The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [37]
She was holding my hands tight between her own, squeezing hard.
“He gave you to me,” she said, so low I could hardly hear her. “Now I have to give you back to him, Mama.”
The eyes that were so like Jamie’s looked down at me, blurred by tears.
“If you find him,” she whispered, “when you find my father—give him this.” She bent and kissed me, fiercely, gently, then straightened and turned me toward the stone.
“Go, Mama,” she said, breathless. “I love you. Go!”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Roger move toward her. I took one step, and then another. I heard a sound, a faint roaring. I took the last step, and the world disappeared.
The journey through the stones is dangerous and draining—but successful. Recovered from the passage, Claire makes her way to Edinburgh, filled with fear and anticipation. Is “A. Malcolm” truly James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser? And if he is …
Another minute and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”
“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”
Their reunion is both tender and joyous, tinged by shock, and enhanced by the pictures Claire has brought with her: photographs of Brianna, at every age from babyhood to young womanhood. Glancing around Jamie’s spartan rooms, Claire is reassured; no woman tends this house. Hours are spent, lost in the simple miracle of each other’s presence–until Jamie is brought to a realization of the time.
Exclaiming that he has forgotten “Mr. Willoughby,” he springs to his feet and rushes out with Claire, to a nearby local tavern. Here she meets Mr. Willoughby— a Chinese “associate,” whom Jamie had found on the Edinburgh docks two years earlier and rescued from freezing. Jamie’s explanation of the nature of the “association” is delayed when Mr. Willoughby’s appearance provokes a small riot at the tavern, causing Claire, Jamie, and Mr. Willoughby (aka Yi Tien Cho) to flee through the backstreets and wynds of the city, finding refuge at last in a brothel— whose female proprietor seems to be on very familiar terms with Jamie.
Alone at last in an upper room, partial explanations emerge; Jamie is a printer, indeed, but derives a good part of his income from smuggling liquor on the side; Madame Jeanne provides both a hiding place for the smuggled goods and an outlet for their sale. Claire still has questions— many of them—but further explanations can wait; the night is upon them, and they are alone, together.
After the blissful reunion of the night, Jamie rises early. He has urgent business, he explains, but will be back soon. Before Jamie can leave, though, an unexpected visitor arrives at the brothel—Jamie’s brother-in-law, Ian.
“Wife?” Forgetting to look away, Ian goggled at Jamie in horror. “Ye’ve marrit a whore?” he croaked.
“I wouldn’t call it that, exactly,” I said. Hearing my voice, he jerked his head in my direction.
“Hullo,” I said, waving cheerily at him from my nest of bedclothes. “Been a long time, hasn’t it?”
I’d always thought the descriptions of what people did when seeing ghosts rather exaggerated, but had been forced to revise my opinions in light of the responses I had been getting since my return to the past. Jamie had fainted dead away, and if Ian’s hair was not literally standing on end, he assuredly looked as though he had been scared out of his wits.
Eyes bugging out, he