#malcolm grant

Good manners and common sense could only carry him so far, in this century or any other - as in war, there were some contingencies that simply could not be planned for. He’d been told on the carriage ride to Leoch about Red Jacob Mackenzie and his two feuding sons, and in due course had met them and found them as described - Colum, the elder, limping and shrewd, and Dougal the younger suspicious and bitter. The daughters were worth only a passing comment from Isaac, there being three, and two already married, and Henry had noticed how Malcolm’s eyes lit up at the mention of the eldest - Ellen, with the flame-red hair.

Would he be so keen on her now that her brother had given him a beating? It was because of Ellen MacKenzie that they were in this mess in the first place. Lost, her brother Dougal said, and assumed to be with Malcolm, as if the son of a great house would stoop to stealing a lady the way some men would steal kine. But then, Henry supposed they still read Ovid here, and Ellen MacKenzie would make a likely looking Sabine if or when the day came.

“We’ll stop at Sandy Beaton’s first,” Archie had pronounced as they neared home, Malcolm wincing in his saddle, and no one offered a counterpoint. Henry spent a moment staring at the red and white striped pole outside the place where they were stopping wondering why Malcolm would need a haircut before remembering, from some distant schoolroom, that in this time a man could be both barber and surgeon both.

Both Archie and Henry had to duck on their way into the shop, the ceiling low and dark-timbered, and Henry’s eyes adjusted for a moment to the scene beyond, bright by some standards, the dim sunlight outside coming in from a pair of mullioned windows that must have been ruinously expensive. Sandy Beaton, it seemed, did well by his trade. The man himself was in the front room, an older gentleman of fifty or so with a spare frame,  an apron buttoned over his waistcoat, and his hair starting to pale to white in its queue. A man of several businesses, it seemed - around him looked to be all the makings of an apothecary’s shop. He’d been instructing a young woman over what looked to be a tray of pills, which she was carefully counting into a jar. A quick assessment of the same straw-colored hair led Henry to believe this was his daughter. “Archie Bug,” he said, watching carefully as the three men came inside. “If you’re looking for the alehouse you ken very well it’s down the lane.”

“Young master’s had a spot of bother,” Archie pronounced, producing Malcolm from behind him, looking very much the worse for wear. His eyebrow had finally scabbed over and his lip was puffy, and the beginnings of a bruise were starting to purple the orbit of his eye. “Want you to take a look before we go home.”

“And how’s the other fellow look, Master Malcolm?” Sandy asked, as polite as can be, stepping away from the task in front of him to send a passing glance over his injuries. (The daughter, too, looked to be doing her own inspection from further off - a family trade, obviously.)

“None the worse,” Malcolm reported miserably, wincing again as Beaton’s hand inspected the cut near his eye.

“He took a few blows to the ribs,” Archie added, watching. “Want to know if there’s summat broken.”

“Now, you can’t be telling your father that,” Sandy said with a mirthless chuckle. “Step through and we’ll see what can be done, and we’ll leave -” he looked at Henry and realized he was missing a name. “I don’t think I know you.”

“Henry Grant,” Henry offered, stepping forward and trying not to knock his head on a beam. “I’m the new bladier.”

Mr. Beaton nodded, his suspicion at hearing Henry’s voice plainly evident in his face. It was the same expression everyone else had been making for the last several weeks - a sassenach. “We’ll leave Mr. Grant here while we try to work on a better story.” And perhaps Mr. Grant can work on his story, too.

The three of them stepped through to the room beyond, Archie ungraciously closing the door behind them, and Henry found himself alone in the front room. The others were waiting outside, joking among themselves - and that was another thing that hadn’t changed, wasn’t it? An officer never drank with his men. He was the bladier, a position of rank, and supposed to be above such things. Not that they would have joked with him, anyway - all the laughter dried up when he was within earshot. 

But Beaton’s daughter, it seemed, had no such reservations. She laid aside her pill bottle, carefully stoppered it, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Will you take something to drink, while the young master is with my father? He didn’t seem too close to death, so I’m sure they won’t be long.”

“That’d be lovely, thank you,” Henry said carefully, mindful that unmarried daughters could be their own brand of trouble. “But I don’t want to put you out.”

“Tis no trouble,” she assured him, putting the bottle of fresh pills on the shelf and setting the rolling tray aside for another project. “We’ve plenty of small beer, or wine, though the brandy is in with my father. The laird  keeps us well supplied, for the physic.”

“A small glass, then,” Henry said, trying to be easy to please. “Of whatever’s to hand.”

She nodded, and went through a second door for cup and bottle, and Henry found a place to stand out of her way, his back towards another shelf of jars, one eye towards the windows at the front and another towards the door where Beaton and the others had gone. His own hand was a touch sore, but that would pass - the MacKenzies had hard jaws. What would they tell Isaac about the whole sorry thing? It would almost be better if they had taken Ellen, although he was sure Isaac would have clouted his son for that, too. Grant considered himself a man of breeding, still a Scotsman but a step above the petty feuds and cattle raids of his neighbors, and stealing a girl was not part of the reputation he wanted to cultivate.

“You were a soldier once, Mr. Grant.” Miss Beaton was back with a tray and a glass of the small beer she’d mentioned.

He looked up, quietly surprised, and studied her for a moment. “That …wasn’t actually a question, was it?”

“No,” she said, fairly confident in her assessment. “You stand the way my father does sometimes, facing the door, watching.  He was in Ireland, with the Stuarts,” she added, stepping back to look at him a moment. “But you’re not old enough for King William’s wars - unless perhaps you went as a drummer, or to carry the colors.”

“No,” Henry said, surprised that he should be so obvious. “I was in…in Flanders, for a time.” Had there been a war there recently? He thought there had been - the early 1700s had all sorts of wars and surely one of them was near enough.

“What buisness did an Englishman have there? Were you like a gallowglass?” He stumbled through the line from Shakespeare - with kerns and gallowglasses well supply’d - realizing he didn’t know what that meant. A mercenary, maybe? She, meanwhile, realized she was being hasty and retrenched a little. “I’m sorry - my ma says my questions will be the death of me.”

“No, it’s - it’s fine. My name was Beech- was Beauchamp, before I came into the Grants’ service.” He lingered longer over the French syllables, bow-cham, with the end of the word curled under, so she might hear the language. “I had …family in France.”

“Seems a long way to go for a war that wasn’t yours.”

She’s right - in that century or this one. One could speak very highly of the rights of small nations, and the relief of Belgium, and an Englishman’s word being his bond, but what buisness was it of the English, really, if an Austrian archduke was shot while on tour? Wasn’t that what had started all that? It seemed hard to remember now. Everything that had come after had drowned that detail out. He supposed whatever war had been in Flanders more recent to this had been over religion, or the rights of a king - more straightforward, somehow. It wasn’t as though he’d gone to war for the dead archduke, or the simple sake of a treaty. “I wanted a bit of adventure, I suppose. And I thought I could make a difference, being an officer. One…hears it spoken well of, to go to war - that it will make you a man.”

She nodded. “My father says that boys dream of war and men should dream of peace - but that’s not always the way of it.”

Henry chuckled and sipped his beer. “Your father’s right. It’s a boy’s dream, and a foolish one. And it …unmakes men just as often as it makes them.” Screaming husband, screaming child - how does Julia put up with me?  “I watched too many men die for…pittances of ground, and nothing to send home to their mothers. No, I won’t speak well of it,” he said strongly. “I’ve nothing to show for it but… bad dreams and a wounded arm. And a way of watching doorways,” he added with a rueful smile in her direction. 

“Do you need something for it?” She asked suddenly. “The dreams? I can make the tonic that my mother makes for my da. He has them sometimes, too, and black devils on him after. Or a salve for the wound in your arm, if that ails you. There’s plenty that get an ache in old wounds when the cold comes in.”

“Not today, Mistress Beaton. But I thank you for the offer, all the same.”

She smiled, and he was reminded suddenly of Julia - perhaps it was the herbs, or her general helpfulness. Physically they couldn’t have been more different, one dark and one fair, and yet he couldn’t help but think that they’d be friends, perhaps - gossiping over their tea and talking about whatever they’d just read. She knows something of bad dreams and black devils, too - perhaps she’d have something to teach you. It was nearly a month now, and he was still no closer to finding her than when he’d first arrived. A month! He knew that everyone thought him a bit of a fool for still looking - sure, and doesn’t a wife run away to join the gypsies sometimes? Perhaps you weren’t very much of a husband. 

 Miss Beaton glanced back at the closed door, her hands tight on the counter.  “Do you think he’s very much hurt?” she asked, her tone light.

“No,” Henry assured her, drawing himself back to the present. “It was only a few blows - he’ll be fine, I think.” She nodded to that, hardly looking at him, and he noticed, for the first time, that what he’d assumed to be attention was, in fact, a distraction for herself. Oh, so that’s how it is. Well. Suddenly her keen attention when they’d first come in made a bit more sense. “If you’ll allow me an observation of my own, mistress,” he said, as kindly as he could, “it seems you do a fine job of watching doors, too.” And I doubt very much it’s for Archie Bug.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a nervous laugh, grabbing for a rag and beginning to wipe down the counter and tools she’d been using earlier. That’s something that doesn’t change, either. How many times had he seen that same face and same expression in a friend’s house, watching a sister trying to bluff her way out of admitting a crush?  

“Does he know that you like him?” he asked, trying not to smile. “Malcolm?”

Another nervous laugh said more than it hid. “The young master’s far too fine for the likes of me.”

What an excellent way to avoid the question. “That wasn’t what I asked, Mistress Beaton,” he said smoothly, still trying not to smile. “And I don’t think anyone would be too fine for you,” he added, as gallant as he could. It had been a long time since he’d tried to give pretty compliments to girls at parties - he hadn’t been good at it then, and he doubted time had improved him.

Another nervous laugh. “Maybe that’s so in England, Master Grant, or in France, but here in Scotland a woman must marry to please her family, not herself, and a man moreso. Especially one like Malcolm Grant,” she added, almost more for herself than for him. “I’d think a fineborn man like yourself would know that.”

“Your father is a surgeon, and a member of a respected family.” And the first man that Archie Bug trusts with the son of his laird - that’s something on its own, I think. 

“Not respected enough to let Isaac Grant think of letting his son marry me!” She made the idea sound truly preposterous, a dream for silly girls. “I’d be lucky to get one of his tacksmen. And anyway, he’s had his eyes on Ellen MacKenzie since they were bairns. As anyone should,” she added, like she had to remind herself of it.

Should’s a fine word. “I’ve seen the lady,” Henry allowed, “and she’s very fine, but there’s beauty of one kind and beauty of another.” That’s what Julia would say, I think, to a friend who needed to hear it.

But what she said to that he did not hear, for in a moment the door was open again and Sandy Beaton was back in the front room, Malcolm and Archie behind him. The younger Grant’s face was clean now, and there might have been a bandage under his shirt the way he was standing. “Who’s talking of beauty?” 

“Mr. Grant was telling me about Ellen MacKenzie,” Miss Beaton said, without missing a beat, gathering up her tray. “Apparently she was at the Gathering.”

“And away from it, too,” Archie added sourly, looking askance at Henry.

“Now, Archie,” Malcolm said, a note of caution in his voice, and Bug swallowed back down anything else he was planning to say to disparage the lady. Miss Beaton herself stood up a little straighter, but Malcolm’s eyes scarcely took note. “We should be going. My father will expect his report.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Master Beaton,” Henry said, addressing the surgeon himself and setting his glass down. “And your swift attention. Miss Beaton.” He held out the glass, still half-full, and bowed, and she smiled a little and curtseyed back, taking it from him. ”My thanks.”

Beaton nodded, his eyes following Henry with some slight suspicion of his own. “Call again if there’s anything amiss, but it’s naught that a bit of rest won’t solve.” 

And a kiss from a pretty girl, maybe, Henry thought to himself, watching as Malcolm nodded bravely and headed back outside to the horses and the rest of his men. But this wasn’t the time or the place for that, and as it stood, Miss Beaton was hardly the pretty girl Malcolm would want for that service, and Ellen MacKenzie hardly willing to give it. If her own brothers can’t find her, who knows where else she’s gone? I think you’ll be watching doorways, too, if you marry that woman, Malcolm Grant, but I know your father well enough not to say it aloud. And that war isn’t mine, either.

--

Miss Beaton, she of this week's exasperated hand-wringing, still doesn't seem to have a first name. It might be Phebe, or else Annabel. I'm still undecided.

My apologies on my slim-to-none knowledge of early 18th century European wars.

On one end, the choice should was clear – Frank. Although they have only been going out barely a month, at least, to her - them, they were official. He was older with a stable career, more mature – sometimes too much – but she can get on with it. But more importantly, he likes her enough to actually pursue her even at the risk of his job.

But then last week, she went home for dinner only for her family to announce that they were arranging a marriage for her to her childhood friend who she hasn’t seen in the past half year. She was definitely angry and confused at the beginning, however, she couldn’t deny that continuously spending time with Jamie the past three days have been entirely pleasant, even if it was in the most common and domestic situations. It surprised her to feel that what she looked forward to the most was the time of day they’ve scheduled just for themselves at the cafe. She couldn’t lie to herself and not say that Jamie was somehow in her emotional mix now regardless of how that came to be.

It was unchartered territory to her and she was definitely unsure what the outcome will be and that heightened her anxiety a different level.

Claire shook her head and refocused her mind on her classes instead as she drove on her way to school. The day went by fairly normal. Not hearing from either men didn’t trigger anything and she was thankful for that, saving her energy now that she was on the way to the café to meet up with Jamie.

As she walked to the parking lot, she heard voices from behind one of the larger vehicles that kept the group of men hidden from plain view. Despite that, she heard one voice that was entirely too familiar. One would think that living in Scotland for most her life that everyone’s accent would be the same but Jamie’s voice registers uniquely to her.

She paused, waiting to hear what was going on. She peeked at the situation but didn’t intervene.

“Let him go, Grant.” Jamie said warningly.

“What will ye do then, Fraser?”

“Ye coward, picking up on someone ye know canna fight ye fairly.” Jamie dwelled for a moment before declaring. “I’ll fight ye.”

“Jamie, no!” a person unfamiliar to Claire pleaded back. “Let them do as they wish to me.”

“No, no, no.” Malcolm Grant said. “Tis’ an offer I canna pass. Finally having a chance to give the famous Jamie Fraser a piece of this.” Malcolm held up his fist but Claire saw Jamie unbothered.

Malcolm shoved Jamie’s friend to the side and when Claire saw his difficulty getting up, it became clear to her what Jamie meant by fighting fairly. Ian wore a prosthetic on his right leg.

Her thoughts abruptly stopped once she heard the sound of a punch landing on the face. Malcolm and Jamie didn’t waste time getting at it with Jamie getting the upper hand because of his size and strength. He landed two punches that sent Malcolm at a distance but then two of his groupies suddenly appeared from nowhere and it was now a 3-on-1 battle.

“This is our fight, Grant. Ask yer men to leave”

Malcolm ticked his tongue. “Awww, since when was I fair on anything, Fraser?” he remarked, smirking at the upper hand he now has. “Get him” he ordered and his guys held Jamie by the arms, rendering him at a great disadvantage. Jamie’s friend tried to join the fight but his prosthetic was easily deformed by Malcolm that left him to watch Jamie deal with it all by himself.

Jamie tried to fight off the two men but it was to no avail. Malcolm came close to him, patting his cheek. “Such shame to destroy this pretty face”

Then everything happened quickly thereafter. With Jamie helpless, Grant threw one punch to his face, then to his stomach, and the last straight to his nose that caused him to bleed profusely.

Everything happened so fast that it took Claire a second to react and interrupted them.

“What the hell is this?! You better leave or I am calling the police?” she made herself known with the threat.

“And who might you be, pretty lass?” Malcolm asked, definitely interested in the lady that has arrived.

“Claire – leave…“ was all Jamie managed to say as he heaved, recovering from the punch.

“So the pretty lass has a name. Claire…beautiful” he started walking towards her and Jamie tried to get away again but Malcolm’s guys were fast and held him off.

“Stop right there.” Claire commanded as she pulled at her phone and started dialing.

“Okay, okay.” Malcolm raised his hand and backed off. “Come on ye two.”

“Really boss?!” One of them inquired.

“Ye, ye.”

The two men shoved Jamie towards where his friend was and the three started walking away. Malcolm turned around, looking at Claire with a smug face. “This isna the last ye’ll see of me…Claire”

Claire all but ran to Jamie’s side, checking up on his condition. “You’ve broken your nose”, she assessed while trying to see any other injuries.

“I’m fine.” Jamie said, standing up and then turning to his friend to help him up too.

“No, you’re not. You’re bleeding, you bloody Scot! Come on, we need to get you to the clinic to fix that nose…”

“Claire Beauchamp, this is Ian Murray. Ian Murray, Claire Beauchamp.” Jamie interrupted her with his introductions.

“Hello, Ian.” She turned to him, checking him up to. “How’s the leg?”

Ian’s brows rose in surprise then his eyes drooped in embarrassment. “I am sorry.”

“Whatever are you sorry for?” Claire said, hoping that her message came to Ian in kind and not in spite.

“How did ye know?” Ian asked.

“Just by observation, nothing to worry about.”

“I think Grant hit the mechanism when he shoved me. We really need to go to the clinic.” Ian explained and Jamie groaned at the inevitable.

The three of them walked awkwardly towards the clinic while Claire repeatedly reprimanded Jamie under her breath. “Being punched three times, broke a nose and says he’s bloody fine...”

Jamie laughed that sent more blood to ooze from his not but he didn’t care.

“Don’t laugh! Who were those guys anyway?” she asked.

“Ach, no one, Sassenach.”

“They’re the Grants.” Ian answered instead. “They love to bully me around uni but Jamie wouldn’t allow them to no matter how many times I asked him to stay away from it.”

“Why to they pick on you?”

“Er, the obvious I guess.” Ian explained.

“Just for that?”

“Eh,” Ian just shrugged as they finally arrive at the clinic.

The nurses didn’t waste time fixing Jamie up as soon as they saw the bloody mess on his face. When asked how he broke his nose, Jamie explained that he fell off the stairs. The nurses raised an eyebrow in skepticism then looked at Ian and Claire for confirmation. They just nodded because if they knew the real reason, it might cause something else they don’t want to deal with.

It took less than half an hour for the nurses to fix Jamie’s nose and cuts and for Ian’s leg to be working again and they were out with strict orders of rest and fluids.

“I’ll see you home, Jamie.” Ian offered but Jamie refused.

“No, tis’ alright, Ian. Ye ken we live on opposite sides of the city plus I’m fine, really and home is just a bus ride away”

“I wouldn’t mind”

“No, and tis that. Go home, Ian. I’ll see ye tomorrow.” Jamie patted Ian in the shoulder in assurance.

“If ye say so. Head home, too, and rest. You’re more banged up than I am.” Ian returned the gesture and turned to Claire. “Tis nice to meet ye, Claire. I just hoped it was in better circumstances.”

“It’s nice to meet you too. I’ll see you around.”

Ian left the opposite direction leaving Claire and Jamie to deal with themselves.

“I dinna think I can go to our wee meeting today, Sassenach. My head’s a bit woozy right now” Jamie turned to Claire sheepishly, trying to scratch a small itch on his nose but hissed when he touched a sensitive area.

“I’ll take you home, Jamie” she offered.

“No, ye dinna have to do that, Claire.”

“Please. I brought my car today so it’s no bother really.” she countered, not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

“Alright, I dinna want to argue wi’ anyone anymore today.”

The drive to Jamie’s was silent, mostly because Jamie dozed off during the ride. When they arrive at the Frasers, Ellen asked the same questions as the nurse at school and also turned to Claire for confirmation to story they all know not to be true.

“Claire, if you could settle my son at the living room, I’ll get some ice from the kitchen.”

“Mam, ye dinna have to bother…”

Ellen Fraser only have to give Jamie a look for him to follow her orders and Claire giggled.

“Don’t laugh, my mam is going to have my hide no matter how grown up I am” Jamie chastised humorly.

“How are you going to explain this one away?”

“I dinna ken, maybe stay silent until she just gives up?”

“Like that’s going to work on Aunt Ellen”

Jamie gave a scottish grunt just as his mother entered the room, handing Jamie a pack of frozen peas.

“Must be some slippery stairs for you to fall face first and break your nose, my son.”

“Aye, tis”

“Your father and I will love for you to regale that tale over dinner. Claire, my dear, will you be joining us for dinner as well?”

“Oh? I - uhm..”

Jamie looked at her with pleading eyes to stay and help him get through his family’s questioning.

“Let me just call my mom” Claire took out her phone, dialed home and after a few minutes. “I’m free for dinner”

“Fantastic! Now, I’ll leave you two kids to fend for yourselves. Dinner will be ready in a few hours”

Ellen Fraser left for the kitchen and Jamie stretched on the sofa, tending to his swollen face. The silence stretched and Claire wasn’t really sure how to go about it. She never really had a reason to stay long at the Fraser’s house unless it was one of their family dinners and it was definitely a long time since she stayed over their house for no reason at all. It wasn’t uncomfortable, she just didn’t know what else to do.

“Claire” Jamie turned to her, breaking her thoughts and sensing her slight uneasiness. “Do ye still know how to ride?”

“Of course, I do”

“Would ye like to look around the estate?”

“Sure”

-

It was a lovely afternoon for a ride and Jamie was pleased that the horse he’s chosen was immediately taken to Claire. She’s a natural rider, he observed and he was glad that she looked to be enjoying herself.

They reached the farther ends of the property, going to areas they’d frequent before as kids - the river they’d sneak off to in the summer, the treehouse fort they’d only let their parents enter with a password, the pond they’d skate around during the winter. They talked about memories of their childhood until they found themselves at the top of a hill, watching the sun fall from the horizon.

Claire dismounted first and walked towards the huge oak tree near the edge. Jamie dismounted after her but only took the reigns of her horse and let her wander towards the edge.  

“It’s beautiful. Why don’t I remember this place? Haven’t I been here before?” Claire asked in succession and Jamie just stayed silent. He had planned on taking here there a long time ago to tell her of his intentions to court her but timing always never felt right until it was too late and he found out about Frank Randall.

“We hadn’t rode this far before.” he excused.

“Well, I’ll definitely come back and visit this place. Just look at this view! The endless rolling hills!” Claire excitedly proclaimed as she took out her phone and took a photo. Once the task was done, she turned around to head back to Jamie and her horse. And in that moment as she walked, the sun perfectly aligned behind her, creating a silhouette that took Jamie’s breath away.

Ah, dhia. She is beautiful.

Surprising even himself, he had enough awareness to hand her back her horse and ride away without getting too caught up in the situation.

A few minutes later the house was in view and they were depositing the horses back in the stables.

“Thank you for the ride. I haven’t had the chance in a long while, I almost forgot how much I loved it. I know I should be studying or doing our research but this is way more fun and relaxing. A nice break, is it not?”

“Glad you enjoyed it, Sassenach. Tis’ my pleasure.”

From the back door of the kitchen, Ellen called out that dinner was ready.

Jamie and Claire settled their horses and before Jamie could muster what was happening, Claire shoved passed him and started running like a child towards the house.

“Tag! Last one to the house is the loser, Fraser!” Claire called out and they were off to the races, she with the headstart but Jamie not far behind her. Their laughs echoed throughout the deserted field and it was just like they were 7 and 9 again. Jamie fought the urge not to tackle or hug her from behind resulting in his loss.

“Wash yer hands before ye proceed to the table” Ellen ordered upon the duo’s entry. Claire continued her victory cheer as she headed for the sink to clean up. Ellen Fraser greeted her son by the door, gave him a smirk and then tousled his hair to disarray to which Jamie only happily rolled his eyes.

-

Thankfully, Jamie’s parents didn’t push him enough to explain the bruises he has but let it slide for the time being, happy that he’s home and safe.

Dinner had been a lovely affair for the foursome. Ellen and Brian regaled childhood memories of Jamie and Claire’s, laughing and embarrassing them both to no end.

“Let me just get us another bottle” Ellen stood and Jamie followed his mam to help her.

In the recess of the kitchen, Ellen turned to her son who was reaching for another bottle of wine.

“Tis’ nice having dinner with Claire.” Ellen remarked, leaning on the counter.

“Ye have dinner with her once a month, mam, for the past 20 years. Ye’ve known her all yer life.” he retorted.

“True, but tonight, seeing ye and her, getting to know the woman she is and becoming” Ellen sighed. “I love that girl like she was my own daughter, ye ken. But now, I really wish she was my daughter, if ye get my meaning”

Jamie turned around to give his mother an exasperated look but was stopped in his tracks when his mother produced a small, black velvet box from her pocket.

“Mam..”

“It would give me great pleasure if ye gave this to her.” holding up Jamie’s hand and pressing the box to his keeping.

“Our situations complicated enough..” Jamie said as he tried to hand it back to his mother.

“I’m no asking ye to give it to her tonight. Just...” she paused, raised one hand to his cheek to get his attention. ”hold on to it, aye?”

-

Unbeknown to the two, Claire had been watching the entire scene unfold through a small opening in the kitchen door. Brian had asked her to follow them to request for the cake as well when she heard their conversation.

She meant to show herself sooner but when Ellen produced the ring box, she was frozen on the spot. She watched Jamie try to refuse it but to no avail. Aunt Ellen didn’t mean to pressure Jamie either, it seems, much to her relief. However, she couldn’t deny the small curiosity in what is beneath it.