"Tea," Brianna said with relief.
"You don't know what you're missing," Claire told her daughter, inhaling the whisky fumes with rapture.
"Oh yes I do," Brianna replied. "That's why I'm missing it." She shrugged and quirked an eyebrow at Roger.
"You have to be twenty-one before you can drink legally in Massachusetts," Claire explained to Roger. "Bree has another eight months to go, so she really isn't used to whisky."
"You act as though not liking whisky was a crime," Brianna protested, smiling at Roger above her teacup.
He raised his own brows in response. "My dear woman," he said severely. "This is Scotland. Of course not liking whisky is a crime!"
"Oh, aye?" said Brianna sweetly, in a perfect imitation of his own slight Scots burr. "Well, we'll hope it's no a capital offense like murrderrr, shall we?"
Taken by surprise, he swallowed a laugh with his whisky and choked. Coughing and pounding himself on the chest, he glanced at Claire to share the joke. A forced smile hung on her lips, but her face had gone quite pale. Then she blinked, the smile came back more naturally, and the moment passed.
Roger was surprised at how easily conversation flowed among them—both about trivialities, and about Claire's project. Brianna clearly had been interested in her father's work, and knew a great deal more about the Jacobites than did her mother.
"It's amazing they ever made it as far as Culloden," she said. "Did you know the Highlanders won the battle of Prestonpans with barely two thousand men? Against an English army of eight thousand? Incredible!"
"Well, and the Battle of Falkirk was nearly that way as well," Roger chimed in. "Outnumbered, outarmed, marching on foot…they should never have been able to do what they did…but they did!"
"Um-hm," said Claire, taking a deep gulp of her whisky. "They did!"
"I was thinking," Roger said to Brianna, with an assumed air of casualness. "Perhaps you'd like to come with me to some of the places—the battle sites and other places? They're interesting, and I'm sure you'd be a tremendous help with the research."
Brianna laughed and smoothed back her hair, which had a tendency to drop into her tea. "I don't know about the help, but I'd love to come."
"Terrific!" Surprised and elated with her agreement, he fumbled for the decanter and nearly dropped it. Claire fielded it neatly, and filled his glass with precision.
"The least I can do, after spilling it the last time," she said, smiling in answer to his thanks.
Seeing her now, poised and relaxed, Roger was inclined to doubt his earlier suspicions. Maybe it had been an accident after all? That lovely cool face told him nothing.
A half-hour later, the tea table lay in shambles, the decanter stood empty, and the three of them sat in a shared stupor of content. Brianna shifted once or twice, glanced at Roger, and finally asked if she might use his "rest room."
"Oh, the W.C.? Of course." He heaved himself to his feet, ponderous with Dundee cake and almond sponge. If he didn't get away from Fiona soon, he'd weigh three hundred pounds before he got back to Oxford.
"It's one of the old-fashioned kind," he explained, pointing down the hall in the direction of the bathroom. "With a tank on the ceiling and a pull-chain."
"I saw some of those in the British Museum," Brianna said, nodding. "Only they weren't in with the exhibits, they were in the ladies' room." She hesitated, then asked, "You haven't got the same sort of toilet paper they have in the British Museum, do you? Because if you do, I've got some Kleenex in my purse."
Roger closed one eye and looked at her with the other. "Either that's a very odd non sequitur," he said, "or I've drunk a good deal more than I thought." In fact, he and Claire had accounted very satisfactorily for the Muir Breame, though Brianna had confined herself to tea.
Claire laughed, overhearing the exchange, and got up to hand Brianna several folded facial tissues from her own bag. "It won't be waxed paper stamped with ‘Property of H.M. Government,' like the Museum's, but it likely won't be much better," she told her daughter. "British toilet paper is commonly rather a stiff article."
"Thanks." Brianna took the tissues and turned to the door, but then turned back. "Why on earth would people deliberately make toilet paper that feels like tinfoil?" she demanded.
"Hearts of oak are our men," Roger intoned, "stainless steel are their bums. It builds the national character."
"In the case of Scots, I expect it's hereditary nerve-deadening," Claire added. "The sort of men who could ride horse-back wearing a kilt have bottoms like saddle leather."
Brianna fizzed with laughter. "I'd hate to see what they used for toilet paper then," she said.
"Actually, it wasn't bad," Claire said, surprisingly. "Mullein leaves are really very nice; quite as good as two-ply bathroom tissue. And in the winter or indoors, it was usually a bit of damp rag; not very sanitary, but comfortable enough."
Roger and Brianna both gawked at her for a moment.
"Er…read it in a book," she said, and blushed amazingly.
As Brianna, still giggling, made her way off in search of the facilities, Claire remained standing by the door.
"It was awfully nice of you to entertain us so grandly," she said, smiling at Roger. The momentary discomposure had vanished, replaced by her usual poise. "And remarkably kind of you to have found out about those names for me."
"My pleasure entirely," Roger assured her. "It's made a nice change from cobwebs and mothballs. I'll let you know as soon as I've found out anything else about your Jacobites."
"Thank you." Claire hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. "Actually, since Bree's gone for the moment…there's something I wanted to ask you, in private."
Roger cleared his throat and straightened the tie he had donned in honor of the occasion.
"Ask away," he said, feeling cheerfully expansive with the success of the tea party. "I'm completely at your service."
"You were asking Bree if she'd go with you to do field research. I wanted to ask you…there's a place I'd rather you didn't take her, if you don't mind."
Alarm bells went off at once in Roger's head. Was he going to find out what the secret was about Broch Tuarach?
"The circle of standing stones—they call it Craigh na Dun." Claire's face was earnest as she leaned slightly closer. "There's an important reason, or I wouldn't ask. I want to take Brianna to the circle myself, but I'm afraid I can't tell you why, just now. I will, in time, but not quite yet. Will you promise me?"
Thoughts were chasing themselves through Roger's mind. So it hadn't been Broch Tuarach she wanted to keep the girl away from, after all! One mystery was explained, only to deepen another.
"If you like," he said at last. "Of course."
"Thank you." She touched his arm once, lightly, and turned to go. Seeing her silhouetted against the light, he was suddenly reminded of something. Perhaps it wasn't the moment to ask, but it couldn't do any harm.
"Oh, Dr. Randall—Claire?"
Claire turned back to face him. With the distractions of Brianna removed, he could see that Claire Randall was a very beautiful woman in her own right. Her face was flushed from the whisky, and her eyes were the most unusual light golden-brown color, he thought—like amber in crystal.
"In all the records that I found dealing with these men," Roger said, choosing his words carefully, "there was a mention of a Captain James Fraser, who seems to have been their leader. But he wasn't on your list. I only wondered; did you know about him?"
She stood stock-still for a moment, reminding him of the way she had behaved upon her arrival that afternoon. But after a moment, she shook herself slightly, and answered with apparent equanimity.
"Yes, I knew about him." She spoke calmly, but all the color had left her face, and Roger could see a small pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.
"I didn't put him on the list because I already knew what happened to him. Jamie Fraser died at Culloden."
"Are you sure?"
As though anxious to leave, Claire scooped up her handbag, and glanced down the hall toward the bathroom, where the rattling of the ancient knob indicated Brianna's attempts to get out.
"Yes," she said, not looking back. "I'm quite sure. Oh, Mr. Wakefield…Roger, I mean." She swung back now, fixing those oddly colored eyes on him. In this light, they looked almost yellow, he thought; the eyes of a big cat, a leopard's eyes.
"Please," she said, "don't mention Jamie Fraser to my daughter."
It was late, and he should have been abed long since, but Roger found himself unable to sleep. Whether from the aggravations of Fiona, the puzzling contradictions of Claire Randall, or from exaltation over the prospect of doing field research with Brianna Randall, he was wide-awake, and likely to remain so. Rather than toss, turn, or count sheep, he resolved to put his wakefulness to good use. A rummage through the Reverend's papers would probably put him to sleep in no time.
Fiona's light down the hall was still on, but he tiptoed down the stair, not to disturb her. Then, snapping on the study light, he stood for a moment, contemplating the magnitude of the task before him.