𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝟏
FOUR.
the girl left behind
lallybroch, scotland
february 1752
Faith Murray was in trouble.
At sunset, the seven year old sat quite unhappily on the back steps of Lallybroch, mud in her hair and blood still staining her upper lip.
It really was Marsali MacKimmie who started the fight, at least in Faith's opinion. Marsali hadn't needed to say what she did, and Faith's temper got the better of her in a way it hadn't ever before. She did throw the first punch. But Marsali hadn't stopped when she told her to, and Faith hadn't even hit her at first. She'd only tried to cover the other girl's mouth with her hand to insist she stop talking. Marsali had been the one who bit her... then Faith hit her — and it hadn't even been that hard.
Of course it had been Quarter Day so Auntie Jenny and Uncle Ian, along with Marsali's mother, had been right there. Right d—mn there. Her aunt had berated her in front of everyone, including the tenants, neighbours, and the rest of the family including her cousins who weren't likely to let her forget it in a hurry.
This was terrible, Faith knew, but Marsali getting a mouthful of dirt and blood had been a comfort.
As far as Faith was concerned, it had all been worth it.
But now she had to face her da.
When he arrived at the back steps, past sunset, Faith was begrudgingly waiting for him.
At his arrival, Jenny appeared just behind her, "There ye are, brother. Time to deal wit' it, then. This one and Marsali MacKimmie were warring against each other all day."
Quite understandably, this took Jamie aback. While his daughter was one for mischief, she wasn't one for fighting and she certainly wasn't one to make such rash decisions. Jamie himself had been partial to many of those in his time, but Faith differed from him in that way. He'd observed her, from a distance, from the times she wasn't with him, and his daughter was a quiet lass; thoughtful, watchful. She thought through everything she did. She wasn't prone to childish skirmishes.
True, Jamie didn't doubt Jenny's word, but it simply did not fit his daughter as he knew her.
"Is that true, a bhobain?"
Faith chanced a nervous glance over at the face of her aunt but she could never make it past her father's chest.
"Aye..."
"Aye." Jamie repeated with a sigh, "Well, we'll have to have a wee chat, won't we?"
There was no harshness in his tone, only his usual smooth soothing rhythm.
She nodded.
Pressing his lips into a fine line, Jamie took a seat on the stone step at Faith's side. Their shoulders brushed and, instinctively, she leaned a bit more into him, not at all minding the dirt and sweat and smell of the earth covering him. They matched, after all. What a pair they made. They were equally filthy now, with Jamie living in the woods and Faith rolling in the dirt.
"Want to tell me the truth of it, a bhobain?"
She nodded again, but still she did not look at him.
"'Twas Quarter Day, ye ken..." Faith left a rather unnecessary pause so Jamie filled it with a nod in hopes it would make her continue, however reluctantly, "An—And it was like Auntie Jenny said."
That didn't sound right. Jamie asked, "Do ye no' like the lass?"
"I like 'er fine."
"Doesna sound that way to me." He pointed out fairly, gently tapping her knee, "Wit' all yer brawling."
Faith fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, biting on her swollen upper lip, still refusing to meet her da's eyes. Jenny stood still behind her, arms crossed tightly across her bosom. Jamie studied his daughter for another moment, taking in her hesitancy, her discomfort.
"So ye hit Marsali MacKimmie." He restated, frowning now, "Wit' no provocation?"
Faith's little brows wrinkled, "What's that?"
"Means... means she did naught to deserve it."
"Oh. Nah, I hit her wit' prov—provocation." Jamie determined he would wait her out now, saying nothing until she finally came out with it. Her lips twisted, she drew in a sharp breath, and then she murmured, "Called my ma a witch. So I hit her."
Jamie's jaw clenched tight and he looked sharply up at the sky above them, trying to draw in a calming breath. The fight left her auntie Jenny's body, shoulders loosening and eyes softening. The truth of it was, the accusation wasn't likely from the young girl herself but from her mother, Laoghaire, who had long hated Faith's mother.
The little girl peered up at him with wide eyes, "But my ma wasna a witch, was she, Da?"
"No, lass. Yer mother wasna a witch." He finally managed, "And ye defended yer mother, I see the reasoning in that."
Faith brightened instantly under the approval of her father, beaming up at him.
Her smile was catching, and he couldn't help but smile back.
"Jamie—," Jenny muttered in disapproval.
He held up a hand, "But... fighting will get ye nowhere. So I ask ye to seek peace, if ye can."
His brow furrowed a bit, watching the complicated expression on her face. His lass might have been watchful, quiet, but he forgot. Faith Fraser was a fighter. She'd always been a fighter, from the very moment of her conception. She'd survived the turmoil her parents suffered at Wentworth Prison. She'd survived the birth that nearly killed both her and her mother. She'd survived the weeks following when her father hadn't been allowed to see her.
His daughter was a fighter, and a survivor too.
She clearly wanted to deny him this, but Jamie and Faith were too closely intertwined, too absolutely necessary to one another, to ever deny the other anything.
She did the best she could, "I'll try, Da."
He wouldn't ask for more than that.
Despite Jenny's obviously reproachful stare, Jamie couldn't be causing her pain so they agreed to a punishment of a night wit'out dessert. The siblings, of course, knew this wouldn't stand because Fergus would soon be up and sneak her sweets anyway. It was the principle of the thing, Jenny reasoned. So, Jamie merely tucked her into bed with reassurances that they'd be sure no one said such things about her mother again.
The girl peered silently at him for a while before asking, "Ye're no' angry?"
"No, Faith, I'm no' angry." Jamie squeezed her shoulder, sitting on the edge of her bed, "Surprised, aye, but no' angry."
They sat there in their comfortable silence before Faith suddenly giggled.
She smirked up at him, "I made her eat dirt."
Jamie snorted and then quickly struggled to regain composure, "Ye can laugh wit' me, all right, but ye'll do yerself no favors if ye laugh round yer aunt Jenny."
Wide—eyed with mirth, Faith clapped a hand over her lips, little giggles still sneaking out.
Jamie laughed and nodded in approval, "Canny lass."
Another giggle emitted from behind her hand and he kissed the top of her head. He sat with her in the small cot in the girls' nursery, one arm wrapped round her thin shoulders. She curled more into him, yawning a little, stomach growling just a bit. Jamie smiled and drew her closer, slowly drifting off for the first good night of sleep he'd had in months.
But before he did:
Lord, he prayed, that she may be safe. She and the child. Just as we are now.
━━━━━━
lallybroch, scotland
may 1752
Faith's eighth birthday had been the best she'd ever had, and she had very low expectations. It wasn't that she was ever ungrateful, mind; even as a wee thing, she'd understood and never resented the situation that her father was in. She knew the dangers that haunted Jamie's every step and this was why he would only appear at the very ends of her birthdays — when the sun had set and the moon was midway into the sky.
The only thing was, they had not seen her da in days.
Following the most recent raid of Redcoat Captain Abbot on Lallybroch — and the fourth arrest of Uncle Ian, Jamie had no choice but to remain holed up in his cave in the woods. At least, that was where she assumed he was. He could've been in the colonies and she'd have not known any different.
Faith had been growing more and more restless about it all week, fretting that he might not have enough to eat, that he might not not be able to check his traps, that some British patrol would catch him whilst travelling through, and perhaps most selfishly that he would miss her birthday.
She'd been sullen the night before, when it seemed as if their fate was sealed. Not even Fergus could manage a smile out of her, and she'd fallen asleep with tear—stained cheeks and a stuffed nose to boot.
So, when her father woke her at the crack of dawn to tell her to dress in Wee Jamie's clothes and come downstairs as quickly and quietly as she could, the surprise of it had been enough to make her day. Hand—in—smaller—hand, father and daughter slipped from the big house silently and made their way to the woods in the half—light.
"What're we doin'?" Faith whispered, nearly trembling with excitement.
"I'd think it were obvious, mo uan." Jamie whispered with a wide smile, "We're runnin' away, you and me."
Faith had grown a grin so enormous that it had hurt her face.
And then, just as he said, Jamie and Faith ran away. Sprinted off across the woods and glens in no particular direction, racing each other through the clouds of morning fog rising off damp meadows, Jamie delighted at being out and Faith feeling so happy she could nearly scream.
By the time they'd started to feel the first pangs of morning hunger, a pear orchard had nearly magically appeared in the foggy distance — as if brought about by faeries themselves.
Faith stepped into Jamie's folded hands and was boosted up onto the lowest branch. With her now lengthening limbs, it was easy for Faith to scale the tree — higher, then a little higher, and then as high as she possibly could. The fruit was always best at the top; as odd as it seemed to have remembered, Murtagh taught her that.
"Dinna go so high, a bhobain," her da warned, staring a bit worriedly up at her.
Faith only grinned down at him, snatching the fresh fruit from their leafy homes and stuffing them into the pockets of Wee Jamie's breeks and down the front of his big shirt. She'd only just gotten started when a sharp whistle and the coo of a bird call sounded from below.
"We've friends comin'," Jamie called up, blue eyes wide.
Sure enough, as soon as she turned her head, Faith could focus on the angry shouts and the red streaks of uniforms from somewhere in the distance. Immediately, she began scrambling down the pear tree. She might have lost her grip once or twice, scraping down parts of the trunk enough to make her bleed, but it took her no time at all to reach the very last branch. Without even needing to check, Faith pushed herself off and Jamie caught her effortlessly.
Then, just as fast as they'd appeared, they disappeared back into the mist before anyone could object to theft in the early morning hours.
They circled back and settled at the stream near the cave, sitting in the slowly warming sun, feasting on their contraband.
"Whose pear trees were these, Da?" Faith only thought to ask later, a bit of sweet juice trickling down her chin.
For the first time in her life, Faith thought Jamie looked nearly... sheepish.
"Once belonged to an old friend and fellow Jacobite — Brian MacPherson, ya ken... But then the land was seized and became the property of a Lieutenant Harding of His Majesty's Army."
Faith descended into a fit of giggles, rosy cheeked and smiling wide.
"My only regret is that I've made a thief o' my daughter," her father sighed teasingly to himself.
"Ah, Da, dinna fash. Fergus did so long ago."
"Aye..." Jamie hummed unhappily, "Remind me to have a word with the lad."
Faith giggled once more before slowly drifting into silence, her kicking feet growing cold in the rapid flow of the stream, "Da? How dangerous was it for ye to run away?"
He gave her a small smile and owlish wink, "No' so dangerous that it wasna worth it."
Faith smiled and sighed a little, leaning so her head was on his shoulder, "Auntie Jenny'll kill ye."
"Eh." Jamie took a big bite of pear, juice spurting from his lips, "I can handle yer auntie Jenny."
As it happened, Auntie Jenny yelled at the pair of them upon their return and Da didn't handle it all that well. They stood there quite awkwardly as Jenny ranted on 'bout how worried sick she had been upon waking up the girls to find Faith missing, upon realising that Jamie was out and about with so many Redcoats about. She only calmed when Uncle Ian walked in from the other room, newly released and unharmed from custody, to tell her that it was the lass' birthday after all.
All little girls should have miracles on their birthdays.
Truth be told, Faith Murray needed all the miracles she could get.
━━━━━━
lallybroch, scotland
october 1752
The children around Lallybroch were on a mission.
Faith hurried after the fifteen year old Fergus, Rabbie trailing after her and Wee Jamie not far behind. They crept through the brush near the end of the entrance road, on a warpath and speaking in hushed fervent whispers.
"You're sure it's in the dovecote?" Fergus asked over his shoulder, hand still in Faith's as he led the eight year old along.
"Aye, I saw it with me own eyes." Rabbie confirmed seriously, "Followed him here as he was hiding it. Put it in one of the nests."
"What if Father catches us?" Wee Jamie, who'd begged to tag along last minute, was still fretting.
"He won't!" The eldest boy snapped, "He's round the back milkin'. Now, shut yer gab."
Faith turned to smack the oldest boy in the stomach, "Dinna be so rude, Rabbie!"
Fergus cautiously pushed open the dovecote, the birds cooing and the door creaking as he did. Faith briefly paused at the entryway, fulfilling her job as lookout to ensure no one'd watch them slip inside. Then, once the all—clear was given, the kids began examining the mostly desolate nooks in the stone of the dovecote, shifting aside the nests and very few doves perched inside.
Only, there was nothing to be found.
"It's here!" Rabbie insisted "I swear."
Fergus shot him a look, "I swear, you're lyin'!"
Faith, as the smallest one of the group, smoothly clambered up onto her brother's shoulders, reaching into one of the tallest nooks with a brave hand. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, her little palm suddenly touched on something cold and hard amidst the bird's nest. She gasped and pulled back, peering at the heavy pistol currently in her hand.
"Ha!" Rabbie cried as she slowly turned it over in the dim light, "Told ye."
Fergus carefully helped her down and Faith handed the pistol over. The four children all stared at the now tarnished weapon, quite mesmerized with the thing. As Fergus playfully pretended to fire it, Wee Jamie made a grab for it but the older boy held it out of reach.
"It's my father's, so I get to hold it."
"No, you're too young!" Fergus determined, "And you don't know how it works."
"You don't either!" Wee Jamie accused.
Fergus froze and looked down at him, his honor and pride both threatened. Faith heaved a sigh like a weary old woman and then puckered out her bottom lip, knowing that his same old tale was coming out.
"I've been to war!" The curly—haired boy leaned towards the younger, "I was at Prestonpans! I killed a filthy redcoat officer!"
Bored, Faith leaned her head into Fergus' arm, peering at the gun in his palm. Rabbie and Wee Jamie, on the other hand, were still quite enthralled no matter how many times they'd heard the tale.
"But ye killed him with a knife, aye?" Rabbie added, "And it was bloody!"
"Aye, bloody."
"Ah, ignore 'em, Wee Jamie." Faith advised her cousin with a shake of her head, "They're jus' pretending they're men."
Her cousin sidled closer to her, pleased to have at least someone on his side.
Fergus practically puffed out his chest, "It's much braver to kill a man with a knife. Nothing but flesh and metal between you." His voice softened with bitter regret, "I only wish Milord didn't send me home. I could've fought at Culloden too..."
A shadow crossed over her adoptive brother's face, clearly showing how sore a subject this was for him. This was what distinguished him from the other boys at Lallybroch. He'd been to war and he'd seen things the others had not. Faith knew he'd always wished he could have stayed; stayed and fought with their parents.
Faith rolled her eyes, "Oh, ye clot—heid, then ye'd no be home for me."
Fergus rolled his eyes right back at her, "No, ma soeur, I wouldn't."
They smiled softly at one another.
But suddenly they were interrupted by what sounded nearly like thunder. All hurrying over, the children peered through the cracks of the dovecote to see a patrol rushing by. The soldiers all moved so quickly, it was too hard for Faith to count, but there were soldiers on horseback and a cart with riders too.
"Redcoats!" Rabbie gasped, "Hide it, quick!"
As Fergus hurriedly hoisted her back onto his shoulders, Faith scrambled to stash the pistol back into the dove nest before their whole group were all racing down the road. Struggling to keep up on short legs, Fergus had to pull Faith behind him when they sprinted through the archway to see that two Redcoats were already dragging poor Uncle Ian down the stone steps and towards the wagon.
Her uncle was struggling to stay on his feet, his wooden leg twisting and making it hard to keep the pace. But no matter how hard it was for him, he went peacefully. He didn't fight it.
"Move, Cripple!" One Redcoat growled at the struggling man.
The kids skidded to a stop near the side, having learned after the many times this had happened to keep quiet. Fergus pushed Faith slightly behind him, blocking her body with his own. But with tears already filling his eyes, Wee Jamie cried out and launched himself onto Ian's chest.
"It's okay, Jamie!"
But the moment the young boy made contact, the Redcoat was yanking him away and booting him off to the side. Faith snatched onto Wee Jamie's scratchy sleeve, yanking him safely back between them. Trying not to weep, the older boy leaned his head onto her shoulder.
"Treat me as you will, but leave the children be!" Ian demanded.
"If ye trained yer mongrels better, I wouldna need to kick 'em to keep 'em in line!" Panting from the effort, Ian tried to catch his breath when the other soldier yelled, "Keep moving! Move!"
Suddenly, some fancy—looking Redcoat slipped off his horse to announce, "I'm Captain Samuel Lewis, of His Majesty's Tenth Dragoons. I'm here for the Dunbonnet."
Faith and Fergus quickly shared a look.
"The Dunbonnet?" Ian repeated with a confused stare, "Uh, no one here goes by that name."
"I should think not, openly. I have it on good authority that the notorious traitor known as Red Jamie is in concealment nearabouts, and there's gossip in these parts about another man called — the Dunbonnet."
"We dinna get to the village much." Ian innocently shook his head, brows furrowing, "I cannae say I've heard that."
"No...? He's an outlaw that wears a brown hat to cover his distinctive red hair."
The captain's eyes trailed over to where wee Faith stood with her own distinctive red hair. It was impossible to hide in the telltale fingering of late sunbeams, but Faith wouldn't have tried even so. Fergus shifted uneasily on his feet but Faith only lifted her chin as if challenging to say something, to insinuate
Captain Lewis only smirked, "I surmise that the Dunbonnet and Red Jamie are one and the same."
Ian chuckled lightly, "Ye tell a braw tale there, Captain."
Having heard the commotion from inside, a very pregnant Auntie Jenny moved out onto the top step with Missus McNab, their cook, behind her.
"James Fraser is your brother—in—law, is he not? And this is his clan land?"
"Oh, it was." Ian replied simply, "These lands belong t' my son now."
"Your son?" The captain hummed happily, eyes swiveling back to where Faith stood, "Does he not have a child of his own?"
Faith stood taller under his gaze, though she felt Fergus tensing at her hip. was safe to stand in public now, with the name Faith Murray behind her. They couldn't touch her.
Auntie Jenny stepped carefully down the steps, sighing and moving nearer, "We've no' seen nor heard from Jamie Fraser since he left to fight in the Rebellion six years ago."
Faith sucked in her cheeks and fisted her little hands at her sides.
Captain Lewis looked past Auntie Jenny to Uncle Ian, as he was, after all, the head of the household and, of course, a man.
"Pardon me, Sir, if I don't take you or your wife's word for it. I remind you that anyone who harbors or renders aid to a Jacobite fugitive commits high treason and will be hanged under law. Man, woman..." The Redcoat's eyes drifted over to the group of children, "Or child."
Fergus' grip on her hand tightened.
"Ye're welcome to search the house and the grounds, if you please, but I'll tell ye the same as I told Lieutenant Harding, Captain Abbot, Major Mercer, and every other government officer who comes to command these parts, ye'll find no sign of my traitorous brother here."
Faith's eyes slowly drifted down to her feet, one boot scraping over the tip of the other in barely contained rage.
"Nor any follower of the Stuarts," Uncle Ian slowly added in.
"There is a substantial reward for information leading to the capture of Red Jamie, so if you know of his whereabouts, you would be wise to turn him over. Now."
They all looked to Faith's uncle, waiting with bated breath for his next words: "We cannae give ye what we dinna have, Captain."
"Very well. Corporal MacGregor, arrest Mister Murray. Perhaps some time in the garrison's cells will help him change his mind."
Over her head, Fergus hissed under his breath at the corporal who shackled their uncle.
"A Scot in a redcoat. You are the traitor." Her brother gathered all the spit in his mouth that he could and then spewed it at his feet.
"Fergus..." Faith tugged onto the back of his jacket, trying to drag him back away, too.
Noting the French accent immediately, MacGregor took a swipe for her older brother, "Ye filthy frog—eater. Mind yer tongue! Or I'll cut it out."
Ian cut in before the corporal could say or do anything else, "Fergus, Rabbie, finish milkin', and Faith and Jamie, mind yer chores!"
Not one of them moving, they all watched as Uncle Ian was stolen away with sorrowful eyes. But as soon as the cart cleared the arch, the kids dashed for where Auntie Jenny and Missus McNab stood. Wee Jamie wrapped his arms round her pregnant waist while Faith rested her head onto her bosom.
"He'll be fine, Mistress." Missus McNab quietly tried to reassure her, "Court's released him each time they've seen fit to take him. There's no reason to think this time's any different."
Faith only hoped she was right when she rubbed a hand onto her aunt's belly, soothing the unhappy bairn inside.
"That's a d—mnable shame." Auntie Jenny spat out, "Corporal MacGregor."
"Aye, a Lowlander. Many a MacGregor fought for the Jacobites, but a few fought for the government during the '45."
Jenny kept Wee Jamie under one arm and stroked Faith's hair with the other, "And now they think they're better than us, but what the daft loons don't realize is, the British hate them just the same."
When her father arrived with a deer later that evening, the world seemed mostly right again. His beard was long and wild, cheeks sunken, his skin rough from prolonged exposure to the elements of all kinds. His breeks and shirt were thin and dirty, and he smelled out the trees and dirt and earth. Even though he reeked, Faith relished in every bit of him she could grasp.
Fergus and Faith had followed their father and aunt to the butchering shed, lingering in their tense careful silence. Fergus was sharpening his knife while Faith kept close to Jamie's hip, like another appendage to the man which he'd of course never minded. She didn't mind watching her father clean away the skin and head of the deer, just pleased to be in his presence.
Jamie was focused on his work, rarely looking up and saying nothing. Her brother's gaze kept darting to their father every once in a while, anxiety flashing in his expressive eyes.
It was one of his bad days, Faith knew. He was always attentive to her, always present and loving. But there were some days when he was there more than others. Other times he seemed thousands of miles away, a piece of his soul lost to time and distance.
All Faith knew to do in those times was just hang onto him until it passed.
It always would; for a time.
"I foolishly hoped they were through when two years passed with no Redcoats bedeviling us."
Her da didn't look up when his sister spoke. There was no flash of anger, no sense of outrage or injustice. Just a dull dispirited nod.
Faith pulled the cleaver blade from the boiling water to hand it over, and his fingers softly brushed against hers when he took it.
Fergus quickly stood to lean close, "We could go after them, Milord! We could slit their throats in the night and free Monsieur Murray!"
Faith rolled her eyes.
"Oh, aye. That's a fine idea!" Jenny scoffed, giving her niece a raw dripping deer leg to hang up near the wall, "A deed like that would bring the whole garrison to Lallybroch to kill us all, yerself included."
Fergus stared at Jamie's face for support, for an idea, for anything, but nothing came. Dejected, her brother cast one disappointed look Faith's way before leaving the butchering shed all together. Biting her lip, Faith looked up at her aunt with wide eyes who held her breath and nodded encouragingly at the young girl.
"I reckon every new commander needs to make a name for himself." Auntie Jenny tried once more, trying to draw him out for conversation, "Captain Lewis was talking about the 'Dunbonnet'. That's what they've taken to calling ye now. Soon enough you'll have ballads sung in yer honor." She chuckled wryly to herself.
Jamie still said nothing.
"'Tis time to tally the rents. Ian was just about to start on the books. Dinna suppose you could do that for me?"
Jamie just nodded a bit.
"Faith, step out and see that Fergus brings back those salts, won't ye?"
The girl groaned in dissent but her aunt's look was enough to know to do as she was bid. But she stopped round the corner and pressed her back into the wall, just out of view but close enough to listen in.
"Brother..." When Jamie still ignored her, Jenny's voice sharpened, "Brother, you ken why I can lie to the British and feel at peace? It's because I'm not lyin'. James Fraser hasna been here for a long, long time!"
Parts of James Fraser were slowly fading away, bits and pieces gone missing with her mother and younger sibling, whom she would never remember nor meet. She wondered if they had taken bits and pieces of her, too; the parts that were a daughter to a mother, an older sister to a younger child. She wondered what it was to be completely whole, despite knowing that she never would be. She missed these pieces of herself and felt terribly sorry for it, but mostly she felt sorry for her da, and she vowed that she would remember them for him. No matter what happened, no matter where they were, she would remember.
Faith could only hope that, some day, somewhere, there might be someone who would think she was worth remembering, too.
━━━━━━
boston, massachusetts
april 1956
Frank impatiently tore the seal and unfolded the letter, eager for the carefully printed script that awaited him within. His eyes quickly skimmed across the black ink words, foregoing well—wishes and personal updates for what he had asked after.
... In regards to your recent inquiries to learn more about the old Scottish estate Lallybroch, I'm afraid I've come up with little more than the family names I sent in our last correspondence. After the deed was transferred to James Jacob Fraser Murray, the estate remained in the possession of the Murray's for many generations. There is little evidence that one, James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser, ever returned to the estate after the Battle of Culloden.
However, in regards to your other inquiry, I have located and attached a photograph of a portrait painted of a young girl circa 1758. A name is not attached to the subject nor is there an artist attributed to the painting; however, it is suspected that she was a daughter of a laird or steward of Lallybroch near the age of fifteen at the time of the painting...
Startled, Frank quickly dropped the letter to instead pick up the photograph that his Oxford correspondence had indeed attached.
The painting took his breath away.
Whether it was a realistic likeness, Frank couldn't be sure. But he saw the resemblance between this painting of a girl and the woman he knew as his wife. Pointed chin, peach lips, whisky—coloured eyes.
Faith Fraser.
Claire had been wrong, then.
Her bout of sadness about two years before was enough for Frank to glean and ask that the girl had passed on early in her life, approximately 1751 at age six. But she hadn't. The evidence of it was clear enough before his eyes. It was Claire's daughter, there was no doubt about it, and she was alive and well at least until 1758.
He suddenly felt a strange twinge in his chest.
Was it his responsibility to tell Claire what he had learnt?
To tell her that her eldest daughter, indeed, hadn't died at six years old?
There was no way to tell her, none at all. How to explain that he knew the information, without first explaining that he had begun an investigation on the man she claimed was her husband from over two centuries ago, James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser. No, he could never tell her that. He would never tell her a thing.
The girl was dead by now, anyway, wasn't she?
His office store slammed open, "Daddy!"
Bright—eyed and energetic as always, eight year old Brianna sprinted into his office without waiting for permission. Frank nearly panicked for half a moment, ready to hide his papers and the rest of his research before he stopped himself. Why shouldn't Bree see what he was working on? He had nothing to hide.
Her Mary Janes skidded to a stop right at his side, small hand resting on his shoulder, "What are you working on?"
Frank cleared his throat, thinking up a lie that was close enough to the truth as he dared, "At the moment, I am researching the family of a Jacobite soldier whom I believe might have survived the Battle of Culloden."
Brianna curiously tilted her head, turning to get a better look at his notes and the image attached. Frank held his breath and waited to see how the truth would land. It landed safely enough.
"And this is his daughter?"
"Yes. I believe so."
Humming and looking thoughtful, Brianna peered over his shoulder, "She's pretty."
"Yes." Frank cleared his throat, nodding absently, "She is quite pretty, isn't she?"
Brianna ran her index finger over the smooth image, smiling and standing a bit straighter. There was something particularly familiar about the girl with red hair and high cheekbones. Something familiar that she saw in the mirror every morning when she brushed her hair and her teeth before school. It made her feel special to nearly look like a girl in a painting, like she was connected to it somehow.
"That girl almost looks like me, huh?" She pointed a finger towards the painted girl, "If she had different colored eyes."
"Hardly at all." Frank lied, the bitter taste of it on his tongue, "You're you, Bree. You're special enough all on your own."
Brianna's brow wrinkled a bit, as if rather confused by this odd statement before she smiled, pleased all the same. Frank instantly smiled back and pressed a kiss to the soft warm skin of her forehead.
"Now." He smoothly shuffled the picture behind the rest of his papers, "Let's forget about all this, and go scrounge up some dinner for ourselves, shall we?"
Brianna beamed, "Spaghetti again?!"
Her father laughed, "Spaghetti, if we must."
Then Frank and Brianna Randall left the room, hand—in—hand, forgetting all about the portrait of the girl left behind.
━━━━━━ annie speaks ━━━━━━
i love providing contrast between the fraser girls, and the differences of childhood that faith and brianna would have had. while faith is starving and watching her family get arrested, brianna is having spaghetti and living the best life a little girl can. and frank, i feel so bad for him, but i've also got a lot of frustration towards him and all the secrets he's kept. especially certain ones regarding the survival of a certain little girl... and also, we're finally getting into the episode plots and if y'all remember comes next... things are about to get a little bit ugly
who else is super excited?
chapter five : the orphan
"I'll be comin' wi' ye," Faith gasped, skidding to a stop and pressing a hand to a stitch at her side.
"Non!" Fergus' response was much louder and firmer than he'd intended, "You must return home. You cannot—,"
"Ye're worrit they'll be after me da." She whispered; worry for her father's safety giving her words a kind of weight that should never belong to an eight year old, "But ye cannae know if they'll be watching, Fergus, and ye might lead them right to him."