"Eighteenth century, most likely," Roger said. "The seventeenth-century stones are mostly too weathered to read, and no one's been buried here in two hundred years; the church was deconsecrated in 1800."
A moment later, Brianna let out a muffled whoop. "Here it is!" She stood up and waved to Claire, who was standing on the far side of the kirkyard, peering inquisitively at a length of greenery she held in one hand. "Mama! Come look at this!"
Claire waved back, and made her way to where they stood beside the flat, square stone, stepping carefully across the crowded graves.
"What is it?" she asked. "Find an interesting grave?"
"I think so. Recognize this name?" Roger stepped back, so she could have a clear view.
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" Mildly startled, Roger glanced at Claire, and was alarmed to see how pale she was. She stared down at the weathered stone, and the muscles of her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. The plant she had pulled was crushed in her hand, unregarded.
"Dr. Randall—Claire—are you all right?"
The amber eyes were blank, and she appeared not to hear him for a moment. Then she blinked, and looked up. She was still pale, but seemed better now; back in control.
"I'm fine," she said, voice flat. She stooped, and ran her fingers over the letters of the stone as though reading them in Braille.
"Jonathan Wolverton Randall," she said softly, "1705–1746. I told you, didn't I? You bastard, I told you!" Her voice, so flat an instant before, was suddenly vibrant, filled with a restrained fury.
"Mama! Are you all right?" Brianna, obviously upset, pulled at her mother's arm.
Roger thought it was as though a shade had dropped behind Claire's eyes; the feeling that had shone there was suddenly hidden, as she snapped back to a realization of the two people staring at her, aghast. She smiled, a brief, mechanical grimace, and nodded.
"Yes. Yes, of course. I'm fine." Her hand opened, and the stalk of limp greenery dropped to the ground.
"I thought you'd be surprised." Brianna was looking worriedly at her mother. "Isn't this Daddy's ancestor? The soldier who died at Culloden?"
Claire glanced down at the gravestone near her feet.
"Yes, it is," she said. "And he is dead, isn't he?"
Roger and Brianna exchanged looks. Feeling responsible, Roger touched Claire on the shoulder.
"It's rather a hot day," he said, trying for a note of casual matter-of-factness. "Perhaps we should go into the church for a little shade. There are some very interesting carvings on the font; well worth seeing."
Claire smiled at him. A real smile this time, a little tired, but eminently sane.
"You go," she said, including Brianna with a tilt of her head. "I need a little air. I'll stay out here for a bit."
"I'll stay with you." Brianna was hovering, clearly unwilling to leave her mother on her own, but Claire had recovered both her equanimity and her air of command.
"Nonsense," she said briskly. "I'm perfectly all right. I'll go sit in the shade of the trees over there. You go along. I'd rather be by myself for a bit," she added firmly, seeing Roger opening his mouth to protest.
With no further ado, she turned and walked off, toward the line of dark yew trees that edged the kirkyard to the west. Brianna hesitated, looking after her, but Roger took the girl by the elbow, and drew her toward the church.
"Best leave her alone," he murmured. "After all, your mother's a doctor, isn't she? She'll know if it's all right."
"Yeah…I suppose so." With a final troubled glance after Claire's retreating figure, Brianna allowed him to lead her away.
The kirk was no more than an empty wood-floored room, with the abandoned font left in place only because it could not be removed. The shallow basin had been scooped out of the stone ledge that ran along one side of the room. Above the basin, the carved visage of St. Kilda gazed emptily toward the ceiling, eyes piously upturned.
"It was probably one of the pagan gods to start with," Roger said, tracing the line of the carving with a finger. "You can see where they added the veil and wimple to the original figure—not to mention the eyes."
"Like poached eggs," Brianna agreed, rolling her own up in imitation. "What's this carving over here? It looks a lot like the patterns on those Pictish stones outside Clava."
They strolled casually around the walls of the kirk, breathing the dusty air, examining the ancient carvings in the stone walls, and reading the small wooden plaques affixed by long-vanished parishioners in memory of ancestors gone still longer. They spoke quietly, both keeping an ear out for any sounds from the kirkyard, but all was quiet, and slowly they began to relax again.
Roger followed Brianna toward the front of the room, watching the curling tendrils that escaped from her braid to coil damply on her neck.
All that remained now at the front of the kirk was a plain wooden ledge above the hole where the altarstone had been removed. Still, Roger felt something of a quiver up his spine as he stood beside Brianna, facing the vanished altar.
The sheer intensity of his feelings seemed to echo in the empty place. He hoped she couldn't hear them. They had known each other barely a week, after all, and had had scarcely any private conversation. She would be taken aback, surely, or frightened, if she knew what he felt. Or worse yet, she would laugh.
Yet, when he stole a glance at her, her face was calm and serious. It was also looking back at him, with an expression in the dark blue of her eyes that turned him toward her and made him reach for her without conscious thought.
The kiss was brief and gentle, scarcely more than the formality that concludes a wedding, yet as striking in its impact as though they had this minute plighted a troth.
Roger's hands fell away, but the warmth of her lingered, in hands and lips and body, so that he felt as though he held her still. They stood a moment, bodies grazing, breathing each other's air, and then she stepped back. He could still feel the touch of her on the palms of his hands. He curled his fingers into fists, seeking to hold the feeling.
The still air of the church shivered suddenly into bits, the echoes of a scream scattering the dust motes. Without conscious thought, Roger was outside, running, stumbling and scrambling over the tumbled stones, heading for the dark line of the yews. He pushed his way between the overgrown branches, not bothering to hold back the scaly twigs for Brianna, hot on his heels.
Pale in the shadows, he saw Claire Randall's face. Completely drained of color, she looked like a wraith against the dark branches of the yew. She stood for a moment, swaying, then sank to her knees in the grass, as though her legs would no longer support her.
"Mother!" Brianna dropped to her knees beside the crouching figure, chafing one of the limp hands. "Mama, what is it? Are you faint? You should put your head between your knees. Here, why don't you lie down?"
Claire resisted the helpful proddings of her offspring, and the drooping head came upright on its slender neck once more.
"I don't want to lie down," she gasped. "I want.…oh, God. Oh, dear holy God." Kneeling among the unmowed grass she stretched out a trembling hand to the surface of the stone. It was carved of granite, a simple slab.
"Dr. Randall! Er, Claire?" Roger dropped to one knee on her other side, putting a hand under her other arm to support her. He was truly alarmed at her appearance. A fine sweat had broken out on her temples and she looked as though she might keel over at any moment. "Claire," he said again, urgently, trying to rouse her from the staring trance she had fallen into. "What is it? Is it a name you know?" Even as he spoke, his own words were ringing in his ears. No one's been buried here since the eighteenth century, he'd told Brianna. No one's been buried here in two hundred years.
Claire's fingers brushed his own away, and touched the stone, caressing, as though touching flesh, gently tracing the letters, the grooves worn shallow, but still clear.
" ‘JAMES ALEXANDER MALCOLM MACKENZIE FRASER,' " she read aloud. "Yes, I know him." Her hand dropped lower, brushing back the grass that grew thickly about the stone, obscuring the line of smaller letters at its base.
" ‘Beloved husband of Claire,' " she read.
"Yes, I knew him," she said again, so softly Roger could scarcely hear her. "I'm Claire. He was my husband." She looked up then, into the face of her daughter, white and shocked above her. "And your father," she said.
Roger and Brianna stared down at her, and the kirkyard was silent, save for the rustle of the yews above.
"No!" I said, quite crossly. "For the fifth time—no! I don't want a drink of water. I have not got a touch of the sun. I am not faint. I am not ill. And I haven't lost my mind, either, though I imagine that's what you're thinking."
Roger and Brianna exchanged glances that made it clear that that was precisely what they were thinking. They had, between them, got me out of the kirkyard and into the car. I had refused to be taken to hospital, so we had gone back to the manse. Roger had administered medicinal whisky for shock, but his eyes darted toward the telephone now as though wondering whether to dial for additional help—like a straitjacket, I supposed.
"Mama." Brianna spoke soothingly, reaching out to try to smooth the hair back from my face. "You're upset."