“You are my courage, as I am your conscience,” he whispered. “You are my heart – and I your compassion. We are neither of us whole, alone. Do ye not know that, Sassenach?”
“I do know that,” I said, and my voice shook. “That’s why I’m so afraid. I don’t want to be half a person again. I can’t bear it.”
He thumbed a lock of hair off my wet cheek, and pulled me into his arms, so close that I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was so solid, so alive, ruddy hair curling gold against bare skin. And yet I had held him so before – and lost him.
His hand touched my cheek, warm despite the dampness of my skin.
“Do ye not see how verra small a thing is the notion of death, between us two, Claire?” he whispered.
My hands curled into fists against his chest. No, I didn’t think it a small thing at all.
“All the time after ye left me, after Culloden – I was dead then, was I not?” […]
“I was dead, my Sassenach – and yet all that time, I l o v e d y o u .”
I closed my eyes, feeling the tickle of grass on my lips. light as the touch of sun and air.
“I loved you, too,” I whispered. “I a l w a y s w i l l .”
The grass fell away. Eyes still closed, I felt him lean toward me, and his mouth on mine, warm as sun, light as air.
“So long as my body lives, and yours – we are one flesh,” he whispered. His fingers touched me, hair and chin and neck and breast, and I breathed his breath and felt him solid under my hand. Then I lay with my head on his shoulder, the strength of him supporting me, the words deep and soft in his chest.
“And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire – I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”
~ Drums of Autumn”chapter 16, “The First Law of Thermodynamics”
“There’s the curved leaf for a journey, but it’s crossed by the broken one that means staying put. And strangers there are, to be sure, several of them. And one of them’s your husband, if I read the leaves aright.”
“How shall I tell ye what it is, to feel the need of a place?” he said softly. “The need of snow beneath my shoon. The breath of the mountains, breathing their own breath in my nostrils as God gave breath to Adam. The scrape of rock under my hand, climbing, and the sight of the lichens on it, enduring in the sun and the wind.”
His breath was gone and he breathed again, taking mine. His hands were linked behind my head, holding me, face-to-face.
“If I am to live as a man, I must have a mountain,” he said simply. His eyes were open wide, searching mine for understanding.
“Will ye t r u s t m e , Sassenach?” he said. His nose pressed against mine, but his eyes didn’t blink. Neither did mine.
“ W i t h m y l i f e ,” I said.
I felt his lips smile, an inch from mine.
“And with your heart?”
“ A l w a y s ,” I whispered, closed my eyes, and kissed him.
It took me completely by surprise and I just stared stupidly at him for a moment. “What?” I managed at last.
“I said ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s the twentieth of October today.”
“Is it?” I said dumbly. “I’d lost track.” I was shaking again, from cold and shock and the force of my tirade. He drew me close against him and held me, smoothing his big hands lightly over my hair, cradling my head against his chest. I began to cry again, but this time with relief. In my state of upheaval, it seemed logical that if he knew my real age and still wanted me, then everything would be all right.
“I love ye now, and I w i l l l o v e y e a l w a y s .
Whether I am dead – or you – whether we are together or apart.
You know it is true,” he said quietly, and touched my face.
“I know it of you, and ye know it of me as well.”
There are things that I canna tell you, at least not yet. And I’ll ask nothing of ye that ye canna give me. But what I would ask of ye—when you do tell me something, let it be the truth. And I’ll promise ye the same. We have nothing now between us, save—respect, perhaps. And I think that respect has maybe room for secrets, but not for lies. Do ye agree?
We struggled upward, out of the womb of the world, damp and steaming, rubber-limbed with wine and heat. I fell to my knees at the first landing, and Jamie, trying to help me, fell down next to me in an untidy heap of robes and bare legs. Giggling helplessly, drunk more with love than with wine, we made our way side by side, on hands and knees up the second flight of steps, hindering each other more than helping, jostling and caroming softly off each other in the narrow space, until we collapsed at last in each other’s arms on the second landing.
Here an ancient oriel window opened glassless to the sky, and the light of the hunter’s moon washed us in silver. We lay clasped together, damp skins cooling in the winter air, waiting for our racing hearts to slow and breath to return to our heaving bodies.
The moon above was a Christmas moon, so large as almost to fill the empty window. It seemed no wonder that the tides of sea and woman should be subject to the pull of that steady orb, so close and so commanding.
But my own tides moved no longer to that chaste and sterile summons, and the knowledge of my freedom raced liked danger through my blood.
“I have a gift for you too,” I said suddenly to Jamie. He turned toward me and his hand slid, large and sure, over the plane of my still-flat stomach.
“Have you, now?” he said.
And the world was all around us, new with possibility.”
~ Outlander, chapter 41, “From the Womb of the Earth”
“Bah, humbug,” I said. I nestled closer, feeling somewhat reassured. “You’re sure we aren’t going to freeze to death, then?”
“No,” he said. “But I shouldna think it likely.”
“Hm,” I said, feeling somewhat less reassured. “Well, perhaps we’d better stay awake for a bit, then, just in case?”
“I wilna wave my arms about anymore,” he said definitely. “There’s no room. And if ye stick your icy wee paws in my breeks, I swear I’ll throttle ye, bad back or no.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “What if I tell you a story, instead?”
Highlanders loved stories, and Jamie was no exception.
“Oh, aye,” he said, sounding much happier. “What sort of story is it?”
“A Christmas story,” I said, settling myself along the curve of his body. “About a miser named Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“An Englishman, I daresay?”
“Yes,” I said. “Be quiet and listen.”
I could see my own breath as I talked, white in the dim cold, air. The snow was falling heavily outside our shelter; when I paused in the story, I could hear the whisper of flakes against the hemlock branches, and the far off white of wind in the trees. […]
Much later, Christmas properly kept with a dram – or two – of whisky all round, we lay at last in our own bed, watching the flames of the newly kindled fire, and listening to Ian’s peaceful snores.
“It’s good to be home again,” I said softly.
“It is.” Jamie sighed and pulled me closer, my head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. “I did have the strangest dreams, sleeping in the cold.”
“You did?” I stretched, luxuriating in the soft yielding of the feather-stuffed mattress. “What did you dream about?”
“All kinds of things.” He sounded a bit shy. “I dreamt of Brianna, now and again.”
“Really?” That was a little startling; I too had dreamt of Brianna in our icy shelter – something I seldom did.
“I did wonder…” Jamie hesitate for a moment. “Has she a birthmark, Sassenach? And if so, did ye tell me of it?”
“She does,” I said slowly, thinking. “I don’t think I ever told you about it, thought; it isn’t visible most of the time, so it’s been years since I noticed it, myself. It’s a–”
His hand tightening on my shoulder stopped me.
“It’s a wee brown mark, shaped like a diamond,” he said. “Just behind her left ear. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” It was warm and cozy in bed, but a small coolness on teh back of my neck made me shiver suddenly. “Did you see that in your dream?”
“I kissed her there,” he said softly.
~ Drums of Autumn, chapter 21, “Night on a Snowy Mountain”
I glanced down in search of Jemmy; he had learned to crawl only a few days before, but was already capable of an astonishing rate of speed, particularly when no one was looking. He was sitting peaceably enough in the corner, though, gnawing intently at the wooden horse Jamie had carved for him as a Christmas present.
Catholic as many of them were – and nominally Christian as they all were – Highland Scots regarded Christmas primarily as a religious observance, rather than a major festive occasion. Lacking priest or minister, the day was spent much like a Sunday, though with a particularly lavish meal to mark the occasion, and the exchange of small gifts. My own gift from Jamie had been the wooden ladle I was presently using, its handle carved with the image of a mint leaf; I had given him a new shirt with a ruffle at the throat for ceremonial occasions, his old one having worn quite away at the seams.
With a certain amount of forethought, Mrs. Bug, Brianna, Marsali, Lizzie, and I had made up an enormous quantity of molasses toffee, which we had distributed as a Christmas treat to all the children within earshot. Whatever it might do to their teeth, it had the beneficial effect of gluing their mouths shut for long periods, and in consequence, the adults had enjoyed a peaceful Christ,mas. Even Germain had been reduced to a sort of tuneful gargle.
When I asked my da how ye knew which was the right woman, he told me when the time came, I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t. When I woke in the dark under that tree on the road to Leoch, with you sitting on my chest, cursing me for bleeding to death, I said to myself ‘Jamie Fraser, for all ye canna see what she looks like, and for all she weights as much as a good draft horse, this is the woman.
I swear on the cross of my Lord Jesus and by the iron which I hold that I give you my fealty and pledge you my loyalty. If ever my hand is raised against you in rebellion again, then I ask that this holy iron may pierce my heart.
And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don’s wife, or an outlaw’s lady?
“I was born for you,” I said simply, and held out my arms to him.
The new house on the ridge was already rising, foundation laid and rooms marked out. I could see the skeletal framework from the cabin door, black against the clear September sky on the ridge.
By the spring, it would be finished. I would have plastered walls and laid oak floors, glass windows with stout frames that kept out mice and ants – and a nice snug, sunny surgery in which to conduct my medical practice.
My glowing visions were interrupted by a raucous bellow from the penfold; Clarence announcing an arrival. I could hear voices in the distance in between Clarence’s shrieks of ecstasy, and I hastily began to tidy away the scatter of corks and bottles. It must be Jamie returning with Fergus and Marsali – or at least I hoped so.
Jamie had been confident of the trial’s outcome, but I worried nonetheless. Raised to believe that British law in the abstract was one of the great achievements of civilization, I had seen a good deal too many of its concrete applications to have much faith in its avatars. On the other hand, I had quite a bit of faith in Jamie.
Clarence’s vocalizations had dropped to the wheezing gargle he used for intimate converse, but the voices had stopped. That was odd. Perhaps things had gone wrong after all?
I thrust the last of the bottles back into the cupboard and went to the door. The dooryard was empty. Clarence hee-hawed enthusiastically at my appearance, but nothing else moved. Someone had come, though – the chickens had scattered, fleeing into the bushes.
A brisk chill ran up my spine and I whirled, trying to look in front of me and over my shoulder at the same time. Nothing. The chestnut trees behind the house sighed in the breeze, a shimmer of sun filtered through their yellowing leaves. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I wasn’t alone. Damn, and I’d left my knife on the table inside!
“Sassenach.” My heart nearly stopped at the sound of Jamie’s voice. I spun toward it, relief being rapidly overcome by annoyance. What did he think he–
For a split second, I thought I was seeing double. They were sitting on the bench outside the door, side by side, the afternoon sun igniting their hair like matchheads.
My eyes focused on Jamie’s face, alight with joy – then shifted right.
“ M a m a . ” It was the same expression; eagerness and joy and longing all together. I had no time even to think before she was in my arms, and I was in the air, knocked off my feet both literally and figuratively.“Mama!”
I hadn’t any breath; what hadn’t been taken away by shock was being squeezed out by a rib-crushing hug.
“ B r e e ! ” I managed to gasp, and she put me down, though she didn’t let go. I looked disbelievingly up, but she was real. I looked for Jamie and found him standing beside her. He said nothing, but gave me a face-splitting grin, his ears bright pink with delight.
“I, ah, I wasn’t expecting–” I said idiotically.
Brianna gave me a grin to match her father’s eyes bright as stars and damp with happiness.
Jenny is in Drums of Autumn! Here’s what we can expect from her in Season 4 [SPOILERS AHEAD]
Jenny plays a vital role in the introduction of Brianna into the 18th Century. She’s one of the first people Bree meets, even before she meets Jamie and reunites with Claire. Obviously Jenny isn’t expecting to see Bree as she didn’t even know she existed, but Book!Universe Bree resembles Jamie (and Ellen) so much that it’s hard to deny. Once Bree announces that Claire is her mother and shows Ellen’s pearls – the same pearls that Jamie gave to Claire on their wedding night and that Claire left to Bree before she went through the stones – it’s really settled.
Jenny helps Bree by telling her that Jamie and Claire are now in America at Fraser’s Ridge and helps her get there. She even insists on getting to know her niece before she takes the journey to them. It’s an important part for Jenny to play, but not a terribly long section of the book (only part of one chapter, so I expect probably just part of one episode next season). We don’t see Jenny again after this until books 7 and 8.
Here’s a passage of Jenny and Brianna together bonding:
“Do you know where he is now? He and my mother?” Brianna bent forward anxiously, brushing pastry crumbs from her jabot.
Jenny smiled and rose from the table.
“Aye, I do – more or less. If ye’ve eaten your fill, d’ye come with me, lassie. I’ll fetch his last letter for ye.”
Brianna rose to follow Jenny, but stopped abruptly near the door. She had vaguely noticed some paintings on the walls of the parlor earlier, but hadn’t really looked at them, in the rush of emotion and event. She looked at this one, though.
Two little boys with red-gold hair, stiffly solemn in kilts and jackets, white shirts with frills showing bright against the dark coat of a huge dog that sat beside them, tongue lolling in patient boredom.
The older boy was tall and fine-featured; he sat straight and proud, chin lifted, in hand resting on the dog’s head, the other protectively on the shoulder of the small brother who stood between his knees.
It was the younger boy Brianna stared at, though. His face was round and snub-nosed, cheeks translucent and ruddy as apples. Wide blue eyes, slightly slanted, looked out under a bell of bright red hair combed into an unnatural tidiness. The pose was formal, done in classic eighteenth-century style, but there was something in the robust, stocky little figure that made her smile and reach a finger to touch his face.
“Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said softly.
“Jamie was a sweet laddie, but a stubborn wee fiend, forebye.” Jenny’s voice by her ear startled her. “Beat him or coax him, it made no difference; if he’d made up his mind, it stay made up. Come wi’ me; there’s another picture you’ll like to see, I think.”
The second portrait hung on the landing of the stairs, looking thoroughly out of place. From below she could see the ornate gilded frame, it’s heavy carving quite at odds with the solid, battered comfort of the house’s other furnishings. It reminded her of pictures in museums; this homely setting seemed incongruous.
As she followed Jenny onto the landing the glare of light from the window disappeared, leaving the painting’s surface flat and clear before her.
She gasped, and felt the hair rise on her forearms, under the linen of her shirt.
“It’s remarkable, aye?” Jenny looked from the painting to Brianna and back again, her own features marked with something between pride and awe.
“Remarkable!” Brianna agreed, swallowing.
“Ye see why we kent ye at once,” her aunt went on, laying a loving hand against the carved frame.
“Yes. Yes, I can see that.”
“It will be my mother, aye? Your grandmother, Ellen MacKenzie.”
“Yes,” Brianna said. “I know.” Dust motes stirred up by their footsteps whirled lazily through the afternoon light from the window. Brianna felt rather as though she was whirling with them, no longer anchored to reality.
Two hundreds years from now, she had – I will? she thought wildly – stood in front of this portrait in the National Portrait Gallery, furiously denying the truth that it showed.
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