“Er, won’t you sit down?” Roger invited, and with a small, startled jerk, she nodded and sat abruptly on the edge of the seat. Roger eyed her curiously, but went on, pulling out his folder of research notes and handing it to her.
“As I say, it’s odd. I haven’t tracked down all the names; I think I’ll need to go nose about among the parish registers and graveyards near Broch Tuarach. I found most of these records among my father’s papers. But you’d think I’d have turned up one or two battle-deaths at least, given that they were all at Culloden. Especially if, as you say, they were with one of the Fraser regiments; those were nearly all in the center of the battle, where the fighting was thickest.”
“I know.” There was something in her voice that made him look at her, puzzled, but her face was invisible as she bent over the desk. Most of the records were copies, made in Roger’s own hand, as the exotic technology of photocopying had not yet penetrated to the government archive that guarded the Stuart Papers, but there were a few original sheets, unearthed from the late Reverend Wakefield’s hoard of eighteenth-century documents. She turned over the records with a gentle finger, careful not to touch the fragile paper more than necessary.
“You’re right; that is odd.” Now he recognized the emotion in her voice—it was excitement, but mingled with satisfaction and relief. She had been in some way expecting this—or hoping for it.
“Tell me…” She hesitated. “The names you’ve found. What happened to them, if they didn’t die at Culloden?”
He was faintly surprised that it should seem to matter so much to her, but obligingly pulled out the folder that held his research notes and opened it. “Two of them were on a ship’s roll; they emigrated to America soon after Culloden. Four died of natural causes about a year later—not surprising, there was a terrible famine after Culloden, and a lot of people died in the Highlands. And this one I found in a parish register—but not the parish he came from. I’m fairly sure it’s one of your men, though.”
It was only as the tension went out of her shoulders that he noticed it had been there.
“Do you want me to look for the rest, still?” he asked, hoping that the answer would be “yes.” He was watching Brianna over her mother’s shoulder. She was standing by the cork wall, half-turned as though uninterested in her mother’s project, but he could see a small vertical crease between her brows.
Perhaps she sensed the same thing he did, the odd air of suppressed excitement that surrounded Claire like an electric field. He had been aware of it from the moment she walked into the room, and his revelations had only increased it. He imagined that if he touched her, a great spark of static electricity would leap between them.
A knock on the study door interrupted his thoughts. The door opened and Fiona Graham came in, pushing a tea cart, fully equipped with teapot, cups, doilies, three kinds of sandwiches, cream-cakes, sponge cake, jam tarts, and scones with clotted cream.
“Yum!” said Brianna at the sight. “Is that all for us, or are you expecting ten other people?”
Claire Randall looked over the tea preparations, smiling. The electric field was still there, but damped down by major effort. Roger could see one of her hands, clenched so hard in the folds of her skirt that the edge of her ring cut into the flesh.
“That tea is so high, we won’t need to eat for weeks,” she said. “It looks wonderful!”
Fiona beamed. She was short, plump and pretty as a small brown hen. Roger sighed internally. While he was pleased to be able to offer his guests hospitality, he was well aware that the lavish nature of the refreshments was intended for his appreciation, not theirs. Fiona, aged nineteen, had one burning ambition in life. To be a wife. Preferably of a professional man. She had taken one look at Roger when he arrived a week earlier to tidy up the Reverend’s affairs, and decided that an assistant professor of history was the best prospect Inverness offered.
Since then, he had been stuffed like a Christmas goose, had his shoes polished, his slippers and toothbrush laid out, his bed turned down, his coat brushed, the evening paper bought for him and laid alongside his plate, his neck rubbed when he had been working over his desk for long hours, and constant inquiries made concerning his bodily comfort, state of mind, and general health. He had never before been exposed to such a barrage of domesticity.
In short, Fiona was driving him mad. His current state of unshaven dishabille was more a reaction to her relentless pursuit than it was a descent into that natural squalor enjoyed by men temporarily freed from the demands of job and society.
The thought of being united in bonds of holy wedlock with Fiona Graham was one that froze him to the marrow. She would drive him insane within a year, with her constant pestering. Aside from that, though, there was Brianna Randall, now gazing contemplatively at the tea cart, as though wondering where to start.
He had been keeping his attention firmly fixed on Claire Randall and her project this afternoon, avoiding looking at her daughter. Claire Randall was lovely, with the sort of fine bones and translucent skin that would make her look much the same at sixty as she had at twenty. But looking at Brianna Randall made him feel slightly breathless.
She carried herself like a queen, not slumping as tall girls so often do. Noting her mother’s straight back and graceful posture, he could see where that particular attribute had come from. But not the remarkable height, the cascade of waist-length red hair, sparked with gold and copper, streaked with amber and cinnamon, curling casually around face and shoulders like a mantle. The eyes, so dark a blue as almost to be black in some lights. Nor that wide, generous mouth, with a full lower lip that invited nibbling kisses and biting passion. Those things must have come from her father.
Roger was on the whole rather glad that her father was not present, since he would certainly have taken paternal umbrage at the sorts of thoughts Roger was thinking; thoughts he was desperately afraid showed on his face.
“Tea, eh?” he said heartily. “Splendid. Wonderful. Looks delicious, Fiona. Er, thanks, Fiona. I, um, don’t think we need anything else.”
Ignoring the broad hint to depart, Fiona nodded graciously at the compliments from the guests, laid out the doilies and cups with deft economy of motion, poured the tea, passed round the first plate of cake, and seemed prepared to stay indefinitely, presiding as lady of the house.
“Have some cream on your scones, Rog—I mean, Mr. Wakefield,” she suggested, ladling it on without waiting for his reply. “You’re much too thin; you want feeding up.” She glanced conspiratorially at Brianna Randall, saying, “You know what men are; never eat properly without a woman to look after them.”
“How lucky that he’s got you to take care of him,” Brianna answered politely.
Roger took a deep breath, and flexed his fingers several times, until the urge to strangle Fiona had passed.
“Fiona,” he said. “Would you, um, could you possibly do me a small favor?”
She lit up like a small jack-o’-lantern, mouth stretched in an eager grin at the thought of doing something for him. “Of course, Rog—Mr. Wakefield! Anything at all!”
Roger felt vaguely ashamed of himself, but after all, he argued, it was for her good as much as his. If she didn’t leave, he was shortly going to cease being responsible and commit some act they would both regret.
“Oh, thanks, Fiona. It’s nothing much; only that I’d ordered some…some”—he thought frantically, trying to remember the name of one of the village merchants—“some tobacco, from Mr. Buchan in the High Street. I wonder if you’d be willing to go and fetch it for me; I could just do with a good pipe after such a wonderful tea.”
Fiona was already untying her apron—the frilly, lace-trimmed one, Roger noted grimly. He closed his eyes briefly in relief as the study door shut behind her, dismissing for the moment the fact that he didn’t smoke. With a sigh of relief, he turned to conversation with his guests.
“You were asking whether I wanted you to look for the rest of the names on my
list,” Claire said, almost at once. Roger had the odd impression that she shared his relief at Fiona’s departure. “Yes, I do—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“No, no! Not at all,” Roger said, with only slight mendacity. “Glad to do it.”
Roger’s hand hovered uncertainly amid the largesse of the tea cart, then snaked down to grasp the crystal decanter of twelve-year-old Muir Breame whisky. After the skirmish with Fiona, he felt he owed it to himself.
“Will you have a bit of this?” he asked his guests politely. Catching the look of distaste on Brianna’s face, he quickly added, “Or maybe some tea?”
“Tea,” Brianna said with relief.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Claire told her daughter, inhaling the whisky fumes with rapture.
“Oh yes I do,” Brianna replied. “That’s why I’m missing it.” She shrugged and quirked an eyebrow at Roger.
“You have to be twenty-one before you can drink legally in Massachusetts,” Claire explained to Roger. “Bree has another eight months to go, so she really isn’t used to whisky.”
“You act as though not liking whisky was a crime,” Brianna protested, smiling at Roger above her teacup.
He raised his own brows in response. “My dear woman,” he said severely. “This is Scotland. Of course not liking whisky is a crime!”
“Oh, aye?” said Brianna sweetly, in a perfect imitation of his own slight Scots burr. “Well, we’ll hope it’s no a capital offense like murrderrr, shall we?”
Taken by surprise, he swallowed a laugh with his whisky and choked. Coughing and pounding himself on the chest, he glanced at Claire to share the joke. A forced smile hung on her lips, but her face had gone quite pale. Then she blinked, the smile came back more naturally, and the moment passed.
Roger was surprised at how easily conversation flowed among them—both about trivialities, and about Claire’s project. Brianna clearly had been interested in her father’s work, and knew a great deal more about the Jacobites than did her mother.
“It’s amazing they ever made it as far as Culloden,” she said. “Did you know the Highlanders won the battle of Prestonpans with barely two thousand men? Against an English army of eight thousand? Incredible!”
“Well, and the Battle of Falkirk was nearly that way as well,” Roger chimed in. “Outnumbered, outarmed, marching on foot…they should never have been able to do what they did…but they did!”
“Um-hm,” said Claire, taking a deep gulp of her whisky. “They did!”
“I was thinking,” Roger said to Brianna, with an assumed air of casualness. “Perhaps you’d like to come with me to some of the places—the battle sites and other places? They’re interesting, and I’m sure you’d be a tremendous help with the research.”
Brianna laughed and smoothed back her hair, which had a tendency to drop into her tea. “I don’t know about the help, but I’d love to come.”
“Terrific!” Surprised and elated with her agreement, he fumbled for the decanter and nearly dropped it. Claire fielded it neatly, and filled his glass with precision.
“The least I can do, after spilling it the last time,” she said, smiling in answer to his thanks.
Seeing her now, poised and relaxed, Roger was inclined to doubt his earlier suspicions. Maybe it had been an accident after all? That lovely cool face told him nothing.
A half-hour later, the tea table lay in shambles, the decanter stood empty, and the three of them sat in a shared stupor of content. Brianna shifted once or twice, glanced at Roger, and finally asked if she might use his “rest room.”
“Oh, the W.C.? Of course.” He heaved himself to his feet, ponderous with Dundee cake and almond sponge. If he didn’t get away from Fiona soon, he’d weigh three hundred pounds before he got back to Oxford.
“It’s one of the old-fashioned kind,” he explained, pointing down the hall in the direction of the bathroom. “With a tank on the ceiling and a pull-chain.”
“I saw some of those in the British Museum,” Brianna said, nodding. “Only they weren’t in with the exhibits, they were in the ladies’ room.” She hesitated, then asked, “You haven’t got the same sort of toilet paper they have in the British Museum, do you? Because if you do, I’ve got some Kleenex in my purse.”
Roger closed one eye and looked at her with the other. “Either that’s a very odd non sequitur,” he said, “or I’ve drunk a good deal more than I thought.” In fact, he and Claire had accounted very satisfactorily for the Muir Breame, though Brianna had confined herself to tea.
Claire laughed, overhearing the exchange, and got up to hand Brianna several folded facial tissues from her own bag. “It won’t be waxed paper stamped with ‘Property of H.M. Government,’ like the Museum’s, but it likely won’t be much better,” she told her daughter. “British toilet paper is commonly rather a stiff article.”
“Thanks.” Brianna took the tissues and turned to the door, but then turned back. “Why on earth would people deliberately make toilet paper that feels like tinfoil?” she demanded.
“Hearts of oak are our men,” Roger intoned, “stainless steel are their bums. It builds the national character.”
“In the case of Scots, I expect it’s hereditary nerve-deadening,” Claire added. “The sort of men who could ride horse-back wearing a kilt have bottoms like saddle leather.”
Brianna fizzed with laughter. “I’d hate to see what they used for toilet paper then,” she said.
“Actually, it wasn’t bad,” Claire said, surprisingly. “Mullein leaves are really very nice; quite as good as two-ply bathroom tissue. And in the winter or indoors, it was usually a bit of damp rag; not very sanitary, but comfortable enough.”
Roger and Brianna both gawked at her for a moment.
“Er…read it in a book,” she said, and blushed amazingly.
As Brianna, still giggling, made her way off in search of the facilities, Claire remained standing by the door.
“It was awfully nice of you to entertain us so grandly,” she said, smiling at Roger. The momentary discomposure had vanished, replaced by her usual poise. “And remarkably kind of you to have found out about those names for me.”
“My pleasure entirely,” Roger assured her. “It’s made a nice change from cobwebs and mothballs. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve found out anything else about your Jacobites.”
“Thank you.” Claire hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Actually, since Bree’s gone for the moment…there’s something I wanted to ask you, in private.”
Roger cleared his throat and straightened the tie he had donned in honor of the occasion.
“Ask away,” he said, feeling cheerfully expansive with the success of the tea party. “I’m completely at your service.”
“You were asking Bree if she’d go with you to do field research. I wanted to ask you…there’s a place I’d rather you didn’t take her, if you don’t mind.”
Alarm bells went off at once in Roger’s head. Was he going to find out what the secret was about Broch Tuarach?
“The circle of standing stones—they call it Craigh na Dun.” Claire’s face was earnest as she leaned slightly closer. “There’s an important reason, or I wouldn’t ask. I want to take Brianna to the circle myself, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you why, just now. I will, in time, but not quite yet. Will you promise me?”
Thoughts were chasing themselves through Roger’s mind. So it hadn’t been Broch Tuarach she wanted to keep the girl away from, after all! One mystery was explained, only to deepen another.
“If you like,” he said at last. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” She touched his arm once, lightly, and turned to go. Seeing her silhouetted against the light, he was suddenly reminded of something. Perhaps it wasn’t the moment to ask, but it couldn’t do any harm.
“Oh, Dr. Randall—Claire?”
Claire turned back to face him. With the distractions of Brianna removed, he could see that Cl
aire Randall was a very beautiful woman in her own right. Her face was flushed from the whisky, and her eyes were the most unusual light golden-brown color, he thought—like amber in crystal.
“In all the records that I found dealing with these men,” Roger said, choosing his words carefully, “there was a mention of a Captain James Fraser, who seems to have been their leader. But he wasn’t on your list. I only wondered; did you know about him?”
She stood stock-still for a moment, reminding him of the way she had behaved upon her arrival that afternoon. But after a moment, she shook herself slightly, and answered with apparent equanimity.
“Yes, I knew about him.” She spoke calmly, but all the color had left her face, and Roger could see a small pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.
“I didn’t put him on the list because I already knew what happened to him. Jamie Fraser died at Culloden.”
“Are you sure?”