Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [33]
Aside from confirming his suspicions that a man named James Fraser was mixed up in all this, the matter remained as impenetrable as ever. What in the name of God did Jonathan Randall have to do with it, and why on earth was the man buried at St. Kilda? The letter of commission had given Jonathan Randall’s place of birth as an estate in Sussex; how did he end up in a remote Scottish kirkyard? True, it wasn’t all that far from Culloden—but why hadn’t he been shipped back to Sussex?
“Will ye be needin’ anything else tonight, Mr. Wakefield?” Fiona’s voice roused him from his fruitless meditations. He sat up, blinking, to see her holding a broom and a polishing cloth.
“What? Er, no. No, thanks, Fiona. But what are you doing with all that clobber? Not still cleaning at this time of night?”
“Well, it’s the church ladies,” Fiona explained. “You remember, ye told them they could hold their regular monthly meeting here tomorrow? I thought I’d best tidy up a bit.”
The church ladies? Roger quailed at the thought of forty housewives, oozing sympathy, descending on the manse in an avalanche of tweeds, twin-sets, and cultured pearls.
“Will ye be takin’ tea with the ladies?” Fiona was asking. “The Reverend always did.”
The thought of entertaining Brianna Randall and the church ladies simultaneously was more than Roger could contemplate with equanimity.
“Er, no,” he said abruptly. “I’ve…I’ve an engagement tomorrow.”
His hand fell on the telephone, half-buried in the debris of the Reverend’s desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Fiona, I’ve got to make a call.”
* * *
Brianna wandered back into the bedroom, smiling to herself. I looked up from my book and arched a brow in inquiry.
“Phone call from Roger?” I said.
“How’d you know?” She looked startled for a moment, then grinned, shucking off her robe. “Oh, because he’s the only guy I know in Inverness?”
“I didn’t think any of your boyfriends would be calling long-distance from Boston,” I said. I peered at the clock on the table. “Not at this hour, anyway; they’ll all be at football practice.”
Brianna ignored this, and shoved her feet under the covers. “Roger’s invited us to go up to a place called St. Kilda tomorrow. He says it’s an interesting old church.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said, yawning. “All right, why not? I’ll take my plant press; maybe I can find some crown vetch—I promised some to Dr. Abernathy for his research. But if we’re going to spend the day tramping round reading old gravestones, I’m turning in now. Digging up the past is strenuous work.”
There was a brief flicker in Brianna’s face, and I thought she was about to say something. But she merely nodded, and reached to turn out the light, the secretive smile still lurking in the corners of her mouth.
I lay looking up into the darkness, hearing her small tossings and turnings fade into the regular cadences of her sleeping breath. St. Kilda, eh? I had never been there, but I knew of the place; it was an old church, as Brianna had said, long deserted and out of the way for tourists—only the occasional researcher ever went there. Perhaps this was the opportunity I had been waiting for, then?
I would have Roger and Brianna together there, and alone, with little fear of interruption. And perhaps it was a suitable place to tell them—there among the long-dead parishioners of St. Kilda. Roger had not yet verified the whereabouts of the rest of the Lallybroch men, but it seemed fairly sure that they had at least left Culloden Field alive, and that was really all I needed to know, now. I could tell Bree the end of it, then.
My mouth grew dry at the thought of the coming interview. Where was I to find the words for this? I tried to visualize how it might go; what I might say, and how they might react, but imagination failed me. More than ever, I regretted my promise to Frank that had kept me from writing to the Reverend Wakefield. If I had, Roger at least might