Monsieur Fréselière -Outlander

This is Part I from this Pas­sa­ge, Part II is “Neit­her of us who­le again”

The whole Scene:

What d’ye think of this place, Sas­se­nach?” he asked.“I think it’s beau­ti­ful. Don’t you?”He nod­ded, loo­king down bet­ween the trees, whe­re a gent­le slo­pe full of wild hay and timo­thy fell away and rose again in a line of wil­lows that frin­ged the distant river.“I am thin­king,” Jamie said, a litt­le awk­ward­ly. “The­re is the spring here in the wood. That mea­dow below — ” He waved a hand toward the scrim of alders that scree­ned the ridge from the gras­sy slo­pe. “It would do for a few beasts at first, and then the land nea­rer the river might be clea­red and put in crops. The rise of the land here is good for drai­na­ge. And here, see…” Caught by visi­ons, he rose to his feet, pointing.I loo­ked care­ful­ly; to me, the place see­med litt­le dif­fe­rent from any of the steep woo­ded slopes and gras­sy coves through which we had wan­de­red for the last coup­le of days. But to Jamie, with his farmer’s eye, hou­ses and stock pens and fiel­ds sprang up like fai­ry mushrooms in the shadows of the trees.Happiness was sti­cking out all over him, like por­cu­pi­ne quills. My heart felt like lead in my chest.“You’re thin­king we might sett­le here, then? Take the Governor’s offer?”He loo­ked at me, stop­ping abrupt­ly in his speculations.“We might,” he said. “If — ”He bro­ke off and loo­ked side­ways at me. Sun-red­den­ed as he was, I couldn’t tell whe­ther he was flus­hed with sun or shyness.“D’ye belie­ve in signs at all, Sassenach?”“What sorts of signs?” I asked guar​ded​ly​.In ans­wer, he bent, plu­cked a sprig from the ground, and drop­ped it into my hand — the dark green lea­ves like small round Chi­ne­se fans, a pure white flower on a slen­der stem, and on ano­t­her a half-ripe ber­ry, its shoul­ders pale with shade, blus­hing crim­son at the tip.“This. It’s ours, d’ye see?” he said.“Ours?”“The Fra­sers’, I mean,” he exp­lai­ned. One lar­ge, blunt fin­ger gent­ly prod­ded the ber­ry. “Straw­ber­ries ha’ always been the emblem of the clan — it’s what the name meant, to start with, when a Mon­sieur Fré­se­liè­re came across from Fran­ce wi’ King Wil­liam that was — and took hold of land in the Scot­tish moun­ta­ins for his trouble.”King Wil­liam that was. Wil­liam the Con­quer­or, that was. Perhaps not the oldest of the High­land clans, the Fra­sers had still a dis­tin­guis­hed heritage.“Warriors from the start, were you?”“And far­mers, too.” The doubt in his eyes was fading into a smile.I didn’t say what I was thin­king, but I knew well enough that the thought must lie in his mind as well. The­re was no more of clan Fra­ser save scat­te­red frag­ments, tho­se who had sur­vi­ved by flight, by stra­ta­gem or luck. The clans had been smas­hed at Cullo­den, their chief­ta­ins slaugh­te­red in batt­le or mur­de­red by law.Yet here he stood, tall and strai­ght in his plaid, the dark steel of a High­land dirk by his side. War­ri­or and far­mer both. And if the soil bene­ath his feet was not that of Scot­land, it was free air that he bre­a­thed — and a moun­tain wind that stir­red his hair, lif­ting cop­per strands to the sum­mer sun.I smi­led up at him, fighting back my gro­wing dismay.“Fréselière, eh? Mr. Straw­ber­ry? He grew them, did he, or was he only fond of eating them?”“Either or both,” he said dry­ly, “or it was may­be only that he was red­hei­ded, aye?”I laug­hed, and he hun­ke­red down besi­de me, unpin­ning his plaid.“It’s a rare plant,” he said, tou­ching the sprig in my open hand. “Flowers, fruit and lea­ves all toge­ther at the one time. The white flowers are for honor, and red fruit for cou­ra­ge — and the green lea­ves are for constancy.”My throat felt tight as I loo­ked at him.“They got that one right,” I said.He caught my hand in his own, squee­zing my fin­gers around the tiny stem.“And the fruit is the shape of a heart,” he said soft­ly, and bent to kiss me.

Strawberry

The tears were near the sur­face; at least I had a good excu­se for the one that oozed free. He dabbed it away, then stood up and pul­led his belt loo­se, let­ting the plaid fall in folds around his feet. Then he strip­ped off shirt and bre­eks and smi­led down at me, naked.“There’s no one here,” he said. “No one but us.”I would have said this see­med no rea­son, but I felt what it was he meant. We had been for days sur­roun­ded by vast­ness and thre­at, the wil­der­ness no fart­her away than the pale cir­cle of our fire. Yet here, we were alo­ne toge­ther, part and par­cel of the place, with no need in broad day­light to hold the wil­der­ness at bay.“In the old days, men would do this, to give fer­ti­li­ty to the fiel­ds,” he said, giving me a hand to rise.“I don’t see any fiel­ds.” And wasn’t sure whe­ther to hope I never would. None­theless, I skim­med off my bucks­kin shirt, and pul­led loo­se the knot of my makes­hift bras­sie­re. He eyed me with appreciation.“Well, no doubt I shall have to cut down a few trees first, but that can wait, aye?”We made a bed of plaid and cloaks, and lay down upon it naked, skin to skin among the yel­low gras­ses and the scent of bal­sam and wild strawberries.We touched each other for what might have been a very long time or no time at all, toge­ther in the gar­den of earth­ly delight. I forced away the thoughts that had plagued me up the moun­tain, deter­mi­ned only to sha­re his joy for as long as it las­ted. I gras­ped him tight and he bre­a­thed in deep and pres­sed him­s­elf hard into my hand.“And what would Eden be without a ser­pent?” I mur­mu­red, fin­gers stroking.His eyes crea­sed into blue tri­an­gles, so clo­se I could see the black of his pupils.“And will ye eat wi’ me, then, mo chrid­he? Of the fruit of the tree of the know­ledge of Good and Evil?”I put out the tip of my tongue and drew it along his lower lip in ans­wer. He shi­ve­r­ed under my fin­gers, though the air was warm and sweet.“Je suis prest,” I said. “Mon­sieur Fréselière.”His head bent and his mouth fas­te­ned on my nipp­le, swol­len as one of the tiny ripe berries.“Madame Fré­se­liè­re,” he whis­pe­red back. “Je suis à vot­re service.”And then we sha­red the fruit and flowers, and the green lea­ves covering all.

All rights for the Pic­tures of Jamie and Claire go to the right­ful owner Starz
Excer­pt and Quo­te by Diana Gabal­don from “DoA“
I own not­hing but the editing
Heike Ginger Ba Written by:

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2 Comments

  1. Patricia Crocker
    September 14
    Reply

    I loved this part of this chap­ter and the refe­ren­ces to the Clan orig­ins. Thanks for sharing.…love your blog.

    • Heike Ginger Ba
      September 14
      Reply

      Hi Patri­cia,

      yes love this part also..its the first view of Fra­sers Ridge and the first Time Jamie feel some­thing like “Home” again after Lal­ly­broch. Glad you like it. LG Hei­ke Gin­ger

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