Bonus Epilogue (thanks to the reviewer who put its necessity into my head)

Rev. Reginald Wakefield fingered through the many papers of the box left to him by Frank until he found a sealed envelope with his name. He opened it carefully as with all important documents, paying care not to rip even the envelope although internally he felt a rushed, greedy desire to read the contents within. The previous night, Mrs. Graham had filled him in—that the Randalls had 'disappeared' through the stones and had related to him the time travel story that Claire had divulged to her seven years before. The story, although fantastic, did coincide with the sparse details that Frank had told him at the time of her initial return.

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Rev. Reginald Wakefield,

I am sure that between Mrs. Graham and the visit of the bank representatives that you have come to learn the strange circumstances that led to Claire's disappearance in 1945 and her reappearance in 1948. I felt uncomfortable at that time to provide those details as I did not fully believe them myself. However, having traveled through the stones at Craigh na Dun and living over forty years myself within the 18th century, I can now testify to the veracity of Claire's story.

I have included several journals of my time here, spanning the more that forty years of my residence. I have also enclosed manuscripts for two books that I would like to be published, posthumously I presume, under my name. One of the most daunting and lamentable drawbacks of being a historian is that people within history most often speak of notable events – they write more of crowns than of chamber pots. So much of people's lives is left unwritten or if it is written, it often does not survive for historians and voyeurs such as myself to soak up. However, when the opportunity presented itself to be part of history, to first-hand interview the individuals that I would have loved to have asked questions as a historian, I just could not pass up this chance. I know the books will be an essential scholarly resource and so I am relying and charging upon you for the sake of scholarship and academic pursuits to see these book manuscripts published. As a historian, I know they will have a substantive impact.

I have also enclosed several papers and books regarding the Jacobite rebellions of 1715 and 1745 that I know you would have a personal interest in having. They are from the library of Lallybroch, given to me by James Fraser, Laird of Broch Tuarach, regent to The MacKenzie Chieftain Hamish at the time of the battle of Culloden Moor, and Brianna's natural father.

As I am a historian of the Jacobite rebellions as well, he entrusted them unto me and I know they can find no better or safer home than with you.

I invite you to read through my journals—some are quite in depth so feel free to skip around or save a thorough reading for a later time. Some are embarrassingly honest, but they are my life and I will be long dead and dust by the time you read them. However, they were my attempt to make sense of my strange trajectory in life and I know of no better place for them. I could not bear to see them go to the flames and I could not risk leaving them about for a servant or grandchild to find.

We shall never meet again so these scant pages of paper and parchment are all that remain of me and our friendship. Please treat them well and know that discretion does not allow me to be more specific, but you have my everlasting gratitude as you have given rise to my daughter's greatest happiness—and therefore mine.

Best regards,

Frank Randall

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Rev. Wakefield read through the letter a second time to make sure he had understood all the details and was still unable to decipher the strange last paragraph regarding Brianna. He waded through the box of papers and easily found the book manuscripts. He set those aside, deciding to read those later and to fulfill the request that Frank had made to get them published. He also bypassed the loose papers that he assumed were the Jacobite Rebellion documents that his friend had mentioned and went for the seven leather-bound journals. Frank had chronicled his daily life for more than forty years before consigning these to the safety of a bank deposit box to wait out one hundred and fifty years until he, Reginald Wakefield, was prepared to read them.

Rev. Wakefield found a similar comfortable couch, across from Mrs. Graham, still reading her letter from Claire, and opened up to the first page of the topmost journal.

15 July 1753

I spent a lovely day with Brianna and tried to block out all that had occurred yesterday. Yesterday, I agreed to end my marriage. I signed 100% of my wife's life away and 75% of my daughter's life. I gave them away to the man who is the cause of all my suffering and now I am feeling bereft and storm-tossed. I'm not sure if I made the correct decision and made the correct trade-off. Only time will tell.

I think Brianna will adapt to life here. She got along well with her cousins and her Aunt Jenny during our outing today. I remember that Rev. Wakefield told me once that 'children accept the world as it is presented to them' or something to that effect. It has been seven years since I heard him say it after all. Jenny Murray was wary of me though. I'm not sure if it's due to my uncanny resemblance to Jack Randall or the time-traveling truths that Fraser told her. However, her concerns hardly matter to me compared to all the losses I've suffered in the last 24 hours. I know that I resolved to start referring to Fraser as Jamie, but it's still too difficult to feel that level of familiarity with that man.

I see Claire and Fraser riding up on a horse outside my guest bedroom window. Fraser is assisting Claire off the horse and down to the ground. He stays in the saddle, but leans down and gives her a searing, elongated kiss. I back up from the window to make sure they can't see me, but I still manage to keep my view. As he's kissing her, he grips the back of her head possessively and when finished with my wife— I mean, Claire—he gives a little satisfied gleam and spurs his horse off to the northern fields.

I can see Claire walking up to the house and I can tell from her stilted stride that she hasn't been in the saddle all day. He's pounded her—hard. I can tell from her stance and gait just how thoroughly he fucked her and I'm fighting the bile and bitterness from rising in my throat. I suppose I should feel grateful that he took her elsewhere so I didn't have to hear her moans and screams. However, I don't. I have to struggle mightily to regain my breathing and slow my heart rate.

Ten minutes have passed and Claire has come and gone. She knocked on my door to check on me and tell me that supper would be ready soon. I have no appetite and tell her that I will not be present at dinner and to continue without me.

I hope that such solitude is not indicative of the remainder of my life…..

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Rev. Wakefield felt that initial entry was far too personal and skipped ahead several pages, hoping to bypass Frank's most intense melancholy.

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28 July 1753

It's been a while since I last wrote in the journal as these last days have been difficult. I have spent these days just floating through time, feeling isolated and alone. I make excuses when necessary, but mostly retreat from the world. I don't want anyone to waste their time worrying after me.

Instead I retreat. Not to my guest room of Fraser's at Lallybroch, thank God. As much as I miss Brianna, I am glad to be gone from his hospitality. Instead, I am on the deck of a ship bound for France, with Fraser's letter to Fraser's cousin in my pocket. I feel glad that there's no one around who knows me. I still feel strange after the regimented, scheduled life of a college professor to have no obligations…and no family to be accountable to. My family now belongs to another man and I suppose I should feel grateful for the agreed-upon scraps as I now live on the periphery of Brianna's life. I try to find solace in having the freedom to feel the sun overhead and the wind in my face. And yet, the rough perilous waves and the relative helplessness of the ship upon these waters is too much a metaphor for my life.

I remember back to one of my last nights at Lallybroch and I had made the mistake of wandering into the stable. I had been restless and didn't want to escape to the library once more after Brianna had gone to bed. I know it must seem strange writing about this event now instead of on the day it happened; however, it was too difficult at the time to process the magnitude of my horror.

Before that moment, the several days prior at Lallybroch had brought, not a peace, but at least a quiet to my thoughts. I go to the stable door, push it open, and then stand there frozen on the threshold. There on a bed of hay, dimly lit by moonbeams shining in through the rafters is Claire—my Claire—on top of Fraser, completely naked and obviously in the middle of having sex. I know her body so well. Her profile is so well known to me, but seeing her—actually seeing her in the throes of sex with another man—was so foreign, so beyond horrific that in that moment I wish I had somehow died in the war or had stayed in the 20th century forever. I stand there, unable to move, unable to hide the astonishment on my face.

Fraser, of course, sees me first over Claire's shoulder and responds with a guttural, "Och."

That causes Claire to turn around to see what had caught Fraser's attention. Seeing me, she tumbles off him and underneath the clothes. Still I don't move. With the shock over, Claire squinches up her eyes and starts breathing fast.

"Frank?"

Hearing her voice stops the spell. I spin out of the entryway of the stable and back outside, leaning against the outside wall.

It is a nightmare. It had played out in my imagination—Claire with Fraser. Claire fucking Fraser. Fraser fucking her. But I had never witnessed it in life and in living color. I struggle against that memory now permanently etched in my brain. I put my hands as fists and dig my nails in the fleshy soft part of his palm until they draw blood.

Claire appears at the doorway. She's dressed quickly; barefoot and obviously still braless or corsetless or whatever women wear in this bloody century. "We've tried to avoid you—not being together in the house," she says softly. "I-I am so sorry. Jamie and I…" Her voice fades out meekly.

"It's not like I should be surprised," my voice sounds dull and lifeless. "It wasn't a total surprise. You've done nothing to apologize for."

She puts her hand on my arm, "Frank, I'm sick about this."

I recoil from her touch, "Look, I'm just going to leave."

"I can't let you leave like this," Claire replies.

"I can't stay. Please don't. PLEASE don't follow me," I call back to her as I stalk back to the house, trying to ignore the fact that it's HIS house.

.

So now I am on a ship bound for France and trying to re-assemble my life. I knew it wouldn't be easy when I first made this choice back at that inn the morning after we found Brianna at the MacGuffins. And yet, I never thought it would be this heart-wrenching either.

23 November 1753

It is Brianna's birthday. She is in Scotland with her mother and Fraser and I am hundreds of miles away from her in Paris I miss her dreadfully and six months remain until I see her again. Whenever I see something here that I know she would love, I am reminded again of how much of her life I am missing. All of the sights—Versailles in all its intended glory, Paris in its unpaved filth without modern conveniences, Notre Dame with its glorious stained glass windows. Whenever I see something new or interesting, I want to show it to her and then I remember once more how far away from me that she lives.

I am with Fraser's cousin, Jared. From all appearances, Fraser wrote a glowing letter of recommendation and introduction about me to his wealthy cousin and, as promised, I have been introduced to the most influential people within the French court. My heart lies in England and while I make inroads here, I am constantly looking for opportunities to transfer my singular skills and experience over to England so that I may be independent and not be forced to rely upon any Fraser. I am grateful to Jared Fraser and he is an amiable fellow, but still a Fraser and forever tainted as a result.

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Rev. Wakefield thumbed forward several more pages hoping that Frank managed to find a way out of his melancholia. He knew something of the ending from Frank's letter and he intended to read all the journal entries from beginning to end, but he wanted to move forward to Frank's hopeful resolution.

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14 September 1754

I am on the road, traveling back to London from Lallybroch. I delivered Brianna back there after our summer together and I had a stilted, but not awful visit with Claire and Jamie. Before I departed, I gave a difficult farewell to Brianna, knowing that I wouldn't see her again for nine months, but I feel glad that our summer together went so well.

Claire seems happy and I witness a contentment for her that I never saw in Boston. I do feel glad for her. She travels far and wide around the county providing help and medical care to whoever needs it. At least three times during my stay, someone arrived in a frenzy of worry about an injury, illness, or childbirth. If it was far or would go into the night, then Jamie or Fergus would accompany her. It is gratifying to see that she is able to use her medical knowledge here and that her patients are grateful for her. I remember too often her frustration in Boston because she was often confronted with hateful comments from her male colleagues who resented her for 'taking the spot in medical school that rightfully belonged to a man because she would just have babies and drop out.'

This entry is difficult to write because my last night at Lallybroch, I had a puzzling and upsetting dream. In fact I was not supposed to leave as early as I did, but no power on earth could compel me to stay. I fled that place as though there was a devil behind me. My dream was far too vivid and…and shall I just say disturbingly arousing.

I dreamt I was in a dungeon with Jamie. I was clothed in the uniform of an English Redcoat and had long hair pulled back in a leather tie. I have Jamie under my power and I perform vile acts on him.

I honestly don't know what it means. I don't know if the Black Jack Randall part of me resurfaces when I come to Lallybroch. His ghost may be infecting me, I may be the reincarnation of Jack Randall, or this may merely be the psychological way I work out my continuing resentment of James Fraser.

The resentment of last year—of these last ten years, really—is fading and seeing Claire happy, even if it isn't with me, does give me some minuscule measure of satisfaction.

That dream did seem to come from nowhere. The night before we had a decent supper conversation. Jamie and I are able to joke and be light-hearted together as long as Claire, Brianna, or Ian are around as a buffer. If it's just Jamie and me, then it's awkward and stilted as all hell. So Claire, Jenny, Ian, Jamie, and I are up late, plied with good Scottish whisky and I am truly enjoying the conversation. Sometimes, I pretend that I am fine for politeness sake and other times, like last night, it's genuine. The genuine times of feeling content during this visit outnumbered the fake times and I hope that next year it will be even more. I then go up to sleep first as I still want to avoid watching Claire going into the Laird's bedroom. It's stupid, I know, especially after horrifically and accidentally catching them in the act of lovemaking last year in the stable.

Perhaps last night's dream was just my subconscious self reminding me of Jamie's theft of my family and that I am betraying myself by enjoying myself. That perhaps I should be getting revenge instead. I truly don't want vengeance and yet I found such pleasure, such erotic pleasure in that dream last night. It had felt wonderful to see Jamie broken and yet this morning the memory of it made me nauseous.

The dream felt all too real. And I wonder if it's part of the strange connection tying Claire, Jamie, Jack, and me together and part of the supernatural mystery of why I was able to accompany Claire through the stones. In 1945 after she went missing, I had gone to the stones, spurred by Mrs. Graham's stories and I had touched the stones on that day. Nothing happened. Today after I left Lallybroch this morning, I traveled to Craigh na Dun out of curiosity. I did not hear the buzzing that Claire and Brianna spoke of and when I touched the stones, nothing happened. Unlike Claire and Brianna, I cannot go through on my own. Through some strange quirk of fate, I was only able to accompany Claire.

However, the dream made me wonder if Jack Randall was a bigger part of my ability and a bigger part of my life and past than I had thought. Before, I had identified the darker forces in my heart and mind as Black Jack Randall, but that was really more to give those dark compulsions a name and a face.

I know this journal entry is rambling and perhaps I should tear out the pages and begin again with something more coherent, but I'm still trying to make sense of that dream. It truly was more memory than dream with such specific recollections and eliciting such genuine emotions. If it was a memory, then it had to have come from Black Jack Randall and that leaves me with so many questions. What is my connection to him? How much like him am I? Do I carry his spirit in me and not just his genes?

I could never ask Jamie about those specifics of my dream-memory. Even in my moments of greatest hatred and greatest resentment of Jamie, I could never ask him—Did Jack Randall really make you swallow? Did Jack Randall really ask you to wait for him? I could never ask any such thing.

All that I could do this morning was find Claire and ask her a seemingly benign question, but it gave me the answer I needed. The answer that got me out of Lallybroch within the hour. I asked her if she'd ever used Oil of Lavender. With my question, she dropped the glass she was holding and her expression of confusion and undisguised horror told me all that I needed to know.

Last year when we were searching for Brianna and Jamie had scarred my face and told me the truth about Jack Randall, he had never mentioned any of those details from my dream-memory. And yet, somehow I know now.

I don't know what this all means. This deep connection with Jack Randall is like the time travel through the stones. It's yet another violation of logic and natural law. This is an unfathomable mystery and like the mystery of Craigh na Dun, I may never get any answers. While Jack Randall may have an even more powerful hold over me than even I predicted, I am still my own man. I will not be guided by him or have my life's decisions dictated by him. That man's perverse and self-serving sadism does not drive me. However, I should use this dream-memory as a warning, as a signpost, as an omen—that I need to stay far away from the dark path and dark thoughts lest they overtake my soul.

28 August 1755

Brianna and I arrived back at Lallybroch today in a flurry of activity. We walk through the front door and I immediately hear Claire screaming from an upstairs room. This day was momentous which is why I chose to write it out in such complete detail, even though it is late at night and I am quite weary from my travels. I want to make sure I recall all details about this night.

"Claire is in labor," Jamie told me upon entering. Brianna had thrown herself into his arms with an exclaimed "Papa!" that I tried not to think of as traitorous. Claire had told me by letter that she was expecting and I had immediately forgotten it. It reminded me too much of her confession to me right before I left Lallybroch two years ago when she told me that she was able to have children after all and the implication that she had lied because she only wanted to have his children.

Although two years had passed since that confession and I had worked my way high up in the English monarchy now where I wanted to be, I still felt the sting of rejection and of that lost life. Claire was in labor which explained why Jenny was absent. However, there was an extra boy among the throng that I hadn't remembered as being among Jenny's brood.

For two hours, Jaime and I had stilted conversation and I tried to block out the memory of Brianna's delivery nine years earlier in which I was the expectant father in the hospital waiting room and now I was a mere bystander and paying witness to Jamie's nervousness. Brianna, as the new arrival, had the right of conversation and regaled the cousins and the new boy with tales of our summer in Edinburgh and the big city. I had noticed that she hardly ever spoke of our old life in Boston and the new-fangled inventions that weren't part of life in Lallybroch or Edinburgh. It seemed that Disney characters, automobiles, and hamburgers had largely faded from her consciousness and I certainly wasn't going to bring them up to her.

To try to calm Jamie's incessant pacing, I attempt to mollify him saying, "Claire's strong and determined. I'm sure she's directing this delivery. In fact, I can just picture Claire with the forceps, reaching up in, and performing the surgery herself."

Jamie smiles knowingly at that image and then his face shadows over as though I shouldn't be picturing his wife in her current state, even in jest. I take a deep calming breath as it has taken a long time—years, obviously—to get to this state of tolerance between Jamie and me.

We finally heard the piercing, conversation-stopping cry of a newborn and I watch Jamie go pounding up the stairs. Ten minutes later, a beautiful young woman, probably in her late twenties, enters the salon and says to the still-unknown boy, "Denys…" and then her eyes landed on me and she fell silent.

She faints in that moment and I rush to her aid. Her son, as I then surmise from the repeated calls of 'Mama', rushes beside her and I ask Brianna to bring a glass of water for the lady.

She finally stirs and when I look into her eyes, I must admit I feel a strange stirring in my breast. Even as I write these words, I shake my head in consternation as this reaction resembles a penny novel or radio soap opera drama and yet I must testify to that strange powerful knowing and certainty I feel in that moment.

When she opens her eyes, she looks confused and haunted, "Alex?" she asks, and then "Jack?"

"No, I'm Frank, Frank Randall. I'm a distant relative." I reply a little haltingly, still unsure of the identity of this woman and it isn't exactly an opportune time to ask Claire to make introductions. However, I assume this woman has been upstairs assisting with Claire's delivery and could provide news about my former wife and her new baby.

"Can you tell me about Claire and the baby? Are they okay?" I ask.

"Frank Randall?" she replies, still trying to come to coherence. "Have you met Denys?"

And then it hits me. Denys. Denys Randall. Son—supposed son of Jack Randall which makes this…

"Mary Hawkins" I say as though reading her name off the genealogy page I had formulated in the 20th century. She is my I-forget-how-many-greats grandmother. The one I was just telling myself had sparked a 'stirring in my breast.'

"Mary Hawkins Randall," she corrects me, shyly. She waits a few moments as though too timid and too unable to meet my gaze, but then she does…

She's beautiful. History never tells you how beautiful a person is. Their entire life is just reduced to their name, their marriage, their births. The spark of individuality…of uniqueness is obliterated with the ink strokes and the distilling down to a mere family tree as though Mary Hawkins sole purpose in life was to create the family line that spawned…me. But she was far, far more than that.

This blessed woman in this moment has even made me forget my misery of the last two hours as I had awaited Claire to, yet again, give birth to another man's child. I thank her silently for the sweet instant of forgetfulness.

"The baby?" I prompt.

"Little boy. Healthy. Claire—I mean—Lady Broch Tuarach—wishes him to be called Murtagh Henry Fraser."

I smile. "Henry after her father," and she nods with obvious surprise at my in-depth knowledge of Claire's life. I add "You can call her Claire with me. I know her well. I wonder if Fraser will allow the Henry to stand considering all the English kings with the name." I say that with a conspiratorial smile as though we are two loyal English subjects finding a commonality in a foreign land.

She smiles back and it seems that all the slights and indignities of this evening are brushed away into the past as though they are nothing.

31 August 1755

I never thought I would write these words, but I am actually enjoying my time here at Lallybroch. I am here at Lallybroch—with Claire and her husband and her new baby who was sired by that husband—and yet I am having a wonderful holiday.

It is late, but I must record this evening's activities before retiring for the night.

We were in the sitting room together. Jenny was putting the children to bed and Ian was out in the barn with Fergus who still avoids me whenever I come around due to my resemblance to Jack Randall. He isn't rude of course and I do my best to keep my distance also to make it easier for him. Settled in the sitting room, it was Fraser, Claire with her newborn, Mary, and myself.

The baby starts to cry so Claire begins to nurse right there in front of all of us, apparently oblivious to the scandal she is creating with her own husband and her good friend. Openly breastfeeding in front of friends is still shocking in our century and she didn't go to those lengths too often with Brianna when she was a baby.

However, when Brianna was a baby and if Claire got annoyed with my Harvard colleagues while we were hosting a dinner party, then she would pull out a breast in their company and set Brianna to feeding. I would know then that it was time to end our dinner party. Although I felt at the time that I had to give the outward appearance of shock and consternation, I had been inwardly smiling that Claire was…well…forever Claire.

Mary bolts to her feet at the sight and exclaims, "Pardon me, I believe I need some air." I smile since Mary had assisted in the delivery, but ingrained instincts are difficult to combat with logic.

I stand then too, "I believe I should like to escort you—if I may." She nods slightly and heads for the parlour door, not giving a backward glance at Claire. I do, not feeling at all shy about the situation as I have seen Claire in this state of undress far too many times. I do not miss her knowing wink though as if she were trying to engineer a way for Mary and I to have a walk alone.

Although Mary has already drifted to the front door, I linger just outside the door of the parlour as I catch Fraser's censure, "I canna believe ye did that."

"What? I'm sure Mary has nursed her own son and I've done that many times in front of Frank with Brianna."

"Donna remind me, Sassenach." I hear a pause and then Claire's high, soft laughter. A few moment's later, I hear Fraser's baritone and I wish I had moved on from the door, "So do ye think wee Murtagh wants all ye offering or may I have a taste?"

Claire replies, forever the forward woman with no hint of timidity of asking for what she wants, "There's one for eachof you. I doubt Murtagh would mind sharing."

Although it doesn't bother me as much as it once would have, I heard enough of Fraser's and Claire's continued love affair at that point and I rush to join Mary at the door of the house.

I catch up with Mary outside close to the paddock. She gives me a half smile that I truly find endearing. I'm not kidding myself, she is much younger than me, probably about 25 years old and yet motherhood and experience has brought a knowing to her eyes and her demeanor that allows me to bridge the age gap in my mind. I don't know all the details of her life. She obviously had Denys when she was young. I silently curse myself that I hadn't learned her date of birth when chronicling her place in my genealogy. As though the sum total of her existence was birthing her son so that he his descendant could sire me.

I figure that Claire knows far more about Mary's background, but I'm reticent to speak to my ex-wife and tell her that my I-forget-how-many-greats grandmother is the the woman who has caught my interest.

"Frank," Mary begins. Bless her heart for breaking the awkward silence! "Did you ever meet your relatives? Alex or Jonathan?"

I shake my head. My strange dream about Black Jack with Jamie last year shouldn't count. Thankfully, it hadn't been repeated since then even when Jamie brought Brianna to me at the beginning of summer or now that I've returned to Lallybroch.

"It must have been difficult for you," I say, "Losing Denys' father and becoming a widow so young."

She nods in agreement, not as one overcome by grief but one who has endured and survived. "Yes, life has been harsh and yet I hope I have proven equal to my hardships. I try to hide them though. My family doesn't wish to see them and my son doesn't deserve to be overwhelmed by them."

I fall into my now familiar habit of quoting Shakespeare. This particular passage has proven especially poignant to me because of Craigh na Dun's disruptive power over my life.

"Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale:
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears and seem to weep with me"

"Titus Andronicus," Mary answers.

I look at her with even more interest and amazement. "You knowShakespeare that well?" I ask.

"Yes," she admits with a shy smile. "I must admit that I have trouble finding my own words. I sometimes find myself far too shy and so I will sometimes rely on others and use their words instead of my own. I have found myself partial to Master Shakespeare. My father has a copy of his second folio and he voices the thoughts of women better than any other writer that I know—considering that all writers are men of course."

I give a rueful smile at that knowing that Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte are more than fifty years in the future and until such time, women must be generally content with portrayals of their sex as written by men, characters such as Ophelia and Juliet—women who killed themselves when love was lost.

I don't say anything about that although I make a mental note to mention to Claire that she's totally right to encourage Brianna in her storytelling and writing abilities.

Mary places a tentative hand on my forearm, her earnest eyes imploring mine to believe her, "I have learned that life can be difficult. Want-to-die difficult. However, if you fight through the pain, then there can be profound happiness waiting for you. I hope that despite whatever sadness you've endured that you haven't given up that hope." She pauses, shy and reticent, and as though debating whether she should proceed, "I can see the goodness in you. Goodness like your relative and Denys father, Alex Randall. Goodness that I never saw in his brother and my husband that was in name only, Jack Randall."

I take her hand, "Judge me for me. Don't compare me to my relatives. I have had enough comparing and judgment for a lifetime. If you wish to be my friend, then let it be for me alone and not for my family or for my resemblance to anyone from your past." I pause and give more weight than I intend for this next sentence. "For I am tired of competing with ghosts and I have no intention of repeating that ever."

She squeezes my hand and I must admit that gesture gives me a great giddy hope. So much so that I may tear out these pages at a later date if these hopes prove hollow.

Mary goes up on tiptoe, leans in as though imparting a great secret, "I feel strangely courageous when I am with you as though I can say things that I am too shy to admit to anyone else. There are no ghosts when I am with you."

She let go of my hand after that admission and made a mad dash back to the house, leaving me to stare after her and contemplate all that had occurred.

1 September 1755

I am reading as per usual this morning in the Lallybroch library when Claire found me. It seemed to be a rare moment that the new baby was sleeping and I felt strangely flattered that she had taken that brief moment of freedom to seek me out.

She starts with a smile, "We haven't really had a chance to talk."

"You've been busy," I say without any hint of malice. I feel the transition to friendship and to platonic friends far more on this trip to Lallybroch than ever before.

"I was hoping we could talk and I was curious if you have any questions about Mary. I'm willing to speak of my past acquaintance with her—if you like," Claire offers.

A year ago, I probably would have felt suspicious and resentful as though she was trying to play matchmaker for Mary and me in order to pawn off any lingering sense of responsibility or obligation for my broken heart. However, now I feel her motives as genuine and that she's making a sincere offer.

Feeling a shyness I don't often experience, I nod. "Am I that obvious?" I ask.

Claire pulls up a wingback chair close to me, "You and Mary both are obvious. However, I shall speak of Mary without commentary or editorializing. Whatever you decide to do with this information is your own business. I promise you that I will not interfere."

"Will you have a similar conversation about me with Mary?"

Claire shakes her head and smiles at that, "I think that Mary would need to be practically family before that conversation occurs."

I look away, starting to feel embarrassed about this conversation, but Claire thankfully plunges forth anyway.

"I first met Mary in Paris when she was 15 and she was sheltered and naïve about life and men. Unknown to her, her uncle was arranging for her marriage to an old widower. She met Alex Randall at that time and they started up a courtship. She was kind-hearted and industrious, preferring to be useful by helping me with patients at L'Hopital des Anges instead of the endless teas and social calls that most society women engaged in. One night walking home, we were set upon and Mary was assaulted. As she was no longer a virgin, it ruined her uncle's wedding plans and she went into self-imposed exile in Scotland with Alex. Alex became sick with tuberculosis and she was pregnant with Denys. Alex asked his brother to marry her for him. Apparently the only person that Jack Randall was ever decent to was his brother. Knowing that Jack Randall was scheduled to die soon at Culloden as well, I encouraged Mary to go through with the marriage, figuring Jack's pension and estate would give her and the baby a chance in life. By necessity and by experience, Mary has grown a lot in the ten years I've known her. And motherhood has also been good for her."

I stay silent throughout Claire's talk, feeling sick to know that Mary had been raped when little more than a girl and the sick irony to imagine that she had been wedded to the disgusting rapist Jack Randall.

"Did Jack Randall ever hurt her?" I ask. It's an important question, considering my resemblance to the man. If he had, then it was irrevocably over between us.

Claire shakes her head. "Thankfully she was widowed two days later so the man never really had a chance. Luckily for those few days, his penchant never truly ran towards women which limited her attractiveness to him. And besides, his compassion for his brother extended somewhat for the mother of Alex's child."

I feel some relief at her answer. At least the potential for Mary and me still exists.

Claire bites her lip as though she's about to start a different, difficult topic, "Speaking of Jack Randall, I haven't been able to get your last morning here last year out of my mind. I haven't wanted to bring up the topic by letter."

"I had a dream," I interrupt.

"About Jack Randall with oil of Lavender?" she prompts.

I nod, "I had a dream in which I put Jamie through a night of hell. I dreamt that I was Jack although the details were so vivid and seemingly accurate and true-to-life that it almost seems like a memory and not a dream." I stop and shake my head, "I don't know what it means."

"You'd never heard about Jack Randall using oil of lavender like that before your dream? Never knew those sorts of details?"

"How would I know?"

Like so many of the other mysteries surrounding our strange travels, Claire has no answer for that question.

I continue on, "That's the only dream I've had like that. None before and none since. And yet I've thought a lot about it. I'm not sure if it was my remaining resentment towards Jamie working itself out or if it was a genuine memory that could have only been supplied by ancestor and if I am, in some way, a reincarnation of him. I just don't know Claire."

Claire looks like she's about to be sick, "Look, Jamie has told me some of what occurred that night. Will you tell me your dream and I will see how close they align?"

Reluctant to recall the specifics of that dream and disgusted to speak of them, I still obey her request. I try to describe it clinically and detached. When I get to the part about the cattle, she puts up her hand indicating for me to stop before swiping away her tears.

Claire stays silent for a long moment, contemplating her next words to me, "I seriously doubt your dream means anything cataclysmic about you, Jack Randall, or your future. Through all of the bizarre happenings with the stones, I've learned that fate puts strange choices in front of us, but ultimately the path we take in this life is our own. Jack Randall is dead. He's not coming back and you are not him. Do you hear me Frank Randall? You aren't him. You are your own man and he doesn't decide your existence or your actions. You were good to me—very good—to me two years ago with the way you agreed to end our marriage and you could have been very much the opposite. That was you—that was all you. And unlike Jack Randall, you deserve all the happiness in this life that you can find."

Automatically I nod, but I will need to do a lot of soul-searching about myself before moving forward seriously with Mary. With everything in her past, she doesn't need to be married to someone with the ghost of the late Jack Randall inhabiting him. "I'm going to ask Mary if I may escort her and Denys back to their home."

Claire reaches out and squeezes my hand. It's the first time she's initiated contact between us in two years. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

23 December 1755

Today is my wedding day. Today, I marry Mary Hawkins Randall and become a father yet again to another man's child. The only thing that would make this day perfect was if Brianna was here too and could witness it. It feels strange, I am marrying into my own family. I am marrying my great-great-great-great grandmother and surrounded by her family which is my family and yet I have almost no one to stand up with me. We are marrying at St. George's Chapel at Windsor Castle. I am now a trusted advisor of King George II and his majesty has offered us the honor of this exalted Chapel for the occasion. I was last here at this Chapel soon after the internment of King George VI following his death in 1952 and I remember seeing at that time the now-future grave of King George III. It feels strange being married here—future and past are colliding together.

I love Mary. I truly feel sated, happy, and content with her in my life. I know I can be a good father to her son Denys and continue to be a good father to Brianna. I feel hope with her—hope for a long and happy life—far more than I did with Claire in which circumstances of the war, Craigh na Dun, and Jamie's ghost kept interfering.

After Mary consented to be my wife, I told her the truth about my past—about coming from the future, about my relation to her, my sterility, and that I had been married to Claire. I also told her that if she chose to walk away knowing that truth then I would bear her no ill will and that I would only ask her discretion to not divulge those truths. I think knowing that I had been married to Claire was the most difficult part of my past for her to accept and there were a few tension-filled days in which I didn't know if we would be married. At one point, she even slapped me, but I took that more as a sign for her deeply buried passion since she kissed me fiercely soon afterwards. Knowing her as I do, shy and reticent where Claire is assertive and forthright, I know how difficult a chasm that was for her to cross. In the end, she made me swear that she knew all my secrets and that I would never keep more from her. Like a proper gentleman of her century, I went to my knees and pledged to her that she knew everything of importance about my life.

The wedding vows of this century ask for the bride to 'obey' her husband. That will feel strange for me to hear as I'm still very much a product of the 20th century and Black Jack's penchant and desire for submission has never made strong inroads into my own heart. I asked the Chapel Dean about removing that passage and he gave me such a scandalous look of reproach that I let the matter drop. It did make me wonder if Claire made such a promise to Jamie in her wedding vows. I will have to cajole her about that point when I see her next August as I can't imagine Claire vowing to obey anybody. I'm not saying that in bitterness—truly all bitterness about the past and our marriage has passed and I now focus on the positive aspects. Claire gave me Brianna and I was exclusively her father for seven years and she brought me into this tremendous life here. I have had opportunities beyond imagining here and I've been able to take full advantage of my knowledge of this century's history. It has made me well-informed and able to provide never-wrong advice that is indispensable to his majesty. I have a life here that would never have been possible buried in academia in Oxford or Harvard in the 20th century.

So a wedding day is a wonderful time to put an end to one part of your life as you begin another chapter. And so I put behind me all the negative aspects of my marriage to Claire, my resentment of Jamie, and any lingering affinity to Black Jack Randall. I know that I have Mary's love and her whole heart. Her love for me is as true as Claire's love that I've witnessed for Jamie. I do not fear the past, the future, or any lingering ghosts. I used to curse the stones of Craigh na Dun for the unhappiness they brought me in the 20th century, but now I am grateful to them for the profound contentment I have found in the 18th century. It has been a long and winding road to bring me to this point—a decade of heartache and headaches—but it has brought me true appreciation for this amazing woman that I will pledge myself to today. Mary Hawkins Randall has my heart, my love, and my fidelity.

.

Rev. Wakefield inserted a bookmark at that page, glanced over at Mrs. Graham who had moved on from Claire's letter to what appeared to be a published book. He had been sitting and reading for quite a while and that page ending with Frank's second wedding seemed like an ideal point to take a break. He was glad to read that his friend had found happiness and love again. The reverend stood up and ascended the stairs to check on his own son, Roger.