Chapter Text
December 1766
Paris
“I had brought a flower, a pink tulip….. I knelt down and laid it on the stone, stroking the soft curve of the petal with a finger, as though it were a baby’s cheek”
-Voyager, Diana Gabaldon
The gravestone was surprisingly warm against my cheek. The December day was chilly, and the spot shaded by the high wall, but the stone seemed barely cooler than my own skin.
I breathed a silent prayer of thanks for my sentinel, just out of sight behind the buttresses. Sentinels, I corrected myself, thinking of Bouton the younger. They would keep any would-be mourners at bay. No one would stumble upon the spectacle of an otherwise respectable lady laying full-length on the boggy ground, damp and plant matter ruining both skirts and coiffure with surprising speed and thoroughness.
Not that gawkers would bloody stop me, I thought. I had managed for over a year in Paris society—Versailles society, no less!—and its lifeblood of extravagance, custom, etiquette, intrigue, gossip, and scandal. Had incited quite a lot of the latter three myself, come to that, albeit unintentionally. I’d been accused of being, among other things, a sorceress, a bringer of plague upon helpless ships, and a procuress of innocent young girls. And those were merely my Parisian credentials, to say nothing of my reputation in Scotland. I certainly wouldn’t have allowed whispers or imperious glances trouble me now.
No, it wasn’t fear of gossip that made me grateful for the curated quiet of the tiny yard. It was simply the chance to be alone. To enjoy a few precious moments in private with my daughter.
I swallowed. The sharp edges of beveled stone flowed smoothly under my fingertips as I traced each letter. FAITH.
My stomach lurched sharply, a niggling reminder of the morning’s betrayal. I’d carefully avoided Jamie since breakfast, even resorting to the galling trope of feigning headache to avoid inquiries about my plans for the day. If asked so outright, I was certain that my glass face would betray my guilty conscience. Or that Jamie would suggest accompanying me, which was the last thing I wanted.
He might well have guessed that Faith was buried was here—under the care of the sisters with whom I had spent so many months at the Hôpital des anges—but I had never told him so.
Another clutching of guilt; this one deeper and distinctly denunciatory. It was in Jenny Murray’s voice that my conscience read the charges, though not the Jenny I’d known and loved as a sister. This Jenny had fire in her eyes and deadly ice in her voice.
“What kind of woman,” she snarled,”goes out of her way to keep an honest man—who loves ye, despite the twenty years he’s suffered on your account while ye were God knows where—from saying proper prayers over his bairn? Knowingly keeps him from any small comfort or absolution it could bring him?”
A, cold-hearted, selfish bitch, Jenny, that’s what kind. And so be it. Forgive me, Jamie, I thought, with a pang. Even if it pained him to learn of it later, this visit had to be alone, for Faith belonged to me in a way she could never belong to him.
He had loved her and mourned for her just as I had. But only I would ever be able to describe the touch of the downy skin. The two tiny ears, sticking out just enough to be comical. The unearthly scent of her. Memory of Faith’s existence outside of the womb—and those numbed, raw months in my empty-shell body that followed— belonged to only me.
“Hello, sweetheart," I said. My voice was hoarse, halting, but I needed to speak to her aloud, just as I had needed to lay my head against the stone. To affirm that she had been real, a person, and not just a fragment of a nightmare long ago.
“Oh, little one,” I exhaled, laying my palm over the marble cherub’s wings that sheltered her, “How much you mattered.”
All the trying and disappointment with Frank. The utter sweetness of Jamie as he bravely talked about all the reasons it was just as well I was barren. The deep sadness of not being able to give him the gift of his blood. The knowledge that our love—to us, ultimate—had been declared utterly finite. And further still, the creeping darkness of Wentworth Prison that had nearly taken Jamie out of my reach forever. All of it had exploded in a firework of happiness at the moment of our joint knowledge of Faith’s coming.
Grief and longing stabbed me through. The short time when Faith shared my body was the closest Jamie and I would ever have to something like our own family, together. How different would our lives have been, if Faith had lived? Would we still have gone back to Scotland? Would the Bonnie prince still have coerced our participation in his bloody affairs? Would our lives still have shattered with the axe blow of Culloden?
She would have been twenty-two now.
I blinked, shaking my head to clear away the mists of so many years. There was no changing the past, I reminded myself bitterly, and little to be gained from dwelling upon it. It soldiers on, whether we will it or no.
I stood, smoothing my ruined skirt and pulling my cloak tightly around me. I heard Mother Hildegarde and Bouton stir.
I experienced the most bizarre juxtaposition of imagining myself sizing up the scene through the lens of the camera Frank had given me that last Christmas in Boston. The pink tulip I had laid would have stood out brightly in the glossy print, all vibrant and dewy curves against pale winter grass and white of stone. The violets, too, with their delicate faces flecked with gold. It had been the sight of them that had prompted my first tears, not the sight of the grave itself, touched beyond measure that someone else kept Faith’s memory here.
"Sweet dreams, my love."
The lump in my throat was even thicker as I passed between the buttresses. How many times had I whispered those words while turning on a night-light, or smoothing red curls against a pillowcase?
It was for two lost daughters that I mourned.
“Is that you, Sassenach?” came the muffled voice.
Jamie was seated at the small table in our chamber, his face slumped on the heels of his hands.
I walked softly up to him, trying to keep my breathing and face steady. I faltered in my stride, thinking of an excuse that could take me downstairs, outside, anywhere to avoid questions about day’s activities. Coward, spat Jenny’s spectre.
He turned to me without looking, though, pulling me toward him and resting his head against my breast. He had been crying.
"What is it, Jamie? Is it your hand? I can prepare you a—"
“Ian,” he croaked.
I relaxed, cradling him tenderly against me with a small sound of understanding. I could feel his scalp, hot and slightly damp under my fingers.
Young Ian. As dear as his own son would have been, taken from right under our noses to God knows where. I shuddered, thinking back to the mists of the silkies’ island and our mad, futile gallop to the departing ship.
“My poor lad,” he moaned.
“We’ll find him, Jamie. If they meant to kill him, they’d have done it right then when they had the French treasure in hand.”
“Aye, but that’s just the thing, Sassenach.” Jamie straightened, eyes full of pain, “They should have cut his throat on the spot. The fact that they didn’t means they have some use for him, so…” He shrugged, swallowing, “I’m kept up these nights scairt to death thinking on what use they might have wi’ a young lad.”
“Ian’s young...and gawky...” I agreed, thinking of the lad’s fine, light bones. I held Jamie back from me slightly to look him in the eyes, “...but he’s a true Fraser brawler for all that. He won’t be coaxed into anything he doesn't want to do without a fight. And given the opportunity, he’ll find a way to escape. According to Jenny and Ian, he’s quite the master.”
Jamie laughed, and I gave him a squeeze, both of us grateful for the moment of levity.
I placed a kiss on his forehead, another on his mouth, and settled in the chair next to him, examining the papers that were strewn about the tabletop. “Are the preparations advancing?”
“Aye, just the few last things to be settled. We’ll need to set sail from Le Havre no later than the 18th in order to make the rendezvous wi’ Fergus and the others.”
“Will you come wi’ me tomorrow? I should like your opinion on the final provisioning, and I imagine you’ll want to replenish your wee herbs.”
“Of course,” I said, making up my marketing list and mentally adding Dietician and Ship’s Surgeon to my ever-expanding curriculum vitae.
We lay awake that night for some time, both talking intently of ships, provisions, and figures, neither of us eager to acknowledge the heaviness and sadness that hung above us.
When they came at last, my dreams were of silkies and cherub wings.
I had led Jamie on quite the merry chase in search of the “wee herbs.” The pawn broker had given me the names of several that I might call upon in place of the long-absent Master Raymond. Krasner’s stocks had been serviceable, but I still lacked several items I needed in order to sufficiently complete my medicine box for the voyage. I had had higher hopes for Madame Verrue and thankfully, they were met.
I grasped the packet against my chest, stepping out into the street as Jamie settled the bill with Madame Verrue. The wind whipped sharply down the street, stinging my eyes with tears. My vision was so greatly blurred, in fact, that I ran head-long into a ghost.
I blinked, gaping. In my shock, my voice came out in my sternest Chief of Surgical Staff tones, “You are most certainly meant to be dead.”
He was dressed less flamboyantly than I remembered. The style of wig was new, and distinctive. But it was him. Unmistakably.
The Comte looked me up and down with a sneer, and some other expression I couldn’t quite place. When he spoke, though, his voice was as cold as I remembered. “Until recently, I had thought the same of your condition“Until recently, I had thought the same of your condition. Mais, l’original, cette fois.”
I felt Jamie’s presence loom up behind me, knowing without having to look that his hand was resting on sword hilt. This was not lost on the Comte. He met Jamie’s eye with a look like grim resignation. “Of course. Raymond will have told you everything?”
“Raymond?” I exclaimed, delight temporarily overriding fear and shock, “My God, he’s still here? In Paris? Where–”
Jamie cut me off, “Not here, aye?” He gestured to a narrow alley. He was right of course. Being seen publicly with this man—not to mention speaking of the other—could come to no good.
It was not a pleasant spot, just the meeting place of the backs of several large buildings, full of stacked crates and piles of rubbish. A mangy cat sat stooped on a nearby step, gnawing on the long-dead carcass of a small bird, but otherwise we were alone.
The silence was an awkward one. While we’d taken pains to secrete ourselves to an isolated spot, we didn’t actually have any business with the man, other than my curiosity about Raymond. The Comte’s eyes were still fixed on me, wide, scouring over me.
Jamie made the first move, making an elegant and surprisingly un-ironic leg. “Monsieur le Comte. I trust ye are well.”
The Comte had scarcely taken his eyes from me since our encounter, but I could have sworn I saw the slightest ripple in the steely countenance as Jamie stepped forward. A flinch, as if he were expecting a blow. But he said nothing, nor did he take his eyes from me.
Jamie’s jaw tightened, and I wondered for a moment if he would hit the man. He tried again, his tone still polite,“ My wife and I are in Paris but for a short while–only long enough to secure provisions for a journey to the Indies, where my sister’s son has been taken. If ye’ve news of Master Raymond, we’ll thank ye for it most kindly, as he was a particular friend of my wife’s. But time is of great importance and we must be on our way with all haste.”
A very pretty speech, I thought. The casual observer would never have supposed that its recipient had once made quite free with death threats and curses against the speaker’s beloved wife.
The Comte must have been struck by the strangeness of it as well, for his stare turned to fix on Jamie, now tinged with unease. His voice was cold, but unmistakably bewildered.
“Your courtesy astounds me, Fraser. In truth, I was expecting paternal vengeance. Surely old age has not softened your resolve to so great an extent?”
I glanced quickly to Jamie. His brow had furrowed. This strange statement meant no more to him than it had to me. He spoke slowly, carefully, “The lad is certainly like a son to me. But unless you’re telling me it was on your orders that he was taken from Scotland, I shouldnae see why—“
The Comte snorted, “I knew nothing of this boy—captured or not—until you mentioned him just now. It was your daughter of whom I spoke.”
The shock fell over me instantly, to the bone, like a sheet of cold water. Jamie’s face bore the same look mine must have. We had told no one about Brianna, not even Jenny or Ian. No other soul on this side of the stones knew she existed.
Oh God. Had Bree come through after me? The water turned to ice in my heart, expanding and squeezing, about to shatter. Had she braved the stones and fallen into the wrong hands in trying to find us? Christ, Bree, what were you thinking?
I squared my shoulders, struggling to keep my voice and face calm. “How—how do you know about her?“
His smile was cold and coy. “Oh, I have made her acquaintance… personally…” He was enjoying this. “Very lovely indeed. An unusually tall mademoiselle, non?”
I pressed my lips tight to keep from screaming. My hands shook, imagining all the nightmare scenarios involving Bree in the hands of this man.
Jamie, though, merely snorted derisively, “Any man with eyes could guess that no child of ours would likely be small of stature. And I’ve seen a number of Parisian lassies tall enough to spit in my eye, were they of a mind.”
He turned his back to the count, grabbing my hands hard in his own, “He’s only trying to frighten us, Sassenach. It’s naught but a trick, like a gypsy fortune teller saying to ‘beware a dark-heided man,’ knowing you’ll have ten to choose from the moment ye leave the tavern door. Just lies and trickery.” He put a firm hand on my cheek, giving me a small shake of reassurance, and whispering low so only I could hear. “He doesnae know about Brianna.”
The Comte toyed with the carved head of his walking stick, his eyes cast downward almost coquettishly, “To be sure, Monsieur Fraser, but surely not all tall Parisian lassies,” languorously parodying the word, “have a mark behind the ear….in the shape of a diamond?”
Gasp and sob tore from my throat simultaneously. The cat, startled, scuttled into the shadows of the crates with her rotting prize in tow. I staggered, vision reeling uncontrollably. Not even Jamie knew about Bree’s birthmark.
My reaction must have been all the confirmation Jamie needed. His eyes went wild, and in a moment, his blade was pressed hard against the man’s throat.
“And what exactly,” Jamie growled, enunciating each syllable contemptuously, “did ye do to our daughter to have been expecting my ‘paternal vengeance?’”
The count laughed—actually laughed. Had I the use of my legs at that moment, I would have crossed the short distance between us and torn him apart with my bare hands. As it was, I swayed, unable to move, heart pounding in my ears.
Jamie shook him violently, teeth gritted, pressing the blade close, “Where have ye taken her?”
The laugh died but was replaced with a definite smirk. He spoke quietly, evenly. “I have not taken her anywhere. In fact, I have not seen her for some weeks.” He said, his composure not extending quite so far as to prevent him shrinking from the point of the sword.
Jamie’s glare was as dark and deadly as his voice, “If ye value your life—and believe me, I do not share the sentiment—ye’ll tell me NOW what you’ve done to Brianna.”
“Brianna?” Her name sounded truly wrong in the Comte’s accent– the “r” all but lost in an airy gurgle. But the smirk had been replaced at long last with a look of true surprise. “Brianna?” he repeated, “Raymond had said you had named the girl ‘Faith.’”
I was falling. The dark, cold reaching out to engulf me.
My last memory before it closed around me was the Comte’s handsome, cruel eyes locked on mine.
“She looks just like you.”