Plans in place, Jamie sets about leaving Jared’s business in good order, only to be interrupted by a note from the warehouse foreman, apologetically informing him that that gentleman has run into financial difficulties in a brothel, and would Jamie kindly come to his assistance. Torn between amusement and irritation, Jamie goes, taking Fergus with him.
Claire’s pregnancy has meanwhile shown some signs of danger, and she has reluctantly given up her work at the Hôpital, the entertaining, and all exertion, in order to protect the child she carries. Her Parisian friends call at the house, though, in order to keep her abreast of all the gossip. Informed by the butler that she has two such visitors one afternoon, Claire makes her way slowly downstairs to receive them—only to overhear news that makes her reel with shock.
One of the women has heard of a fight that occurred that morning, at one of the better-known Parisian brothels; Jamie has attacked an English soldier, thrown him downstairs, and been heard to issue a challenge to a duel! The ladies are delightfully shocked at such scandal; Claire is prostrated.
Something has made Jamie break his word to her. Perhaps only the sight of Jack Randall, perhaps something else—but whatever it is, he means to meet Randall at dawn the next day, and plainly means to kill him. Such a duel can have only two outcomes, either one disastrous; either Jamie will indeed kill Randall, which results in Frank’s line being extinguished, and Frank himself not existing—or Randall will kill Jamie.
Claire deduces where the duel will take place, and despite her advanced state of pregnancy, goes there at dawn, hoping to stop the duel. She is too late, though; the sound of clashing swords greets her as she enters the clearing.
Both men are excellent swordsmen, but Jamie is driven by fury that lends wings to his sword. Claire dares not call out, for fear of distracting Jamie from his fatal endeavor. A slip on wet grass, the flash of a blade, and Jack Randall lies on his back, at Jamie’s mercy. Claire opens her mouth to scream at Jamie not to kill Randall—but is seized by pain, as something rips loose within her. She sees no more than Jamie’s sword descending, piercing the fawn of Randall’s breeches—and then is on the ground herself, drenched in her own blood, with the approach of death blinding her to what is happening nearby.
A week later, Claire lies in L’Hôpital des Anges, hovering near death from infection following her miscarriage. Jamie has not been seen since the duel in the Bois de Boulogne. With body and soul empty of the love she once carried, Claire does not care. Whether it is guilt at having broken his word to her—and thus having destroyed at once Frank Randall’s line and his own—that keeps him from her, or something else, she has no wish to see him.
A visit from Raymond the apothecary saves her life, however, and a convalescent Claire is taken to Fontainebleau, where her friend Louise hopes that the country air will help restore her health and spirits.
While Claire’s body heals, though, her spirit languishes. There is no word from Jamie. He has gone to Spain, Claire thinks, forced by necessity to carry out their plan. Surrounded by a numbing gray fog of bereavement, she does not care if he returns.
The fog is lightened, if not relieved, by a chance discovery. She learns from Fergus what it was that made Jamie break his word to her and go to fight Jack Randall; completing his own business at the brothel, he had found Randall in the act of brutalizing Fergus, and in an excess of rage, challenged him. Claire understands—but cannot forgive. Too much has been lost.
Sometimes I found myself wondering when—or whether—I would see him again, and what—if anything—we might say to each other. But for the most part, I preferred not to think about it, letting the days come and go, one by one, avoiding thoughts of both the future and the past by living only in the present.
This walking trance is broken one day, though, by the arrival of a note at Fontainebleau—a note that makes it clear that Jamie is not in Orvieto, as Claire has thought. But then … where is he?
“He’s in the Bastille, ”Louise said, taking a deep breath. “For dueling.”
My knees felt watery, and I sat down on the nearest available surface.
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” I wasn’t sure what I felt at this news; shock, or horror—fear? or a small sense of satisfaction?
“I—I didn’t want to upset you, chérie,” Louise stammered, taken aback at my apparent distress. “You were so weak… and there was nothing you could do, after all. And you didn’t ask,” she pointed out.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, wishing I had something stronger to say.
“It is fortunate that le petit James did not kill his opponent,” Louise hastened to add. “In that case, the penalty would have been much more… eek!” She twitched her striped skirts aside just in time to avoid the cascade of chocolate and biscuits as I knocked over the newly arrived refreshments. The tray clanged to the floor unregarded as I stared down at her. My hands were clasped tightly against my ribs, the right protectively curled over the gold ring on my left hand. The thin metal seemed to burn against my skin.
“He isn’t dead, then?” I asked, like one in a dream. “Captain Randall… he’s alive?”
“Why, yes,” she said, peering curiously up at me. “You did not know? He is badly wounded, but it is said that he recovers. Are you quite well, Claire? You look…” But the rest of what she was saying was lost in the roaring that filled my ears.
There is no choice. Whatever Claire’s feelings for Jamie—and she herself is not sure what they are—she must free him from the Bastille. Only days remain; Charles Stuart’s ship will be sailing soon— and with it, all hope of stopping the disaster of the Rising.
Claire returns to Paris, frantically seeking help. Only one avenue presents itself, though—a personal appeal to the King himself. The King is susceptible to the charms of women—but such appeals have their price.
“He will expect to lie with you,” Mother Hildegarde said bluntly.
I stared down at the inlaid table, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.
At last I looked up, meeting the music master’s eyes. “I’ll have to,” I said softly. “There’s no other way.”
“I will pray for you,” Mother Hildegarde said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration.
“Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”
Going to the palace to keep her rendezvous with the King, Claire is torn between revulsion at the prospect—and a bone-deep rage against Jamie, who has inadvertently forced her to prostitute herself. The only minor consolation is that he has not, in fact, killed Jack Randall—at least Frank is safe, somewhere in the future.
But it is the present that concerns Claire, as the equerry opens the door of the King’s boudoir. Much to Claire’s astonishment, though, she finds that the King requires a different service from her. Two men stand trial before the King’s secret council, accused as sorcerers. They accuse each other; only one can judge between them—La Dame Blanche.
One man is Raymond the apothecary; the other, the Comte St. Germain. Claire stands helpless in the midst of the sorcerors’ duel, unsure what to do or say, as each man defends himself against the charge of magic—until the Comte turns the accusation of sorcery against her.
“You see?” he said triumphantly. “The woman shrinks away in fear! She is a witch!”
Actually, compared to one judge, who was huddling against the far wall, I was a monument of fortitude, but I must admit that I had taken an involuntary step backward when the snake appea
red. Now I stepped forward again, intending to take it away from him. The bloody thing wasn’t poisonous, after all. Maybe we’d see how harmless it was if I wrapped it around his neck.
Before I could reach him, Master Raymond spoke behind him. What with all the commotion, I’d rather forgotten him.
“That is not all the Bible says, Monsieur le Comte,” Raymond observed. He didn’t raise his voice, and the wide amphibian face was bland as pudding. Still, the buzz of voices stopped, and the King turned to listen.
“Yes, Monsieur?” he said.
Raymond nodded in polite acknowledgment of having the floor, and reached into his robe with both hands. From one pocket, he produced a flask, from the other a small cup.
“‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’” he quoted, “‘and if they drink any deadly poison, they shall not die.’”
Raymond gives the cup to Claire, who drinks from it, trusting him. He then takes the cup and drinks himself—then gives the cup to Claire, to hand to the Count. In the process of drinking, though, Raymond has poisoned the contents by sleight of hand.
I did know that the cup I held in my hands was death. The white crystal hung around my neck, its weight a reminder of poison. I hadn’t seen Raymond add anything to it; no one had, I was sure. But I didn’t need to dip the crystal into the blood-red liquid to know what it now contained.
The Comte saw the knowledge in my face; La Dame Blanche cannot lie. He hesitated, looking at the bubbling cup.
“Drink, Monsieur, ”said the King. The dark eyes were hooded once more, showing nothing. “Or are you afraid?”
The Comte might have a number of things to his discredit, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. His face was pale and set, but he met the King’s eyes squarely, with a slight smile.
“No, Majesty,” he said.
He took the cup from my hand and drained it, his eyes fixed on mine. They stayed fixed, staring into my face, even as they glazed with the knowledge of death. The White Lady may turn a man’s nature to good, or to destruction.
Claire returns to Fontainebleau, leaving—she thinks—everything behind her. Everything is gone: both love and danger. The fog creeps in again, and she embraces the grayness, living only from day to day, afraid even to think of the future. Jamie is free—she has bought his freedom, at a price she does not care to contemplate. Presumably he has gone to Orvieto, to carry out their plan. When he succeeds—if he succeeds … Claire doesn’t want to think that far.
But the future reaches out to us, as does the past, and all times are the present. One rain-streaked afternoon, the footman announces the Lord Broch Tuarach, and Claire’s fog is rent by panic. Jamie pursues her through the gardens, and at last confronts her in the grape arbor, where they are forced to face their losses—and choose whether to cling to what is left.
He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.
“Claire, ”he whispered. “Please. Let me give ye comfort.”
“Comfort?” I said. “And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child?”
He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.
“No,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “No, I canna do that. But … with the grace of God … I might give ye another?”
His hand hovered over mine, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. L felt other things as well: the grief that he held tight under rein, the anger and the fear that choked him, and the courage that made him speak in spite of it. I gathered my own courage around me, a flimsy substitute for the thick gray shroud. Then I took his hand and lifted my head, and looked full into the face of the sun.
A condition of Jamie’s freedom is that he must leave France. A pardon has been secured; he can return to Scotland. With Charles Stuart’s plans effectively thwarted, and with painful memories behind him, the Frasers are only too happy to leave—to go home, to Lallybroch.
The solitude of the Highlands and the peaceful, busy life of the farm are a refuge for both Jamie and Claire. They have succeeded, they think; Stuart is penniless, discredited with every banker in France and Italy—he has no hope of raising the money for an army. They are free to turn to each other, to rebuild their life together, to wrap themselves in the cloak of their love, warm against all future winds.
But fate—and Charles Stuart—is capricious. The peace of Lallybroch is shattered by the arrival of a letter. Stuart has landed at Glenfinnan to claim his throne, with no more than a few companions and a dozen casks of brandy. With these, he hopes to charm the Highland chiefs to join his cause. The letter holds far worse news, however; to strengthen his show of support, Charles has published the names of the Highland chieftains pledged to follow him—and blithely added Jamie’s name to the list, sure of his friend’s allegiance.
There is no choice. They have failed to stop Charles Stuart, and now, branded a traitor by Stuart’s list, Jamie finds himself with only one action open to him—to help Charles Stuart win.
With thirty men, Jamie and Claire march to join the Highland army near Preston. On the way, though, they encounter a stranger: a sixteen-year-old boy, a young English soldier who is also marching toward the meeting at Preston with his regiment. Jamie captures the boy, and befools him into giving away the number and position of his regiment’s artillery—which Jamie and his men neatly disable, under cover of darkness.
The boy—John William Grey—swears bitter vengeance on Jamie before being taken away to be safely returned to his companions. This mildly comic interlude is succeeded by one of deadly purpose; the Highland army faces its first test, against the vastly superior English force under General Jonathan Cope.
Claire waits in fear, with the other women who travel with their men in the army. Foresight is no reassurance; she knows that the Highlanders will win, with only thirty casualties—but which of those thirty will be men she knows—or a man she loves?
The battle is won, though, and Jamie survives. The victorious Highlanders march on to Edinburgh, where Charles Stuart is hailed a hero. The city celebrates with balls and parties at Holyrood Palace—despite the presence of an English garrison, safely ensconced behind the brooding walls of Edinburgh Castle. There is a brief and giddy excitement; several lords and chieftains are coming to Stuart’s side—foreign envoys are arriving, cautiously assessing the prospects of victory.
Among those who come to see for themselves is Colum MacKenzie, chief of the MacKenzies of Leoch. Meeting privately with Jamie, he asks his nephew bluntly for his advice; shall he commit the men of Leoch to the Prince’s cause—or turn back, and keep clear of what may be folly? His brother Dougal is strongly committed to the Jacobite cause, but it is Colum’s to say what the clan will do.
Jamie hesitates in his advice; would the withdrawal of the MacKenzies of Leoch prevent a victory that might otherwise be won? But if there is no victory, there will be no clan—and the men of Leoch are his mother’s people, his own blood. No, he tells Colum at last. Keep clear; turn back. And if disaster comes, there will be that many fewer souls on Jamie Fraser’s conscience.
Claire meets her own moment of decision at Holyrood; answering the door late one night, she comes face-to-face with the one man she least expects to see—Jack Randall. Leaving Jamie asleep, lest he wake and find the man, she goes with Randall to the ruined abbey church, to hear a startling proposal.
Alexander Randall is in the city, very ill. Believing Claire to have some supernatural power, Jack desires her to come and give the benefit of her healing abilities to his younger brother; in exchange, he will give her intelligence of the English army’s movements, obtained from his colleagues in the Castle garrison.
Reluctantly agreeing to this, Claire finds Alex Randall in dire straits—very ill with consumption and the first stages of congestive heart failure—but
she is able to assist him in some small degree, and the intelligence gained from Jack Randall further brightens the prospects for Charles Stuart.
The Stuart prospects brighten further with the unexpected—and presumably natural—death of Colum MacKenzie. With Colum dead, leadership of clan MacKenzie passes to Dougal—and Dougal is all too willing to commit his men and resources to the Rising.
With his support solidifying, Charles Stuart sets out to gain as much as he can— and in pursuit of the rest of the Highland clans, sends Jamie and Claire to Beaufort Castle, to seek the support of the Old Fox—Simon, Lord Lovat, chieftain of clan Fraser—and Jamie’s grandfather.
As Jamie tells Claire, “My grandfather has the sort of character that would enable him to hide conveniently behind a spiral staircase. “This is not the first time the Old Fox has played both ends against the middle, and Lord Lovat is too old and canny to let himself be persuaded one way or another by a young—and illegitimate—grandson. However, Simon convinces himself that his best chance for gain lies with the Stuarts, and he dispatches a sizable body of men to return to Edinburgh with Jamie, under the command of his son, Young Simon.
In Edinburgh, things are growing grimmer, despite the infusion of men. Support from the Lowlands has failed to materialize; some of the chieftains are growing disaffected. Highlanders are farmers; the winter is drawing in, and they feel the need to return to their crofts, to ready their homes and their crops before the cold. But needs must when the devil drives, and the Highland army will meet the English once more—at Falkirk.
Among the furor surrounding the imminent hostilities, Claire visits Alexander Randall, whose condition has deteriorated to an alarming extent. One thing brings Alex comfort; the unexpected arrival of Mary Hawkins, who—upon learning of Alex’s whereabouts—has tricked her father into sending her to stay with an aunt in Edinburgh.
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