Chapter Text
While Jamie’s life no longer hung in the balance, caring for him was only marginally less stressful.
The snake venom had run its course and Bree’s makeshift syringe had allowed for the full effectiveness of Claire’s penicillin against infection.
Jamie wasn’t boiling with fever, writhing with maggots, or rife with infected lesions.
He was, however, still nowhere back to full strength, and was being restricted from most physical exertion, much to his chagrin.
Any time he tried to broach the subject of moving about to stretch his legs or going to see to some of his less strenuous chores, he was swiftly and thoroughly shut down by a pinched lipped Claire. Then Claire would declare him an awful patient, to which he would counter that she ought to look in a mirror every once in a while, which inevitably led to a full snit which ended when Claire stomped out of the surgery to blow off some steam and Jamie would throw himself back down on the sick bed and brood.
This morning, however, it seemed that Claire had taken a different strategy in an attempt to prevent another quarrel.
She entered the surgery in a twirl of skirts, the faint scent of baked bread and honey drifting in with her. She held a tray in one hand, and held Jemmy against one hip with the other.
Jamie sat up and brushed the blankets aside. “Hallo, laddie. G’mornin, Sassenach.”
Claire, who had been looking for something on her work bench, whirled with a quiet smile. “Morning, darling. Jemmy, shall we sit with Granda and eat some breakfast, do you think?”
“Aye!” He called, uncaring of the early hour or the nearness to his grandmother’s ear canal.
She flinched but smooched his round cheek enthusiastically anyway when he jerked back to look at her. He kicked his little feet against her, a clear encouragement to move toward Jamie.
Jamie held out his hands for the lad as Claire approached, and she relinquished the little tyrant. Jamie held him upside down against his chest, patted his bottom as if to shake him down for loose change, and then sat him across his knee when the lad’s squealing hit glass-breaking pitches.
“What’s brought ye over so early, wee man?” Jamie asked congenially, jouncing the lad on his good knee as he reached for a spoonful of parritch from the tray Claire had set beside him.
“We’re gonna play games to make your leg better!!” Jemmy enthused, a large drip of honey smeared from the corner of his mouth to underneath his chin.
Jamie let his confusion be aimed at Claire, who sat on the surgery cot opposite him, neatly tearing small pieces of buttered and honeyed bread and popping them into her mouth.
She raised a single eyebrow in acknowledgment and chewed her bite before replying. “That’s right, Jem. Granda has to build up muscle in his hurt leg so he can go riding horses and fishing and hunting with you like he wants. So we’re going to play some games that will help him build his muscle back. Physiotherapy. Can you say that?”
Jemmy looked at her quizzically, brow wrinkled adorably. “Fizzy-oh-tarry.”
Jamie suppressed a snort. “A fine try, lad.” He handed Jem another piece of bread- more honey than bread, in truth- and the little boy tore in to it with gusto.
“So ye plan to torture me some more, is that it? Is this my punishment for bein’ short wi’ ye then?” Jamie asked with the sort of crooked grin that conveyed self-aware apology and a disgruntled amusement that she had resorted to using their grandchild to manipulate Jamie into her treatment plan.
“I thought it rather a better option than leaving you to sit in bed all day. But if thats what you prefer, Jemmy and I can take our company elsewhere.” Claire replied as neutrally as her glass face would allow. The beginnings of a displeased frown tugged at the corners of her lips, though, and he could see by the tension in her neck that she was ready for another row.
“Ye ken I canna say no to the lad, which is why you brought him, I suspect.” He shot her a narrowed eyed look before leaning over and squeezing Jemmy into his side until the boy squawked and laughed. Jamie grinned and kissed the boy’s head. Jamie studied Claire evenly for a moment, and sighed. “Ye think your therapy will get me back my strength?” He queried in resignation.
“I do. It’s the same concept as the exercises I had you do after I repaired your hand in France.” Her eyes darted to the hand with two stiff fingers that had never quite mended correctly. “Of course, the damage was much worse, then, and I had much less training. This is a simple matter of muscle atrophy and wound care. None of your bones or ligaments were affected. I can make you well again. I know I can.”
Jamie stared at his bandaged leg briefly, while Jemmy, bored of grown up conversation, crawled on hand and knees behind his back. He felt little fingers on his shoulders, and wee leather shoes on his mid-back, and then the lad was climbing him like a chimp, and settling himself in a seat on his grandfather’s shoulders.
Jamie looked up as Jemmy clung to his head for balance. He grabbed one of the boy’s ankles to keep him from tumbling backwards. Jemmy’s wide smile eased some tension in him, and Jamie shook himself like a dog to a chorus of shrieks and laughter from his passenger.
He faced Claire again, purposely softening his gaze, and pushing back the fears and doubts that he wouldn’t be strong enough to provide for and protect his family.
She met his gaze warmly, admiring the playful scene before her. He could see the worry and exhaustion hidden in the corners of her eyes. If his mind hadn’t already been made up, that would have decided him. “I’ve never known ye not to do your best when healing any of my many wounds. If ye say it’ll work, then it will.”
She bowed her head briefly in relief. When she looked up again, her smile looked fit to split her face down the middle, and she jumped up from her seat.
She put two dry, warm hands on his cheeks and kissed him fiercely. He had given her quite a start, when he’d resolved himself to die rather than live without his leg. He needed to remember how much that had scared her when he felt his dander rising with self flagellation. He was frustrated at his inability to do what he usually did- what he must do. There was no need to take it out on Claire, who was doing everything she could do care for him, and the family, and fill in for Jamie where she could.
Jemmy, still atop his shoulders, pulled at handfuls of hair. “Me next, Granny, do me!”
Claire’s eyes sparkled, and her fingers stroked affection against Jamie’s whiskered cheeks as she turned her attention to their young audience member. “You next, hmm? Alright, you brought this on yourself!”
She arched toward him with waggling fingers, and Jamie felt himself thrown forward as Jemmy lurched into his Granny’s embrace. Jamie couldn’t see much more than a flurry of her skirts, as he was eye level with her stomach at present, but he heard her rain down smacking, silly kisses upon the boy, and was quite sure by the squirming that she was tickling him as well.
Suddenly, the weight of the boy was lifted from his shoulders, and Claire stepped back with an armful of wriggling wean and the sparkle of pure delight in her eyes.
She set him down on his feet and crouched down to see eye to eye with him. He bounced about and she held him by the ribs on either side to still him. “Alright, Jem, go get the ball, right where I showed you, yes?”
Jemmy crowed and sailed out of the surgery, little feet stomping on wood floors.
The lad came storming back in seconds later with a large, round leather ball, cheeks rosy from all the excitement.
Claire beamed and Jemmy toddled over to her, presenting the ball to her with a heavy thump when it connected with her bent knees.
“Good work, Jem.” She praised cheerfully. “I’ll start with Granda, and when he’s ready you can help him play, alright? But first I’d like to see you pass your ball all the away around this counter 10 times, okay? Remember how Da taught you?”
Jemmy nudged the ball a few inches with his foot, before directing it the other direction with a gentle kick from the other foot.
“Beautiful! Go ahead and start your circles. Count aloud so Granny can hear you.”
Having set the lad to occupy his time, Claire dragged the small bench at the end of the bed toward the threshold which lead into her medicine room.
“Alright, Soldier, it’s time to put you to work too. Stand up, and we’ll get you on this bench.”
Jamie appreciated that she didn’t try to lever him up as she had in past days, by wedging a shoulder beneath the pit of his arm. Instead she let him go on his own, her hand hovering as unobtrusively as possible near his arm in case he might need steadying. (He did, once he’d straightened his knees, but he had grabbed for the bed poster and regained his aplomb without hearing a gasp, swear, or hiss from Claire, which was a relief.)
He smiled gratefully at her, and decided that swiveling 90 degrees so that he faced into the surgery was perhaps slightly beyond his abilities, free handed. He took hold of the bed post with both hands, and shuffled his feet under him until he faced the right direction. By the time Jemmy had counted to two (the bench was long and his ball juggling was somewhat clumsy) Jamie was sitting upon the bench, hip muscles twinging slightly.
“What now?” He asked reluctantly, realizing rather suddenly that his joke about torture might not be too far from the truth.
“It’s not just the muscles in the injured part of your leg that have weakened, as I’m sure you’re aware. Jemmy is going to help us with those later-"
“Three- aye, I’mma help fix ye, Granda!” Jem interrupted gamely, hopping a little before starting his fourth lap.
Claire shook her head in amusement and rolled her eyes fondly. “Right. So, we’re going to work on your upper legs and lower back first. And once you’re proper sore, we’ll change tack. I’d like to say it’s not as bad as it sounds, but I’ve had patients say is absolutely dreadful.”
Jamie glared at her beneath his lashes, only half playfully. “It’ll help?”
“In time, yes.” She confirmed steadily.
Jamie nodded in acquiescence and shrugged. “What will ye have me do, then?”
Claire shot a brief look over her shoulder at the lad before raising a conspiratorial brow. “Any other time, lad, and I’d have a very different answer. But for now, I suppose I’ll have to make do. I’ve placed you in between the beds so that you have the bed posts on either side if you should need them. But, if you can, I’d like you to stand up and then sit back down with as little aid as possible.”
Jamie nodded again, grunted, and thrust his hips slightly forward, to give him a bit of momentum off the bench. He stood, canted slightly to his bad side, straightened, and stood at his full height right before Claire. It had been weeks since he had this vantage of her, the twinkle of sunlight as it sparked off the silver curls at the top of her head. The way the freckles along the bridge of her nose begged for the pressure of his lips. The way he could see the beginnings of a smile by the way the corners of her eyes twitched before her lips had even begun their ascent.
She gleamed proudly up at him, clearly enjoying the view just as much as he was. He pressed a sincere kiss to her lips (though not quite as thorough as he’d like, following her suggestive comment) before his knees threatened to buckle and he sat down somewhat less gracefully than intended.
Jemmy was up to five and a half, and Jamie tried to focus on the twitching and firing of each muscle, so that he could concentrate his efforts there on his next go.
Jamie stood again, this time trying to rely less on swinging upward, and more on a natural rise. It was difficult. Much more bloody difficult than he’d like, but it was possible.
His heels rocked beneath him, and instead of reaching out to the bed, his first instinct had him grabbing at Claire. She shot out a forearm, and this finger wrapped around it, lending him enough stability to settle on the bench without falling into it.
“Steady on, Soldier.” She encouraged bracingly. She retracted her hand knowingly, to offer him the chance to go at it on his own, and he grunted his thanks. “Two more, shall we? What are you up to now, Jem?”
“Seven!”
“Lovely, darling. What comes after seven?” She tossed over her shoulder, stepping back one pace and gesturing for Jamie to try once more.
He could see how she tried to deflect some of the attention away from his weakness and made efforts not to hover and fidget as she was inclined to do. He must remember this the next time he felt harangued by her worry and well-meant offers of assistance.
He stood again and felt his bad leg give slightly at the knee and hip. He righted himself by throwing his shoulders the opposite direction, stood for the count of five, and reached back behind him with the fingers of his good hand to assist himself back into a seat. He was sweating now, which aggravated him greatly.
He could see Claire biting her lip with the effort of suppressing some anxious question. He took a steadying breath and made to rise once more. His hip was twitching madly, and he felt the burn of underused muscles fatiguing the entire leg.
Still, he held his standing position for a (quick) count of five, blowing a stream of frustrated air out of puckered lips before doing his best not to collapse back against the bench.
He heaved a few breaths, and Claire shot him her best impression of an encouraging smile, one which certainly did not reach her eyes, which were plainly nervous and pained by his discomfort.
“One more, for good measure.” Jamie stated calmly, stretching out his legs and feet to try to loosen the tension that had settled in them.
Claire looked ready to argue, and Jamie tried to mentally prepare himself to meet it with patience, despite the ticking muscle in his clenched jaw. He watched her keen eyes take in every diagnostic detail of his features. Her lips pursed and then her chest slowly expanded and contracted with a deep breath.
“Try to widen your stance slightly, at your feet. That should help steady you just a bit. Then fix your eyes on a single point in the room and give it all your effort.”
In his surprise, he felt his head whip upward without making the conscious decision to do so. He saw her steadfast whiskey eyes staring him down, lending him her nearly infinite resilience.
This must have been the face, albeit years older, that shored up the dwindling spirits of wounded soldiers in a war more brutal than his imagination could give life to.
He inched his feet further apart, planted his hands on his knees, straightened his back, and stood to face her, returning every bit of constancy and confidence that she leveled at him.
Her hair was twisted into a tight bun, but he slid his fingers in against the curve of the back of her skull anyway, inclined her face toward his with a thumb behind the corner of her jaw, and captured her supple lower lip between his, nibbling gently, then smoothing away the sting with his tongue. Her wee nails pricked against the scarred flesh above his shoulder blades.
“Eight, nine, ten! Granda stood for 10! Good job, Granda!” The impact of a four-year-old Jemmy barreling into his knees, despite the added stability of Claire’s body against his was enough to nearly topple him.
If Claire’s arms had not been around him already, she’d have not braced him in time to prevent what would have been a rather unseemly tumble. As it was, even if she had been fully prepared, there was no way she could completely manage the weight of her solid 6’5” Scotsman, and it was all she could do to bend her knees and lock her spine and slow his descent enough that his arse landed on the bench instead of the floor.
Claire didn’t bother scolding Jem, who looked suitably bashful, upon Jamie’s near collapse. The lad mumbled an apology into his grandsire’s knee and wheedled in between his legs for a consolatory hug around the waist. Jamie indulged the boy with a hand that spanned the entirety of the lad’s back.
“What do you two think about a little bit of friendly competition?”
Jemmy fidgeted excitedly, a look not too far off from when he was a wee bit younger and making a mess of his clout.
Claire scrunched her nose up with affection. “It’s very simple. You must stand on one foot, with your hands down at your side. You have to balance, no holding on to the bed or bench.” She shot a mockingly accusatory glare at the little boy who cackled gleefully, and tapped both palms on the bed, as if to prove his unruliness before the game could truly start. “Whoever can hold their balance the longest wins!”
Jamie levered himself up from the bench, figuring he must give himself every possible advantage, as this wasna likely to go well for him.
They started on their left feet, and almost instantly, Jemmy tumbled forward, rolled rump over head, and sat giggling, hands planted between his spread-eagle legs. Jamie and Claire were still standing, though Jamie could feel a slight wobble in his knee. Still, it proved slightly less of a challenge than the squatting, as once he found his equilibrium, he found it rather easy to maintain. After what must have been over half a minute, Jemmy had grown decidedly restless. He hopped precariously close to the toes of his grandparents, perhaps hoping the force might knock them off balance. When that failed, he resorted to more blatant forms of sabotage, grabbed two overflowing handfuls of his Granny’s apron, and pulled with all his might.
Claire yelped, kicked out, and regained her footing.
“No’ verra nice, Jem. Dinna do it again, or there’ll be consequences.” Jamie said, lowering his foot slowly and feeling quite pleased that he had dropped his foot because he wanted to, and not because he hadn’t the strength to keep it up.
The boy bit his lip and puckered his brows, but Jamie didna give him the attention he was after.
“The other side, now, I expect?”
Claire shot him a sideways smile in lieu of answering aloud. Jamie breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. This would be a much greater challenge, he knew, for he now had some idea of how much weaker his right side had become.
“The key will be in your low belly and your knee. Stay rigid in your core and do your best to keep that knee from juddering. Easier said than done, I know.” Claire threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender.
Jamie allowed Jemmy to count them in to this round, though he had to be lead through counting backwards from five.
This round went not even half the time, if Jamie was a betting man. As last time, Jem lacked the coordination to stand on one foot for more than a few seconds. Claire looked as steady a Scots Pine, but Jamie’s knee began to falter after a matter of seconds, and it was all he could do to make it to the count of twelve in his head before he set his foot down, more embarrassed by the prospect of falling on his face than losing a game.
Caire stood down the second he finished and did her best not to look rushed into helping him to a seat. Claire fetched him a glass of water which Jamie gulped down, only realizing how parched he was when he’d drained the cup and requested another. She obliged and raked her hands through his hair fondly as he finished off the second.
When he had gained a bit of composure, Jemmy set leather ball in Jamie’s lap.
“Ready for your turn helping Granda, are you?” Claire asked him with amusement.
Jemmy nodded enthusiastically. “Play, Granda!”
Jamie smiled and lifted the ball, turning it over in his hands to inspect the handiwork. “What’s a ball have to do wi’ fixin my leg?”
Claire smiled and took it from him, pointing Jemmy to the other end of the room. “It just makes it more fun. We can work on building muscle and finer movements at the same time. All you need to do is kick the ball to Jemmy. He’ll pick different spots at the other end of the surgery, and you’ll kick it to him. We’ll try 10 on each leg. In a week or two, we’ll up the ante and do it standing.”
Jemmy stood right in front of the surgery workbench, tongue stuck out in concentration, bending at the knee repeatedly in a gesture of ill contained stimulation.
Jamie passed a skeptical look to Claire, but he said nothing, only setting the ball before his good foot and toeing the ball forward. Jemmy squealed and leapt forward, leaning over to stop the ball with his hands. Once the ball was still, he stood up and clumsily kicked the ball back toward his grandfather. It skittered somewhat to the side, but Claire passed it back to Jamie with the end of her shoe.
Jemmy went to the far-left end of the room, and Jamie easily angled his good foot and directed the ball toward Jemmy, with considerably more speed this time. The ball skidded across the floor with a sound like a corn husk tumbling along with a breeze.
Jemmy and he alternated passes, and Jamie found no great difficulty in using his fully functioning leg to complete the game. When they’d reached ten sets, Claire asked him to switch. He rolled the hide beneath the ball of his foot, trying to judge his maneuverability. It was admittedly stiff and cumbersome, and he surmised he’d be much less pleased with the results of this round.
Jemmy chose his starting position in the right corner of the room, and Jamie tried to adjust the angle of his leg to send the ball. It was his right leg that had been bitten, and he found that pointing his toes outward, away from his body was much more difficult than pointing them inward. If Jemmy had chosen the left corner, he’d have a much better shot. Just holding his foot at this angle, lifted off the floor as it currently was, was causing his hip, knee, and calf to twinge.
He sighed and gave it his best. His heel skimmed the ground inadvertently, and his toe met the ball much too straight on. The ball limped weakly down the middle of the room and wedged itself under the footboard of the work bench.
Jamie snorted in irritation and glared at the sympathetic glance he was receiving from Claire.
“That’s what we’re working on. There’d be no point of trying this at all if there were nothing to improve upon.”
It sounded so close to something she’d said to Marsali when the lass was practicing her stitching on a butchered pig, or Germain when she was helping him tie his shoes that it made him want to bellow at her.
Instead, he curled his lips briefly in distaste and gestured for Jemmy to pass it back. The lad did (and with significantly more finesse that Jamie himself had just demonstrated) and went to the left side of the room.
The ball didn’t sail across the room with as much power as when he’d used to left leg, but it was at least less directionally challenged, and the strain wasn’t as great as his first go. He found the same to be true of the pass straight down the middle of the room.
“To the right, lad. My right. Aye.” Jamie said, indicating with a jutting thumb where he wanted the boy to be.
He was met with the same result, a pitifully slow roll, and horribly off target, and he felt his fist curl involuntarily.
“Nah, lad, stay there. I’ll get it right if it kills me. Dinna move until I tell ye.”
Jemmy, blissfully unaware of the tension which was crackling in the air like an oncoming thunderstorm, crowed his wee encouragements.
When the ball failed to meet its target for a third time, Jemmy very matter of factly said, “I’m over here, Granda. You’re supposed to kick it this way, like this.” The little red headed chimp tilted his foot out to the side, propped up on a heel, as if it was no mean feat, which, Jamie reflected bitterly, it wasna.
The base of his fist cracked against the wood of the bench.
Claire stepped in before the tension could spill over. “Alright, that’s it for today. Jemmy, you’ve been a wonderful helper. Go find Mama in the summer kitchen, just past the dairy shed. That’s a good lad. Tell her Granny said yes to one sweetie for your help.”
Jemmy held up two fingers with a pleading look, and a perfectly pouty lip. Claire pinched his nose affectionately but resisted his considerable charms. “No, just one.” She held one finger up in demonstration and used it to squash one of his down against his palm in a playful wrestling match. He giggled and she patted his rump and sent him out the surgery door in the right direction.
“Claire, dinna manage me as ye do the bairns or so help me, I’ll no’ be liable for my temper.” Jamie said through gritted teeth.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve just as little desire to have my head bitten off as you have of giving your abused body a little grace.” She snapped waspishly.
She knelt by his feet and put a hand on the outside edge of his poor foot. “Push against it as hard as you can.” He did as she asked. She completed the same test on his good foot.
“You have the range of motion; it’s just weakened from little use. It will get better. When you’re abed, you can practice pushing with all your might against something. The wall, the bed frame, or a dresser, if you’re sitting up with your legs over the edge. In the short term it’ll fatigue and feel weak, but over time the muscle will build.”
She stood and considered the foot, which remained pointed out at the angle he needed to kick.
“Now don’t shout me silly at the suggestion or I’ll make you regret it. But I think you’ll have some success if you don’t lift your foot so high off the floor. Your kick will have less power, yes, but I think you’ll get it where you want it to go. We’ll add the power back in a few days, when you’ve built up some strength.”
Jamie stubbornly ignored her and kicked the ball with as much force as he could muster. The ball did not go in its intended direction. In fact, Jamie hit the ball entirely too low, and it popped up into the air and sailed into a collection of glass jars on the countertop against the back windows. The jars promptly tumbled to the floor, shattered, and spilled their various contents onto the stone floor.
Just then, Jemmy popped his head back in the door from which he had gone, cheeking some boiled sweetie his Mama had given him. He threw elated fists in the air. “Good job, Granda!”
The lad ambled over and patted his little sticky palms against Jamie’s knees. Jamie skimmed a hand over the curve of the boys smooth, silky head, keeping his view pointedly away from his seething grandmother.
Her jaw was set, nostrils flared and knuckles gleaming white as bone from the clench of her fingers.
“Yes. Good job, Granda.” Her tone was like ice and left no room for further obstinance nor repentance.
Jamie shuffled forward on the bench, palming Jemmy into the medicine room, and making to stand up and help Claire with the mess.
“Take one step away from that bench, Fraser, and you’ll regret the day you were born.” She threatened, not even bothering to look over her shoulder to confirm what she knew to be happening. “Jemmy, fetch Granny an empty bucket, would you? No, go out through the front.”
Jemmy rushed away to do as he was told, skipping and humming some bright tune.
Jamie felt rather like a scolded school child (which was earned, considering the way he’d acted moments before). She had begun sweeping up the glass and former contents. The toned muscles of her arms and shoulder stood out, taught. “Claire, I-”
“You’ll sit there, and you’ll watch me clean the mess you’ve made. If by then I haven’t mashed half of this wreckage into your lunch, you’ll eat. Hopefully by that point, you’ll have collected yourself enough to take some frustrating but well intended advice.” At this point, she finally turned around to look at him, her eyes ablaze. It was more than a little arousing, but he didn’t think saying so out loud would win him any favors just then.
He repressed a heavy sigh of regret and shame, lest it be misinterpreted as impudence, and nodded mutely.
By the time she was finished cleaning, he was thoroughly abashed, and Claire was no less irritable for having been repeatedly pricked and scratched by minuscule pieces of broken glass.
She left him to sort himself back into the bed and returned shortly with a large ration of roast bison and some stewed greens he thought might be spinach.
She neatly handed him a plate and fork, then retreated again before she could pick any more fights with him, just for the sake of being contrary. So much for remembering her virtues and controlling his temper, he thought morosely.
By the time supper rolled around, she had called truce once more by offering to give him his walking stick so that he could make it to the dining room to eat with the family.
He accepted gratefully, and sat to her left, rather than the head of the table as he usually did, so he could hold her hand while they ate.
And that night, after she was done doctoring him, he collected her hairbrush from her vanity, sat behind her on the bed, and brushed out her hair gently. She was carrying on a majority of the animal care that he usually took care of, in addition to her normal doctoring, gardening, and chores about the home. She carried the tension in her shoulders. He dug his thumbs into the knots above the wings of her shoulders. Her head drooped. She swung it slowly from side to side, trying to release the stiffness.
"If I apologize now, will it come off as insincere?" Jamie asked lowly, pinching the thin muscles along the back of her neck.
"You haven't an insincere bone in your body, Jamie. You're forgiven. But don't take that to mean you can do it again and expect a back rub will cure it. Her tone was low and sultry and lethargic. She drifted slowly back into him, almost as if by reflex, rather than intention.
He shifted them back on the mattress, dragging the blankets up around them and curving his body around hers. "No, I wouldna make that mistake again, a nighean."
…
“Granda, what are ye starin’ at?” Germain was tugging at his coat tails while Jamie leaned against the lintel of the barn.
In point of fact, he was watching his wife- or more specifically, her arse, for she was bent double in her garden, harvesting some crop or another she had devised to keep her clan healthy and hale.
He didn’t think that was the most appropriate thing to tell his eight-year-old grandson, however, so he landed on a half-truth. “I’m takin’ a keek at your Granny, see?”
He pointed at Claire, who was upright once more and carefully stepping over a row of wee sprouts to reach the next.
“Why’re you always watching her?” Jemmy, Germain’s partner in crime, chimed in, hanging from the frame of a stall door right behind him.
“Weel, I suppose I must think she’s worth looking at, aye?”
The boys turned quizzical looks at him, as if the thought of admiring a bonny lass was a foreign concept. He supposed, for them, it must be. The conversation dredged up memories from a lifetime ago, when he was a lad their age, wondering what being in love might feel like. He felt the ghost of his father standing here now and could almost picture the way he had sat upon a stone wall with Jamie, no older than these lads now, and taught him the way of a man loving his wife.
It was a lesson that Jamie had carried with him his whole life, and one that had run through his mind a hundred different moments since he’d met Claire. He’d never thought of it much, as a young man fostering wi’ Dougal, or chasing fancies in Paris. No, the words had only really revealed their true value and meaning after meeting his faerie woman.
His father had not lived long enough to see grandchildren, but Jamie knew Brian Dubh would have imparted the same lesson to them. Well, Brian Fraser was long gone, but Jamie was here, and he could share what his father could not, to his own grandchildren.
“Someday, lads, ye’ll find yourself a woman that ye canna help but stare at. It’s a fine thing, to love a woman. Mebbe the most important thing ye’ll ever do.”
He glanced at both, and they stuck out their tongues in exaggerated disgust. It was so like something he’d done at this age that it made him laugh. What was the turning point, he wondered, when a boy was more attracted to a girl than he was confused and repulsed? He could vaguely remember what had seemed a great separation between lasses and lads.
He lifted Jemmy from the frame of the horse stall and set him on the ground. “C’mon lads, there’s a few things I’ve yet to teach ye, it seems.”
They followed behind him, as he walked along the fence of the horse pasture which overlooked Claire’s garden at a distance. He’d planned it so, because it meant her garden got good light, but also because when Jamie wasn’t traveling on some errand for the Governor, or checking in on his many tenants, he was most often in the barn or working the horses. It was too far to talk, or truly spend any quality time with her, but they could share waves, glances, and he could appreciate the view over his shoulder, now and then.
Jamie stood on the bottom rung of the fence and seated himself where he had a good view of her. The lads scrambled up beside him and sat astride the post on either side, wrapping the agile little legs around it for balance.
“Someday, when you’re older, ye’ll meet a lass. It might be the moment ye see her, or it might be a while after ye’ve known her. But one day, ye’ll look at her, and ye’ll know she was made to be yours. Men marry for many reasons, but ye’d be best served to marry a woman ye love like that.” Jamie dipped his chin, indicating the woman in question with a direct glance.
“I dinna want to marry a lass, Granda. They dinna like to climb trees, or catch frogs, or make mud pies. Who doesna like to make mud pies?” Jemmy was so earnest in his statement, little nose scrunched in confusion and bewilderment. Jamie fought down a grin.
“No’ every lass is built the same, a chuilein. There could be some who willna be scairt to get their hands dirty.” Jamie answered as comfortingly as possible. It was hard to do with a straight face, but he had years of practicing an impassive facade.
“But girls are…well, they are… un peu bizarre.” Germain contributed bluntly, looking to his mate for confirmation. Jemmy nodded emphatically, searching his grandfather’s face for some sort of corroboration.
Jamie allowed his smile to spread across this face then, and he laughed. The wee lad wasna wrong on that account. “Aye, they can be strange. Your Granny is, to date, the strangest woman I’ve ever met. Ye ken what I call her?”
“Sassenach!” The boys chimed in unison. They said it with the exact same lilt and inflection that he had said it with a thousand times, that they had heard a thousand times. It stoked a fire, somewhere beneath his heart, to hear it the way she must.
“Aye, that’s right. Ye ken what it means? English, yes. But also, outlander. Stranger. Ye’ll be old enough to notice your Granny isna like the other women on The Ridge. She stands out, ken, always against the grain. And I love her all the more, for her strangeness.”
Just then, as if she could hear him speaking, she stood straight and turned round to see the three, sitting on the fence, studying her. Her basket, loaded down with the fruits of her labor, dangled loosely from her fingertips. Her shoulders relaxed, and she raised her hand to wave. She wore a soft, content smile on her face, and the grey shawl that brought out the silver in her hair.
He waved back mildly, mirroring her gentle smile. The boys waved much more boisterously, with choruses of “Hallo, Granny!”
Her smile broadened a toothy grin before she turned back to her work.
“Grand-pere, do you have to marry a lass?” Germain asked quizzically, his mind clearly still churning through the problem.
“Well, I suppose ye dinna have to. But ye must if you’re to have a family of your own one day. It might be lonely if ye dinna, though.” Jamie delivered the information evenly, with a note of sympathetic understanding, as if he was delivering a blow.
The boys looked at one another skeptically, then back at their grandmother. “Granny isna so bad, as far as ladies go. She gives us sweeties, and she gives good hugs. She’s verra fast, when we play chase. I never saw a girl run so fast.” Jemmy hedged carefully, shrugging his shoulders.
Germain recoiled with a scowl. “Aye but she makes us brush our teeth and wash our hands before supper. And she doesna like it when we climb as high as we can or ride the horses as fast as we want.”
Jamie hooked the tops of his feet on the lower rung of the fence, to keep his balance. His hands had been bracing him steadily, but he raised both to put on the shoulder of both his grandsons in a consolatory gesture.
“Ye make valid points, both. I dinna think ye’ll understand, until you are older, but I want ye to do your best to remember what I say just the same. A woman can be many things: bonny and sweet, or stern and assertive. But it takes a woman to teach ye what it is to be a man. They make ye realize why ‘tis important ye act as you’re bein’ raised to be, gentlemen: protective, and caring, and considerate, and moral, and just. A woman is a sense of home, of rightness, of comfort, and peace, even when there’s none to be had in the world around ye.”
He squeezed their respective shoulders bracingly and met each of their eyes firmly. The boys were quiet, considering, but didn’t seem altogether displeased or confused by what he’d said. Good then. Maybe it would stick with them.
He removed his hands, noticed a smudge of dirt on his pants, and brushed it off gruffly. All of a sudden, he felt that sense of security and belonging which he had just been describing, and he looked up to see Claire mounting the wee hill between them. Her eyes locked with his, jewel bright and looking like home.
He hopped down from the fence and went out to meet her. She set down her basket, hiked up her skirts, and scurried her way up the last half of the hill, as eager to be in his arms as he was to have her there.
She collided cheerfully with his chest, a bit out of breath, and warm from her exertions in the garden. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her, pressing a hand to the small of her back to press her more firmly to him.
She stood on tiptoes, too keen for the kiss to wait the extra second it would have taken him to crane his neck down to meet her. When they parted, she rocked back onto her heels. Her cheeks were rosy, and flush, and a wee bit dewy, and it made her look like the lass she had been the day they met. A woman still, but youthful and full of brass and vivacity.
He needn’t see the upward curl of her lips to know she was smiling now. He could remain there, with their foreheads leant against one another, and see it in the glow of her gaze, and the crinkle of the laughter lines at the corners of her eyes.
“Mo cridhe.” He welcomed under his breath.
He felt her thumb draw patterns, trace old scars on his mid back. “My love.” He buried his nose in her curls, drew in a slow breath, then took a single step back, lest he risk throwing all caution and propriety to the wind. He tucked her under his arm, and lead her to the boys, who were examining the two with critical attention.
“Hello, lovies.” She greeted them, reaching out a hand to them.
They could resist her pull no less than Jamie himself could, and they scrambled off the fence to receive a one-handed hug, pressing their wee faces into the folds of her skirts.
“And what have you three troublemakers been up to?” She asked in that high, inquisitive, fond way she always did with the weans.
“Grand-pere has been teaching us about women.” Germain answered rather importantly, jutting his shoulders back, and holding his head high.
Claire twinkled up at Jamie, her brows drawn together in curiosity and suspicion. “Has he, now?”
“Aye! Dinna worry, we dinna like lasses much, but I said I thought bein’ married to you might be alright.” Jemmy included helpfully, patting her thigh in apparent reassurance.
“Oh, well, thank you. Certainly, high praise.” She answered, peering at Jamie out of the corner of her eye, she added lowly, “I think.”
Jamie shot her a sheepish grin. “Och, I was just sharin’ wi’ them my father’s philosophies on marriage, aye? And what a joy it is to have the privilege of sharin’ a life wi’ the woman ye love.” He squeezed her tighter against his ribs and hip, smoothing a rough palm down the thin sleeve of her blouse.
She patted the plane of his stomach sedately, radiating affection, and hugging him back just as fiercely. “Well. I suppose, being a wife, I may not have as much in the way of advice as your Granda. But I know one thing.” She stooped to get the boys’ attention, and they obliged, eyes wide and trusting. “If you do have a wife one day, and you treat her the way Granda does me, you will be a very worthy husband indeed.”
She straightened, snuggled back into his side, and twined her fingers atop his, where they rested at her hip.
“I’m verra honored that ye think so. And if no one kent it but you, it would still be the greatest accomplishment of my life.” He saw the magnitude and depth of his love for her reflected in the sepia tone of her eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and he remembered the hundreds of days he’d spent without her, since knowing her, and how empty and lifeless they seemed by comparison.
How could you explain such a feeling to lads as young as these? He wasn’t sure he was even equal to the task of explaining it fully and eloquently to Claire, let alone two weans who could hardly grasp the concept of being friendly toward a non-familial member of the opposite sex.
“She’s the joy of my heart, lads, and the source of nearly every good thing I’ve ever had, includin’ the twa of ye.” He exerted a bit of pressure, encouraging Claire to turn back toward the house with him, and the weans followed suit. He felt her wrap her arm around his waist and dig her thumb under the edge of his belt, as if she craved a more permanent connection between their bodies. She released his fingers with her other hand and held Jemmy’s hand instead, swinging their arms between them in a silly manner as they started toward the house.
“Granny, I’m a gentleman! Watch!” Germain declared, and sauntered forward to gallantly pluck her basket off the ground.
“What a chivalrous young man!” She enthused, highly amused.
“What else does a gentleman do, Granda?” Jemmy prompted, looking back and forth between his Granny and Granda inquisitively. They were still making their lazy way back the house in the late afternoon sun.
Jamie considered the lad before shooting a heated look at Claire- one full of all the glorious passion and aching comfort he’d always craved to bestow upon her. She felt the familiar radiance of it flaring up her body from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. She shivered pleasantly at the sensation. They stepped into the shade which surrounded the outside edge of her garden, backed up to the wood as it was. Goose flesh erupted on her bare forearms and neck.
Jamie issued his signature owlish, two eyed wink and hurried to unbutton his coat. He wrestled it off his frame and stopped Claire with a light hand on her arm. He whirled his coat around her shoulders, buttoned two of the middle buttons to fasten it around her like a cloak, and smoothed down the sleeves. It absolutely dwarfed her, and something about the sight had him feeling tender as milk. “A gentleman always looks after the needs of his lady before his own.” He instructed, but the azure of his eyes never left hers. “Warm, a nighean?” His voice was gravelly, full of emotion.
She nodded mutely, overcome by the sentimentality which had swept into what had started as a rather lighthearted affair.
Jamie smiled his gratification at this answer. He turned to Jemmy, and Germain who had stopped swinging the basket, and was ponderously examining the gentle flush and quiet, nearly meek demeanor of his Granny; it was clear he was unused to her quiet, blushing capitulation. It gave Jamie a queer feeling in his wame; the lads hadn’t much occasion to see her peaceful, unhurried, or unburdened from the responsibility of the wellbeing of her family or tenants. His wife lived loudly, whether she be at her work, or at play with the children, or in the solitude and serenity of her own garden.
Jamie unearthed her left hand from the furrows of his coat and kissed his ring there, before turning back to the boys. “If there’s ever a choice between your comfort and safety or theirs, ye must always choose theirs, aye?”
She curled her fingers in his warm hand, needing to convey her gratitude for the man he was. He recognized it immediately and he squeezed back so she’d know he heard.
He lead her around the waist high stone wall he’d fashioned around her garden to keep the pests out, toward the breezeway which split the lower level of their house in two. The boys trailed behind and watched Jamie hand her up the steps. She shook her head at him, all devoted exasperation. Quite the lesson her eyes teased.
He raised a single brow. Aye, it replied.
All of a sudden, he seized her about the waist, hoisting her off the boards of the porch. She squealed in delighted surprise, and he clutched her over his shoulder as he spun to face the lads. “And by God, my lads, ye do your best to make her laugh whene’er ye can.”
He jounced her further over his shoulder, hands firmly gripping the backs of her knees to keep her from going over and wheeled the both of them around in fast circles, so that her riotous curls spread out in the air like a cloud. Her arms wound around his torso as best they could, and she shrieked and cackled in the way that made him want to close his eyes and bask in the ardor of it.
When he finally set her down, he kept a hand on her hip- as much to help him keep his feet as to help her. They were huffing and wheezing with laughter and the boys wore matching ear-to-ear grins. They ran forward and tackled their Granny in a fierce hug. He could tell she was still reeling a bit, so he steadied her with a hand between her shoulder blades as she curled each of her hands around a boy, holding them close to her hips.
She looked over her shoulder at him and craned her neck, and he couldna resist the silent request there, even if he had wanted (which he most certainly didn’t.)
…
Jamie patted the flank of the yearling filly he’d just finished working with; she was a fine, chestnut thing with bright, intelligent eyes, and a proud air about her. He untied her halter and let her out in the pasture, and she flicked up her tail, whinnying for her dam, who was grazing at the far end of the pasture.
Jamie glanced at the house, toward the surgery. He could see the faint outline of Claire moving about in the windows. He couldna see much detail from here, but he could see she moved slower than was typical, and he could imagine the resigned, heavy stoop of her shoulders.
His Sassenach was having a hard time adjusting to life without family on The Ridge with them. He was too, there was no way around it, but he thought it was different for her. She had spent much of her free time with Bree, Marsali, and the bairns in particular, though she missed all of them, Roger and Fergus included.
They still had Ian, aye, and Lizzie, and the twins. But it wasna the same, and they both knew it.
Not to mention, she’d been very fond of the Christie girl. The lass had betrayed them no doubt about it, but her death had still been a loss, compounded against the recent departure of Bree and her family back to their time, and Fergus and his family to New Bern.
To have lost the daily interaction, familial connection, and comfort of any of them would have been a trial to Claire, who had wanted such a home and a family for longer even than he’d known her. To have them all leave, quite suddenly, and so close together in time had been an especially cruel twist of fate.
He sighed, thinking he might go check on her, invite her to take lunch with him. Perhaps out in the garden, or down by the creek, somewhere where the lack of chatter and bustle wasna so suffocating.
He ambled down the hill prepared to barter to convince her to leave the surgery long enough for a quick break.
He snapped his finger in frustration, remembering suddenly that he had been asked to mediate a minor dispute between two tenants pertaining to the ownership of… sheep, was it?
He’d agreed to meet them first thing, and it was already nearing noon. He spun on his heel, cursing under his breath and resolving himself to be done by teatime, and drag her out of the surgery even if she was kicking and screaming.
An hour and a half later saw Jamie trudging back with a slightly deafened right ear thanks to Mr. McNally’s roaring and Mrs. Callum’s blethering.
The surgery loomed into sight as he approached a wee hill, and it made him sigh in relief. What he wouldna give for a quiet few minutes with Claire, in the shade of some tree…
Unfortunately, things rarely worked out so fortuitously for him, and before he could see her, he could hear her, shouting and spitting with righteous fury.
Jamie hurried up the slope, and when he crested it, he could see Claire, clutching a bairn of perhaps four or five protectively to her chest. Ian stood in front of her, trying to act as a buffer between her and the couple he assumed to be the child’s mother and father, who were both bellowing and screeching and pointing accusatory fingers at his wife. A quick inspection revealed them to be Mr. And Mrs. Barclay.
Rollo, Ian’s faithful companion, sat behind Claire dutifully, but growled and bared his teeth at any flash of Mrs. Barclay that appeared around the wall of his Master.
Jamie sighed deeply, clenched his fists, and strode purposefully up to the scene.
“Unhand him, you filthy witch! How dare you spread your wickedness; how dare you try to corrupt my wee Lachlan!” The woman screeched over Ian’s shoulder, directing the full power of her vitriol at Claire. Ian held her neutrally by the elbows, not allowing her to get any closer, but clearly not willing to inflict any more force for fear of a full-on brawl.
The husband stood beside her, cursing Claire in Gaelic, but somewhat more intimidated by the dark look on Ian’s face, and the menacing tattoos that stood out there.
“You’re allowing foolish gossip to interfere with the well-being of your son! If you’d only see reason, I could fix his arm, and you could be out of my nefarious presence!” Claire shouted back, sarcasm dripping from her final remark. He could see she was tempted to get in the woman’s face, but she held herself curiously still. The wee lad in her arms was red in the face, wailing, and his arm was curled in against his chest at an odd angle.
“Enough!” Jamie hollered before any of them could start in again.
Four heads whipped around to see him. The only one unfazed by his entrance was the lad, who was clearly in too much pain and distress to evaluate the latest development.
Claire seemed to sag in relief, and Ian too seemed glad of Jamie’s arrival. The lad was managing as best he could, Jamie knew, and doing a fine job of it, truth be told. By the sweat on Claire’s brow and the weariness in Ian’s shoulders, he thought the conflict must have been ongoing for some time.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jamie growled, stepping up beside Ian, and further shielding Claire. A quick assessment as he stepped into line with his nephew showed Claire to be, by outward appearance, unharmed. He saw her face only in profile, and her color was high in her cheek, but he thought it might only be the flush of deep ire.
“The hag willna release my boy to me. She wants to practice her charms on him and I willna have it.” Mrs. Barclay tersely replied. He recognized the woman from the settlement of fisherfolk near the edge of his land. Mrs. Barclay had retreated two steps, so that Ian no longer had hold of her, but she looked no less enraged for all that.
Mr. Barclay, clearly not as volatile as his wife (nor as reckless), added his own piece, doing his best not to glare up his nose at Jamie. “We’ll have the lad back and give ye nae more trouble.”
Jamie grunted, making his displeasure at being given, though somewhat indirectly, an order from one of his tenants. Mr. Barclay paled slightly but didn’t otherwise react.
Jamie turned his head just enough to see Claire out of the corner of one eye, keeping the other firmly on the couple.
“He’s broken his arm, uncle. The lad was out in the woods close to the clearing by the house. I didna see him hurt himself, but I heard the lad crying. I knew it must be mended, so I carried him straight to Auntie. She was only askin’ the lad what had happened and trying to lead him to the surgery when they arrived, and refused to let Auntie treat him.” Ian’s eyes never left the two embittered parents, his arms were crossed, mouth set in a warning scowl.
The lad was verra protective of Claire and it showed in the threat which was written all over the tense lines of his body. The dog still sat watchfully behind Claire, his head on a swivel, alert for signs of danger. Ian had no doubt ordered the dog to watch for approaching strangers. The Ridge had become most inhospitable to its Laird and Lady since the death of Malva Christie.
Claire stood, stone faced and grimacing in the wake of this latest trial. Lachlan, a wee lad wi’ corn silk hair, was curled against her chest, his face pressed into her bosom. The only movement he detected was the gentle tap of her hand on his back, offering the only comfort she could at present.
“Mr. Barclay, I implore ye to be reasonable. My wife has treated the tenants of The Ridge for as long as it has had settlers, including dozens of the fisherfolk ye live among. She only means to fix the lad up and send him on his way, wi’ you and your wife.” Jamie kept his tone even, despite wanting to curse them for the upheaval.
“I won’t suffer that conjure woman to use her potions or curses on my boy!” Mrs. Barclay protested with a shrill shriek. She threw herself forward, and Jamie’s hand shot out, gripping her by a shoulder and pushing her back with no small force.
“Ye’ll watch your tongue where Mistress Fraser is concerned, Mrs. Barclay.” Jamie threatened lowly.
Mr. Barclay recognized the danger in Jamie’s tone, and he took hold of his wife around the middle, forcing her a few steps back. Jamie wasn’t any more liked or trusted than Claire was at the moment, owing to the rumors of his dalliance with Malva, but he was a good deal more feared, especially in light of his actions against the Browns following Claire’s abduction.
Ian took a single step toward the Barclay’s to discourage any other displays, and Jamie took the chance to focus slightly more attention on his wife.
The lad has stopped whimpering and was dreadfully pale now. Jamie raised a questioning brow at Claire.
“He’s going into shock. All I need is some time to set and splint his arm. He’ll likely be fine after that, so long as he’s kept warm and given plenty of water and broth to keep up his strength. It’s only the work of a few minutes, as I tried to tell his parents.” There was a slight tint of accusation there, but she fought it down remarkably well, knowing his wife as he did.
Jamie nodded his head at Claire, an assurance he’d see her safe and ensure the lad’s care.
He turned back to the parents. “My wife has made an oath to render aid to the sick and injured. She’ll take him into her surgery and bind his arm. I’ll allow ye to stand in the doorway and watch, and take him as soon as she’s finished, as long as ye’ll stay civil. If ye canna do so, she’ll go about her business anyway, and ye can answer to the dog, my nephew, and I for your trouble.”
Mrs. Barclay spat on the ground at Ian’s feet, as close as she could get to Claire without lunging around the lad. His hand darted to the hilt of his knife, swift as lightening, and Mr. Barclay dragged his wife a further few steps back.
Jamie gritted his teeth. If it were one of them that was injured, rather than the wean, he’d just as soon let them go and to hell with the consequences. Even now, it was tempting.
But he knew there would be no convincing Claire not to patch the lad up, and even if he could, the guilt of it would weigh heavily on the both of them.
Mr. Barclay curled his lips to reveal stained, fetted teeth. “Get on wi’ it then and let this be done.”
Claire looked to her husband, and he nodded. It said do what ye must, and I’ll make sure it’s safe for ye to do so. She smiled grimly, just a brief flicker, and turned on her heel, marching purposely up the steps to her surgery.
He saw, in his mind's eye, a portrait Bree had once drawn of Claire, as a tender young woman, with brave, determined eyes, dressed in her crisp military uniform. Brianna had said the portrait was a likeness of a photo she’d found as a young girl, hidden in an old shoe box, along with other bits of detritus from mother’s past. She’d been fascinated by it, and took it out frequently, when unsupervised, to try to match it up to the woman who read her bedtime stories, burned their dinner at least twice a week, and cursed a blue streak when she stubbed her toe.
Bree had said she’d had a hard time reconciling the woman in the photo as being Claire Randall, her mother. Jamie had shaken his head at that, a swift denial. No, he’d said, that’s my Claire, sure enough.
He followed her up the steps, determined to keep an eye on her. Ian and Rollo stood about three steps away from the bottom of the stairs, both menacing enough to keep the Barclays brooding but quiet two paces further back from the stairs.
Claire laid Lachlan down on her examination table, taking extra care to set his lolling head gently on the thin pillow. She propped his feet up with whatever was close at hand- in this case, a stack of books that had been left on her work bench.
“At least he’s out for the moment. I won’t be threatened with burning at the stake for having to give him a dose of laudanum for the setting.” Claire muttered tensely, gently probing the injured arm to locate the break.
“Dinna joke like that.” Jamie whispered harshly, breath whooshing out of him through gritted teeth.
Her eyes darted out the open door, then back to the work before her. He noticed her hands trembled as she set out splinting material and bandages. “It wasn’t a joke.” She admitted.
Jamie too glanced at the parents, both of whom were craning to see what Claire was doing. “Aye, I see that.” Jamie acknowledged gently, squeezing her fingers briefly, in hopes of offering her some comfort.
The lad didna flinch as she set the bone with a single quick, efficient movement. Her brows furrowed but she took two flat slats of wood, broke them to size over the edge of the bench, and immobilized his arm with the slats and a mountain of bandages.
Claire bustled around, checking his vitals, flicking up his eye lids, palpating his head for bumps, and searching for any other injury she might have missed in the muddle. He could tell she was taking her time about it. It went against her instinct to let them take the boy while he was unconscious, with no real picture of his mental state.
“Have ye any care instructions they need to follow, Sassenach? I doubt they’ll bring him back, but if I write a list, they might consult it, when the dust has settled.” Jamie offered, trying to buy her a bit more time and ease the concern which has settled upon her like a yoke.
“Yes.” She answered knowingly. She waited for him to fetch paper, and one of the charcoal pencils Bree had crafted. “Tell them to administer willow bark tea for pain as needed, sweetened with honey or sugar if he won’t take it… Tell them to keep it splinted as it is for six weeks, replacing the bandage as necessary to keep it clean- I’ll send them with some extras. He’s not to use the arm for lifting, climbing, crawling or any other physical activity until the splint is removed. Oh! Calcium- tell them to give him milk to drink with every meal they can- cow, goat it doesn’t matter… Is that all? What else…? If he shows signs of fever- well, I doubt they’ll bring him here, even if he’s dying of it. You can leave that off, I suppose.” She sighed feebly, disliking the helpless feeling.
She glanced over her shoulder, trying to gauge how much longer she could draw this out. The couple were becoming restless, though Rollo’s occasional growls seemed to temper their irritation, for the time being.
She hunched and patted the lad’s cheek. “Lachlan, can you hear me? Time to wake up, dear.” She attempted, keeping her voice low and even.
The parents were far enough away and seemed not to have heard, Jamie observed.
She tried again, jostling the lad’s shoulder carefully. “Lachlan, time to wake up.” The boy stirred, squinched up his face, and his eyes fluttered open. Claire smiled brilliantly, focusing all her attention on him. “Hello there. I’ve fixed your hurt arm, sweetheart. Wrapped it all up so it can get better. Does it hurt much?”
The boy’s lower lip trembled and he nodded without lifting his head from the pillow.
“I’m so sorry, dear. Does anything else hurt?” She smoothed her palm down over his head.
“No, m’m.”
She helped him to sit up. “Not your head?”
He shook his head and mumbled his dissent.
“How old are you, Lachlan?” She asked gently, passing her hand over his back, shoulders and arms, carefully, trying to spot any unreported soreness.
“Four.” He answered through a throat thick with repressed tears.
“Four? My goodness. This many?” She held up four fingers.
He nodded, and stuck his thumb in his mouth as a self soothing habit.
“Can you count them?” He nodded, and she started him off, using a single finger on her other hand to indicate each finger. “One…”
The pudgy hand not currently acting as a pacifying device point at her hand and recited around his thumb, “two, free, four.”
“Smart lad!” She praised.
She stood up straight then, shooting an appraising look at her various medicines. Jamie didn’t like the scheming look in her eye. “Sassenach…”
“Could you please explain the instructions you’ve written out for his parents?” She asked, uncovering a teaspoon which had been folded in gauze, to indicate its sterilized status.
“Aye. And what’ll you be up to, while I’m at it?” He eyed her suspiciously.
She surreptitiously palmed a jar of honey off the counter and spooned up a dollop of the stuff.
“Only rewarding an exceedingly polite and cooperative patient.” She answered, begging from beneath her lashes to let her have this small concession.
He huffed at her fondly, too charmed by her grandmotherly doting to deny her. He could grant her this, easily, and the lad as well.
“Ye daftie. Wait until I’ve well and truly got their attention, aye?” He responded fondly.
She grinned and nodded, and Jamie retrieved the note and the extra bandages.
“Alright, Mr. And Mrs. Barclay, the lad’s almost ready. My wife’s composed a list for his care, so that he can heal good and proper.” Jamie announced, throwing back his shoulders to their full breadth and walking with a good deal of purpose, to draw their attention. It worked, and they focused solely on him as he pointed to each item, explained it as much detail as he could muster, and reminded them that the same instructions had been issued and followed by a young man some three houses down from the Barclay’s, to his great benefit.
He was just wracking his brain for any other tidbit he could opine on when he heard feet on the stairs, and he turned to see Claire descending them, the lad sitting happily on her hip, looking comfortable and much recovered since his treat. Claire had clearly washed the lad’s face, for the tear streaks were gone, and his eyes were noticeably less puffy.
Mrs. Barclay barreled toward Claire and yanked the boy from her arms, as if Claire’s touch might burn on contact.
She made no protest, and didn’t bother to issue a warning to have a care. She sighed deeply, crossing her arms, and looking for all the world like there was something missing from her person, in a way that hadn’t been true a moment before. She sighed deeply, crossed her arms, and backed up onto the lowest step.
The Barclays said no more, only turned abruptly and set out down the path for home.
Claire sighed again, a weary, careworn thing.
Jamie echoed, turning to study her. She was rocking side to side, as if she still had a bairn on her hip in need of gentling. “Thigibh thugam, Sorcha.” Come to me, Claire.
She hadn’t the grasp of Gaelic that Bree or Roger had, but she’d hear that one often enough to know what he said, and she tipped forward on her toes until she fell into him, arms stretched out above his shoulders, thanks to the added height of the step.
He settled his hands on her waist, long fingers stretching out across her low back. He hefted all her weight, dragging her wee toes off the stair so that gravity could settle her into him more firmly. She buried her nose in the burrow created by her elbow and the crook of his neck.
When she’d finally relaxed the tension in her arms and chest, he set her down, and she smiled gratefully at him. Ian made his own survey of her, and the two reached for each other at the same time, one arm over and one arm under, mutually giving and taking comfort.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, Auntie.” The lad’s eyes were shut tight. Rollo bumped the outside of Claire’s leg with a wet, concerned nose.
Claire scoffed and leaned back, setting a hand on his cheek. “Nonsense. I’ve been fighting those charges since the day I arrived here. And a bit of bluster is worth it if I have the chance to save the lad a lifetime of pain from a poorly set bone. Thanks for coming to my defense.”
Ian rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “As if I would go anywhere while you were needin’ me.” Jamie watched the lad survey Claire carefully and come to the same conclusion he did- the experience with the Barclays had worn on his wife more than she cared to admit. “C’mon, Auntie. I’m pure done in.”
The straight lipped, unamused face she tossed at the lad told both men she wasn’t falling for the deception, and she wanted him to know it, but that she hadn’t the energy to do anything more about it.
They wandered into the sitting room and Jamie directed her to the chaise, wandering to the side table to pour three good servings of whiskey. He pinched the rims of all three glasses between the fingers of his good hand and dispersed them to a chorus of thanks.
Claire had kicked her feet up on the lounger and had slumped slightly back into the arm. She was cradling the glass to her chest, her thousand yard stare directed at some indistinct point of the opposite wall. Ian shared a commiserating glance with Jamie. The lad saw it too; holding that bairn had been a stark reminder to Claire of what she was missing.
Jamie snagged her crossed ankles in his free hand, levered himself under them, and let this rest gently in his lap. He set his glass on the floor close to the leg of the chaise and set to work undoing the laces of her boots. Ian made for the opposite chaise, to share their company, but Claire’s hand shot out to him. He offered her his hand, the only logical course of action. “Your braids are all pell mell. Let me fix them. My mending basket is in the corner.”
Ian retrieved the basket before he sank to the floor, sitting crossed legged with his back to her. Ian always secured his braids with thread, for more permanence, which was ideal until it was time to tidy them again. She used her small set of scissors to neatly snip each thread. When they were free, she used her fingernails to separate the thin strands of each thin braid, occasionally dragging them from scalp to the ends of his hair to comb it out.
“I know you’re letting me dote on you because you’re worried about me.” She said, beginning the first of the braids, using the smallest strands of hair and keeping them taught from the scalp on the way down.
“Aye. Is it workin’ then? Even just a bit?” He couldn’t turn his head all the way, as she had him by the hair, but he could just catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.
She leant her head enough to make better eye contact. “Yes, a bit.” He closed his eyes to receive the kiss on his forehead.