Chapter Text
In a haze I look down at my hands and the crumpled tissue I grasp in my palms. How did I get here? I wonder to myself. Twenty-seven years old and already a widow. I gaze up to the display at the altar. Various personal effects of import have been carefully placed on a table here. Photos of my husband and items that signified meaning to him when he was still alive. Representations of the man he was.
But the truth is--what no one else knew but me--Frank and I hadn’t even shared a marriage bed for the past six years. We were married, yes, and we lived together, but at separate ends of the house. We had been more like roommates for more than a half decade than husband and wife.
Why had I spent so much time on a failed marriage? I think deep down, it was just easier. I married young, only nineteen years old, though he was thirty-one at the time. But I was absolutely smitten with him. He was an historian and a professor at Oxford. My Uncle Lamb--the man who raised me, an archaeologist and also an historian himself--introduced me to Frank shortly after meeting him through the university. He was absolutely brilliant and fascinating to listen to, even though I could hardly remember all he talked about.
He was also dashing. Tall, lean, dark hair and eyes. I had never known another man like him. But of course, I was young and naive. I’d never given myself time to know anyone else, too busy in my own studies to care about boys at school. We rushed into marriage after a short courting, not even having a formal ceremony. Uncle Lamb, who is by all accounts my father, was absolutely furious with us. But he was so charmed by Frank’s historical prowess that the ire was short-lived. They would discuss history and artefacts incessantly.
Soon into our marriage Frank became obsessed with the idea of starting a family. And although I was happily married to him, the thought of children so soon made me uneasy. We had plenty of time for that and I wanted to focus on my career. Becoming a doctor was a life-long dream of mine and Frank knew that when he married me, but he wouldn’t let the idea go. We finally decided not to prevent pregnancy as I wasn’t opposed to the idea of children altogether, but I made it very clear that we were not to make a chore out of it.
He was okay with that. At first. Months passed and my cycles came like clockwork. He tried to hide the disappointment from me, but I could tell it was eating at him. I finally sat him down and told him we could really try. I remember the joy that flooded his face; how he pulled me into a deep embrace and acted as though he’d never let go.
I hadn’t understood why he had wanted children so quickly, but now where I sit I can imagine it had something to do with passing on his legacy. You don’t plan to die at thirty-nine. A twinge of guilt floods through me that I was never able to give him that. After a year of actively trying, something shifted in him and we simply gradually drifted apart. But as I said, it was just easier to live in a state of normalcy. The monotony of a coupling with no more passion involved. We had our daily routines and we still got on well with each other despite the love lost in the bedroom. But that was the extent of it. For six years we were simply live-in friends. And then life came crashing down in a single instant.
A tap on my shoulder brings me out of my thoughts. I turn to see my best friend looking at me with eyes of deepest sympathy. “Geillis, I’m so glad you came,” I say with a slight choke, standing to greet her.
“Och, nowhere else I’d be, Claire,” she comforts as she wraps her arms around me.
“Sit with me, please?” I ask her.
“ ’Course.”
“Where’s Dougal?” I look around the chapel for Geillis’ husband before taking my seat again.
“Oh, ‘round here somewhere, but dinna fash lass, he need not be here wi’ us. I’ll keep ye company just fine,” she whispers as she pats my leg.
I smile lightly, her company always easing me.
--
The service went as most services go, I suppose. I had written Frank's eulogy detailing his entirely too short life story, but I could scarcely bear to read it so the officiate had done the honor. Coming to conclusion with some verses, the congregation is now being directed into the dining hall off of the main chapel for a reception luncheon.
Geillis and I walk together, her arm crooked through mine at the elbow, tenderly guiding me along.
Suddenly two large arms surround me and I am surprised by Dougal’s embrace. “So sorry, lass,” he breathes.
“Ah, thank you, Dougal.” I sniffle as I accept his hug. As he pulls away I notice Geillis motion to him and he walks out of the room. Others come to greet me and give me their condolences so I hardly notice when Dougal returns, Geillis at his side, waiting patiently for the remaining guests to finish with their regards. As the last of them walk away, my friend nervously smiles at me.
“Please forgive me for not asking, lass,” she says. “But it was so last minute I dinna have a chance tae, ye ken?”
“A chance to what?” I say, confused. Looking from her to Dougal and then back. Both of them have a weary expression on their faces, as though they’re anticipating a poor reaction from me for whatever news they’re about to reveal.
“Well, our nephew was in a sudden predicament and needed a place tae stay, ye ken? He’d only come in last night from Edinburgh and we just dinna feel right leaving him home. I hope we havena overstepped by bringing him wi’ us.” Geillis explains shamefully. She motions as if she's beckoning someone just as the words leave her lips and a tall figure I somehow hadn't noticed before steps out from behind Dougal. “Claire, this is James Fraser,” Geillis introduces.
A hand reaches out to me, but I hardly notice it. Under the most fiery red mop of curls I have ever seen a pair of the most intense blue eyes gaze at me so deeply my breath catches in my throat. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, this man is glorious. The intrusive thought is instant and I have to shake it away. I use every ounce of strength I have to pry myself away from his holding stare long enough to notice his outstretched arm waiting for me to take it. I slide my palm into his large hand and nearly lose my balance at the feeling of his touch.
What is happening to me? Snap. Out. Of. It. Claire! I chide myself. This is your husband’s funeral.
His other hand comes up and cups around mine as he speaks. “It’s verra fine to meet ye, Claire. I am sorry for yer loss. Truly.”
I blink at the sound of his deep voice. His prominent Scottish accent flows over his words and rolls off of my name in an aural caress that makes me sway. He had said something else to me, but I’m struggling to recall . . . Oh! Bloody hell. He had given condolences. Yes, for your husband’s passing, you twit! Christ, get yourself together.
I shake myself and hope that my inner turmoil is not so outwardly apparent. By the sympathetic expressions on their faces, it doesn't appear to be so obvious; they probably just contribute my behavior to my current circumstances. Maybe I should too.
Maybe . . .
I meet my friends’ nephew’s eyes again and take a calming breath. “Thank you so much, James,” I say solemnly and, though my muscles scream at me in protest, I reluctantly remove my hand from the envelope of his. “It’s nice to meet you too, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Aye,” he breathes with a sad half-smile, “and please, call me Jamie.”
Oh . . . Jamie. What a lovely name. I blink a few times, finally realizing I am staring again. I give a small smile, nod to him, and motion to the procession line for the buffet. We all join in, filling our plates and taking a seat together. Geillis and occasionally Dougal take up most of my attention as we talk and reminisce about Frank. The man they think was the love of my life. The man I hadn’t looked at romantically in six years . . .
Jamie’s presence is distinct, though he doesn’t speak much. He is looming, but not in an ominous way. He isn't just tall, but . . . large. All over. With his broad shoulders he exudes strength. And it is difficult not to be aware of him. It’s a surprise that I had only just noticed him when we were introduced.
I glance at him from time to time as I take little bites of my food while Geillis or Dougal keep the conversation flowing. I think they are trying to keep my mind busy, but it seems to be doing a great job of that all on its own thanks to their nephew. He mostly has his gaze down at his plate when I steal a look, but I have this nagging notion that the moment my eyes leave him, his eyes are on me. I cannot explain how I know, but it’s as if I can feel it, as though his eyes are burning into me.
After so long of this eye game amidst the chattering with my friends I have to brush the thought away. I really don’t understand why I am reacting this way to him, and at my husband’s service no less. Despite our lack of intimacy, I still cared deeply for Frank, and this was not the time, nor the place. I resolve to push these odd feelings and thoughts out of my mind for the duration of the day.
--
Stepping into the foyer of my house puts me at pause. The space I have come to know as home for the past eight years is so foreign to me now. Without Frank’s presence to fill the empty rooms, pacing around over his books, it feels hollow. I hadn’t cried much when I found out about his death. Nor when I went to the morgue to identify his body. And with all there had been to do for preparations I hadn’t cried much in the days leading up to the service either. Only at his funeral today did I shed some small silent tears, I realize.
Setting my purse and coat down on the sideboard in the entry I step into Frank’s study. Peering around at his tomes my eyes quickly become shrouded. Everything I have been holding onto for the past week since my husband died comes flooding out of me. Tears stream down, hot on my cheeks. I slump back in his chair and start sobbing uncontrollably. For the man I had loved once upon a time. For the life we had wanted together, but abandoned long ago. For the lost opportunity of a better life with someone who would have truly made him happy. I curse at myself for not finding the courage to talk to him about divorce. And I curse at him for never asking for it himself. We had both been cowards in that regard.
He could have had so much better. Instead he spent the last years of his life living with a shadow of a wife. Barren. A woman who could never give him the one thing he would have loved more than her. The one thing he would have lived on through.
Oh God . . . A terrible thought occurs to me. It is entirely possible he could still be alive if we had divorced . . . It would have changed all of the events that lead up to—
“No . . . Oh, Frank . . . I’m so sorry . . .” I mumble through my sobs.
--
Time passes, though I'm not sure how much, but I can’t seem to find my composure. No matter how hard I try, the moment I begin to settle, another wave of sorrow hits me.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I send my best friend a text: Geillie, please if you can, come over. I can’t stop crying. I need a friend.
Her response is quick, thankfully: I got you.
Geillis and Dougal MacKenzie live just down the way from us-from . . . me, so it is only minutes when my doorbell rings. I rise slowly and make my way to the door, grabbing a tissue and drying my cheeks as much as possible on the way. I open my door, about to greet my friend, when I freeze at the sight of who is there instead.
It is James Fraser.
Completely dumbfounded at why my best friend would send over her nephew--whom I have only just met--when I had beckoned her in a time of great vulnerability, I am unable to move. Unable to speak.
“Ehm. Hi,” he says, a bit uneasy, sweeping his hand in the air in a quick wave. “Geillis couldna make it so she asked me to come check on ye.”
It hardly matters that a practical stranger is standing on my doorstep, tears anew begin to fall down my face.
Jamie leaps into action, stepping into my home and closing the door in one quick motion. In the next he gently takes me by the arm to guide me to the sofa in my front sitting room. He grabs a tissue box from the coffee table and places it in the space between us on the cushion. I take a few more and dab my eyes, but my sobs will not cease. “I-I’m s-sorry,” I apologize through my tears.
“Shhh, ye needn't be sorry for anything, Claire,” Jamie reassures me, moving the tissue box aside and inching closer to me. It’s all curlicues of the tongue as his accent rolls over the r in my name and I savor in the sound of it. He leans in and places an arm around my back, not wanting to force a hug, but wanting to comfort me in some way. Without so much as a second thought I close the gap between us, wrapping my arms around his waist. Closing my eyes and leaning into his chest I feel his warm embrace engulf me fully. “Dinna fash,” he whispers into my hair.
I had learned from my very Scottish best friend long ago that it means don’t worry. I don’t fully understand why, but coming from Jamie's soothing voice as the scent of him--freshly washed linens and clean sweat--fills my nostrils, I calm rather quickly, my sobs slowing, my tears less heavy.
Moments of silence slip by while he simply rubs my back, his palm making sweet circles between my shoulder blades. It is nearly hypnotic, but finally I pull away slightly and look up at him. His blue eyes meet mine; they are blazing with intensity. He takes a tissue from my hand and gently blots at the remaining tears clinging to my lashes. I suddenly feel dizzy and realize that I had entirely forgotten how to breathe while he stared at me . . .
Jamie breaks our contact first, releasing me and scooting slightly away. “Better?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“A bit. Thank you,” I say softly. And it genuinely is, somewhat more than just a bit if I am being honest with myself. Something about being in his company makes me feel calm. Safe.
“Aye, yer welcome.” A small smile forms over his lips and I can’t help but smile back in response.
“So, is Geillis alright?”
“I believe so. I dinna ken what the situation was seeing as I was out on a walk when she asked me to come check on ye.”
“Oh. Sounds reasonable enough.” I’m still not happy with her. I’ll have to find out why exactly she couldn’t come later. “Well, would you like something to drink?”
His eyes go a little wide at the question. “Ah, I really should be going, I dinna want to impose on ye, Mrs. Randall.”
Interested in the shift of formality, I tentatively reach out and place my hand on his forearm, keenly aware of his lips parting at the contact. “Claire is fine, Jamie. You needn’t be so formal with me. And please . . .” I pause, surprised at myself at what I’m about to ask, “I know this is going to sound strange seeing as we’ve only just met . . . but would you mind . . . I mean . . . would it be too forward to ask you to stay? I . . . I would really rather not be alone tonight.”
His eyes flare, but he reigns it in quickly. “No’ forward at all, Sassenach . . . er, I mean Claire. Sorry.” He blushes.
Genuine embarrassment washes over his face, making his features childishly adorable and my heart melts.
"It's fine," I say with a small smile, trying to hide how much he is affecting me.
“It only means English person is all,” he explains with a nervous laugh.
“Yes, Dougal called me that once and Geillis explained.” Though I didn’t care for it much from him, the way Jamie said it was more . . . endearing. “You may use it with me . . . if you like.” I smile shyly at him. He smiles back an adorable half-smirk and now I am the one who is blushing. “Ah . . . I am just going to take a moment upstairs to change out of these clothes that I wore to--” My words are halted by the pricking of tears trying to escape my eyes again.
Jamie reads my expression well and puts his hand on my shoulder, giving me a silent gesture of understanding.
“Please make yourself at home,” I say as I head upstairs to my bedroom.
Now that I’m away from Jamie I have more time to think. Why did I ask him to stay? He said it wasn’t strange, but I have only just met him. Today. It is indeed strange.
What exactly am I doing? I think hard about the day and all of the emotions that have run through me. What I felt when I met him and when I left the reception and came home. I am resolved to throw everything else out the window and focus on the fact that I, indeed, do not want to be alone. The house feels entirely too big, and too empty, without . . . Frank, and for some reason being around Jamie helps.
Besides, Geillis didn’t come to my rescue like she should have. Instead she sent her giant of a nephew. I have my phone with me and decide to text her: What on Earth were you thinking sending Jamie here?! I send.
I’m sorry, lass, but I had an emergency with Dougal and I couldn't come, but I didn’t want to leave you alone, she responds. Then another comes through: I hope he was able to help in some way?
I purse my lips, trying to decide on what to tell her. The truth? Or a portion of the truth? I go with the former: He has, but I asked him to stay here because I don’t want to be by myself. It should have been you having a girl’s night with me! Then as an afterthought I send: Is Dougal alright?
Her reply chimes through immediately: Och weeeel, Jamie is a sweet lad, he’ll be good company for you. Dougal is fine. G’nite m’dear!
I scold my phone. Geillie sounds a little too pleased that Jamie is staying for some odd reason.
“Claire? Ye alright, lass?” Jamie calls up, making me quite aware that I had been up in my room far longer than just a quick change.
“Ah, yes!” I call back. “Just freshening up a bit. Be down soon!” I clarify, though I’m not sure why I feel the need to.
However, after the events of the day I know my face is a right mess. I quickly throw off my clothes and change into something casual and comfortable and go into my bathroom. The sight in the mirror is something to behold. The eyes looking back at me are rimmed in red, still puffy underneath. At least I had the mind to wear waterproof mascara today. I quickly wash my face and pat my eyes with cold water before drying off. Looking at my unruly mane, I decide to throw it up into a loose chignon. Peering at myself again I'm a bit miffed that I can't manage better, but in the current circumstances she'll have to do.
Coming downstairs I discover Jamie now in my living room, a beer in hand, watching TV. When he sees me he smiles guiltily.
“Er, I hope ye dinna mind that I helped myself,” he says as he lifts the bottle.
“No, not at all. It’s quite alright. I said to make yourself at home, didn’t I?” I smile at him in reassurance as I sit down next to him.
“Aye, ye did,” he murmurs with a sly smirk as he relaxes.
“Ah . . . so, just to get this out of the way, we . . . er . . . I have a guest bedroom that you can stay in for the night. There’s actually two other rooms in the house, but the master suite is-was . . .” I trail off.
He reaches out and places a calming hand on my knee. “I ken,” he says simply, recognizing yet again what I am unable to say out loud.
There’s that feeling again, that pulling sensation when he touches my skin. I look down at his hand and wonder if he feels it too . . . like two magnets coming together, not wanting to be apart.
Shaking out of my thoughts I make the sound decision to follow the same resolve from earlier today. I shift on the sofa, turning my body towards the television, and Jamie takes cue, removing his hand. This is not the time.