Sorcha."
"Well. . ." I sigh, deeply, and decide to finally address the elephant in the room. "Maybe we deserve it, Jamie."
Now his jaw drops, "What?"
"We have just lied on official documents. . ."
"About the exact date we met. Nothin' else. An' the day we put was the day I read about the wind-up of your case wi' Dougal. An' ye had known about Alex MacKenzie for months by then. That was the first day we both knew of the existence of the other. The day we "met"."
"Which is a stretch, Jamie, and you know it. A wildly impossible stretch. We met that first night at Leoch, and got married two days later, because you needed assistance to keep a valid passport. Yes, I was in love with you from the first moment, and yes, you weren't far behind at all – to the point it would be very, very, very difficult to say you married me under false pretenses – but we have still lied on official documents, Jamie! You're a recovering Catholic – and were just willing to take the entire blame on yourself - are you telling me you don't think we might deserve a little Purgatory?"
He pauses long enough for me to know some part of him does think exactly that.
"Weel. . . I still plan ta fight. . ."
"Oh fight, yes – of course. Plan C all the way! I don't mean we deserve to give up. Just that. . . well. . .
"Yes? Well what?"
I lean back in my chair, and stare at the passing trees a while, "Whatever angle you want to take on it, we've been given the easy universe, Jamie. You and I. We've got the one-star Sudoku. We're playing modded Skyrim with console commands. That doesn't mean things haven't been hard, or bad, or even tragic for us – but it does mean there are so many burdens we do not have to carry. So many years of suffering we don't have to go through. So many trials and tortures that simply will not happen to us. I just feel like. . . like. . ." I shake my head, "Like we ought to be thankful for such an obstacle as this. At most, six months apart? In a world where Facetime and Amazon exist? Let alone private jets at our disposal? A Tale Of Two Cities? What rot! I have no idea why I even thought to quote from it to begin with. The richest and most powerful people in ages past would have invaded continents – obliterated continents - to get a tiny fraction of what we carry around in our pockets every day without thinking about it! Yes, spending some time separated would be hard. Neither of us would like it, and it would be rough on the girls. But moonstruck teenagers manage to have long distance relationships that survive six months apart, Jamie. Refugee children get separated from their parents not knowing if they'll ever see them again. This situation of ours might not be the definition of fun, but it's still life on easy mode!"
He doesn't answer that, but he does look very contemplative for the rest of the way home.
The girls run to meet us at the door – their faces both excited and wary that Da is home in the middle of the day.
Jamie picks up wee Jo, and kisses her heartily on the cheek, "Well, my chickadees, how would ye all like ta go an' meet your grandparents for lunch?"
Chapter Fifty Seven
Jamie's second appearance at the Big House is very nearly the opposite of his first. He picks up Jo, takes Sal's hand, and, leaving the twins to me, raps smartly on the door. He is the one who leads us inside when Young Alec answers. It is he who calls out a greeting to Old Alec as we pass through the transitional house on our way to my parents' wing. It is he who points out pictures and other details to the girls, so they are not frightened by such a big, new, empty-feeling place. It is he who wonders out loud what cook has made for lunch.
His whole attitude - the way he carries himself, the way he talks to Old and Young Alec, the way he confidently steers the girls through corridors he's only seen once before himself – all show me a side of James Fraser I have only been blessed to witness tiny glimpses of before now. All of a sudden, the title of Laird does not sit on him like some stale relic or a macabre afterthought – he is Laird Broch Tuarach – used to land, used to servants, used to labyrinthine hallways, used to status, used to command, used to power. It is so incredibly clear that last time he was merely shocked into awkwardness, and frightened into timidity – and equally clear that he will never be so by the Big House or my family ever again. Rather the opposite. He is going to enjoy being my parents' son-in-law.
I have worried, once or twice in these past weeks, if Jamie really was the ideal man to bring into my incredibly strange, multi-faceted, many-chambered life. There are so many versions of me, and most of them seemingly have no contact with any of the others. I have lived my life in boxes – the businesswoman box, the personal time box, the home box, the Big House box, the childhood memories box, the newsworthy public figure box, the goals box, the hopes and dreams box. . .
Other than myself and my family, Jamie is the first person who has ever comfortably fit into more than exactly one of them – let alone them all. But I suppose it's true – when someone is determined to love you, they will love all of you, instantly and unquestioningly, no matter what that ends up meaning.
I certainly know that was true in my case with Jamie. I shouldn't really be surprised it is in his case with me too.
No. I'm not surprised.
What I am is incredibly impressed. I didn't think I could get prouder of my husband. But in this particular instance, I don't think I'll ever get tired of being proven wrong. . .
We find mum and dad waiting for us in the big back sitting room, both pairs of French doors opened wide onto the lawn, a soft breeze bringing all the sweet scents in from the garden, and stirring the air around inside like the bubbles do in a gently fizzing soda.
They are sitting with Lamb out in the sunshine, as is their wont on fine days like this, but they hear our entrance – not that they could help it! - and instantly ready themselves for introductions.
Wisely, mum and dad both hang back a little, and let Lamb go first.
Bree, of course, leaps at him at once, and brings out her spyglass and asks "to see the dino-sour snails" almost immediately.
Lamb gives her the same tightly controlled smile he used to give me whenever I said something incredibly funny, but he was utterly determined I should not be laughed at.
"The ammonites will be very glad to meet you, Miss Bree – just as soon as it is polite for us to go and meet them. Will that do?" He offers her a hand to shake, formally, like a man making a contract with a serious business partner. He used to do that with me too, and it always had the same effect on me it has on Bee-bee now. She nods, takes his hand and shakes it, a tiny spark of joyful self-confidence glinting in her eyes.
I smile. That's the Lamb effect. There's nothing quite like being taken entirely seriously by a man like Lamb. It's like graduation day, and a trip to Disneyland and Narnia all at once. You feel capable of anything, in a world built just for you, and one that wants you to succeed. You aren't, of course, and the world isn't and doesn't. But as long as you're with Lamb, he manages to make things otherwise. Reality has always been a slightly flexible concept for Lamb. He's the sort of man who can bend the fabric of the universe in mostly any way he chooses, and, to the the world's and our great good fortune, Lamb's way is always one of pure, undiluted, instinctual and unconditional love. There's no wonder to me why he chose to give his life to history, instead of to a partner and a home of his own and a commonplace job. Choosing history was the only way he found to love everything, everywhere, at all times, from all times, for now, and on into the future. He's the most Human human I've ever met, and if I could be said to have a hero among the flawed, fallible lot of us, then Lamb is it.
He shakes hands with Fay next, and smiles and winks at blushing wee Joan, who buries her head shyly into Jamie's shoulder at all the new people, but still smiles back a little, and doesn't fuss at all.
Lamb doesn't push, and directs his attention to Jamie's other side.
"And may I ask for your name, young lady?" Lamb asks, the soul of politeness.
"Sally. . ." she says quietly, half hiding behind Jamie's leg. But Lamb has his effect, and so she still puts out one hand – formally, with her fingers down, like she is always seeing her beloved princesses do.
Ever the perfect gentleman, Lamb takes it, and bows over her hand like he's being introduced to a duchess.
"Charmed, my dear lady. Are there any dino-sours you want to be introduced to?"
She nods, and whispers. Lamb leans down to hear. Then he straightens back up, and says, quite solemnly, "Well. I don't think I've ever dug up any unicorn dragons, but I have a pre-Roman era aurochs's tooth carved with some mysterious runes. It's right out of Just So Stories. I've put it on a long fancy necklace just like they do in the story too – only on mine it's right next to a rattlesnake rattle, and an arrowhead made of glass that started its life in a volcano. Will that do?"
Sal hides her face in Jamie's thigh, but still nods and smiles.
By this time, dad has out a pack of cards, and is doing some wonderfully entertaining shuffling tricks. Both Fay and Sal look on, transfixed. I direct them over to him, and introduce them. He smiles, and invites them to sit on a couch. He sits across from them, spreads the cards out on the coffee table, and starts to do his repertoire of card magic.
Mum invites Jamie to sit next to her at the tea table, and she pours him out a tall glass of lemonade. Jamie offers Jo a wee walnut cookie, which she takes without comment. They start talking companionably about farmer's markets and old family recipes, and I am certain Jo will warm up to mum very soon.
I take Bree's hand again, and link my other arm into Lamb's waiting elbow.
"Well. The ammonites await!" I say.
Bree skips and jumps as we make the walk over to Lamb's wing, always hopping over any line across the floor, and stepping smartly in the middle of every square when it's tile, and every board when it's wood. The black and white marble in the foyer of the transition house gets a full-out game of hopscotch.
"I foresee a lot of chalk being used in the tennis courts very soon," Lamb says, smiling.
I smile back, "Oh yes. Most definitely."
"And probably a lot of plays and charades being done in the garden. And fishing being done in the pond. And tadpole-raising being done in the greenhouse."
I giggle lightly, "Those too."
"See here though," he gets Bree's attention, and frowns at her, mock-seriously, "You are not to play dolls with my Persian grave figurines. There are plenty of other things you may play with – you are not to touch those - is that understood?"
His tone is light, but he clearly means what he is saying.
Bree nods back cheerfully, "Only Sal likes dollies much anyway – though we all play Barbies when she wants to. There's cars and things for me, and play food and makeup and stuff for Fay, and Jo is happy if you give her one Barbie and a big bucket of Barbie shoes. Jo-jo might still be a baby, but she never loses Barbie shoes – she likes putting them on and taking them off, and mixing them up, and making Barbie wear one boot and one sandal and stuff like that. Jo-jo is so funny."
Lamb smiles reminiscently, no doubt remembering when I used to talk like Bree is doing now. All over the place, unfocused, but bright, and altogether personable.
"Well, all right then."
He taps her shoulder, and points her over to the big double doors that house the first big room of his museum.
"Would you like to unlock the doors?"
He holds out the big brass key.
Bree's eyes go wide, the key glowing golden in her vision, but looking at me for confirmation – her adventurous soul not entirely able to believe that dreams come true quite this easily.
I nod encouragingly, "Yes dear, go ahead."
She takes the key, and opens the lock, as slowly and as reverently as though she has just been given a free pass to Aladdin's cave.
Of course, it's Lamb's museum, so she's not entirely wrong. . .
This first big room is this house's converted library – with most of the built-in bookshelves made into well lighted display areas. The first big wall that greets you as you walk in has been divided into three sections – plant and animal fossils, minerals, and human-made artifacts. Only a tiny portion of the items in this first display room are ones Lamb has dug himself – instead they are the choicest things he has acquired over the years, either by being given them, or buying them from some of the most far-flung places in the world. There are pearls from Fiji, shells from Tasmania, crystalline geodes from Afghanistan, jade beads from India, pottery sherds from Finland, Crete, Orkney and Malta. There are hieroglyphed limestone chips from Egypt, carved alabaster votive idols from Syria, and, of course, a dozen or two museum quality ammonites, along with three or four pieces of ammolite, and one, complete, absolutely stunning opalized fossil, the full shell of which must be at least eighteen inches across. Right next to this, there is a small bronze dish with half a dozen much smaller opalized specimens, and beside that, a wooden tray with several still embedded in the rock where they were found. These are labeled as okay to touch, which I tell to a stunned, wide-eyed Bree.
She comes out of her wondering stupor, and with a grin, starts exploring. Lamb and I sit in one of the cozily appointed corners, and watch her range over nearly the whole collection. For perhaps three hours she roams through everything, occasionally coming back to us with a small thing from one of the "okay to touch" trays, and asking Lamb to tell her about it. We are brought lunch – chicken and pesto sandwiches for Lamb and me, BBQ chicken lettuce wraps for Bree – but she has only the barest attention left for food. She must know about everything, from the replica of an enormous stone sarcophagus on one side of the room, to the the big display of amethyst, jade, quartz and tourmaline on the other, and the beautiful agate geodes arranged beneath them. She brings back one of these in particular – a small one that someone might well dismiss, but it turns out is a relic of Lamb's one trip to Botswana, and he relapses into such reminiscences about it that we must spend nearly an hour on this one stone by itself.
Bree is transfixed the entire time, and Lamb always thoroughly enjoys airing his stories to anyone who wants to listen, but he is especially enchanted by this one, small, extremely eager audience.
"There are some who might call you crazy, Claire," he says, conversationally, during a moment when Bree is across the room, well absorbed in sorting through a dish full of seashells, "Absolutely mad, for marrying a man with four children already. But me? I say you've been beyond lucky. One might even call it blessed."
My heart warms, and I take his hand, "That's what I think too, D.O.T."
He smiles at my old nickname for him. When I had reached the ever-wise age of fifteen, our usual old-fashioned terms of endearment suddenly became stale and pointless to me. Very naturally, I had complained. So Lamb and I had devised a new thing I could call him – provided I always pronounced the letters, never the word they made – Dee Oh Tee – never dot. They stand for Dear Old Thing, and ever since, the nickname has been a byword between us, of the fellowship and compromise that being friends and companions across generational boundaries often calls for.
Bree runs up to us then, "Look, Wumma, look! A seashell that's Joanie's favorite color!" She hands me a lion's paw clamshell of quite brilliant orange, "And one for Fay," a piece of abalone mother-of-pearl in lovely rainbow-blue, "And one for Sal," a calico scallop with bright pink stripes, "And one for me!" a turban snail shell which is, indeed, several shades of green, in a sort of camo pattern. "I've never seen shells in so many colors!"
Lamb is about to launch into his wide range of beachcombing stories, when suddenly, dad appears. He smiles at all the scattered bits and pieces of things, and at the haphazard pile of books Lamb has used to aid his memory throughout all his storytelling, but he knits his forehead, and doesn't say anything. Clearly, dad is here with a message, and he can't let himself get distracted, however much he may want to be.
"Would you mind keeping Brianna in here with you for a while longer, Quentin?"
Lamb looks surprised dad needs to ask.
"Of course. No trouble at all."
"I mean alone," dad turns to me, "It's time for a council of war, my dear."
I raise my eyebrows and chuckle a little, "War?"
"Well. That's what Jamie and your mother have been calling it all afternoon." He pats my shoulder, "He told us all about things, dear. And we mean to take action. Soon. Now, in fact. That's why we need you to come. Ned's here."
Chapter Fifty Eight
"Ned!" I call out happily, and rush across the sitting room to my old friend, my hands stretched out in greeting. It is only when he is giving me his usual kiss to the fingers that I remember Jamie's particular anxiety about this very thing, and look over at him in wild worry and apology. But he just smiles at me, gravely solemn, but neither offended nor unduly anxious. I relax, and give Ned my usual peck to the cheek. I don't wonder Jamie's trauma-response isn't triggered by him – Ned is so very obviously a dear. Small in one sense of the word – he is slightly built, and might generously be called of average height – but he also happens to have a positively gigantic heart, and the sweetest, gentlest nature. His gray hair does not negate the constant twinkle in his eye, and his habitually dry, official-sounding vocabulary cannot drain his words of good-natured mischief, no matter how hard it may try.
He's the sort of man who overturns practically every stereotype about lawyers there is, simply by existing. He's been our family lawyer for close to forty years now, and he's one of a very small group of men I would unhesitatingly trust with my life.
"Good to see you again Claire, dear," his bright eyes look me up and down, "I see marriage agrees with you, and motherhood too." He smiles over at mum, who is holding a very sleepy Jo-Jo against her shoulder, "And you aren't the only one."
I grin as Bree rushes up to Fay and Sal, excitedly babbling all about Lamb's roomful of treasures.
"Lamb isn't the only one with a room worth exploring, girls," says mum, standing, "Come see your Wumma's old play room." She cradles Jo-Jo close as she passes me, and pats her comfortingly on the back, "We'll settle this one down on the daybed there, and keep the rest of them out of your hair for an hour or two, love."
"Thanks mum," I kiss her cheek, and help Lamb corral our other three chickadees, as Jamie so poetically calls them. "Go with Nana Julie, girls, and be good. We'll come get you when it's time to go home."
Bree is enticed by a mention of my old big wooden rocking horse, Fay by the arts and crafts supplies I reminisce about for a minute, and Sal by Lamb mentioning my old collection of My Little Pony dolls, and soon enough mum and Lamb are carrying or leading four eager little girls upstairs, for play and a nap.
Leaving Ned, dad, Jamie and I in a clear, quiet room, suitable for Serious Business.
Dad watches them go, a soft smile on his lips, and a spark in his eyes, "It isn't every day a man's family is doubled in size at one stroke," he clouts Jamie fondly on the shoulder, "Thank goodness you have daughters though. I admit I'd be thoroughly at sea with boys."
Jamie smiles, "I doubt that, verrah much. Bairns are bairns – ye ken that, I know ye do - an' it's all ye need. Nae mattar how the details change, wean tae wean, ye love 'em an' feed 'em, an' love 'em an' care for 'em, an' love 'em an' teach 'em. It's half love an' half work – that part's all the same, nae mattar what or who they are. It isnae easy, but it also isnae complicated."
Dad laughs warmly at that, "He's been like that all afternoon, my dear," he takes my elbow and seats me in mum's vacated chair, "So serious, and solemn."
"And from what I understand, he has good reason to be," says Ned, piping up, his voice gentle but firm, "Immigration law," he peers pointedly over his quaint half-moon glasses, "Is no joke."
"Very few sets of laws are," dad says, wryly, and sits down next to me, "Now then, Claire dear, why don't you and Jamie bring Ned up to speed?"
Each of us having practiced explaining our story on our own – me to Colum, and he to my parents here today – now we have a go at doing so together. We skip around a little bit more than optimal this way, and interrupt each other rather a lot, but we still convey the overall point well, I think, and I don't think we leave anything out.
"Hmm," says Ned when we've finished, in his usual, noncommittal, lawyerish way, "And you're sure the interviewer was trying to rile you up, are you?"
Jamie nods, "Aye, as sure as I can be about anything."
"Hmm. Well, that does give you some grounds for appeal, but fudging the numbers on the date you met also means your interviews cannot stand up to the deepest level of scrutiny, so our ability to appeal is slightly limited. However, if we're careful, we should be able to strike the right level of balance." Ned turns to me, "The first thing I want you to do, Claire, is get Jamie a seat aboard one of Leoch's private flights to Scotland – you can do that, yes?"
Jamie takes my hand, and holds it in his lap, "Yes, I can do that easily," I say, looking at our entwined fingers for a long minute. Then, I look back at Ned, "But, why that, and not a commercial flight? We can afford a-"
Ned waves a hand to interrupt, "No no, your ability to fly commercially isn't the issue. It's your ability to fly privately I want the immigration offices to appreciate," he gives a dry little cough of mildly exasperated impatience, "It is not exactly fair, but when there is a question in regards to residency, deportation, fines, mild demerits, and the like, a show of wealth. . . well. . . it can ease some of the sharp corners around slightly fudged numbers, if you follow me. Show them a valid itinerary to fly aboard a private jet, and I think you'll find a majority of these issues -" he riffles briefly through the mass of paperwork laid out before him, "- will probably "magically" resolve themselves."
Relief floods my stomach. But it brings a good bit of anger along with it.
"That isn't fair," I say, more than a little grumpily, "I wish I wasn't so thankful it's true."
Ned smiles knowingly, "Yes my dear, I know how you feel. But the brief in this case is to make it possible for you and your husband to live comfortably together in the same country at the same time, yes?"
"With our children, yes."
"Just so. When the brief is to change the world, I will attempt to do so. Until then, I do what I can."
I smile sadly, "And we are all extremely thankful that you do." I get up, and peck his cheek again.
Ned's eyes crinkle with soft laughter, and he pats my hand, "Just give me a little while longer with all these," he gestures at the table full of paperwork, "And I'll be able to tell you if there's anything else you need to do immediately. I'll start the appeal process in the morning, and I'll also try to get the girls' passports expedited either way."
"You're a wonder, Ned."
He shakes his head, "Oh, nothing terribly clever this time – it's just knowing the system, and playing the cards you're dealt. If you have the ace of spades, it'd be a shame not to play it."
I go to stand behind Jamie's chair, put my arms around his shoulders, and gently rest my chin on his head, "I have the king of spades, Ned. Thank you for helping me keep him."
He only chuckles in response, and then Jamie and I go out into the garden, leaving him to his paperwork.
Chapter Fifty Nine
We walk companionably through my parents' back gardens, chatting of nothing much, Jamie skipping a rock or two across the surface of the big swimming pond, me picking all the dandelion flowers I can find, and making a flower crown.
"I like this auld garden of yours, Sassenach," he says, boosting himself up to sit on a low retaining wall made of rough, unfinished stones, "Ye cannae hardly tell ye'er in a garden at all, let alone in the middle of a city."
I smile, and scramble up beside him, "Yes, and a lot of time and work has gone into making sure that's so," I gesture around us, "All the hedges are native fir and hazelnut trees, and only certain areas have been maintained with turf grass," I point across the pond to a wide, smooth, open area, "Over there, for instance. But most of the space out here is full of carefully curated wild plants, a lot of them native, and most of them edible."
I wave at a nearby stretch of purple clover and wild strawberry, dotted through with patches of violets and wild leeks, all surrounding a tupelo tree, and several clumps of beautifully pale-golden flowering spicebushes. A stand of cattails rim the nearest edge of the pond, joined with many other edible or harmless plants that like the damp coolness of marshy ground in mid spring. "Mum has always been adamant on having a garden that people could enjoy for its wildness, but that wouldn't hurt anyone if they happened to eat something from it."
I smile ruefully, "Apparently a phrase she heard a lot growing up was "don't eat that, it's poison!", when all she was doing was going up to a plant and trying to ask questions about it. So, when she got a little older, she looked in books to see if those things really were poison – and it turns out a surprising number of them weren't. There was a not-insignificant number of things that were, of course, but she learned that a lot of things we take for granted are either perfectly harmless, or actually really tasty, apparently." I pull off my dandelion crown and hold it up, "I was always allowed to pick and play with any flowers out here that I wanted, because mum would make her herbal teas out of them later, and nothing would go to waste."
He grins, and takes the flowers from me, spinning them around and placing them back atop my head, this time rakishly askew, "Aye, an' I c'n make a verrah tasty wee fritter out of them too – those an' wild carrot flowers an' daylily buds make for a mighty pretty spring appetizer platter, Sorcha."
I can tell from his teasing tone and playful eyes he's expecting me to laugh, toss the flowers back at him, and maybe take off across the lawn, leading him a merry chase. And maybe at any other time I would, but just at this moment, something else has occurred to me. Well, it occurred to me a long time ago, but now is the first good chance I've had to talk to Jamie about it.
"Jamie. . ." I say, slowly, "Once your passport and our green card are all cleared up. . . would you mind. . . would you think it terrible of me if I asked if we could go to Scotland for a while? Together? All of us? For a couple of months, at least. . . ?"
He crinkles up his forehead at me, looking confused, but not upset, thankfully, "I'm hardly likely tae mind annything of the kind, Sorcha, but. . ."
"But, why?"
"Aye."
"Well. . ." I take the flower crown off the side of my head, and run the blooms gently between my fingers, "You see, the thing is, this new job position Colum has given me - on his board of advisors?"
"Aye?"
"It's not like the manager job I had before. It's much more idea based and flexible, and open to interpretation."
"Aye. Meaning ye c'n spend more of yer time wi' me an' the girls, an' on yer own interests too."
"Yes, and that's lovely, but it also means that being successful at it looks entirely different than my previous job did – than any other job I've ever had before ever did."
"And?"
"And. . ." I sigh, a little frustrated, "Jamie, I have to give a big presentation to Colum next quarter - a little over four months from now."
"Oh? An' what – d'ye no' have any good ideas for it?"
"Oh no – the exact opposite, actually. I've had one very definite idea for weeks now. But. . ."
"Aye?"
"But, in order to research my idea properly, I need to go to Scotland. Actually be on the ground, seeing real conditions and talking to real people. At three locations, at the very minimum, for a combined total of at least six weeks – and then afterwards, ideally, I would make the presentation to Colum in person, not over a Zoom call." I give a long, quiet sigh, "I mean, I suppose I could send a proxy, but it's just not the same."
He shakes his head in agreement, "No. Proxies never are. Weel, one thing is clear at least, Sorcha."
"Oh? What's that?"
"Ye need tae tell me all about this idea of yours. Anythin' that requires that much Scotland, I'm bound tae hear all about. All about, Sorcha. Dinnae leave anything out."
He pulls a stem of mint from the slope of earth behind us, and chews thoughtfully as I speak. I don't leave anything out.
"Mm. Not a bad idea, that," he says, once I've finished, "Colum should like it, I reckon."
"You really think so?"
"Weel I like it. An' in the end, Colum an' I arenae so wildly different. Aye, I think he'll go for it."
"So you think I should go ahead with the idea?"
"I do."
"Including dragging us all to Scotland for a couple of months?"
He chuckles, "Aye, ye c'n jus' picture me, can't ye? Dragged kicking and screaming back tae my homeland, the place that I love more than almost anywhere else on earth." He rolls his r's extravagantly, "Drr-rragged!"
I smile thinly, "But, you don't feel undermined?
He blinks at the word, "Undermined? Why would I?"
I roll my eyes, "Jamie, you married a stranger in order to stay in this country. There is still some question as to whether or not you even did so successfully. And now that exact same person is asking if we can go to the place you just spent all this effort not to go to. Yes! I am asking if you feel undermined!"
"Well I don't, Sorcha!" he leans forward and kisses me fiercely, "D'ye ken how much I'd do for ye, mo nighean donn? How much my heart begs tae serve ye? How often I wish I could. . ." he gently traces the edge of my ear with a fingertip, "oh. . . pick ye up and carry ye through life. . . having ye always close, an' all mine?" he shakes his head, "But that's a nonsense. I ken that. Ye dinna need me tae be yer servant." He lowers his head and plants one warm, soft, and very deliberate kiss on my neck, "Tho I will be annyway, any time ye ask. But what ye really need is an ally. A partner. Mebbe evan a partner in crime." He winks, and we both chuckle. "An' that's all yer wanting us ta go ta Scotland is, Sorcha. Ye want ta do your job properly, an' ye want me an' the girls near ye while ye do it. There's nothing underminin' about that. Not a thing."
I nod contemplatively a few times, "And you don't feel. . . thwarted in any way?"
"No' a bit."
I nod a little more, then reach out, and run a finger down the line of his jaw. "Alright. I love you, James Fraser."
He grins, and pulls me into his lap, "I love ye too, Claire Beauchamp."
Then he draws my mouth to his, and shows me just how much.
We are still sitting there, making out like teenagers, when dad comes out to call us in for dinner.
Chapter Sixty
"Happy birth-day to you!"
Joe, Gail and I sing around the kitchen table, the light dimmed, the table lavishly decorated, while Jamie slowly and dramatically brings in the cake.
"Happy birth-day to you!"
He sets down the tray-full of cupcakes arranged into a large "6" in the middle of the table, and lets our girls and Leo and Nic take one before sliding the rest down towards the birthday girl.
"Happy birth-day, dear Mar-sa-liiii! Happy birthday to youuuuuuu!"
All of the children clap their hands, and grinning from ear-to-ear, Sal takes the one glittery pink-sprinkled cupcake that has a candle in it. Jamie moves the remainder of them back out of the accidental-spit-zone, and then gestures at Sal to blow out her candle.
She squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds, making her birthday wish as hard as she can, and then, with a great heave of breath, blows out the candle so decidedly, the next day, I clean some tiny droplets of congealed wax off the chair all the way across the table from her.
The kids applaud again, and Jamie brings up the lights. After a few go-ahead nods from us adults, the kids all start in together, demolishing their cupcakes as quickly as they they can.
Jamie smiles at the scarfing noises, and hands the tray around to us too. I take one, but put it aside for a minute, more focused on making sure all the shiny pink and gold-foil wrapped presents are organized as they should be. I shuffle around a bit in a positive snowdrift of tissue paper, and do some mental calculations again, just to be absolutely sure about one or two of the planned upcoming activities.
Six kids is a lot to deal with at a party, even with all four of us adults contributing. . .
Leo and Bree both won the apparent "inhale your first cupcake as fast as humanly possible" competition – in a dead heat, as far as I can tell – and now they are both at the counter asking for seconds.
Deftly, Jamie takes a bunch of cupcakes from the second tray he has concealed behind some decorations over on a side table, and replenishes the nearly depleted "6" before returning it to the big table, for everyone to take their second serving.
I smile, admiring the way Jamie has found to do birthday cakes in this era of masks and social-distancing. This way, it still feels like An Occasion, everyone gets to participate, the birthday girl still feels special, and the very minimum of people are touching any one piece of cake. It can be quickly and easily portioned out, and can easily be brought into and out of the kid-splatter zone multiple times. Decorated properly, it's still impressive, and given Jamie's skills, still very much a treat.
I look over at Sal, where she is comparing her brightly pink-dyed tongue with Fay's.
I blink a little, surprised. They are pink-lemonade spice cake, I know that, but Jamie told me the batter was coloured with raspberry powder, and per Sally's request, frosted white, with gold glitter and light pink sprinkles. Where is that intense colour coming from? I take a curious bite of my own cupcake to find out. . .
Ah. Flavour floods my mouth as I reach the middle of it. Jamie filled each one with his homemade lemon-ginger curd, and dyed it a brilliant neon. Perfect for our wee Marsali, Pink Aficionado.
Joe helps me clean up after Nic and Jo-Jo – our two youngest girls seem to be in a contest to prove who can make a bigger mess – and then Gail starts up the first round of songs and games.
We've reached the third round of distributing candy and toys as prizes, in a big build-up to the main unwrapping event, when Jamie's phone buzzes, with its special ringtone, indicating the call is from Ned.
Our eyes meet over the table, and he holds my gaze for a long couple of seconds before leaving the room, as quickly and quietly as he can.
It's been nearly a week since our failed success of a Green Card interview. Ned has taken all sorts of steps to help us clear things up, not all of which I understand entirely, and some of which I think might not be the most honest of actions, but at least I can see the very positive effect he's had on Jamie. Just being able to do something about the whole tangle of it all has helped him immensely. Ned picked up on this almost at once, and has kept Jamie scrupulously informed of all developments, no matter how vague or irrelevant they might seem to be.
Jamie pokes his head back in to the kitchen, "Claire?"
"Yes love?"
"Could ye come out here for a minute?"
"Of course."
I join him in the living room, quietly closing the kitchen door behind me.
"That was Ned."
"Yes, I heard the ringtone you gave him."
"Aye. There have been. . . developments."
My stomach knots up. He doesn't look. . . anything. Not sad or glad, up or down. There is no indication if they're good or bad developments, or what the consequences of them might mean.
All I can manage to say is, "Oh?"
"Aye. Apparently this Mr. Brown-"
"Who?"
"Richard Brown. My green card interviewer."
"Oh. I never knew his name."
"Aye. Weel, apparently he has some sort of grudge against British men. He's interviewed nineteen of us from Scotland, Northern Ireland, England and Wales in the past two months, and failed all but one. And even that one lodged several complaints. Our appeal against him was only one of many. So many, Ned says it practically got lost in all the noise."
Hope rises in my chest, "Was?"
Jamie nods, "Aye. All impediments dismissed."
My stomach untwists with a thrill of adrenaline, "You mean. . . ?"
At last there is a twinkle in his eyes, and he grins at me, and pulls me into his arms.
"Aye."
Then, his mouth descends to mine, and he kisses me with all the pent-up passion and stress of the last week, and all the gratefulness, joy and relief of nearly two months of grasping, desperate hope.
I clutch him tightly to me, determined to never let him go.
Eventually, we both come up for oxygen. He runs the tip of his nose along my cheekbone, and kisses all down my jawline, ending up just below my ear, where he nibbles on a little spot that sends tingles all through my body. I laugh at the sensation, so full of happiness I don't know quite what to do with it all.
He nuzzles into my neck, and speaks softly next to my ear, "I still havetae go ta Scotland ta retrieve my passport, Sorcha. But Ned says that won't be for another month or so yet, and then I wilnae be gone more'n a week. I think we can all handle that. Aye?"
"Aye."
My brain is so buzzed with relief, I'd agree with just about anything right now, if Jamie is the one saying it. . . I reach up, and pull his mouth back to mine. . .
I lose myself in loving him, for minutes that feel like years, and still are nowhere near long enough.
"Mo Sorcha. . ." he whispers against my lips, "My sun and moon. . . my evening star. . . my love. . . my Light. . .
I smile, and look wonderingly up at him. Surely, surely such pure, epic romance cannot be real, cannot be here, in my arms, warm, and alive, and all mine?
All, all mine. . .
"I love you Jamie. There aren't words for how much. . ."
Gently, oh, so incredibly gently, he strokes my cheek.
"I love ye too, mo nighean donn."
Then he lowers his head, and kisses me again.
We really, truly do not want to let each other go, but eventually we force ourselves to, and go back in to the party.
Chapter Sixty One
Scotland is even more beautiful than I imagined.
It hadn't been last night - traveling by private jet could not make a transatlantic flight with four children who all got airsick anything other than utterly exhausting - even with all the help Jamie and I admittedly had. Neither Lamb nor Mary had come along with us on this trip specifically to help fussy wee lassies with their aching ears and queasy stomachs, but Jamie and Mrs. Bug and I had all been manifestly grateful they volunteered to help anyway.
We'd landed at Glasgow International a full hour after sunset, and what with sorting out rental cars, shifting four very tired and very grumpy girls into them, dealing with tummies so recently upset they could hardly help getting carsick, our phones suddenly getting no signal at all, so no GPS app right as we're on our way to our hotel, getting lost, asking directions at three cottages we could barely see, driving on through wind and drizzling rain, finally getting to the B&B four hours late and waking the landlord up out a sound sleep just so we could get in out of the cold, a supper consisting of toast and crowdie, mint tea and profound tiredness, even the good things – Scottish cheese always impresses with how satisfyingly tasty it is – and the adventure of it all – driving through the dark and rain to ask people in cottages how to find other people in cottages is inherently a charming exercise – and even the pure excitement of being in Scotland at last all barely signified. We were entirely worn out, and it was even odds half of us would be able to keep down even our frugal supper.
But our rooms were clean and comforting, and the beds in them warm and welcoming. We all slept deeply, and long. Even wee Joanie didn't have to get up until half-seven, and Mary – dear Mary! – took care of her for us so we could get a few more minutes sleep.
And now I can see - everything is different this morning. The sky is no longer cold and dripping with rain – instead it is the warmest blue I have ever seen, full of character and distinction and huge, fluffy clouds. Everything sparkles with dew, making even old ugly wrought iron railings shimmer and glisten. The air is laden with the magic of all mornings, but there is something unique in it too. A tang or savour that I have never smelled before, and yet still instantly remember, like a voice heard in a dream.
I clutch a mug of hot coffee as I stand on our second floor balcony, and look out over the bright colors of the city. Mary and I will have two weeks to do our research here. We'll spend the same amount of time in Edinburgh, and then in Inverness. With the irreverent, lively energy I can feel all around me, even from up here, I am encouraged that all will go well. Mary has already made what appointments can be made, and so now all that remains is to go out there and do it.
I smile. That feels like a Scottish sentiment. Yes, I do think Jamie is right – this idea I've had is a good idea – or at least one worth doing the work to develop.
Jamie joins me on the balcony, his own cup of coffee in one hand, and the pot in the other, to refill mine. I hold out my mug, and yawn, before murmuring thanks. He leans on the railing beside me, and takes a long pull from his steaming cup.
"So, are ye ready ta carpe diem, Sorcha?"
I grin, and lean my head against his shoulder, "Mm. Yes. But in a minute."
He chuckles, puts one arm around me, and pulls me close.
We get less of this companionable waking-up time than we'd like, for soon enough the thump-thump-thumping of small feet running up and down the halls sound very near to us, and then our four tiny earthquakes burst in, all agog with a new place, and new things, and new people, and when is breakfast, and can we go explore, and what is this place called, and can I have some hot chocolate, and my bathroom has a funny toilet, and aye da, we did, and nae, Wumma, sorra. . . sorry, no, I forgot, and on, and on, until four wee chicks feels more like several dozen, and the only option is to take them down to breakfast.
I contemplate the twins while we wait for our parritch and cream, banana pancakes, or Full Scottish breakfasts. I've been hearing more and more of that code-switching from them lately. One minute they'll have the lightly Scottish burring lilt they did when I first met them, and the next they'll sound patently American, with flatter, smoother sounds, and the next they'll mix both together in a charming tangle that's quite impossible to predict. I can tell they're doing it mostly unconsciously, but once or twice it's been obviously deliberate like just now – like they are mimicking my accent on purpose, out of a sense of. . . connection? It feels like that. They've never tried to exclude me while using their more Scottish accents, but I think the only reason they started code-switching at all was as a way to incorporate me into their lives – the only way they've known how.
I've let it be without comment, since it's quite harmless. But it's certainly something to think about. . .
After breakfast, Lamb goes off on his own, to explore the two nearest ancient broch sites, and Mrs. Bug and Jamie take the girls to Loch Lomund for the day, leaving Mary and I to take to the streets of Glasgow.
We have several set questions we ask the people we meet, and a couple very short forms to give to folks who express a little more interest. Then, we go to our lunch meeting with a couple of local land agents, and have questions asked of us, instead of asking questions. Then we visit several empty buildings, and take note of any attached empty land, or nearby wild spaces.
There are a surprising lot of them, and we get a far more generally positive response to our first day's work than I ever hoped we would.
When we meet back up with everyone for tea, we're both full of encouraging stories. Everyone listens discusses our day quite cheerfully, until Mrs. Bug gets up to corral her charges into bed. Jamie and I give our girlies hugs and kisses, and send them off with a smile. Lamb says goodnight, but actually goes into the other room, to more fully explore the hotel's library. Mary says she's going to go relax in her bath for a while, and all at once, Jamie and I are alone. He buys both of us a wee dram and few sweet treats, and takes us into the lounge to watch the sunset.
We cuddle up on the couch, and sip our drinks, and don't talk for a while.
"So, only nine more business days ta go then, eh?" he says eventually, "An' then on ta Edinburgh."
"Mm. Yes. And then on to Inverness."
"Ye'll find the most likely places up there, I reckon."
"You think so?"
"Aye. It's an idea more suited ta the Highlands than the Lowlands, Sorcha."
"But nearly everyone we talked to today was all for the idea!"
"Oh aye – it's a good idea. But it suits the Highlands more, is all."
"I see."
"If Colum decides ta go ahead wi' yer plan after ye present it ta him, I predict he'll base it in Inverness, an' branch out inta the Lowlands, rather than t'other way around."
"You're probably right."
"Annyroad – ye'r no' meetin' wi' land agents evary day, are ye?"
"No."
"Good. Then we'll have time ta go an' see some sights tagether – ye an' me an' the girls. We agreed this doesnae have ta be only a business trip, aye?"
I cuddle against his side, "Oh yes, certainly. Plus there's the weekends, of course."
"A'course. An' what was the name of that vicar Lamb wants us to meet?"
"Wakefield. He lives right next to Inverness, so that's when we'll go see him. Really though, just so long as Lamb gets to end up exploring Broch Tuarach, he'll be happy."
"Right."
"And then. . ."
"An' then – Leoch. The real, original Leoch. And Colum," he bends his head, and whispers in my ear, "An' then we'll have twa weeks all ta ourselves. I've a mind ta take ye ta Skye, find a wee bothy back behind everywhere, build a bed in the heather, an' take ye until ye cannae walk."
Warmth blooms in my stomach, "Mm. What would we eat?"
He smirks, "Ye'er here researching what ye are, an' that is yer first question?"
I poke him playfully in the ribs, "You're the chef, wise guy. What would we eat?"
"Smoked venison an' grilled trout wi' bannocks baked over the coals. Mead flavoured wi' wild cherries. Foraged green salad, wi' sheep's milk cheese. An' gorse flowers, wild blackberries, an' honey for dessert."
"Mmmm," I sigh, "I've just eaten, and you're making me hungry. You've really bought in to this idea of mine, haven't you?"
"Aye. I think it's a verrah good idea."
"I just hope Colum thinks so."
"Agch. He's nae edjit. He'll at least consider it. He might insist on a few changes, an' ye may no' like them all, but he'll see the value in the idea, nae fear, Sorcha."
"I wish I had your confidence. . ."
He chuckles, "But ye do, Sassenach. Tha's why I'm here, isn't it? Or a'least part of the reason? Sae I c'n give ye my support? Here – there's my confidence – tak it." He kisses two fingers, and presses them to my lips.
I laugh, soothed, and kiss his fingertips, "You are a ridiculous darling, and I couldn't love you more."
"Tha gaol agam ort, mo ghràidh."
I still might only understand the barest basics of the Gàidhlig, but I have at least learned what that means. . .
Very, very thoroughly. . .
Our fortnight in Glasgow goes very quickly. Our time in Edinburgh goes even more so.
We manage to cram in trips to Stirling Castle, the Kelpies, Jupiter Artland, the Antonine and Hadrian's Walls, and even a tour of filming sites from an historical romance television show set in Scotland that Mrs. Bug watches.
But my favorites are undoubtedly the total of four Michelin starred restaurants I take Jamie to.
Ordinarily I wouldn't bother with such places – in my opinion they are mostly overhyped, always overpriced, and no matter how good the food is, usually underwhelming – but since we are here on an official research trip for Leoch Foods, I can fully justify visiting them as a business expense. Jamie practically jumps at the opportunity to explore this portion of Scotland's food scene, and in his doing so, I discover that every time I have tried a starred "cuisine" foodie place before now, my problem has been that I have entirely failed to bring along my very own experienced, undeniably brilliant, personal chef. Jamie talks me through every complicated process and rare ingredient used, criticizes or praises every wine pairing, flavour profile, texture experiment, and plating aesthetic, and thoroughly de-mystifies and un-pomposifies the whole experience.
He walks away from them all mostly whelmed, and entirely un-threatened by their coexistence with Castle Leoch.
I however, finally have a better appreciation for the artistry of them, but also an even more firmly entrenched stance that they are not for me.
But now I know why. . .
I understand that society must have a certain amount of class division. I might even go so far as to suggest I have a better understanding of this need than most. But it is a thing which must be balanced. The privileges of the rich must never so outstrip the reach of the not-as-rich that the very essentials of life become a luxury. And that is what uber-expensive starred-restaurant food has always felt like to me. Jamie's in-the-know explanations have only proved it. Such places are the luxurification of essentials.
Certainly, that tiny bowl of sea-urchin caviar risotto might cost what you paid for it, but was it worth what you paid for it? Sure, the experience might have been nice, but wouldn't a bowl of that huge tray of savory rice pudding your husband made last month, with ordinary butter and chicken and completely common spices, all for less money than you'd willingly pay for a nice bottle of imported soy sauce really be better? And, let's be honest, taste better too?
There is absolutely a place for ridiculously expensive ingredients, and overly-complicated cooking processes, and over-the-top experimental pairings and platings and surrounding aesthetics. But like all other art, I feel, such things ought to be measured by how accessible they are, not how exclusive.
When you have to be in a six-figure tax bracket, and very likely have gone to school with international royalty just to have access to, let alone appreciate something as basic and necessary as food, then I think things have gotten out of balance just a wee bit.
I talk all this out with Jamie during our alone time that fortnight, and they are some of the best, most enriching discussions we've had together yet. We don't end up agreeing entirely, but we aren't on opposite sides either – his perspective has merely been influenced from his position inside the creative aspect of the thing, and mine has been influenced by being raised rich, and then spending years working the business side.
We lead our family's wee caravan up north to Inverness more in love than ever, utterly fascinated with each other, and very much looking forward to our promised two weeks alone.
But first, a fortnight more of research. And it turns out Jamie was quite right – Inverness is the most accommodating place for my idea so far. We only go on a few day-trips up here – Culloden and Orkney are all we manage – because Mary and I throw ourselves so much into finalizing the project.
Eventually, it's all been dressed up into a nice presentation, and, two days before our appointment with Colum at Leoch, I sit Jamie down on the couch in our room, and stand in front of him, next to the television, where several illustrations and maps are projected.
"Here," I say, putting on my official Boardroom Voice, "Is my contribution for this quarter's expansion suggestions." I click through to the next illustration, "I propose Leoch Foods begins to offer Foraging Experience packages, to both tourists and locals, beginning here in Scotland, and eventually expanding to the international branches. In order to do so consistently and safely, we would need to acquire several new properties, along with nearby lots of undeveloped land. Within the borders of this land, we would cultivate as many safe-to-consume wild species as possible, while at the same time employing experts to remove any harmful ones. Once these plots of land have been well established, tours may be brought through, and classes taught on wild foraging, including safety protocols and conservation strategies. The attendant buildings may then be used as classroom kitchens, where patrons learn to prepare the foods they have gathered, supplemented with ingredients we will provide. Forms of this proposal have been placed before a wide variety of locals, with the following results. . ."
I click through to the first of several graphs, and continue with my script.
Jamie listens intently to my whole presentation. We discuss it when I've finished.
"So, you still think Colum will go for it?"
"Aye. I'm a wee bit surprised Leoch Foods hasnae done something along this line before now, in fact."
"Really?"
"Aye. Like I say, it's a very Highland idea, Sorcha. There's hardly a family in these parts doesnae have some foraging experience, evan if it's just a wild blackberry or walnut or two. Offering classes on it, employing local experts, and wi' all the practical applications included – weel, that's about as Scottish as it gets."
I sit down next to him on the couch, "And you liked the presentation?"
"Aye. T'was a bit drier than your usual manner, but tha's ta be expected, aye? I would ha' like a wee bit more in-depth explanation of. . ."
He makes several helpful suggestions, and we debate a minor point or two, and I fall asleep in his arms that night, more hopeful than I've been in weeks.
He waits outside the Leoch boardroom for me two days later, and when I come out, he concludes from my face that it went about as well as it could. He doesn't ask me any questions, only holds out his hand with a smile.
"Now then, Sassenach. Come with me. Home. To Lallybroch."
I take his hand in mine, and away we go.