Beloved Husband

The whole Scene:

Pale in the shad­ows, he saw Claire Ran­dal­l’s face. Com­plete­ly drained of col­or, she looked like a wraith against the dark branch­es of the yew. She stood for a moment, sway­ing, then sank to her knees in the grass, as though her legs would no longer sup­port her.“Mother!” Bri­an­na dropped to her knees beside the crouch­ing fig­ure, chaf­ing one of the limp hands. “Mama, what is it? Are you faint? You should put your head between your knees. Here, why don’t you lie down?“Claire resist­ed the help­ful prod­dings of her off­spring, and the droop­ing head came upright on its slen­der neck once more.“I don’t want to lie down,” she gasped. “I want… oh, God. Oh, dear holy God.” Kneel­ing among the unmowed grass she stretched out a trem­bling hand to the sur­face of the stone. It was carved of gran­ite, a sim­ple slab.“Dr. Ran­dall! Er, Claire?” Roger dropped to one knee on her oth­er side, putting a hand under her oth­er arm to sup­port her. He was tru­ly alarmed at her appear­ance. A fine sweat had bro­ken out on her tem­ples and she looked as though she might keel over at any moment. “Claire,” he said again, urgent­ly, try­ing to rouse her from the star­ing trance she had fall­en into. “What is it? Is it a name you know?” Even as he spoke, his own words were ring­ing in his ears. No one’s been buried here since the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, he’d told Bri­an­na. No one’s been buried here in two hun­dred years.Claire’s fin­gers brushed his own away, and touched the stone, caress­ing, as though touch­ing flesh, gen­tly trac­ing the let­ters, the grooves worn shal­low, but still clear.“ ‘James Alexan­der Mal­colm Macken­zie Fras­er’, ” she read aloud. “Yes, I know him.” Her hand dropped low­er, brush­ing back the grass that grew thick­ly about the stone, obscur­ing the line of small­er let­ters at its base.” ‘Beloved hus­band of Claire,’ ” she read.“Yes, I knew him,” she said again, so soft­ly Roger could scarce­ly hear her. “I’m Claire. He was my hus­band.” She looked up then, into the face of her daugh­ter, white and shocked above her. “And your father,” she said.Roger and Bri­an­na stared down at her, and the kirk­yard was silent, save for the rus­tle of the yews above.

“No!” I said, quite cross­ly. “For the fifth time—no! I don’t want a drink of water. I have not got a touch of the sun. I am not faint. I am not ill. And I haven’t lost my mind, either, though I imag­ine that’s what you’re thinking.“Roger and Bri­an­na exchanged glances that made it clear that that was pre­cise­ly what they were think­ing. They had, between them, got me out of the kirk­yard and into the car. I had refused to be tak­en to hos­pi­tal, so we had gone back to the manse. Roger had admin­is­tered med­i­c­i­nal whisky for shock, but his eyes dart­ed toward the tele­phone now as though won­der­ing whether to dial for addi­tion­al help—like a strait­jack­et, I supposed.“Mama.” Bri­an­na spoke sooth­ing­ly, reach­ing out to try to smooth the hair back from my face. “You’re upset.”“Of course I’m upset!” I snapped. I took a long, quiv­er­ing breath and clamped my lips tight togeth­er, until I could trust myself to speak calmly.“I am cer­tain­ly upset,” I began, “but I’m not mad.” I stopped, strug­gling for con­trol. This was­n’t the way I’d intend­ed to do it. I did­n’t know quite what I had intend­ed, but not this, blurt­ing out the truth with­out prepa­ra­tion or time to orga­nize my own thoughts. See­ing that bloody grave had dis­rupt­ed any plan I might have formed.“Damn you, Jamie Fras­er!” I said, furi­ous. “What are you doing there any­way; it’s miles from Culloden!“Brianna’s eyes were halfway out on stalks, and Roger’s hand was hov­er­ing near the tele­phone. I stopped abrupt­ly and tried to get a grip on myself.Be calm, Beauchamp, I instruct­ed myself. Breathe deeply. Once… twice… once more. Bet­ter. Now. It’s very sim­ple; all you have to do is tell them the truth. That’s what you came to Scot­land for, isn’t it?I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I closed my mouth, and my eyes as well, hop­ing that my nerve would return, if I could­n’t see the two ashen faces in front of me. Just… let… me… tell… the… truth, I prayed, with no idea who I was talk­ing to. Jamie, I thought.

All rights for the Pic­ture go to the right­ful owner Starz
Quo­te and Excerpt by Diana Gabaldon from  “Dragonfly in Amber”
I own not­hing but the editing