Chapter Text
“Bloody hell, I can’t be late for tea,” Claire gasps as she fights her way through the crowded streets of London. Her husband will be furious, especially if he finds out she returned to the Voluntary Hospital in the harbour district after he forbade her to.
The area is crowded, dirty and full of drunken seamen from all over the world. A large man carrying a sack of grain over his shoulder almost knocks her over, "Oui, ge outta da wa," he yells.
She lowers her shoulder and forcefully ploughs through the dense crowd. In her haste, she almost runs over a small child. “Excuse me,” she sidesteps the child, but hearing sniffles, she hesitates, then decides to stop. She squats and gently places her hands on the child’s arms. “Are you lost?” Claire asks gently as she quickly examines her for injury; the small girl wears a worn dress with a wool scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders. “Where are your parents?” The child shrugs and starts to wail, “Daaaa!” Her watery blue eyes widen, and she wraps her arms around Claire’s neck, sobbing inconsolably. Claire picks her up and runs to her waiting carriage.
She thought she heard someone urgently calling, "Hey, stop!" However, at that moment, her heart raced with the overwhelming need to protect the child in every possible way. Who would abandon such a lovely little girl on these mean streets? Whoever would do something like that did not deserve her. She was probably orphaned and sent out to beg, not fed and mistreated. Claire’s thoughts swirled around every unthinkable scenario, “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll take care of you.” The little girl sobbed, “Da?” she said repeatedly. Claire told herself she was saying yes in another language. Maybe she didn’t speak English or was too young to talk much. While the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones, Claire inspected her closely. She wasn’t dirty, but her stockings had holes, her shoes were severely scuffed and worn, and her dress, though faded, Claire could tell it had been mended. The sobs were slowing, and she felt the warmth of the child as she leaned into her. Claire wrapped her arm around the girl’s tiny body and pulled her closer.
She had fed and tended to many urchin children at the hospital. But when this one looked up at her with those slanted blue eyes, heavy lashes and lightly freckled face, this little one stole Claire’s heart, a heart that had yearned for a child that never came. Now, maybe one was given to her, one she could love and who would love her in return. Claire hadn’t felt love in a very long time. She sighed as she remembered her parents. They had loved her and left her with property and means, but they left her alone at a very young age. She was brought up by her uncle and in boarding schools until she reached her majority, and then she was betrothed to a man who did not love her.
He ran, chasing the carriage, until it turned and pulled into the back of a large house. He slowed his run to a walk, wheezing, trying to slow his heart and catch his breath as he hid across the alley.
Mopping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he blinked tears from his eyes and watched as the woman stepped out of the carriage and carried his daughter toward a large house. A man stepped out the back door and looked angry with the woman; he could not hear what they were saying, but he saw the woman hang her head and nod. The man must be her husband. He noticed the man scrunched his nose when he spoke to his wife and never touched her, stepping aside and yelling for a maid, he guessed, to take the child. The woman held her close, refused to hand her to the maid, and entered the house. He stepped back into the shadows and waited for the man to leave. The afternoon sun showed dimly through the trees, casting shadows that made hiding easy. He stayed hidden until everything quieted down, and only then did he approach the house's back entrance.
Looking through the window, he didn’t see anyone. He gazed at his reflection, feeling unsettled by his unkempt appearance. He was relieved to see a water pump next to the entrance. He washed his face and hands, drank deeply to quench his parched throat, ran his fingers through his unruly hair, and knocked at the door.
Claire stepped out of the carriage, cradling the child who had cried herself to sleep. To avoid her husband, she instructed Thomas to take them to the back entrance. However, when she turned to the door, Franklin stepped out, saying, “You’ve missed tea again.” He studied her appearance with disdain. “You can’t keep that, that stray, Claire.” Franklin wrinkled his nose and waved his finger at the child. “I don’t know why you would bring that dirty child to my home; make sure it is gone when I get back.”
Claire didn’t argue but muttered, “You mean my home.” This house was the Beauchamp home she grew up in, the house her family left her. Of course, when she married, everything she had belonged to her husband, as Franklin delighted in reminding her whenever the need arose.
He spun around abruptly, his eyes narrowing with intensity. “What did you say?” he growled, his voice low and menacing as he took a deliberate step closer to her. The tension in the air thickened. “Suzette, come and take this child!” he shouted.
Claire held the little girl tighter and told the maid that she would take care of her. She glared at Franklin, stepped around him, and entered her home. She asked Suzette to prepare a bath and find clothes for the child.
As she carried the sweet girl upstairs and prepared to bathe her, Claire inhaled the child’s scent and noticed that she was well cared for and regularly washed. When Claire removed the girl’s scarf, beautiful copper curls bounced out in every direction. Claire smiled and said, “You are a pretty little thing." She laughed and added, “Let’s get you bathed.”
While Claire was drying the girl off, she asked, “What is your name?” The little girl gazed around the room and replied, “Sbeth. Where Da?” Claire smiled gently. “Well, Beth, let’s get you dressed and fed.”
Suzette had laid out clothes, shoes, and stockings for the girl. They were in Claire's childhood room, and after dressing her, Claire seated Beth at a small table where a tray of food awaited. Just as she was about to ask about Beth's parents, a commotion erupted downstairs. “Excuse me, Beth,” Claire said hurriedly before leaving the room to check on the noise in the kitchen.
Claire entered the room and encountered the tallest man she had ever seen standing in the doorway. The servants were attempting to convince him to leave. “I’ll see your Mistress now,” he stated, his dishevelled appearance contrasting with the authority in his voice. Claire squared her shoulders and approached him. “I’m the Mistress of this house. Who might you be?”
The man kept his eyes down, his hat in his hands, “I’m James Fraser, mam. You have my daughter Elsbeth.” He raised his head and looked directly at Claire, challenging her to repudiate it. Claire gasped; his slanted blue eyes, heavy lashes, and copper hair were identical to Beth’s. He could never deny paternity of her. Bloody hell, he even had the same sprinkle of freckles across his nose.
“I’m Claire, Claire Randall.” She said as she nodded her head in greeting. "Let’s have tea; I have questions.” He made a throaty grunt of displeasure but followed her anyway and stood holding a chair for her to sit in. While waiting for Suzette to bring in the tea tray, Claire watched his fingers nervously tapping the table as his gaze swept around the room. He had large hands and long fingers, and his nails, while trimmed, needed a clean. Claire forced her gaze from Mr Fraser’s hand and blushed a bit, hoping he had not noticed. She said quickly, “Mr Fraser, how was your daughter on the streets alone?” His tapping stopped, and that piercing look struck her again, causing her breath to catch.
“Yer thinking, I canna care for my daughter?” His gaze exuded a palpable challenge, yet Claire quickly discerned that it wasn’t rooted in anger. She found herself taken aback by his forthrightness. Her first instinct urged her to defend her observations, highlighting that his daughter stood alone in the midst of a bustling port, vulnerable to anyone who might take her. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. However, Claire paused and decided to embrace a more diplomatic approach.
“No, of course not. My only concern is for the child's well-being.” With a soft touch, she reached for his hand but immediately drew back as if stung by a sudden realization. “I apologize; that was rather forward of me.” Flustered, she felt her cheeks warm, and just then, Suzette entered with the tea tray, offering a timely reprieve from the moment.
James stood at the door, determined to see the woman who had taken his daughter. He was ready to battle the entire house to retrieve his Elsbeth.
She burst into the room, her skirts swirling around her. Her dark, unruly curls framed her face, and her skin glowed like a pearl fresh from the sea. Her golden eyes, the colour of fine whiskey, were surrounded by thick, dark lashes. He blinked needing to collect his thoughts and keep in mind both her status and his own.
He introduced himself and met her gaze boldly. She returned his glare without flinching. He noticed she was tall for a woman yet still petite, with a long, graceful neck and slender hands. When she touched him, he felt a jolt, and she did too; she quickly pulled away and apologized, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. His initial anger and resentment toward her began to fade, and he found himself willing to trust her, sensing an unusual kindness in her that was rare for someone of her status.
“I was speaking with the stable lad about work; she was standing with me holding my pant leg, and when I looked down, she was gone,” He explained how terrified he was when he watched her take his daughter. “I followed the carriage and was relieved when ye brought her here.”
“Where did you think I would take her?” Claire asked, her face full of concern.
“I dinna ken, an orphanage, or sell her to a workhouse. That’s what happens to urchins who are captured, ye ken.” He finished and saw a look of horror cross her face. She stood, “I’ll fetch your daughter, Mr Fraser.”
“Daaaa,” He heard Elsbeth calling before he saw her. She ran and jumped into his arms. “Mo Chridhe, a chuisle,” Gaelic tumbled out of him as he nuzzled her neck and took in her scent. It was her mixed with rose-scented soap. He held her from him and observed her closely. She was bathed and wore a blue dress, white stockings, and black shoes, “Ye are vera pretty, leannain.” She wiggled out of his arms to spin around, showing off her new blue dress. He laughed and clapped for her and swept her into his arms for another hug.
Claire stood quietly, her eyes lingering on the heartfelt reunion between James Fraser and little Elsbeth. It was a poignant moment that made her heart ache, for she could never envision Franklin displaying such warmth and tenderness, especially toward a child. Despite her long-held dream of becoming a mother, the thought of doing so with Franklin filled her with a profound sense of consternation. The realization struck her like lightning, leaving her stunned that she could think such a thing. He was her husband, whether she accepted it or not.
Claire’s gaze returned to the sweet girl as James Fraser's applause filled the air. Elsbeth spun joyfully, her new dress swirling around her like petals in the wind, a pure picture of innocence and delight.
At that moment, a distant memory flickered in Claire's mind, or perhaps it was a dream. She imagined herself as a small child, twirling with abandon as her parents cheered her on. While their faces eluded her, the warmth of their love wrapped around her like a cosy blanket, a comforting reminder of a time filled with joy and safety.
Then, it struck her that he had never mentioned Elsbeth's mother. “Mr Fraser?” she asked after the reunion settled. You said you were looking for work. What is it you do?” He shrugged, “I am good with horses, woodworking, and the like. I grew up on an estate in the Highlands; I know about farming and caring for animals and such.” She was impressed by his answer and noticed he spoke with humility.
“Well, we require a stable foreman. Our current foreman, Thomas, has decided to move to a warmer climate.” She was excited to find someone she thought would fit nicely, “If you are interested, it comes with a small stipend and an apartment behind the house.” He smiled, and she noticed his mouth full of strong white teeth. She couldn’t help but smile back, then blushed, embarrassed by her thoughts of his teeth, like he was a prize horse she was purchasing.
“Aye, I would be interested,” he answered, then added, “Just until I earn enough to return to Scotland.” She nodded, “Of course, I’ll have Magnus show you to your quarters.” They stood, and she inhaled and asked, “Will your wife be joining you?”
He bowed, “I thank ye, mam, for saving my daughter and the work.” He took Elsbeth’s hand and followed Magnus to the door. He stopped, lowered his head, and said without turning, “No, Mistress Randall, my wife will not be joining me.” His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and he walked through the door, following Magnus to his new quarters.
After finishing dinner alone once again, Claire felt restless. Her thoughts were dominated by James and Elsbeth. She had never seen a father so kind to his daughter. Traditionally, daughters were viewed as burdens to be married off to improve the family’s wealth or social status.
She decided to visit them and personally deliver the clothes that Suzette had received from the neighbour for Elsbeth. Claire softly rapped on the door, carrying a basket of clothes and another of food. “Who’s there?” James asked in his deep brogue, “It’s me, Claire, uh, Mistress Randall.” She stammered.
James slowly opened the door, “Mistress?” he nodded curtly. “Is there something I can do for ye?”
She hesitated, thinking maybe she shouldn’t have come, “I have clothes for Elsbeth and food from the kitchens. I wasn’t sure if you had eaten.” He stood with the door half open, looking puzzled as he observed her. Claire smiled. “May I come in?”
James took a step back and allowed her to enter. Elsbeth squealed when she saw Claire, ran, and wrapped her little arms around Claire’s skirt, almost causing her to fall. James grabbed Claire’s arm to steady her. “Whoa, lass, ye’ll knock Claire - er - Mrs Randall over.” He took the basket of clothes and put them on Elsbeth's cot. “Why don’t ye see what she brought ye?” Elsbeth happily started pulling things out of the basket. “Ye dinna have to do that.” He said to Claire.
“Winter will be here soon, and children always need extra clothing, like coats, hats, and mufflers, to keep warm,” She exclaimed joyfully, a bright smile lighting up her face as she pondered the unusual lightness that seemed to lift her spirits and fill her with an unexplainable sense of freedom.
James grunted, “Mmphm,” Claire started to ask if that was Gaelic but decided against it. She handed him the basket of food. Then, she turned, her gaze moving lazily around the small room. There was a stove for warmth, and James already had it burning. Their clothes had been unpacked and carefully hung on nails. Two cups, plates and spoons were set neatly on the counter, along with a small mirror, hairbrush and shaving implements next to a wash basin. Two neatly made beds sat on the other side of the room, and a small round table with two chairs was in the centre. Claire noticed a book opened on the table and a candle burning next to it. “It seems I have interrupted your reading, Mr Fraser.” Claire smiled.
“I wish to….” James stepped closer. “I wish to thank you for your kindness, Mistress.” He bowed his head and smiled at her. Without waiting for her to respond, he asked, “Would ye like a cuppa tea?”
Claire thought it would be impolite to refuse, so she accepted. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she said. James put a kettle on the small stove and pulled a teapot from under the counter. Claire watched as he prepared their tea, impressed by the care he took in arranging everything just right. Despite his large frame, he moved with great precision.
Turning her attention, Claire found Elsbeth asleep over her new clothes. “Sweet girl,” she cooed, gently removing the girl’s shoes, stockings, and dress, leaving her in her shift. Claire tucked her in with a soft wool blanket and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, sweet princess,” she whispered. Elsbeth sighed contentedly and snuggled deeper into her blanket.
Humming softly, Claire proceeded to fold the clothes and return them to the basket when she noticed James staring at her. He looked shocked and wary before he quickly composed himself. “Do you like anything in your tea? I don’t have any milk,” he said.
“No, I take it plain.” Claire sat at the table, her hands in her lap. He sat across from her and poured the tea. “I was wondering if you would mind if I tutored Elsbeth,” Claire asked while watching him over the edge of her cup. He looked uncomfortable; the ease they had earlier was gone. “It’s all right, Mr Fraser. If you are uncomfortable, I understand.”
“I’ll speak to Elsbeth. She’s only three years of age, and I read tae her every night. I dinna ken how I feel about an English…” He stopped, and Claire’s eyes widened.
Then she remembered the rising and what Scotland had been through in the last ten years. “I can understand if you do not trust an English woman to teach your daughter.” Claire sighed, “Mr Fraser if you do not think me too bold. Why are you in London, and where is Elsbeth’s mother?” James stood suddenly, knocking the chair over. He quickly picked it up. “I think ye should go, Mrs Randall, tis not proper for ye to be here so late.” He walked past her and opened the door.
She stood, her face flushed not from shame but more from anger and hurt. He saw it in her eyes but stood his ground. “Mr Fraser, I apologise for my rudeness.” She handed him a note, “Take this to Mr Staples in the morning; he will fit you with a proper livery.” She turned and walked out the door and back to her cold house.
James sat at the table and placed his head in his hands. What did this woman want from him? Could he trust her with his daughter, or would she try to take her? He couldn’t allow that. He knew Mrs Randall was kind; he appreciated what she did for him and Elsbeth. But how can he trust anyone after Geneva? He poured a splash of cheap whisky into his tea, gulped it down, and kissed his daughter’s cheek. He inhaled her scent and realised Mistress Randall smelled like rose soap also. James touched the spot on her head that Claire had kissed and pressed his fingers to his lips. “Ye are an eegit, James Fraser;” he snuffed his candle and crawled into bed.
Claire prepared herself for bed by washing her face, cleaning her teeth, and brushing her hair. Opening her window, she felt the cool breeze ruffle her shift and brush against her skin. She looked out at her garden and saw that James had snuffed out his candle, leaving his room dark. A tear ran down her cheek, and she didn't bother wiping it away.