“Your father was… the most selfless man I ever met.” Claire sipped at her whisky, staring into the fire, but seeing neither flame nor light, but something unreachable. Bree sat on the floor beside her, hand on Claire’s knee. After that night on Craigh Na Dun, Brianna had slowly come to understand her mother. Watching her now made everything that Claire had been growing up make sense to Bree. Puzzle pieces that hadn’t fit, now slotted neatly into place.
Now they sat in Roger’s manse, the night quiet, save the crackle of the fire and the light patter of rain against the window sill. Roger had retired early, giving them time alone to talk. They’d spent all evening - days really - pouring over Lord Melton’s journal. He watched as Claire went inward, mind focused, seeing all to clearly just what it must have been like for Fraser the days after the battle. He knew she no longer heard a word they discussed.
“He threw himself headlong into situations, regardless of his own well being. As long as those he loved were safe. He did it time and again…” Tears sparkled in Claire’s eyes, but didn’t fall. “He loved you!” Claire said, looking Bree full in the face for the first time since they sat by the fire. “You and your sister. He loved you both so very fiercely,” her voice cracking on the last word. Brianna had always wondered what it was that lurked behind that longing, faraway look Claire had when she thought no one was watching. Now she saw, it was her mother’s way of keeping her crippling emotions in check. A tear silently ran down her own cheek.
“He had this quirk. He couldn’t wink,” Claire smiled with a sadness that tightly clenched at Bree’s heart. “He’d blink like this innocent, solemn owl at me. No matter how cheeky he tried to be, he’d always make me laugh when he did it. God, I loved that wink.”
Bree squeezed her mother’s knee, but didn’t speak. She knew her mother needed this, the chance to talk freely for what was likely the first time in 20 years. A chance not to have any fear of being glared at for mentioning an ‘undesirable’ memory. Claire’s thoughts bounced from memory to memory like raindrops slamming against the surface of a pond, unable to keep the recollections from crashing into each other.
“He used to talk to… Faith, while I was pregnant. In English and Gaelic. Small things; about the life we’d have. The things he wanted to teach her - the things he would teach all his children,” Claire ran her hand down her daughter’s cheek then, wiping away the tear that had fallen.
“I… I should have looked. Why didn’t I keep bloody looking!” She whispered, bitterly, her grip tightening on the whisky glass. “He was alone and hurt and I…” Claire’s free hand balled into a fist, thumping futily into her thigh. She closed her eyes tight against the helplessness that engulfed her so deeply, and this time she didn’t fight against the tears. Two large drops rolled down her cheeks unheeded.
“He was so brave! And I couldn’t even bring myself to look!” She moved to thump her thigh once more, but Brianna seized her hand fiercely, then getting to her knees, took the glass out from Claire’s other hand, setting it roughly on the table, and held both her hands to her chest, right above her heart.
“He is, mama! He is selfless and brave and stubborn, and everything you love and remember him to be. And he is alive-”
“But Roger only found that he survived Culloden, lovie. Not that he’s still - that he is…” She had to swallow the lump that threatened to choke her before continuing. “… Is alive. You don’t know how it was then. How horrible things got. I can’t imagine they got any better after. In fact we know they didn’t!” Claire vehemently insisted.
Brianna realized her mother couldn’t yet bring herself to think, to hope for him to be alive. Not after all the time that had past. All the lost years. Memories unshared and lives lived well and truly apart. Couldn’t bring herself to think of all the time she lived without her heart. Likely neither of them had truly lived - but simply survived - for the last 20 years.
“Losing him, Bree. It devastated me. Completely. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t bear it.” Claire shook her head as if trying to dispel some long hidden pain. Brianna watched her, confusion and pain etched deeply in her face. How? How has she done it all this time?
“You,” Claire whispered, her eyes filling with an unutterable tenderness as she looked at Bree. “You came and I held you. So small and fragile. And red! All over! Your face furiously scrunched up, your hair a fiery tuft on your head, and I knew. I knew I had to be ok for you. I loved you. For me. And for him, I love you.” Her fingers traced her daughter’s face, then tangled themselves in her soft hair.
“Mama, you must let yourself feel him again. You must! He is out there and we’ll find him. Roger and I. And you! We’ll find him wherever he is. I will find him… For you,” she knelt between Claire’s knees, looking up at a face that no matter how hard and meticulously composed a veneer she tried to hide behind, Bree could always read her - only now able to truly decipher what it was Claire hid. Now, Claire dropped all pretense of composure, her face shattering all at once. Bree cupped her mother’s face between her hands - their noses almost touching - giving her an unblinking stare. So ferocious, it was. So stubborn. So Fraser. So Jamie. Seeing it, Claire let out an involuntary sound somewhere between a sob and laugh.
“My father saved you. Saved us both. He lived mama, all this time, not knowing what happened to his family - if we had lived or not. Now is our chance to give him back all that he lost. What he was so ready and willing to die for. Now I can - and will - find him, and give him back his heart.”