Diana Gabaldon: Dragonfly In Amber

Serve him right, he reflected wryly, if the records he was looking for turned out to be in the Reverend’s archives all along. That’s what he got for neglecting his work to go on wild-goose chases to impress a girl. His trip to Edinburgh had done little more than serve to eliminate the three names he’d found at Culloden House; all three men proved to have come from different regiments, not the Broch Tuarach group.

The Stuart Papers took up three entire rooms, as well as untold packing cases in the basement of the museum, so he could hardly claim to have made an exhaustive study. Still, he had found a duplicate of the payroll he’d seen at Culloden House, listing the joining of the men as part of a regiment under the overall command of the Master of Lovat – the Old Fox’s son, that would have been, Young Simon. Cagy old bastard split his vote, Roger thought; sent the heir to fight for the Stuarts, and stayed home himself, claiming to have been a loyal subject of King Geordie all along. Much good it did him.

That document had listed Simon Fraser the Younger as commander, and made no mention of James Fraser. A James Fraser was mentioned in a number of army dispatches, memoranda, and other documents, though. If it was the same man, he’d been fairly active in the campaign. Still, with only the name “James Fraser,” it was impossible to tell if it was the Broch Tuarach one; James was as common a Highland name as Duncan or Robert. In only one spot was a James Fraser listed with additional middle names that might help in identification, but that document made no mention of his men.

He shrugged, irritably waving off a sudden cloud of voracious midges. To go through those records in coherent fashion would take several years. Unable to shake the attentions of the midges, he ducked into the dark, brewery atmosphere of the pub, leaving them to mill outside in a frenzied cloud of inquiry.

Sipping the cool, bitter ale, he mentally reviewed the steps taken so far, and the options open to him. He had time to go to Fort William today, though it would mean getting back to Inverness late. And if the Fort William museum turned up nothing, then a good rummage through the Reverend’s archives was the logical, if ironic, next step.

And after that? He drained the last drops of bitter, and signaled the landlord for another glass. Well, if it came down to it, a tramp round every kirkyard and burying ground in the general vicinity of Broch Tuarach was likely the best he could do in the short term. He doubted that the Randalls would stay in Inverness for the next two or three years, patiently awaiting results.

He felt in his pocket for the notebook that is the historian’s constant companion. Before he left Broch Mhorda, he should at least have a look at what was left of the old kirkyard. You never knew what might turn up, and it would at least save him coming back.

The next afternoon, the Randalls came to take tea at Roger’s invitation, and to hear his progress report.

“I’ve found several of the names on your list,” he told Claire, leading the way into the study. “It’s very odd; I haven’t yet found any who died for sure at Culloden. I thought I had three, but they turned out to be different men with the same names.” He glanced at Dr. Randall; she was standing quite still, one hand clasping the back of a wing chair, as though she’d forgotten where she was.

“Er, won’t you sit down?” Roger invited, and with a small, startled jerk, she nodded and sat abruptly on the edge of the seat. Roger eyed her curiously, but went on, pulling out his folder of research notes and handing it to her.

“As I say, it’s odd. I haven’t tracked down all the names; I think I’ll need to go nose about among the parish registers and graveyards near Broch Tuarach. I found most of these records among my father’s papers. But you’d think I’d have turned up one or two battle-deaths at least, given that they were all at Culloden. Especially if, as you say, they were with one of the Fraser regiments; those were nearly all in the center of the battle, where the fighting was thickest.”

“I know.” There was something in her voice that made him look at her, puzzled, but her face was invisible as she bent over the desk. Most of the records were copies, made in Roger’s own hand, as the exotic technology of photocopying had not yet penetrated to the government archive that guarded the Stuart Papers, but there were a few original sheets, unearthed from the late Reverend Wakefield’s hoard of eighteenth-century documents. She turned over the records with a gentle finger, careful not to touch the fragile paper more than necessary.

“You’re right; that is odd.” Now he recognized the emotion in her voice – it was excitement, but mingled with satisfaction and relief. She had been in some way expecting this – or hoping for it.

“Tell me…” She hesitated. “The names you’ve found. What happened to them, if they didn’t die at Culloden?”

He was faintly surprised that it should seem to matter so much to her, but obligingly pulled out the folder that held his research notes and opened it. “Two of them were on a ship’s roll; they emigrated to America soon after Culloden. Four died of natural causes about a year later – not surprising, there was a terrible famine after Culloden, and a lot of people died in the Highlands. And this one I found in a parish register – but not the parish he came from. I’m fairly sure it’s one of your men, though.”

It was only as the tension went out of her shoulders that he noticed it had been there.

“Do you want me to look for the rest, still?” he asked, hoping that the answer would be “yes.” He was watching Brianna over her mother’s shoulder. She was standing by the cork wall, half-turned as though uninterested in her mother’s project, but he could see a small vertical crease between her brows.

Perhaps she sensed the same thing he did, the odd air of suppressed excitement that surrounded Claire like an electric field. He had been aware of it from the moment she walked into the room, and his revelations had only increased it. He imagined that if he touched her, a great spark of static electricity would leap between them.

A knock on the study door interrupted his thoughts. The door opened and Fiona Graham came in, pushing a tea cart, fully equipped with teapot, cups, doilies, three kinds of sandwiches, cream-cakes, sponge cake, jam tarts, and scones with clotted cream.

“Yum!” said Brianna at the sight. “Is that all for us, or are you expecting ten other people?”

Claire Randall looked over the tea preparations, smiling. The electric field was still there, but damped down by major effort. Roger could see one of her hands, clenched so hard in the folds of her skirt that the edge of her ring cut into the flesh.

“That tea is so high, we won’t need to eat for weeks,” she said. “It looks wonderful!”

Fiona beamed. She was short, plump and pretty as a small brown hen. Roger sighed internally. While he was pleased to be able to offer his guests hospitality, he was well aware that the lavish nature of the refreshments was intended for his appreciation, not theirs. Fiona, aged nineteen, had one burning ambition in life. To be a wife. Preferably of a professional man. She had taken one look at Roger when he arrived a week earlier to tidy up the Reverend’s affairs, and decided that an assistant professor of history was the best prospect Inverness offered.

Since then, he had been stuffed like a Christmas goose, had his shoes polished, his slippers and toothbrush laid out, his bed turned down, his coat brushed, the evening paper bought for him and laid alongside his plate, his neck rubbed when he had been working over his desk for long hours, and constant inquiries made concerning his bodily comfort, state of mind, and general health. He had never before been exposed to such a barrage of domesticity.