That’s the queer side of it, though—a sense of obligation. Not just to Bree, though I do think she’s a right to know—later. I told you I had a sense of the bastard? Funny thing is, it’s stayed with me. I can almost feel him, sometimes, looking over my shoulder, standing across the room.
Hadn’t thought of this before—do you suppose I’ll meet him in the sweet by-and-by, if there is one? Funny to think of it. Should we meet as friends, I wonder, with the sins of the flesh behind us? Or end forever locked in some Celtic hell, with our hands wrapped round each other’s throat?
I treated Claire badly—or well, depending how one looks at it. I won’t go into the sordid details; leave it that I’m sorry.
So there it is, Reg. Hate, jealousy, lying, stealing, unfaithfulness, the lot. Not much to balance it save love. I do love her—love them. My women. Maybe it’s not the right kind of love, or not enough. But it’s all I’ve got.
Still, I won’t die unshriven—and I’ll trust you for a conditional absolution. I raised Bree as a Catholic; do you suppose there’s some forlorn hope that she’ll pray for me?
“It was signed, ‘Frank,’ of course,” Roger said.
“Of course,” Jamie echoed softly. He sat quite still, his face unreadable.
Roger didn’t need to read it; he knew well enough the thoughts that were going through the other’s mind. The same thoughts he’d wrestled with, during those weeks between Beltane and Midsummer’s Eve, during the search for Brianna across the ocean, during his captivity—and at the last, in the circle in the rhododendron hell, hearing the song of the standing stones.
If Frank Randall had chosen to keep secret what he’d found, had never placed that stone at St. Kilda’s—would Claire have learned the truth anyway? Perhaps; perhaps not. But it had been the sight of that spurious grave that had led her to tell her daughter the story of Jamie Fraser, and to set Roger on the path of discovery that had led them all to this place, this time.
It had been the stone that had at once sent Claire back to the arms of her Scottish lover—and possibly to her death in those arms. That had given Frank Randall’s daughter back to her other father, and simultaneously condemned her to live in a time not her own; that had resulted in the birth of a red-haired boy who might otherwise not have been—the continuance of Jamie Fraser’s blood. Interest on the debt owed? Roger wondered.
And then there were Roger’s private thoughts, of another boy who might not have been, save for that cryptic stone hint, left by Frank Randall for the sake of forgiveness. Morag and William MacKenzie were not at the Gathering; Roger was unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Jamie Fraser stirred at last, though his eyes stayed fixed on the fire.
“Englishman,” he said softly, and it was a conjuration. The hair rose very slightly on the back of Roger’s neck; he could believe he saw something move in the flames.
Jamie’s big hands spread, cradling his grandson. His face was remote, the flames catching sparks from hair and brows.
“Englishman,” he said, speaking to whatever he saw beyond the flames. “I could wish that we shall meet one day. And I could hope that we shall not.”
Roger waited, hands loose on his knees. Fraser’s eyes were shadowed, his face masked by the flicker of the dancing fire. At last, something like a shudder seemed to go over the big frame; he shook his head as though to clear it, and seemed to realize for the first time that Roger was still there.
“Do I tell her?” Roger said. “Claire?”
The big Highlander’s eyes sharpened.
“Will ye have told Brianna?”
“Not yet; but I will.” He gave back Fraser’s stare, eye for eye. “She is my wife.”
“For now.”
“Forever—if she will.”
Fraser looked toward the Camerons’ fire. Claire’s lithe shape was visible, dark against the brightness.
“I did promise her honesty,” he said at last, very quietly. “Aye, tell her.”
* * *
By the fourth day, the slopes of the mountain were filled with new arrivals. Just before dusk, the men began to bring wood, piling it in the burnt space at the foot of the mountain. Each family had its campfire, but here was the great fire, around which everyone gathered each night to see who had come during the day.
As the dark came on, the fires bloomed on the mountainside, dotted here and there among the shallow ledges and sandy pockets. For a moment, I had a vision of the MacKenzie clan badge—a “burning mountain”—and realized suddenly what it was. Not a volcano, as I had thought. No, it was the image of a Gathering like this one, the fires of families burning in the dark, a signal to all the clan was present—and together. And for the first time, I understood the motto that went with the image: Luceo non uro; I shine, not burn.
Soon the mountainside was alive with fires. Here and there were smaller, moving flames, as the head of each family or plantation thrust a brand into his fire and brought it down the hill, to add to the blazing pyre at the foot. From our perch high on the mountainside, the figures of the men showed small and dark in silhouette against the huge fire.
A dozen families had declared themselves before Jamie finished his conversation with Gerald Forbes, and rose himself. He handed me the baby, who was sleeping soundly in spite of all the racket around him, and bent to light a brand from our fire. The shouts came from far below, thin but audible on the clear autumn air.
“The MacNeills of Barra are here!”
“The Lachlans of Glen Linnhe are here!”
And after a little, Jamie’s voice, loud and strong on the dark air.
“The Frasers of the Ridge are here!” There was a brief spatter of applause from those around me—whoops and yelps from the tenants who had come with us, just as there had been from the followers of the other heads of families.
I sat quietly, enjoying the feel of the limp, heavy little body in my arms. He slept with the abandonment of total trust, tiny pink mouth half open, his breath warm and humid on the slope of my breast.
Jamie came back smelling of woodsmoke and whisky, and sat down on the log behind me. He took me by the shoulders and I leaned back against him, enjoying the feeling of him behind me. Across the fire, Brianna and Roger were talking earnestly, their heads close together. Their faces shone in the firelight, each reflecting the other.
“Ye dinna suppose they’re going to change his name again, do you?” Jamie said, frowning slightly at them.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “There are other things ministers do besides christenings, you know.”
“Oh, aye?”
“It’s well past the third of September,” I said, tilting back my head to look at him. “You did tell her to choose by then.”
“So I did.” A lopsided moon floated low in the sky, shedding a soft light over his face. He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
Then he reached down and took my free hand in his own.
“And will ye choose, too?” he asked softly. He opened his hand, and I saw the glint of gold. “Do ye want it back?”
I paused, looking up into his face, searching it for doubt. I saw none there, but something else; a waiting, a deep curiosity as to what I might say.