Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [2]
Roger uttered an Old Testament groan at the thought of pawing through his parents’ memorabilia. “Oh, God,” he said aloud. “Anything but that!”
The remark had not been intended precisely as prayer, but the doorbell pealed as though in answer, making Roger bite his tongue in startlement.
The door of the manse had a tendency to stick in damp weather, which meant that it was stuck most of the time. Roger freed it with a rending screech, to find a woman on the doorstep.
“Can I help you?”
She was middle height and very pretty. He had an overall impression of fine bones and white linen, topped with a wealth of curly brown hair in a sort of half-tamed chignon. And in the middle of it all, the most extraordinary pair of light eyes, just the color of well-aged sherry.
The eyes swept up from his size-eleven plimsolls to the face a foot above her. The sidelong smile grew wider. “I hate to start right off with a cliché,” she said, “but my, how you have grown, young Roger!”
Roger felt himself flushing. The woman laughed and extended a hand. “You are Roger, aren’t you? My name’s Claire Randall; I was an old friend of the Reverend’s. But I haven’t seen you since you were five years old.”
“Er, you said you were a friend of my father’s? Then, you know already.…”
The smile vanished, replaced by a look of regret.
“Yes, I was awfully sorry to hear about it. Heart, was it?”
“Um, yes. Very sudden. I’ve only just come up from Oxford to start dealing with…everything.” He waved vaguely, encompassing the Reverend’s death, the house behind him, and all its contents.
“From what I recall of your father’s library, that little chore ought to last you ’til next Christmas,” Claire observed.
“In that case, maybe we shouldn’t be disturbing you,” said a soft American voice.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Claire, half-turning to the girl who had stood out of sight in the corner of the porch. “Roger Wakefield—my daughter, Brianna.”
Brianna Randall stepped forward, a shy smile on her face. Roger stared for a moment, then remembered his manners. He stepped back and swung the door open wide, momentarily wondering just when he had last changed his shirt.
“Not at all, not at all!” he said heartily. “I was just wanting a break. Won’t you come in?”
He waved the two women down the hall toward the Reverend’s study, noting that as well as being moderately attractive, the daughter was one of the tallest girls he’d ever seen close-to. She had to be easily six feet, he thought, seeing her head even with the top of the hall stand as she passed. He unconsciously straightened himself as he followed, drawing up to his full six feet three. At the last moment, he ducked, to avoid banging his head on the study lintel as he followed the women into the room.
* * *
“I’d meant to come before,” said Claire, settling herself deeper in the huge wing chair. The fourth wall of the Reverend’s study was equipped with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sunlight winked off the pearl clip in her light-brown hair. The curls were beginning to escape from their confinement, and she tucked one absently behind an ear as she talked.
“I’d arranged to come last year, in fact, and then there was an emergency at the hospital in Boston—I’m a doctor,” she explained, mouth curling a little at the look of surprise Roger hadn’t quite managed to conceal. “But I’m sorry that we didn’t; I would have liked so much to see your father again.”
Roger rather wondered why they had come now, knowing the Reverend was dead, but it seemed impolite to ask. Instead, he asked, “Enjoying a bit of sightseeing, are you?”
“Yes, we drove up from London,” Claire answered. She smiled at her daughter. “I wanted Bree to see