Chapter Text
J. Fraser and Family Printworks
Edinburgh
December, 1758
Jamie Fraser was proud of the success of his shop, but he also possessed a deep, humble gratitude. Avoiding getting swept up in the failed Rising of ‘45 had not been an easy task, but in the end, remaining neutral and uninvolved was possible. It went against every natural instinct he had, but he kept his head down, made no controversial statements, and kept in good company with Ned Gowan, the trusted lawyer of his mother’s family, should his services ever be needed.
His wife Claire’s advice to plant potatoes at Lallybroch, the family estate, had yielded abundant, highly profitable crops every year so far, one of the many benefits of her being from two hundred years in the future. Another was her medical knowledge, having been a nurse with the British army during a war to come that will be of such a grand scale, he could hardly bear to hear her speak of it.
In this time, they were able to get through the Rising without calling attention to themselves, and remaining dedicated to working the land at Lallybroch, the family home. But, it was not long before the final battle at Culloden, when so many of his fellow Scots met their death, that new life in their own family was springing forth. Claire informed him she was expecting.
Decisions had to be made.
Even though Jamie had no ties to the Jacobite cause beyond his uncle Dougal’s fervent support of it, they determined it would be safer to move to Edinburgh and establish a life there away from the Highlands. Another awful bit of knowledge Claire possessed was how persecuted the Scots would be in the years after that final bloodshed. It broke his heart to leave the rest of his family; his sister Jenny, her husband Ian, and their children, would all stay behind in the Highlands, but it was a necessary part of the plan he devised to keep them all protected in the dark times to come.
Using the profits from the abundant potato crop of the previous year, Jamie took Claire, along with some creatively written paperwork from Ned Gowan, and established his printshop in Edinburgh in the late spring of 1746, though said paperwork indicated it had been established much earlier, before the start of the Rising. The narrow, tucked-away street where Jamie found a building to rent that was suitable for a printshop’s purposes had few other occupants, none of which were likely to recall details of who moved in and when. The only other business in operation on the ramshackle street was a small tavern which always emitted an aroma somewhere between well/made stew and poorly-cared for livestock, with heady notes of cheap liquor.
Despite Claire’s repeatedly voiced concerns about the location, and the fact that Jamie had little firsthand experience in the printing trade, and the not-small amount of debt he had incurred to purchase a decent press and make the building habitable both for his growing family and his fledgling business, Jamie was optimistic. These were temporary, trifling matters. What was most important was that the situation snuffed out any possible suspicions on the part of the Crown that James Fraser could have been involved in any uprising, thus protecting all his property, including Lallybroch, from being seized by the English. Jenny and Ian were free to serve as his factors at Lallybroch, safe from harassment.
Immediately after Culloden, there had been some tenants who reported redcoats coming to question them, sometimes more forcefully than others, about any whiff or hint of treason their Laird may have been engaged in. Even with nothing to tell, there were some ambitious redcoat officers who were not above a bribe to get a tenant to tell a convenient tale. He did not know if any of the people living on his estate had ever received such an offer, but none of Jamie’s tenants have ever spoken a word against him. Jamie often prayed prayers of gratitude for their loyalty, and asked God for the wisdom and humility to treat it as a fragile treasure.
By the time Claire gave birth to their daughter, Brianna Ellen, in November of that year, J. Fraser had established himself as a reliable businessman in Edinburgh, as well as a respected Laird of his modest estate in the Highlands, one who had had nothing to do with the rabble-rousing Jacobites, naturally. Over time, Claire Fraser, his beloved “Sassenach,” built her own reputation in both the city and at Lallybroch as a skilled healer, despite the natural suspicion her Englishness invoked in many upon first meeting her. Very soon, however, she was sought out for assistance in everything from midwifery to tooth-pulling to limb amputations. She never turned anyone away, even the most hopeless cases of sickness or the worst, irrevocable injuries. Some of what Jamie had witnessed of her abilities left him certain she was no less than a miracle worker.
William James, his son and heir, was born three years later, and time still went on. The children grew healthy and strong. From the moment they were born, Jamie hid away whatever funds he could for both of their educations and future endeavors, and his first priority was always the welfare of his family.
The work itself was relentless and often exhausting, but his children could begin learning the printing trade alongside him early on. Brianna was a bright, inquisitive child, and from the age of seven or so, would shadow her father in the print shop, wanting to know every step of the process. Jamie put her to work setting the type for simple broadsheets and pamphlets, and Brianna threw herself into the detailed, meticulous work.
At twelve, she was tall and strong enough to work the press herself. Willie, at nine, could now set the type. Jamie trusted them to do an exceptional job, though he still had to peruse any drafts before handing them over to his children, to avoid their exposure to anything they should not see.
One of the ways he avoided any trouble with the Crown was in being selective about his clients and what he printed, at least publicly. In secret, he may have stayed late at his shop to produce copies of a seditious pamphlet or two, but as far as most of the world was concerned, J. Fraser and Family Printworks produced books of flowery poetry, copies of psalms and proverbs for general edification, and erotic novels for the same purpose. Most everyone of every political color spent their money on those things, and made little fuss about it!
Year after year, Jamie toiled and fretted, celebrated milestones with his family, and lived a sort of quiet, repetitive bliss. It may not be adventurous or particularly legendary, but there was meaning and purpose to his days. That was enough.
The days of danger and unpredictability from his fighting days in France, and his run-ins with the law earlier in his youth, became far-off echoes that only reached his ears through the occasional nightmare. If he woke up in the middle of the night, panting and sweating and calling out in grief or rage, Claire’s hand would instantly find his chest, a cool, white relief against the fire inside him. Sometimes, she was barely even out of her own dream world, somewhere below the threshold of wakefulness, and yet she still found him to offer comfort.
On New Year’s Eve of 1758, with his children in their beds, Jamie sprawled out on his bed in the master chamber of the modest Edinburgh townhouse they had recently purchased. Claire lay beside him, already deep in sleep. She still had a trace of the scent of the distilled alcohol she called disinfectant on her skin, sharp enough for the air around her to make Jamie’s nose tingle.
James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, husband, father, printer, Laird, fell asleep to the lingering thought that he was, indeed, a happy man.
………………….
James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser was also a realistic man, and a loving, but stern, father. His children were growing up now, and the world would not tolerate their antics the way they might be tolerated at home. The Fraser family was entering a new season of life, and adjustments to routines and expectations had to be made.
His children had grown too old for him or Claire to take across their laps, so Jamie had decided a firmer course of action was needed for the times Bree or Willie were deliberately disobedient, or put themselves or others in harm’s way. With the exception of those particular cases, they were old enough and wise enough by this time that a serious discussion and appeal to their reason should suffice.
But, for the times a greater enforcement was needed…
A brief trip to the leather worker’s shop resulted in the item Jamie required; a good, traditional tawse, about eighteen inches long and three inches wide, split down the center into two separate straps, to spread out the sting upon making contact with an errant lad or lass’s bottom. His old schoolmaster, Hugh Munro, bless him, had made good use of a similar item on Jamie’s own bum many years ago, as well as the palms of his hands in an effort to curb his inclination to write left-handed.
Willie was showing the same inclination, and Jamie had already had a discussion with his tutor that he was not to interfere or be punished for it. If Willie could manage to write his letters legibly, that was enough, and God help the tutor if he throws his weight around and smacked either of Jamie’s children against his instructions!
“I dinna intend to be a barbarian about it, Sassenach,” Jamie attempted to assure Claire on the evening he presented the tawse to her and informed her of his intentions on how to discipline their bairns from now on. “Not everything needs to be settled with a thrashing, but I ken well how knowing it’s a possibility makes getting into real mischief less appealing.”
Stripping off his black weskit and examining his ink-stained fingernails critically, Jamie took up a sponge from the washstand and poured hot water from the pitcher into the basin, worked up a lather with his strongest soap, and began to scrub away the remnants of the day’s work before settling down for the evening. Claire sat at the edge of their bed, combing out her cloud of dark spiral curls into a nimbus around her pretty face, twisted into a contemplative frown.
“I don’t know, Jamie,” she said, staring at the tawse laid out on the bed beside her, touching the length of one strap with the tip of her finger. “It looks rather fearsome. And to use it, you’d have to be standing at a bit of a distance. Do you think Willie, or…oh Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, do you think Bree, of all people, will just bend over and let you swat her with it without a fight?”
Jamie looked down into his watery reflection in the basin, hiding his smirk. It was a fair question, he supposed. After all, Claire had fought like a demon-possessed wildcat the first time he’d exercised his right as her husband to discipline her. What would have been a dozen moderate strokes with Jamie’s sword belt turned into a wrestling match, and when the inevitable happened, and he had her overpowered and pinned down, the twelve was doubled, then tripled.
Still, he remained completely in control, holding back his strength and delivering the prolonged lashing to her backside and the top of her thighs with a precision and gentleness that left her humbled and sleeping on her stomach for several nights, but unharmed. Given the physical, intimate nature of what he had to do to the wife he both perpetually cherished and ached for, restraint had been no easy task!
Bafflingly, Claire explained to him afterwards that in her own time, the majority of men have abdicated that particular responsibility. To hear her tell it, only the worst of them laid hands on their wives, typically in fits of anger and with their fists.
And she would dare to suggest he was the barbarian! What was so savage about wishing to have a proper plan in place, and to have a designated tool with which to act with civility and understanding while carrying out an unpleasant part of his patriarchal duty?
“Well, what happened when you fought against a well-earned punishment, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, straightening up to his full height and turning to face his wife.
“So you do intend to just throw your weight around?” Claire asked in an accusing tone. “They submit, or you will make them submit?”
“How is that any different than what they can expect of any authority beyond our home? And do I not have that right as their father? If either Bree or Willie resist a just penalty for their actions, I will treat them as the bairns they are acting like, wrestle them over my knee, and spank their bare bottoms to a glowing red,” he said, all matter-of-fact, but with an undeniable tone of finality.
“Then, sore and sorry, they’ll bend over for their licks. I suspect both are bright enough to know the wiser course of action.”
“And that isn’t barbarous to you?” Claire asked.
At that, Jamie tugged his linen shirt over his head and turned his bare back to his wife to finish washing. The deep, hard lines of scar tissue across his back and shoulders, lifelong reminders of both an old run-in with an English captain and the general harshness of the world they inhabit, said more to Claire than any words could. But, he said one anyway.
“No.”
Behind him, he heard Claire take a hearty, contemplative inhale, letting it out in a hard puff of decision. “If our children will be enduring it, Jamie, I want to know what you intend to do. Use it on me first.”
Jamie dropped the towel he was using to dry himself onto the washstand and covered the distance to the bed in a few long strides. Picking up the tawse with one hand, he offered the other to Claire to assist her standing up.
“I had a sneaking suspicion I would be, Sassenach. One way or another…” Jamie said. “So, ye ken what to do. Lift your skirts and get over the bed.”
Despite initiating this little demonstration, Claire hesitated for a moment. She looked down at the floor and began to fidget, flexing her bare toes against the braided rug and possibly second-guessing herself. Still holding her hand, Jamie tugged gently, pulling her close so he could lean down and press a single, steadying kiss to her brow.
“Trust me, mo gráidh. I would not take advantage of the permission ye gave. Six good strokes, and then we’ll go to bed,” he assured her, then realized the need to qualify it. “Or to sleep. Whichever ye say.”
Claire managed to raise her shift and petticoat, but laid stiffly across the width of the raised mattress with her legs locked tight together. Jamie shook his head with good-natured patience. His wife had never been eager in any obedience she had shown him, if there was even the slightest whisper of doubt in her mind.
Nevertheless, Jamie knew the weight he carried being responsible for the family, and he also knew how much Claire had to fight within her own nature, along with all her 20th century instincts and sensibilities, to submit to him. Even having asked him herself to demonstrate the severity of his dominance, she could not easily release the iron grip on her own will!
God, Jamie loved her.
The tawse in his left hand, Jamie gave it a good test swing through the air and placed his right hand on his wife’s back, just above the mounds of her bare buttocks. He adjusted the raised pile of fabric from her clothing to keep it clear of where he was focusing his attention.
“Spread yer legs a wee bit, Sassenach,” Jamie ordered. “Get your bum higher in the air”
In the proper position now, Claire looked down at the quilt on the bed and groaned, anticipating what was to come. Another sound was ripped out of her throat, a more pitchy squeal, when the flat length of leather was laid across her flesh, across the spot Jamie intended to strike. The intention was to build up a good, burning ache she will feel tomorrow, but by no means would she be incapacitated.
“I havena even started yet!” Jamie half-scolded. “And ye asked for this, quite literally! If you are going to make this difficult, I’ll add extra strokes.”
“No!” Claire protested vigorously, bouncing on her toes and wriggling her pretty bottom in the air. “Alright, I’ll keep still.”
She was good as her word, settling down until she was lying flat on the bed. This pushed her bottom even higher, and Jamie swallowed hard and stood tall, drawing back his arm.
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Jamie paused halfway through the promised six. Claire had cringed through the first lick, whimpered pitifully at the second, and was in tears by the third. He gave her a few moments to gather herself, and watched the collection of angry pink stripes begin to rise up across her pale skin.
“It’s awful, Jamie!” Claire sniffled, burying her face in the quilt and muffling her defeated groan.
“Aye, ‘tis. Hopefully, it’s just awful enough that I willna have to use it on the bairns very often,” Jamie said, with just a touch of resignation in his tone. “With any luck, neither of them will feel it more than once.”
“I won’t be asking again, that’s for sure!” Claire blurted.
Jamie threw back his head and laughed. He gave her back an affectionate rub, then gave just the slightest push, pinning Claire to the bed for the second half of the demonstration. “Hopefully, there will be no need for me to use it on you, request or not.”
Before she could say anything in response, Jamie took aim and delivered a good lash across Claire’s bottom, deepening the flush of color across the widest, curviest part. Another lash, and her hands flew back to cover herself at the same moment she lost control of her tongue.
“Ooh-oow! Oh, you bloody bastard!”
“Is that what I am, hmm?” Jamie asked rhetorically, trying not to laugh. “If ye move your hands right now, you’ll only get one extra stroke, and I will overlook ye callin’ me names.”
“And if I don’t?” Claire attempted to make it sound like a retort, but her voice wavered.
“Then we’ll simply start over.”
“Aargh!” Defeated, Claire moved her hands, grasping bunches of the quilt on either side of her head and lifting her chin to stare at the far wall defiantly.
From where he stood, Jamie couldn’t see her whole face, but he could make out just enough to know she was pouting. Keeping a firm hand at her back, Jamie laid the tawse across her sore bottom, taking aim once more. “Alright now, two more strokes, and we’ll be done. Stay still, and it will be very quick.”
He was good as his word as well. Two more solid strokes of the leather straps, and Jamie tossed the item back onto the bed, and reached for Claire. His large hands guided her back to standing, and she tried to remain stoic, wiping the tears from her eyes and rubbing her bottom through her petticoat and shift with an expression of feigned blankness. Jamie didn’t believe her pretense for a moment.
“Come here, mo gráidh,” he whispered, enfolding her in his arms as she collapsed into sobs against his bare chest. “It’s alright, all is well.”
Her arms encircled him, her palms finding his scars and laying flat over them. Touching the reminders of the cruelty of which mankind is capable, Claire shuddered and cried even more, tear droplets hitting his chest and clinging to the red-gold hairs brushing against her face. Jamie could never fully grasp the world Claire had given up to be with him, but it still lived within her, even after so long. Her understanding of the rights of a husband and father was so different, if not almost nonexistent!
It could be infuriating at times, trying to make her understand there was another side to the coin of his provision. If Jamie’s rights were a mystery to her, his obligations were crystal clear, and Claire had never questioned them. She had no problems benefiting from his good reputation, leveraging it into her own to get her patients to trust her. She never turned down his protection when he accompanied her as she was summoned somewhere in the middle of the night. What earnings she took in were always used at her own discretion, and Jamie never presumed to try to take any of it from her, though in all fairness, she wasn’t the type to spend money foolishly in the first place. He was quite thankful for that.
“And you would do that to our children, Jamie?” Claire’s words came from deep in her throat, moving past tears and humiliation.
Taking her face in both hands, Jamie brushed away her tears with his large thumbs. The kiss he pressed to her lips was slow, gentle, and free of any further expectations. “Well, not recreationally. If I have to do it, they will have earned every stripe.”
Clinging tight to each other, the husband and his wife rocked back and forth, so overcome with the intimacy of the moment that their bodies swayed together of their own accord. Jamie half-fell onto the bed, leaning against the headboard and drawing Claire onto his lap. She curled against him, settling between his outstretched legs and creating quite a pleasant friction between them as she wriggled against his groin, trying to find a comfortable position with her reddened bottom rubbing against Jamie and the overstuffed mattress.
“They really are growing, Jamie,” Claire said, sounding far off and mired in her own thoughts.
Now, Jamie understood. Her tears were, in part, born from her own pain feeling the tawse, but there was more. There was another pain she was moving through; she had to let go, loosen her grasp on Bree and Willie, and let them take on the world. Greater experience meant greater potential consequences, and Claire was mourning the loss of her power to shield her bairns from harm, even that caused by their own foolishness.
Jamie was taking the steps to establish new boundaries, and prepare for who his children were growing to be, but he had overlooked Claire’s need for reassurance in this time. I’m a damn fool for that, he chided himself. He would not make that mistake again.
“They are becoming exactly who they need to be, Sassenach,” Jamie whispered, making slow, comforting circles with his hand against her shoulder blades. “And we shall do the same, for their sake.”
Eventually, she began to settle, and grow drowsy from the long day and the display of controlled brutality. Since childhood and his own run-ins with a tawse, a switch, or his father’s equally fearsome bare hand, Jamie had been aware of a strange sort of peace that comes after receiving a punishment he knew he’d earned. It may be no more than the relief of it being done with, but it was often enough to put one to the edge of sleep.
Claire was there now, her hair tickling his shoulder and neck as she breathed slower and slower. Her last words before drifting off were simple, honest, and flooded Jamie with a relief he hadn’t realized he needed.
“I trust you, Jamie.”
Coming from someone who had given up all that had ever made sense to her in order to be with him, that was more precious than gold.