Dragonfly in Amber, Page 6

  A rustle outside was succeeded by the sound of reluctantly receding footsteps, and Roger, with a sigh of relief, gave himself up to the joys of privacy. Peace. Quiet. No Fiona.

  Now, able to think more objectively about his upsetting discovery, he found himself more than curious about Brianna’s mysterious real father. Judging from the daughter, the man must have had a rare degree of physical attractiveness; would that alone have been sufficient to lure a woman like Claire Randall?

  He had wondered already whether Brianna’s father might have been a Scot. Did he live—or had he lived—in Inverness? He supposed such proximity might account for Claire’s nervousness, and the air she had of keeping secrets. But did it account for the puzzling requests she had made of him? She didn’t want him to take Brianna to Craigh na Dun, nor to mention the captain of the Broch Tuarach men to her daughter. Why on earth not?

  A sudden thought made him sit upright in the tub, water sloshing heedlessly against the cast-iron sides. What if it were not the eighteenth-century Jacobite soldier she was concerned about, but only his name? What if the man who had fathered her daughter in 1947 was also named James Fraser? It was a common enough name in the Highlands.

  Yes, he thought, that might very well explain it. As for Claire’s desire to show her daughter the stone circle herself, perhaps that was also connected with the mystery of her father; maybe that’s where she’d met the man, or perhaps that’s where Brianna had been conceived. Roger was well aware that the stone circle was commonly used as a trysting spot; he’d taken girls there himself in high school, relying on the circle’s air of pagan mystery to loosen their reserve. It always worked.

  He had a sudden startling vision of Claire Randall’s fine white limbs, locked in wild abandon with the naked, straining body of a red-haired man, the two bodies slick with rain and stained with crushed grass, twisting in ecstasy among the standing stones. The vision was so shocking in its specificity that it left him trembling, sweat running down his chest to vanish into the steaming water of the bath.

  Christ! How was he going to meet Claire Randall’s eyes, next time they met? What was he going to say to Brianna, for that matter? “Read any good books lately?” “Seen any good flicks?” “D’you know you’re illegitimate?”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. The truth was that he didn’t know what to do next. It was a messy situation. He wanted no part in it, and yet he did. He liked Claire Randall; he liked Brianna Randall, too—much more than liked her, truth be told. He wanted to protect her, and save her whatever pain he could. And yet there seemed no way to do that. All he could do was keep his mouth shut until Claire Randall did whatever it was she planned to do. And then be there to pick up the pieces.

  3

  MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  I wondered just how many tiny tea shops there were in Inverness. The High Street is lined on both sides with small cafes and tourist shops, as far as the eye can see. Once Queen Victoria had made the Highlands safe for travelers by giving her Royal approval of the place, tourists had flocked north in ever-increasing numbers. The Scots, unaccustomed to receiving anything from the South but armed invasions and political interference, had risen to the challenge magnificently.

  You couldn’t walk more than a few feet on the main street of any Highland town without encountering a shop selling shortbread, Edinburgh rock, handkerchiefs embroidered with thistles, toy bagpipes, clan badges of cast aluminum, letter-openers shaped like claymores, coin purses shaped like sporrans (some with an anatomically correct “Scotchman” attached underneath), and an eye-jangling assortment of spurious clan tartans, adorning every conceivable object made of fabric, from caps, neckties, and serviettes down to a particularly horrid yellow “Buchanan” sett used to make men’s nylon Y-front underpants.

  Looking over an assortment of tea towels stenciled with a wildly inaccurate depiction of the Loch Ness monster singing “Auld Lang Syne,” I thought Victoria had a lot to answer for.

  Brianna was wandering slowly down the narrow aisle of the shop, head tilted back as she stared in amazement at the assortment of merchandise hanging from the rafters.

  “Do you think those are real?” she said, pointing upward at a set of mounted stag’s antlers, poking their tines inquisitively through an absolute forest of bagpipe drones.

  “The antlers? Oh, yes. I don’t imagine plastics technology’s got quite that good, yet,” I replied. “Besides, look at the price. Anything over one hundred pounds is very likely real.”

  Brianna’s eyes widened, and she lowered her head.

  “Jeez. I think I’ll get Jane a skirt-length of tartan instead.”

  “Good-quality wool tartan won’t cost a lot less,” I said dryly, “but it will be a lot easier to get home on the plane. Let’s go across to the Kiltmaker store, then; they’ll have the best quality.”

  It had begun to rain—of course—and we tucked our paper-wrapped parcels underneath the raincoats I had prudently insisted we wear. Brianna snorted with sudden amusement.

  “You get so used to calling these things ‘macs,’ you forget what they’re really called. I’m not surprised it was a Scot that invented them,” she added, looking up at the water sheeting down from the edge of the canopy overhead. “Does it rain all the time here?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, peering up and down through the downpour for oncoming traffic. “Though I’ve always supposed Mr. Macintosh was rather a lily-livered sort; most Scots I’ve known were relatively impervious to rain.” I bit my lip suddenly, but Brianna hadn’t noticed the slip, minor as it was; she was eyeing the ankle-deep freshet running down the gutter.

  “Tell you what, Mama, maybe we’d better go up to the crossing. We aren’t going to make it jaywalking here.”

  Nodding assent, I followed her up the street, heart pounding with adrenaline under the clammy cover of my mac. When are you going to get it over with? my mind demanded. You can’t keep watching your words and swallowing half the things you start to say. Why not just tell her?

  Not yet, I thought to myself. I’m not a coward—or if I am, it doesn’t matter. But it isn’t quite time yet. I wanted her to see Scotland first. Not this lot—as we passed a shop offering a display of tartan baby booties—but the countryside. And Culloden. Most of all, I want to be able to tell her the end of the story. And for that, I need Roger Wakefield.

  As though my thought had summoned it into being, the bright orange top of a battered Morris caught my eye in the parking lot to the left, glowing like a traffic beacon in the foggy wet.

  Brianna had seen it too—there couldn’t be many cars in Inverness of that specific color and disreputability—and pointed at it, saying, “Look, Mama, isn’t that Roger Wakefield’s car?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I said. There was a cafe on the right, from which the scent of fresh scones, stale toast, and coffee drifted to mingle with the fresh, rainy air. I grabbed Brianna’s arm and pulled her into the cafe.

  “I think I’m hungry after all,” I explained. “Let’s have some cocoa and biscuits.”

  Still child enough to be tempted by chocolate, and young enough to be willing to eat at any time, Bree offered no argument, but sat down at once and picked up the tea-stained sheet of green paper that served as the daily menu.

  I didn’t particularly want cocoa, but I did want a moment or two to think. There was a large sign on the concrete wall of the parking lot across the street, reading PARKING FOR SCOTRAIL ONLY, followed by various lowercase threats as to what would happen to the vehicles of people who parked there without being train riders. Unless Roger knew something about the forces of law and order in Inverness that I didn’t know, chances were that he had taken a train. Granted that he could have gone anywhere, either Edinburgh or London seemed most likely. He was taking this research project seriously, dear lad.

  We had come up on the train from Edinburgh ourselves. I tried to remember what the schedule was like, with no particular success.

  “I wonder if Roger wi
ll be back on the evening train?” Bree said, echoing my thoughts with an uncanniness that made me choke on my cocoa. The fact that she wondered about Roger’s reappearance made me wonder just how much notice she had taken of young Mr. Wakefield.

  A fair amount, apparently.

  “I was thinking,” she said casually, “maybe we should get something for Roger Wakefield while we’re out—like a thank-you for that project he’s doing for you?”

  “Good idea,” I said, amused. “What do you think he’d like?”

  She frowned into her cocoa as though looking for inspiration. “I don’t know. Something nice; it looks like that project could be a lot of work.” She glanced up at me suddenly, brows raised.

  “Why did you ask him?” she said. “If you wanted to trace people from the eighteenth century, there’re companies that do that. Genealogies and like that, I mean. Daddy always used Scot-Search, if he had to figure out a genealogy and didn’t have time to do it himself.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, and took a deep breath. We were on shaky ground here. “This project—it was something special to…to your father. He would have wanted Roger Wakefield to do it.”

  “Oh.” She was silent for a while, watching the rain spatter and pearl on the cafe window.

  “Do you miss Daddy?” she asked suddenly, nose buried in her cup, lashes lowered to avoid looking at me.

  “Yes,” I said. I ran a forefinger up the edge of my own untouched cup, wiping off a drip of spilled cocoa. “We didn’t always get on, you know that, but…yes. We respected each other; that counts for a lot. And we liked each other, in spite of everything. Yes, I do miss him.”

  She nodded, wordless, and put her hand over mine with a little squeeze. I curled my fingers around hers, long and warm, and we sat linked for a little while, sipping cocoa in silence.

  “You know,” I said at last, pushing back my chair with a squeak of metal on linoleum, “I’d forgotten something. I need to post a letter to the hospital. I’d meant to do it on the way into town, but I forgot. If I hurry, I think I can just catch the outgoing post. Why don’t you go to the Kiltmaker’s—it’s just down the street, on the other side—and I’ll join you there after I’ve been to the post office?”

  Bree looked surprised, but nodded readily enough.

  “Oh. Okay. Isn’t the post office a long way, though? You’ll get soaked.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll take a cab.” I left a pound note on the table to pay for the meal, and shrugged back into my raincoat.

  In most cities, the usual response of taxicabs to rain is to disappear, as though they were soluble. In Inverness, though, such behavior would render the species rapidly extinct. I’d walked less than a block before finding two squatty black cabs lurking outside a hotel, and I slid into the warm, tobacco-scented interior with a cozy feeling of familiarity. Besides the greater leg room and comfort, British cabs smelled different than American ones; one of those tiny things I had never realized I’d missed during the last twenty years.

  “Number sixty-four? Tha’s the auld manse, aye?” In spite of the efficiency of the cab’s heater, the driver was muffled to the ears in a scarf and thick jacket, with a flat cap guarding the top of his head from errant drafts. Modern Scots had gone a bit soft, I reflected; a long way from the days when sturdy Highlanders had slept in the heather in nothing but shirt and plaid. On the other hand, I wasn’t all that eager to go sleep in the heather in a wet plaid, either. I nodded to the driver, and we set off in a splash.

  I felt a bit subversive, sneaking round to interview Roger’s housekeeper while he was out, and fooling Bree into the bargain. On the other hand, it would be difficult to explain to either of them just what I was doing. I hadn’t yet determined exactly how or when I would tell them what I had to say, but I knew it wasn’t time yet.

  My fingers probed the inner pocket of my mac, reassured by the scrunch of the envelope from Scot-Search. While I hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to Frank’s work, I did know about the firm, which maintained a staff of half a dozen professional researchers specializing in Scottish genealogy; not the sort of place that gave you a family tree showing your relationship to Robert the Bruce and had done with it.

  They’d done their usual thorough, discreet job on Roger Wakefield. I knew who his parents and grandparents had been, back some seven or eight generations. What I didn’t know was what he might be made of. Time would tell me that.

  I paid off the cab and splashed up the flooded path to the steps of the old minister’s house. It was dry on the porch, and I had a chance to shake off the worst of the wet before the door was opened to my ring.

  Fiona beamed in welcome; she had the sort of round, cheerful face whose natural expression was a smile. She was attired in jeans and a frilly apron, and the scent of lemon polish and fresh baking wafted from its folds like incense.

  “Why, Mrs. Randall!” she exclaimed. “Can I be helpin’ ye at all, then?”

  “I think perhaps you might, Fiona,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about your grandmother.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mama? I could call Roger and ask him to go tomorrow, if you’d like me to stay with you.” Brianna hovered in the doorway of the guesthouse bedroom, an anxious frown creasing her brow. She was dressed for walking, in boots, jeans, and sweater, but she’d added the brilliant orange and blue silk scarf Frank had brought her from Paris, just before his death two years before.

  “Just the color of your eyes, little beauty,” he’d said, smiling as he draped the scarf around her shoulders, “—orange.” It was a joke between them now, the “little beauty,” as Bree had topped Frank’s modest five feet ten since she was fifteen. It was what he’d called her since babyhood, though, and the tenderness of the old name lingered as he reached up to touch the tip of her nose.

  The scarf—the blue part—was in fact the color of her eyes; of Scottish lochs and summer skies, and the misty blue of distant mountains. I knew she treasured it, and revised my assessment of her interest in Roger Wakefield upward by several notches.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I assured her. I gestured toward the bedside table, adorned with a small teapot, carefully keeping warm under a knitted cozy, and a silver-plated toast rack, just as carefully keeping the toast nice and cold. “Mrs. Thomas brought me tea and toast; perhaps I’ll be able to nibble a little later on.” I hoped she couldn’t hear the rumbling of my empty stomach under the bedclothes, registering appalled disbelief at this prospect.

  “Well, all right.” She turned reluctantly to the door. “We’ll come right back after Culloden, though.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” I called after her.

  I waited until I heard the sound of the door closing below, and was sure she was on her way. Only then did I reach into the drawer of the bedtable for the large Hershey bar with almonds that I had hidden there the night before.

  Cordial relations with my stomach reestablished, I lay back against the pillow, idly watching the gray haze thicken in the sky outside. The tip of a budding lime branch flicked intermittently against the window; the wind was rising. It was warm enough in the bedroom, with the central-heating vent roaring away at the foot of the bed, but I shivered nonetheless. It would be cold on Culloden Field.

  Not, perhaps, as cold as it had been in the April of 1746, when Bonnie Prince Charlie led his men onto that field, to stand in the face of freezing sleet and the roar of English cannon fire. Accounts of the day reported that it was bitterly cold, and the Highland wounded had lain heaped with the dead, soaked in blood and rain, awaiting the mercies of their English victors. The Duke of Cumberland, in command of the English army, had given no quarter to the fallen.

  The dead were heaped up like cordwood and burned to prevent the spread of disease, and history said that many of the wounded had gone to a similar fate, without the grace of a final bullet. All of them lay now beyond the reach of war or weather, under the greensward of Culloden Field.


  I had seen the place once, nearly thirty years before, when Frank had taken me there on our honeymoon. Now Frank was dead, too, and I had brought my daughter back to Scotland. I wanted Brianna to see Culloden, but no power on earth would make me set foot again on that deadly moor.

  I supposed I had better stay in bed, to maintain credence in the sudden indisposition that had prevented me accompanying Brianna and Roger on their expedition; Mrs. Thomas might blab if I got up and put in an order for lunch. I peeked into the drawer; three more candy bars and a mystery novel. With luck, those would get me through the day.

  The novel was good enough, but the rush of the rising wind outside was hypnotic, and the embrace of the warm bed welcoming. I dropped peacefully into sleep, to dream of kilted Highland men, and the sound of soft-spoken Scots, burring round a fire like the sound of bees in the heather.

  4

  CULLODEN

  What a mean little piggy face!” Brianna stooped to peer fascinated at the red-coated mannequin that stood menacingly to one side of the foyer in the Culloden Visitors Centre. He stood a few inches over five feet, powdered wig thrust belligerently forward over a low brow and pendulous, pink-tinged cheeks.