Chapter Text
She meets him on her first day.
The train pulls, after many hours, into the station at Leoch. Claire tries to catch one last, particularly stubborn curl with a pin, gives up, and instead stands from her seat, lifts her traveling case, and, simply nodding at the attendant's proffered hand, steps down from the carriage on her own into the gray Scottish morning.
There are only a handful of other travelers disembarking at this point, and the platform isn't particularly busy with those waiting to board or welcoming loved ones. Regardless, Claire thinks even in a bustling crowd, she would have been able to match the name on the letter that she had received — Lady Letitia Chisholm MacKenzie — with the straight-backed, sharp-eyed woman who begins to stride over, calling, "Claire Beauchamp Randall, I presume?"
She's used the French pronunciation of the name (quite beautifully, actually), and as so many times before, Claire has a split second of questioning whether it is worthwhile to go through the routine mention of the error; this precise exercise had been one of Frank's gently reasoned arguments for why she should drop her family name altogether — "Well, after all, you'll save the fuss because there's only one way to say mine." But she decides that it won't do to mislead someone who she's going to be working for, or perhaps even with, over the next several months.
"Right, then," says Letitia with a nod, looking not the least bit annoyed at the correction. "Come along. The motor is this way. We're glad you've arrived, but there's much to be done before the day is through.”
The automobile is fairly new but not spotless — the conditions of the roads and the rain which picks up as they travel explain that somewhat — and Claire is surprised to find that Letitia drives it herself and quite well; Claire learned her own driving skills in something of an ad hoc manner at the front, and she suspects that her own style is better suited to driving an ambulance with a critical patient inside and the sound of battle in the distance. Despite the weather and the noise of the engine, Letitia does manage to make herself heard, seeming unwilling to let the time pass unproductively or even with small talk.
“Now,” she starts, “I am, as you know, the coordinator for the nurses in the district. I started managing it when they sent people to Leoch for convalescence during the war, and didn’t see a reason to stop once the soldiers were gone. Most of the nearby area has been sorted for some time, but we’ve had trouble finding those willing to be placed in the more rural villages. There'll be a new crop of Queens Nurses finishing later in the spring, and they've promised to have a few of the Highland girls sent back to us from Edinburgh once they’re trained up. We're lucky to have you in the meanwhile — life and death dinna exactly stop simply because graduation day hasn't arrived."
Her tone suggests a light joke, but she doesn't pause for a response or even a laugh. Claire is too distracted anyway by the small, pleasant hint of her accent managing to peek through despite the clear training in diction.
"You'll be working in and around the village of Broch Mordha, at the edge of the district. Most of the residents of the area who seek medical attention at all see Mrs. FitzGibbons. Now, Mrs. Fitz is a good sort, but she's no training, and is run off her feet wi' it all, considering that she's growing older and has a house to run and a family of her own to care for besides — an absolute herd of grandchildren and more each time I check. She's looking forward to your arrival, and has promised to help how she can and give advice when you need it. I’ve arranged for ye to stay at Mrs. Baird's rooming house, which is only a street over, so you can pop in for consultations as you like."
"I don't suppose that this Mrs. FitzGibbons keeps any records?" Claire says, not quite meant as a question, and this time Letitia does laugh.
"Aye, in a manner of speaking. Glenna Fitz has served as nurse, midwife, and listening ear for the folk around here for nigh-on forty years. Her mind is record enough."
"Alright." Although she's become accustomed over the past few years to the added dexterity of bare hands, Claire had put on her gloves for the train trip; she recalls Frank's touch brushing against the material one last time as he had attempted to boost her unnecessarily when she turned to climb into the car. She takes them off now, folding them neatly in her lap, bending and straightening her fingers and appreciating the freedom of movement as they drive deeper into the morning. "After I've left my things, I'll make a visit with her my first priority. I presume that the village isn't particularly large, but might I have a map, or should I just ask directions? I suspect the former would be more useful for my rounds, if I'm to be treating people outside of town; I don't imagine there will be many helpful passersby to guide me."
"No, you've the right o' it there. But you also won't get much help from a map. Things are still a bit wild, and there isn't much in the way of roads or signposts. That's why I asked my nephew to accompany you at the beginning. He’ll be a good guide for ye: grew up on an estate just outside the village, kens everyone and the easiest routes around. His name is James Fraser."
Claire feels the motorcar slow slightly, and has an odd moment of wondering whether they've somehow arrived, although she can plainly see for herself that they haven't. But it seems that Letitia is slowing without intending to, a pensiveness coming over her.
"Jamie's a fine lad, but he's...different than he was growing up. Back then he was brash and quite funny, always wi' a smile — the sort that the other lads looked up to and the lassies swooned over. But he had a hard war: his brother died at Mons, and he was injured terribly himself in France — in hospital for months — and then his father died soon after...Well, all that to say that he isn't the boy he once was. He's healed well enough, and he’s perfectly stable in the mind, but I wouldn't expect him to speak very much."
Letitia MacKenzie has, at first glance, a solidly middle-aged face beneath her carefully styled red hair. Hearing her speak, Claire begins to wonder whether, if she had known the woman a few years earlier, there would not have been quite as many lines there.
Making a small, gathering sound in her throat, Letitia speeds the automobile back to its former brisk pace. "Now, then, let's discuss the expectations and the allotment of supplies. You’ll be serving as nurse and midwife, of course, but also as health visitor, so…"
Claire allows the change of subject, listening with part of her mind while the other part considers what this James Fraser might be like. Most of her nursing during the war, and even before, was the acute sort; she treated only what was in front of her, unable to spare much thought for what would happen to those patients she managed to patch together enough to send them on their way toward home from the battlefield, the months and even years of healing afterward. But she's heard the stories of shell shock, seen the examples herself in brief moments with the troops around her, has even let the question brush through her mind as to whether that is why her sleep is so restless and disturbed now — why she hasn't been able to fit herself comfortably back in beside Frank the way that she had thought she would, why the thought of a life together hasn’t managed to heal her, as frustrating and guilt-inducing as that has been.
It makes her wonder whether, whatever or whoever James Fraser might once have been, Claire will be meeting a version of him that might not be particularly happy to meet her in return.
The town is quaint and the lodgings more than adequate, considering what Claire is accustomed to, although the bed is terribly squeaky; she supposes her slight frame will make less noise than most, and decides that it's a good thing she won't be sharing it with anyone.
The thought reminds her to take a moment to write to Frank, and after she's changed into her uniform, she scrawls a brief account of the journey, even making a particular effort to include descriptions of Letitia, the village, and her room. Over the course of the war, as she'd lost the desire to find something interesting in each day and the energy to even pretend to be bright and jolly, her letters back to London had grown increasingly terse and spare, and she knew that Frank must have noticed.
Smoothing her uniform once more, she dons her regulation cloak and puts the envelope into the pocket, intending to send it along in the afternoon post after she's spoken to Mrs. FitzGibbons.
Following Letitia’s directions, Claire easily manages the way to the house, where she’s welcomed in with a smile. She quickly finds that Mrs. FitzGibbons is a kind, cheery, practical woman, the sort whose personality makes it immediately obvious why she would have been looked to so readily by patients and their families. Despite the number of young children throughout the house — it seems that Mrs. Fitz, as Claire has been directed to call her, had already been helping to take care of a large number of grandchildren and extended family members even before many of their fathers had been killed in the war and their mothers now needed to work — and the preparations for some later meal which were very obviously under way, Claire soon finds herself settled with a cup of tea, jotting down notes along with Mrs. Fitz's words.
“—and I'd suggest that ye have his wife hold his hand while ye change the dressings. They've been married nearly as long as I've been living, and havin' her there calms him, although he doesna recognize even her most days, poor dears." Raising a hand, Mrs. Fitz wipes her forehead on the back of her wrist, brushing away the drops of sweat gathering at her hairline from the effort of energetically kneading the bread dough before starting once again. "The real trouble, o’ course, is that none of us can be watchin' him every moment, and he'll often tear the bandages off and start scratching himself somethin’ fierce, doin' more damage before he's had a chance to heal in the first place."
"Hmm." Claire taps the tip of her pencil below the paragraph she's just written about old David MacKay. "Well, burns can itch quite a lot as they heal. Perhaps it isn't that he's acting entirely out of confusion — if his skin is itchy, he'd naturally want to scratch it, and he simply doesn't remember why he shouldn't do such a thing. If we reduce the itching sensation, he might be able to keep the bandages on for longer periods and have a better chance of healing."
Mrs. Fitz eyes her curiously, her words coming slow: "Aye, that logic's sound enough. I think I’ve a bottle of peppermint oil about; I’ve used that to soothe skin in the past. Perhaps that would help."
Claire shakes her head, speaking distractedly as she bends to add another note. "Peppermint oil would be useful for a short time, but only superficially. We need something longer lasting, and which actually promotes healing of the skin itself. I suppose I can see if yarrow might work when I visit the MacKays, though I think aloe vera would be much more effective."
"And what's that?"
"It's something like a cactus, mostly found in equatorial regions. The gel inside its leaves has a long history of topical use to help with skin ailments. I don't know if it will thrive here, considering the weather, but my uncle was acquainted with the director of the Botanical Gardens in Sheffield — I'll write to see if they might be able to send a plant from their glasshouse, or at least a cutting."
"Well..." Mrs. Fitz begins to wipe the dough from her hands into the bowl, her gaze still on Claire: not hostile, but certainly on the wary side of interested. "Did ye learn about all that in yer training, then?"
"No, I—"
A sudden noise from over her shoulder has her heart startling in her chest. She's halfway toward ducking for cover before she registers Mrs. Fitz admonishing a boisterous pair of the children and her mind puzzles out the noise as simply the clatter of several of the empty milk bottles being knocked over by running feet. Claire clears her throat and straightens again. She wants to take a sip of tea, but isn't certain that the cup won't shake in her hands.
"Maybe ye learned about it in the war, then?" offers Mrs. Fitz softly, directing her eyes carefully away as she covers the bread dough with a clean towel. Claire can see where she got her reputation for good bedside manner, but she isn't interested in being handled as a patient just now.
"No, I actually spent a number of years traveling with my uncle. We encountered the plant in Algeria," she says, pleased when her voice remains polite and steady, although she still has to blink away recollections of the war, of the sounds and smells of those long, wearing years and — most especially — of that night.
Mrs. Fitz turns to rinse her hands in the sink. "Ah, suppose that explains it. I did hear from Lady MacKenzie that ye'd been in the war, though. Ye're far from the only one around here who was, so if ye ever need to talk..."
"That's alright." Feeling suddenly a bit breathless, Claire finds that she is already gathering her things, drinking down the last of her tea in a belated gesture of politeness, covering any trembling with haste. "Thank you so much for the information and your hospitality, but I really should be going if I'm to see any of the patients before the end of the day."
"O’ course," says Mrs. Fitz, not commenting on the fact that it will be daylight for a number of hours yet. "Where do ye think ye'll be off to first, then?"
"Mrs. Shaw seems a good place to start," Claire says, her mind fortunately if randomly grabbing onto the name of one of the patients they'd discussed earlier, a pregnant woman who lived out on one of the farms. "I'm meant to meet someone called James Fraser at The World's End by three o'clock, and he'll show me the way."
Mrs. Fitz's face softens beyond even the warmhearted countenance Claire has become accustomed to thus far. "Oh, aye. He's a good lad, Jamie, and he'll ken where ye need to go and help make the introductions. Only...Be easy on him, lass. 'Twas a terrible thing, to see him suffer so, and he needs a bit o' kindness."
This second warning about Jamie Fraser still streams through Claire’s mind as she pushes open the door to the pub. Frank would likely warn her to turn back or at least find a trusted escort to bring her to her escort, but she has patients to see, and this is the man who’s meant to get her to them.
In the bustle of the day, she hadn’t thought to wonder exactly how she was meant to identify the man, but there isn’t any need. Somehow, her eyes are drawn to a particular corner, and she knows, without explanation but also without doubt, that she’s found him.
He has his back to her, and there is somehow a familiarity to the angle of his head and the color of his hair, although she knows that it cannot be so; still, she takes the opportunity to study him before going forward. She can tell that he is meant to be a large man, but his frame seems to have narrowed drastically from his natural build, and although he is young, he has such an aged posture that she fears she might walk over to him and find that the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, “How can I lift that weight from you?”
As she releases her caught breath and takes in a new one, rationality and professionalism return. She walks over briskly and holds out a hand.
“Hello, my name is Claire Beauchamp Randall. I believe you’re meant to escort me as I find my way.” For a moment, he doesn’t respond, barely even blinks, although from the slight shift in his posture she can tell that he’s heard her. She almost questions the instinct which had led her over to him, adding with held-together confidence, “You are James Fraser, aren’t you?”
“I am.” His voice has the hoarseness of long silence, but he does not attempt to clear it away. Very slowly, he breaks his half-hypnotized gaze from the barely-touched pint on the table in front of him and looks up to where she is standing. She wonders if he can even see her, considering that he’d tucked himself into the furthest corner, and the place isn’t particularly bright to begin with, but his blue eyes find hers without hesitation. He holds her gaze for a moment, then blinks and stands, taking the hand she is still extending.
“Aye, I’m James Fraser. Jamie, if ye like.” He clears his throat. Whatever else his body has been through, his grip is firm before he releases her. “You must be the new nurse.”
“I must be.” The rejoinder comes out more flippantly than she’d intended, the sort of joking tone that usually waits for more comfortable acquaintance or at least something beyond a moment of getting the measure of each other.
Jamie Fraser does not seem to mind, however; there’s a quick twitch to the corner of his mouth, which she decides that she will count as a smile.
It’s a foolish thing to think, she realizes immediately. He’s meant to be her guide and nothing more, certainly not anyone whose smiles she should be examining in any sort of detail. Then again, he seems to be examining her fairly closely too, his eyes not leaving her face, as if he can see more than the dim light should allow, as if he doesn’t want to look away.
"Sassenach,” he says, low and almost longing — then, seeming startled that the word had actually left his mouth, he adds, “I mean—I hadna realized you would be a Sassenach...That you would be English."
“Since the day I was born,” she says, and this time she means for it to have some of that flippancy and instead finds that it comes out slightly breathless. Foolish again, and yet she cannot help being glad for it — his lips soften once more into that just-barely smile.
Gathering herself, she says quickly, “Well, I’ve just finished with Mrs. Fitz, and there should be some time to start my rounds this afternoon, if you’d be able to show me where to go.”
He gives a nod, the two of them beginning to walk with some unspoken synchronicity toward the door. “‘Tis what I’m here for. My aunt guessed ye’d likely want to start wi’ some of the folk closest to town, seein’ as you’ve only just arrived and havena had much chance to settle in.”
“I can settle in any time.” Claire blinks as they exit into the street from the darkened interior, even the gray-clouded early afternoon light seeming suddenly bright. “I thought I’d start with those who need the most emergent care.” Reaching into her pocket, she withdraws her notebook and hands it to him. “I’ve made stars beside those who it seemed I might need to prioritize, but you would know better than I do how close they might live to each other and what order makes sense to visit them.”
His gaze finally leaving her, he turns carefully through the notes she sketched out at Mrs. Fitz’s kitchen table. Finally, tapping a finger on one of the pages, he says, “These four live close enough to each other, and ye have here that ye need to see Lennox Reilly and his wee Beth both. That’ll get us the greatest chance to get some work in wi’out having to spend all day riding between.”
“Right,” she starts, then his words catch up with her. “Hold on a moment, what do you mean by riding?”
He gestures down the street a bit, and she follows, warily trusting although he hasn’t actually answered. She supposes, however, that the two horses he stops in front of a moment later are answer enough.
“I heard that there was a great stramash over whether it’d be too improper to give ye a bicycle, especially once ye’re working on yer own. I have the feeling that my aunt Letitia’ll win out and have it for ye soon, but in the meantime, I thought we could use these two while we’re startin’ out. That one’s Donas, and this braw thing is Milseag.” He is already leading the gleaming brown mare over to Claire, one hand smoothing lightly between her ears, before he thinks to look over and ask hastily, “Christ, I assumed you’d know yer way wi’ a horse — everyone around here does — but I wasna thinking. If ye’re a city lass, I can—”
But Claire already has her foot in the stirrup, helping herself up. “I wasn’t a FANY, so it’s been some time,” she says, as Fraser’s eyebrows lift for just a moment although he must be familiar with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, the horse-riding nurses at the front. “Still, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing one forgets.”
She means it lightly, but is suddenly filled by a remembrance of the conditions she’d seen some of the horses in at the front — the terrified sound of them, their dripping sweat, the frantic begging in the way they moved their heads. After months, she’s somewhat practiced at hiding the moments when the memories threaten to overtake her, but something, her swallow or the blink of her eye, seems to catch Jamie’s attention. He watches her for an extraneous beat, then swallows himself and moves to mount the larger black horse, the beginnings of their ease already broken.
They ride quietly side by side for the first miles of the journey, only the occasional comment about directions or weather passing between them. Although the scenery is lovely, after some time there isn’t much new to distract her, and finally Claire says, “You’ve lived around here all your life, then?”
“Aye, born and raised. My family’s been at Lallybroch for so many generations, I dinna ken that anyone’s bothered to count them.”
“Lallybroch?”
He gestures vaguely in a direction which means nothing to her, then explains, “It was the estate in the area once, but now it’s only a house and a good bit o’ land to farm. Fine place to grow up though.” Briefly she thinks she is going to see another small smile, but it snuffs out before it’s even formed enough for her to truly identify, his tone flattening completely as he finishes, “I live there wi’ my sister and her husband, ever since I…since I got back.”
Sometimes she is overcome by the reminder of these tiniest things that the war stole from them all, by everything that it keeps stealing. This time, it is the chance to get to know someone without stumbling into bitter memories with even the most basic questions.
Glancing briefly at him, she fixes her gaze ahead once more, and tries to shift the topic. “I’ve always been a bit envious of those who have such long-standing connections to places. My own upbringing was rather unconventional, so I never knew one place truly as home.”
“Unconventional in what way?” he asks, and although there is still the slightest distraction in his tone, in the restless, repetitive stroke of his thumb over the leather of the reins, she thinks the diversion has been successful enough.
“I suppose things were rather ordinary when I was small,” she allows. “I lived with my parents in Oxfordshire — although perhaps it wasn’t entirely standard that my great-grandmother lived with us as well.”
He glances over at her at that, raising an eyebrow. “Did she, then?”
“Yes, my mother’s grandmother. She had her wits about her, but I remember that I thought she must have been the oldest person in the world. But then she passed, and my parents were killed in an accident soon after, and the only one left to raise me was my uncle. His profession wasn’t particularly suited to having care of a young girl — he was an archaeologist — but I wasn’t interested in any of the schools or governesses or usual plans he tried to make, so he took me with him all over. We went all across Africa, to Greece, occasionally to India as well, but his specialty was Egypt, so we spent the most time there. The last major project that we were—that he was a part of was working in Deir el-Bahri alongside Howard Carter, although I can’t say he liked the man much.”
“Aye, well, I suspect that the Egyptians wouldna like him much either, and they'd likely say worse about Lord Carnarvon. Canna guess anyone appreciates havin’ swathes o’ their country sold off, nor the graves o’ their ancestors robbed, no matter how much it’s dressed up as science. Beggin’ yer uncle’s pardon, o’ course.” Off her poorly-disguised look of surprise at his ease with the names and details, he actually lets out a breath that’s something close to a laugh. “We do get newspapers up here, ken. Even books, if we’re lucky and ask Old Saint Nick nicely at Christmas.”
Seeming to sense the apology that she is ready to deliver — she's barely known him an hour, after all, and even if she hadn’t been as well-traveled as she is, she’d know that avoiding making insulting assumptions about someone else's home should generally be avoided — he says, "It's alright, I ken the sort o' reputation this area has, and I'm sure ye didna mean anything by it."
"So far, it seems quite lovely to me," Claire says, and it's honestly meant rather than awkwardness or simple appeasement. "I don't know that I've ever seen anywhere so green." Without intending to, she takes a breath just then, and finds that there is a freshness and clarity to the air as well.
"Bit different than sand and tombs." For all the off-handed tone, there's something to the straightening of his back as he glances around that shows her the deep affection he has for this place. There's something, too, about his red hair and strong form, his easy seat on the horse and the familiar way he moves through countryside that looks nearly wild to her, that shows how he fits so well here.
And indeed, he continues, the words coming out slow and almost as if he's forgotten that she is there, "When this sort o' place is everything you know, ye dinna realize all that you can miss when you go somewhere else. France...it doesna smell the same, and there's no heather, and that's even before they took all the trees and filled the whole landscape wi' trenches..."
She sees the beginnings of that far stare, the tightening in his shoulders once more, but before she can say anything, he brings himself out of it, clearing his throat with a gruff, thoroughly Scottish, "Well."
Letting it go, changing the subject to something innocuous about the landscape or the patients she is going to see, would likely be the more sensible course of action, even the kinder one. But she has spent so many months doing just that — shoving the thoughts and memories down for the sake of civility, or because Frank doesn't want to hear or wouldn’t understand, or because it is hard even for her to look squarely at those parts of her life — and she is struck by the idea of someone who might understand, whose wounds might align close to her own. The words wisp out of her before she can reinforce her hold once more: "On the worst nights, I'd try to imagine that I was back in the desert, but it was so loud in France, and so different. I couldn’t quite manage it."
The mist around them begins to strengthen into a light rain, but neither of them pays it much attention, riding through it for several moments in silence. Then he says, "You were a VAD, then?"
"No, a trained nurse. My uncle died a few years before the war, and after that I wasn’t exactly welcome at the sites where we'd been. I didn't have much of a choice other than to come back to England, but I could choose what to do once I arrived. I heard that the Royal London was the busiest hospital in the city, so I entered nurse's instruction there." Her mouth twists a bit. "I finished just before the war broke out. The Red Cross said that anyone with training was eligible to join, and anyone who spoke French could go overseas. I don't think I realized at the time what that would mean."
"I dinna think any of us did," he says, his voice so quiet that she can barely hear it beneath the raindrops. For a moment, he turns in the saddle, his eyes finding hers, his hand loosening on the reins and starting to shift into the air between them. But before the motion is complete, before she can respond, he replaces his hand and says more clearly, "Only a few minutes more to the croft. Turn up the track here," and faces forward again.
Catching in one more breath of that bold, clear air, she directs Milseag to follow him. Although she cannot see the track he's mentioned, she trusts that he knows where they are meant to go.
The first two patients she sees aren’t overly friendly, but bear her questions and examinations well enough, so by the time she and Jamie are on to the third visit, she is feeling somewhat settled. The cottage is small, but quite clean and warm, although Claire does not think that Mrs. Hayes is interested in her compliments on those things; the woman crosses her arms at the sight of Claire coming up the path and seems completely uninterested in moving from the doorway to let her inside.
“Yer aunt up at the big house doesna think that we can manage as we always have, Jamie Fraser?” She speaks practically over Claire’s head. “Mrs. Fitz was doin’ us fine, and we didna need any more than that, certainly no fancy trainin’ or education.”
“My understanding is that Mrs. FitzGibbons is glad for another set of hands, and I’m hopeful that my training will only be able to benefit everyone around here,” Claire says, keeping her voice strong and ignoring the slight.
“Ah, how blessed we are to have you and yer training come to help. And I see ye’re a Sassenach as well.” There could seemingly be no greater sin in this woman’s eyes.
Claire finds herself wishing that she didn’t have to bring out her nurse’s steely patience quite so soon. She opens her mouth to respond again, but before she can, she hears from behind her, quiet and strong and implacable: “Aye, Elspeth, a Sassenach, and one we’re lucky to have. Now, if ye’ll let her in to do her work.”
He doesn’t lend it the tone of a question, and Mrs. Hayes startles a bit at the firmness there, holding her place for just long enough to give the illusion that it was still her choice. Claire doesn’t comment as the woman finally moves aside, simply unclasps her cape and drapes it over the arm holding her bag as she comes through the doorway.
“It’s your son who was injured?” she asks as Jamie ducks in behind her.
“Aye.” Despite sounding as begrudging as if she’s being charged for every syllable, Mrs. Hayes gestures to the scrubbed wooden table. Giving a brief nod of acknowledgement for the permission, Claire sets her bag there.
“Can you call him in so I can examine him?” she asks, retaining a pleasant calm as if every patient interaction is as laborious as pulling teeth — although she does have some experience with just that, if it comes to it.
With a put-upon sigh, arms folded tight to her body, Mrs. Hayes does. Luckily, the boy, Amos, is a cheerful, breathless lad of nine and a perfectly cooperative patient, only disappointed that Claire extracts a promise that he will stick to gentle exercise as he builds up the muscles of his just-healed arm.
“Fell from a tree, foolish thing,” his mother comments from in front of the stove, having thawed enough to have stopped standing sharp-eyed just over Claire’s shoulder. “Climbed too high and then slipped tryin’ to get down.”
"Well, I do hope you won't be doing that again anytime soon," Claire says, summoning her strictest matron's voice and giving him a look down her nose, although part of her feels just that little bit lighter, knowing that despite the ways the whole world has shattered, there are little boys climbing trees and still smiling even after they've fallen.
She apparently covers that up well enough, because he just sighs, sounding quite burdened by the grownups of the world, and manages a singular chorus of, "Yes, Nurse."
"Good. I'll be back to check on you in two weeks, and I hope to see some progress from your arm exercises and—” She looks down at him and says very clearly, “—no new injuries," waiting for him to nod before she adds a, “Very good.”
Whether because of a continued softening, habitual politeness, or just a desire to ensure that they actually leave, Mrs. Hayes walks the two of them out to where the horses are waiting. As Claire secures her bag and begins to get herself up, Jamie takes the woman aside and speaks to her in a low voice. They are not standing far, however, and the sound of birds and the breeze through the heather can't cover up what he is saying.
“—and you and the lad have enough to get by?"
Mrs. Hayes laughs, high and bitter. "Hard to say what's enough, and even if we had nothin', I'd hardly take it from you." She turns away, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, whatever ease she’d gained or moderation of her attitude seemingly lost.
"Elspeth." Jamie's voice has a natural command to it, and although the woman doesn't face him again, she does stop, still halfway to the cottage door. "I wish I could make ye understand what I'd give for him to've come home to ye. If I could go back, if I could've traded places..."
Claire can see the white-clenched knuckles of Mrs. Hayes's fists at the edges of her shawl. She wonders for a brief moment if the woman might throw herself at Jamie, tenses her body in readiness to do what might be needed. But instead Elspeth Hayes only says, cheek tucked against her shoulder and eyes determinedly facing the ground, "Well, he didn't come home and you did, and I dinna suppose there's aught to be done about it."
Her forced flatness cannot hide the bitterness or the waver of her grief. Claire and Jamie keep silent as she walks the last brisk steps inside and shuts the door behind her.
The final hours of Claire's rounds go much more smoothly. While none of the remaining patients are quite as open or friendly as Amos, and occasionally Jamie steps in to smooth things over, even to break his seemingly habitual quiet to make some sort of remark or joke that brings a smile and a lighter mood, no one is quite as belligerent or outright rude as Mrs. Hayes. Still, Claire is quite exhausted by the end. She and Jamie make it back to the village in the dark, and as hungry as she is, she thinks she wants her bed more.
"I'll be back in the mornin'," Jamie says, the simple words somehow sounding like a promise.
"I suppose I'll see you then," she agrees. "Thank you for your help today. I don’t think I’d have been able to find the first thing without you showing me the way.”
“Aye, well, ye’ll learn.” He gives her another small smile, but she’s seen what the expression should truly look like on him, and so can easily read the effort to it, likely from his own exhaustion. Still, she smiles back before turning to go in.
“Sassenach,” he says from behind her, the simple word so different from when Mrs. Hayes had said it. She can’t help but recall the strange wonder with which he had said it when they met. Nevertheless, he corrects himself quickly: “Nurse Randall, I mean,” the syllables careful and rolling.
“It’s alright,” she says, facing him once more. “I don’t mind you calling me that.”
“I wouldna want ye to think that I don’t respect yer professional abilities,” he says seriously, two of his fingers rubbing slowly and absently against each other.
She shakes her head. “You’ve shown me today that you respect them quite well enough. I haven’t any worries on that score.” Allowing a quirk of one eyebrow, she adds, “The others I’m meant to be treating, on the other hand…”
“That’s what I wanted to say.” The traces of smiling and lightness have gone entirely now. “Most people’ll come around to ye — from what I’ve seen, you know what you’re about, and folk around here respect that. But Elspeth Hayes…She’s been through a time. I dinna wish ye to think it’s anything against you, or anything much to do with you at all, truly.”
A quiet sound comes from the back of Claire’s throat.
“She isn’t the first to find that who they are now isn’t the person they were before the bloody war,” she finally says, low, and although there is more anger to it than she’d usually wish someone else to hear, Jamie Fraser only nods.
“Just so,” he says, and there is a knowledge to his gaze, a kinship between them which is almost tangible.
Claire has met with some of her fellow nurses since the armistice; so few of them want to talk about the things they saw and experienced, and she had simply sat, not quite contributing but at least going along with the small talk of weddings and new homes and moving on. She hadn’t truly gone to those gatherings wishing to relive it all either, the details or sensations, the pain and choices and failures, but she had wanted more from those encounters, had wanted…something, some acknowledgement that it still weighed on them, that she is not the only one who came home with scars and troubled sleep. She knows, too, of the soldiers who clearly have not left those battlefields behind, the ones who are still holding threadily onto life following terrible injury, those who remain in wards despite being well enough to go home, their troubles slashing through those hopes of returning to a normal life that must have spurred them as far as they could through the war.
But Jamie Fraser is the first person she has met who seems to feel like she does: managing, getting on, even with the memories and their burden still obvious. They are walking wounded, the two of them, and the realization of that is strong enough that for a baffling moment, Claire wishes that he would wrap his arms around her, that they could lean on each other — just for now, she swears to herself before she can help it, it would be just for now. It is such a ridiculous thing to think, silly to even contemplate much less place limits and promises upon, and yet the desire is so strong and present that she cannot look into his eyes anymore, afraid he might find it there.
“Good night, then, Mr. Fraser,” she says instead, starting to turn back toward the door to Mrs. Baird’s. It is such an abrupt ending, however, and he deserves more. She looks over her shoulder and adds, “And thank you again for today,” before going inside to go to bed.
It is only once she has eaten a bread roll and apple left over from her train ride, washed herself briefly with the chilly water from the ewer and climbed beneath the quilt, that she realizes that between all the events of the day, she’d forgotten to find a postbox for her letter to Frank, still in her uniform pocket. Turning over as the mattress gives a slight, sighing squeak, she reminds herself to take care of it first thing in the morning.
But her first, traitorous thought as she opens her eyes is that today she will be off with Jamie once again.