#Fanny Pocock

[ladywynneoutlander]

Heart’s Abundance

Part 5 -  Joyeux Noël 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6

Jamie sighs in satisfaction, and I know he is savoring the soft warm weight of the granddaughter he feared he’d never see again. Mandy lies in peaceful slumber, her cheeks pinked by the nearby fire, her dark baby-fine curls framing her chubby face. Even after months I can hardly believe she’s here, healthy and safe, her heart problem a thing of the past. She will grow strong and free in the mountains. Thank God.

It has been a blessed day, Christmas Eve, and it’s very late. William, Fanny, and Germain have already retired to their rooms. Jem is asleep on the hearth rug. He will have to be moved later, but for now everyone is too content. The room is warm and glowing. It smells of wood fire, beeswax candles, and the sharp resinous pine of Brianna and Roger’s Christmas tree. I smile at the memory of their bringing it in.  Jamie had watched curiously, but he hadn’t protested. I suppose he’s used to our strange ways, and after all, there is no harm in it.  Jamie had spent an unusual amount of the day indoors, making various excuses. I think he enjoyed watching Brianna and I stringing popcorn, the children making ornaments.  

Now Roger is sitting with Brianna’s head leaning against his shoulder and his hand on her knee. They are speaking quietly together, the soft language of a married couple who are as comfortable with one another as with themselves. When they returned to the Ridge Roger said the future is no longer safe for them. I pray that they may be safe here, remote enough to be spared the worst horrors of war.  

I move to Jamie‘s side and smile softly at Mandy, bending to kiss the little girl’s black curls. Then I raise my head and find Jamie’s lips, giving him a gentle kiss as well.

“Sit wi’ me, Sassenach.” He draws me down with his left hand, still cradling Mandy in his right.

I settle next to him and sigh contentedly, looking at Brianna and Roger. “Bree always loved Christmas.”

“Aye?” he says, interested. “And what did she like best then?”

“The lights,” I answer without hesitation. “In our time we have small lights on strings. They glow without flames. Remember I told you about electricity?”

He nods, frowning slightly at the memory of the wondrous, dangerous energy I had described.

“These lights work on electricity,” I go on. “They shine like the tree is covered in lightning bugs of every color. Brianna was enchanted as a girl. She wanted them everywhere; strung around the windows and over the mantel. Then she would sleep in the parlor by the tree.”

He glances at our own tree. Roger had fashioned a star for the top out of twigs. It’s a small merry thing, but nothing sparkles from the fresh springy boughs. “Do ye think she misses it Sassenach?”

I look from him to Brianna. My daughter reaches up and smooths a dark strand of Roger’s hair from his face. They are absorbed in one another. “No,” I say softly. “Her loves are here.”

As if called by my gaze Brianna rises and comes over, bending to gather Mandy in her arms. “We’d better put the kids to bed. Santa might be here anytime.” Though not the norm in this time, four small stockings hang by the fire, another oddity Jamie absorbed today.

“Aye,” Roger says, coming up behind Brianna with Jem in his arms. “Off to bed with the weans.”

Brianna kisses our cheeks, bending awkwardly over Mandy to reach us. “Merry Christmas Da, Mama.”

“Happy Christmas darling,” I return as she follows Roger upstairs.

                                                          -o0OOO0o-

The thump of little feet on the stairs shakes the whole house and I groan into my pillow. In turn Jamie chuckles, rolling over to throw his arm across my back. “Happy Christmas, Sassenach.” I groan again but crack open my eyes. The sunlight is thin through cracks of the shutters. It’s still quite early. I blink and close my eyes again.

Jamie peeks over my shoulder. “Now, none ‘o that.”  

He kisses the back of my neck and gently rolls me over. He is smiling sweetly down at me with his hair in morning disarray about his head, and I can’t help but smile back. “Happy Christmas to you too.”

He leans down and kisses me, and I feel the soft stubble of his unshaven cheek. Then he pulls back and grins. “Let’s go see what Santa’s brought, aye?”

He fairly bounces out of bed and I laugh, rising more slowly. “You know he only visits children?”

Jamie is enthusiastically pulling on his stockings. He peers up through strands of russet and copper, “Aye, I know! But I want to see how Brianna does Christmas. I dinna want to miss anything.”

I yawn once more, and smiling, throw a shawl around my shoulders, “Me either. Off we go then.”

                                                            -o0OOO0o-

The children enjoy their stockings immensely. They are filled with peppermint candy, a top, and clay marbles. Jamie watches them quietly, a smile on his face.  

In the afternoon, it’s time for presents. As I work on the enthusiastic knots Jem added to his gift, my attention is drawn by Fanny. She shyly rises from her stool and approaches William. He glances up with a smile. “Hullo Fanny. Happy Christmas.”

“Hello,” she smiles tentatively back, “I–  I made you a present.”

“Well, I thank you,” He pats the spot next to him. “Sit here by me.”

She does so and hands him a folded square. He unfolds it to reveal an embroidered handkerchief, a corner cleverly decorated with swimming fish and golden rings, a nod to his seal.

“Why, it’s beautiful,” he says sincerely, and Fanny flushes with pleasure. “I have something for you as well.” William carefully refolds the handkerchief then hands her a small parcel, wrapped in a scrap of muslin I’d given him for the purpose, and tied with twine.

Fanny takes the gift, eyes shining. “Th– thank you.” She pulls on the string and reveals a fragrant wooden box, polished but unvarnished, the top carved with the letters FP and a tiny flower in each corner. The lid is perfectly made to snugly fit the bottom. The entire room is quiet, now as riveted by the scene as I am.

“Isth beautiful,” Fanny breathes, forgetting to enunciate in her happiness.

“Open it.”

She does so, and her eyes fill with tears. “Is this?” She swallows. “Was this Jane’s?” Fanny reaches into the box and delicately withdraws a lock of hair, secured with a tiny ribbon tied in a bow. She sets the box aside, and strokes the soft brown strands gently.

“Yes, I took it when…when I last saw her. I thought you might like to have it.” William answers softly.

Fanny closes her hand over the bundle, and her eyes as well. “Thank you, William.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. Fanny opens her eyes and I see a light spring into them, and a tenderness, even in the midst of her grief. I remember everything she has seen, and realize that in some ways, Fanny is mature beyond her years. I reluctantly prepare to intervene. It’s obvious, at least to me, how the girl misconstrued the gift and the gesture. Just as I begin to rise William says, “Frances, you must know how dear Jane was to me, even in the short time I knew her. You are dear to me as well.” He smiles. “Why, I think of you as a little sister.”

Fanny jerks a little at that and pulls her arm from under William’s hand. She takes a deep, ragged breath. “A sister? That’s how you see me?”

William blinks, unsure what to make of her reaction. “Well, yes. I hope that is all right?” He gives her a concerned look. “I did not mean to offer offense.”

Fanny stands abruptly, replacing the lock of hair and closing the box carefully. “Of course, I thank you again for the gift and … and for your kind regard.” She backs up a step, turns, and flees upstairs, moving with speed but not running. Poor girl.

William looks from face to face helplessly. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No dear,” I sigh and rise. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to her.”

                                                         -o0OOO0o-

Fanny is a brave, practical girl, and she is back with us shortly. I spoke with her upstairs, and I know I will probably need to again, but for now she is all right.  

The rest of the day passes most pleasantly. The snow comes down in soft white flakes outside the window and the fire crackles happily. We sing carols and enjoy our gifts, playing chess and tic-tac-toe and marbles.  

In the evening Brianna recites A Christmas Carol, with the various ghosts enacted by the children (to the detriment of the linens). I listen with Jamie’s arm around me, laughing occasionally, and feeling blessed.  We are sitting half in the shadows, and I have a quilt pulled over my lap against the chill. I feel Jamie shift and there is the crinkle of paper in my lap. I look down to see one last gift. “For you, Sassenach.”

I look up at him in surprise, smiling, “Whenever did you have the time?”

“Oh, I may have had this put away for some little time. I wanted to give it to ye at the right moment, aye?”

I look at the gift again, curiosity peaked. I heft it in my hand. “Well, it isn’t a new kettle.”

He smiles but doesn’t say anything as I pull back waxed paper, then to my surprise, dark green velvet. Nestled inside is a set of stunning tortoiseshell hair ornaments. Each is adorned with a dragonfly, made of gold, the eyes glimmering rounds of amber. I am awestruck. “Jamie. They’re gorgeous. Simply lovely. But, they’re so expensive…”

He stops me with a gentle kiss. “Dinna fash. I managed is all.” He strokes one with a large finger and looks up at me shyly. “I saw them and knew they were meant for ye. They mind me of Hugh Munroe’s wedding gift, and the amber does look just like your eyes.”

Said eyes were blinking back tears at the moment. “They’re beautiful. Truly.”

“Ye’re beautiful, Claire. Ye deserve them, and so much more.” He leans down for a true kiss then, tilting my chin up to meet him, his mouth soft and warm. When we part he stays close to me, his eyes tender and guileless.  

I lay my hand against his cheek. “We’re not Hugh’s dragonfly any longer, Jamie. We’re not trapped, not by time nor circumstance. We’re flying quickly, so quickly now.”

“Aye.” He touches my cheek in return, outlining my bones with a calloused finger, and smiles gently, “But we’re doing it together, however long or brief the journey. This time, there’s the two of us.” He closes the inch between us once more, kissing me. Then he twists a strand of my hair up and back. I can see the various colors from the corner of my eye, the light brown, gray, and blonde. Jamie secures it with a dragonfly and does the same on the other side.

“Merry Christmas, bonny lass.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”

[sassenach4life]

Daily Lines ~ Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine#probablysometimethisyear #HAPPYNEWYEAR

The root cellar wasn’t a long walk from the smokeshed, but it was on the other side of the big clearing, and the wind, unobstructed by trees or buildings, rushed them from behind, blowing their skirts out before them and whipping Fanny’s cap off her head.

Brianna got a hand up and snatched the scrap of muslin as it whirled past. Her own hair, unbound, was flailing round her face, and so was Fanny’s. They looked at each other, half-blinded, and laughed. Then the first drops of rain began to fall, and they ran, gasping and shrieking for the shelter of the root cellar.

It was dug into the side of a hill, a rough wooden door framed in with stacked stone on either side. The door stuck in its jamb, but Bree freed it with a mighty jerk and they fell inside, damp-spotted but safe from the downpour that now commenced outside.

“Here.” Still breathless, Brianna gave the cap to Fanny. “I don’t think it’ll keep the rain out, though.”

Fanny shook her head, sneezed, giggled, and sneezed again.

“Where’s yours?” she asked, sniffing as she tucked her windblown curls back under the cap.

“I don’t like caps much,” Bree said, and smiled when Fanny blinked. “But I might wear one for cooking or doing something splashy. I wear a slouch hat for hunting, sometimes, but otherwise, I just tie my hair back.”

“Oh,” Fanny said uncertainly. “I gueth—guess that’s why Mrs. Fraser—your mother, I mean—why she doesn’t wear them either?”

“Well, it’s a little different with Mama,” Bree said, running her fingers through her own long hair to untangle it. “It’s part of her war with—“ she paused for a moment, wondering how much to say, but after all, if Fanny was now part of the family, she’d learn such things sooner or later. “—with people who think they have a right to tell her how to do things.”

Fanny’s eyes went round.

“Don’t they?”

“I’d like to see anybody try,” Bree said dryly, and having twisted her hair into an untidy bun, turned to survey the contents of the cellar.

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2019 Diana Gabaldon]

[sixela0221]

Poorn Fanny 😭😭😭 Jamie and Claire love you already. 😭😭 You're not going to be replaced by anyone

[outlander-babes]

Written In My Own Heart’s Blood Thoughts:

Everyone’s just going through it

Lord John’s a fucking menace

Stan Jamie using the fucking Lone Ranger theme to signal people

Poor Willie there is still not a thought in his head

Jenny is the light of my life

Claire calling Hal “Harold” is sO FUNNY

YAY THE RETURN OF DAN MORGAN

Oh my god it’s fucking George Washington

The Hardman’s are so cute

Stan Jamie being a good parent

Claire and Jenny dealing with Hal is a riot lmao

Rachel and young Ian are in love uwu

Stan the Hardmans

I would throw down for Jane

Prudence and Patience are the loml

John babe wtf

Rachel and Jamie threatening Willie over Ian is very fun fresh and sexy of them

Can I PLEASE kiss Jenny Murray

Yay Claire gets to play in dirt!

Claire and Jamie have two goddamn braincells

JOHN BABE WTF

Brianna beating up an asshole in her underwear is my aesthetic

MANDY AND JEMMY ARE SO CUTE!!!!

Buck is so sweet

BRIAN!!!!

AND JENNY AHHHHHH

Stan Hector McEwan

….geillis…???

Ernie is a whole mood

Brianna is kickass but we knew that already

Mr Menzies is cool

Bro I can’t wait to meet jerry

God I wish Roger let Buck kill black Jack but I understand why he didn’t

Joe’s the love of my life and he doesn’t deserve this shit lmao

Jamie and Claire are so fucking chaotic

Please tell me Germaine didn’t run away from home

John’s such an ass lmao

Stan Jane Pocock

Willie is trying his best it’s not his fault everyone around him is chaos incarnate

OH MY GOD ITS LAFAYETTE I LOVD HIM

Denny’s so funny

I love Dottie

Claire giving Dottie and Rachel the sex talk is so sweet

WILLIE MY STINKING PAPIST I LOVE YOU

I like Nathaniel Greene!

John’s a whole ass idiot but I love him

CLARANCE MY LOVE!!!

Ok ok fine Percy is growing on me

FANNY IS SO CUTE AHHHH

Willie and Jane’s relationship is wholesome and as someone who reads spoilers I’m not looking forward to this

I would die for Germaine

Ugh god fine I’ll admit it I’m starting to like Percy

Charles Lee can suck my dick tho

Stan Willie fistfighting an asshole over Jane

Willie’s such an idiot he KEEPS getting hurt like someone enforce the buddy system Jesus Christ

Ian being like “HEY FUCKER THIS HERE IS A FUCKING LORD DIPSHIT” is the highlight of today’s reading

Like I KNOW it’s bad Claire got shot but legit I know she’ll be fine and the way she got shot is so fuckin melodramatic I just think it’s funny

The Greys are so fucking chaotic my god

I would die for the Hunters and their crazy ass spouses

[ao3feed-jamiexclaire]

by LadyWynne

This is the story of a particularly meaningful holiday season on the Ridge. Winter will bring the Frasers and those they love even closer together.

Words: 1871, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Claire Beauchamp, Jamie Fraser, William Ransom, Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie, Roger MacKenzie Wakefield, Jemmy MacKenzie, Germain Fraser, Mandy MacKenzie, fanny pocock

Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser

Additional Tags: Fluff, Thanksgiving

[nkbabe-blog]

1.15.17 g8rs & h8rs

Day 3 of the training trip and I realize I hate two things: alligators and being in a bowloader 3 practices in a row. I refuse to complain about pain in the boat when there are 4 or 8 other girls rowing my ass around, but holy moly my knees are beat from laying in that awkward head only can be shown position with a million things on my lap. Steering a Pocock 4 with no cox box holder, speed coach holder, and no comfy place to rest your fanny pack is a pain in the ass. 

I didn’t believe my teammates when they would talk about 6 foot gators they saw on the shore until the rower in coach’s launch finally yelled to me to point it out. I’m not lying when I say it was twice my size, and the scariest part is, they slither into the water once they see us rowing by and making loud noise. UNDER THE WATER IN WHICH WE ROW. If my 4 flipped and they saw us, I would be the first one eaten because 1) I’d be trapped inside the bow, 2) I’m a terrible swimmer, and 3) I’m small and history has shown gators go for the small ones.

The best part of the day my fellow coxies would love was the post-dinner coxswain meeting with Coach Sarah. She mostly wanted to know how we felt the team dynamic was going and if we were okay not having a specific boat aka rotating through all the boats the whole week. The most important thing that was brought to coach’s attention by the rowers was the frustration that the coxswains don’t call for technique as much as they would like us to. And on top of the rowers feeling that way, our head coach also tells us that we are in charge of coaching the rowers on technique as he needs to focus on things during normal practice such as speed. I straight up had to tell Coach Sarah, “I don’t know how to call technique.” It could be the fact I’ve only rowed a season my high school novice year, at the M Whip coxswain camp for a week, and two days in a single over last summer; but I don’t know how to correct technique and honestly besides catch timing and handle heights. Not to make excuses either, but 3 out of the 4 practices I’ve had here were in bow loaders, making it impossible in my head to correct technique. Sure, if somethings wrong I can make calls like “sit up tall” or “lean into you rigger” to see if that will help, but in an 8 how can I correct the rowers and in the simplest terms possible (since rowers want the shortest amount of words as you can give). I’m hoping she will talk to our head coach about possibly doing a 10, 20, or even 30 minute steady state piece in the 8’s, since Coach loves steady state, and focus more on giving the coxswains ideas on what looks wrong. I may be able to tell them what’s wrong and try to help them fix it. If I don’t know how to fix it, Coach Sarah says to raise your hand and just say “Hey coach, # seat has ____ wrong…how can they fix it?”On a non-rowing note, the sunset was cotton candy pink and outlined the palm trees like a postcard from the hotel gift shop on the ride from practice to dinner. 

I took this in the passenger seat (while I was DJing of course) and realized I have always seen pretty sunsets only in my rearview mirrors while driving. Why are all the pretty views behind me when I’m moving forward? Are they tempting me to turn around and retrace the past? As much as I’d like to go back to the past, I know it’s best to keep moving forward. Much like missing home or missing my ex-boyfriend, I know it’s no use. I’ll see lots of pretty sunsets in car mirrors that make me  wonder if I should go back, but one day when everything’s right the most gorgeous views will be right in front of me, waiting, with a bright future written all over it.

[ladywynneoutlander]

Hi guys. So I am writing a little story for the holiday season. It is very fluff-tastic, mostly family and love with a minimum of plot. I very much hope someone enjoys it!

Heart’s Abundance

Part 1 - Giving Thanks

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6

Bree and I are sitting in the kitchen, enjoying my own special blend of “Liberty Tea,” a mixture of dried strawberry leaves, lemon balm, and chamomile. It is hot, fragrant, and delicious. As we sip, the afternoon sun warms the whole room, giving the feeling of a golden cocoon in the midst of a particularly cold November day. Adso is with us, basking in a windowsill, and we are all practically purring with contentment. Then the sound of dried leaves crackling underfoot reaches our ears. We have visitors. Brianna and I sigh slightly but smile at each other. She opens the door while I take a honey cake from the cupboard.  

It is Young Ian and Rachel. I smile warmly at them. Ian is dressed in particular native splendor today, owing to a visit from a group of prominent Mohawks passing through. His head is freshly plucked and spiked, with metal ornaments and turkey feathers hanging from the back.  Over his pink calico shirt is a vest decorated with astonishing beadwork, and his buckskin trousers are fringed. Next to him Rachel’s Quaker attire is a contrast. She is in a gray wool dress with plain white cap and kerchief. As she enters the sunny room, she unwraps her shawl to reveal the newest Murray, snuggled in a sling against his mother.

Brianna closes the door behind them, then her face lights with a smile, “Why, you look like a Thanksgiving pageant!”

The couple look at each other in incomprehension. “A what, cuz?” Ian inquires.

“You know! When the Pilgrims and Indians ate together. At Plymouth? It was a long time ago…” Her voice becomes more hesitant as the faces of our guests remain blank.

I understand the difficulty. Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated now, even though the famous harvest meal happened more than one hundred years before. I’m struggling to salvage this time-travel faux pas when Jamie steps through the door leading to the front of the house. He bends to kiss my cheek then crosses to wiggle a finger at the newly freed baby. “And what’s that then?” he says, turning to Brianna. “Is thanksgiving not something you do, no a meal?”

“Well…” she hesitates, then boldly rushes on. “Where I grew up, in Boston, some people take a day near the end of November to give thanks for their blessings. They celebrate with a feast and invite close friends and family.”

“It sounds lovely,” Rachel says kindly, “though oughtn’t we to give thanks every day?”

“Of course,” Brianna agrees, ‘it’s just nice to take a special moment for it now and then.” She looks wistfully at me. “Right Mama?”

Suddenly I recall craft-paper feathers, Macy’s parade on the television, and the taste of a cranberry jello salad in perfect vividness. I move to stand by Brianna and take her arm, smiling softly in understanding. “Yes, darling. It is.”

Jamie looks at us and his own face grows tender. Rachel still looks confused, but Ian, who has been watching carefully exclaims, “Sounds like a fine idea! We should have our own thanks meal, aye?”

I look at Ian gratefully, thankful indeed for his enthusiastic spirit. I also see Jamie’s face. It is creasing slowly into a smile. “Aye. We should.”

Brianna’s hand tightens on my arm in excitement. “Great! We’ll have Thanksgiving on the Ridge!”

-o0OOO0o-

A few days later I pull Brianna’s turkey out of the oven and baste it well with drippings, butter, and thyme before pushing it back inside for another half hour. It is nearly time to eat and the bounty of the Ridge is spread throughout the kitchen. It will be a delicious meal (if I do say so myself). The smell is heaven, and by the discreet peeking and increasingly frequent visits of men and small children, they think so too.

Jamie and Brianna brought down this large tom the day before. Even with ten people there would be plenty to go around. I had also dug the last of the fresh vegetables and emptied the pantry. Fanny had spent the entire prior afternoon baking. It would be a feast indeed.

The table is set and festooned with colorful dried leaves and pinecones. Roger even wove a clever cornucopia from twigs and filled it with gourds. Perfect. The turkey has a chestnut mushroom stuffing. There are also yams and brussels sprouts and onion gravy, and (elegance indeed!) yeast dinner rolls rather than corn bread. Crocks of butter and honey and jam round out the meal. My mouth waters just setting it all out.

Soon everyone gathers and we ceremoniously present the pièce de résistance on a platter. Looking from face to face around our large farm table I see Fanny’s eyes widen and smile happily to myself. We are all here, Brianna, Roger, Jem, and Mandy. Germain and Fanny. Jenny and Ian and Rachel with the baby sleeping peacefully in a basket. Jamie takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, then leans over and whispers, “I often think your time strange, Sassenach, but this is fine, aye?” He kisses my lips softly.

The others, used to us, are chattering away. Jamie straightens, clears his throat and waits for quiet, then looks to the end of the table, saying formally, “Ieremiah, an toireadh tu taing?“

Jem, sensitive to the honor thus bestowed, sits up straight as an arrow, “Aye, sir.” He folds his hands before him and I am suddenly reminded of my first dinner at Leoch, when young Hamish said grace. Jem has the same red hair. I add Hamish to my prayers as we all bow our heads together.

“Dear Holy Father. Thank ye for the food before us. Thank ye for our family and friends. Bless us, O Lord, and help us to do good always. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

“Amen,” the table echoes.  

Jemmy peaks at his father, and at Roger’s nod of approval relaxes happily in his chair. Jamie carves and wafts of fragrant steam are released. The table makes noises of appreciation all around. We fill our plates and enjoy the meal.

“You know,” Roger says, buttering a roll. Since we are giving thanks today, maybe we should each say something we’re thankful for. I believe that’s something they do in Boston, aye Brianna?” He smiles at his wife and she nods.

“Oh yes, it’s a tradition.” When no one volunteers she goes on, and looking directly at Jamie and I, “I’m thankful to be home.” Brianna then turns to Mandy on her right. “And what about you sweetheart? What are you thankful for?”

Mandy turns up a honey-smeared face and smiles. “I thankful for Esmeralda!”

Everyone chuckles and Roger goes next. “I’m thankful for family, for my wife and bairns.”

Jem says, “I’m thankful for Grandda. And Grandma,” he adds hastily.

Germain is next. “I’m thankful for my friends.” He smiles at Fanny and Jem.

Fanny answers in a small voice, “I’m thankful to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser for keeping me.”

“Oh Fanny,” I say gently, “We want to.” She blinks quickly and gives a small smile and we continue.

Jenny, Ian, and Rachel take their turns.

“I’m thankful for our new wee bairn.”

“I’m thankful to have my mam here, and my wife.”

“I’m thankful for the peace we enjoy here.”

Jamie says simply, “I’m thankful for ye, Sassenach.”

I look around the table slowly and finally turn my face up to Jamie, the man who is my heart, “I’m thankful for each of us. For love and family. For every moment.”

“Amen,” he says, and kisses me.

-o0OOO0o-

Soon afterward the table is cleared, and dessert brought out. We have apple tansey, clootie dumpling, and for Brianna, pumpkin pie. There is also custard and sweet cream. I am just setting coffee to boil when a solid thump sounds on the front door. Everyone freezes in surprise for a heartbeat. Visitors are nearly unheard-of this time of year. Then, just as chaos breaks out, Jamie rises. He walks to the front of the house, myself close behind. He seems unhurried and calm, but I notice he carries the carving knife in his left hand.

Jamie opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid November air. What greets us looks like nothing so much as a bear covered in deer hide. Albeit a bear with merry blue eyes glinting above his beard.

“Myers!” Jamie greets the mountain man warmly, discreetly passing the knife to me. I stash it in my deep pocket. “Welcome! What brings ye here so late in the year?”

The bristles part with Myers’ grin. “Well, I’ll tell ‘ee sir. I’ve come wi’ company. Found ‘im near frozen on his way up from Cross Creek.” He steps aside to reveal a second figure in the dooryard, just as tall, but more solidly built.

Peering around Jamie’s shoulder my mouth falls open in shock. The last person I ever expected to see on the Ridge is the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

For once I recover more quickly than Jamie, and step around my husband. “William!” I say in sincere pleasure.

The young man looks up a bit uncertainly, then seeing my happiness recovers himself. “Mother Claire.” He might have said more but is prevented by a blur of yellow homespun that comes hurtling through the door and crashes into his middle. William teeters precariously at the impact before coming solidly back to his feet, Frances Pocock clinging to him in perfect imitation of a baby opossum on its mother’s back.

“William! Oh William! I thought I might never th-, see you again!”

William gingerly pats the capped head. “It’s good to see you again too, Fanny.” He smiles gently down, a slight shadow passing briefly in the depths of his slanted eyes. He gently disentangled Fanny and turns to Jamie. “I hope our arrival isn’t a cause of inconvenience to you sir. I…”

Seeing him hesitate I break in as politely as I can. “Of course not! You are both most welcome! Come in and warm up. We are just about to have dessert.”

I usher the newcomers and the gaping crowd back into the kitchen. In a few moments of flurried activity William and John Quincey are greeted by all and settled at the table, the children relocated to stools.

“We had a fine harvest this year so we’re having a wee meal to celebrate and give thanks for it,” Jamie explains, smiling.

“Judging from this bounty, indeed you have!” Myers exclaims as he unabashedly fills his plate with apple tansey, sweet cream, and one of the remaining rolls covered in honey and jam. Jem and Germain looking on in fascination.

I pour him coffee, hiding a smile. “We’re pleased to share it with you.”

William eats more sedately, but with evident pleasure. Watching him, Fanny on one side and Brianna on the other, I wonder suddenly why he has come. Then I look at Jamie. He is watching the boy as well, and though his face is expressionless, to me his eyes reveal the joy he takes in the sight. No. The reason doesn’t matter. I slide my arm around Jamie’s and lean against him, expressing without words my own joy in his happiness.

[sassenach4life]

Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #backtowork#busybusysummer #oneweektilSeasonThree

The new hound snuffled energetically through the layers of crackling leaves, tail moving to and fro like a metronome.

“Can you train that sort of dog to hunt for specific things, I wonder?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s called a coon-hound, but plainly she isn’t looking for raccoons right now.”

“She’s no a coon-hound, though I suppose she wouldna pass one up. What did ye want her to hunt for, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, smiling. “Truffles?”

“You need a pig for that, don’t you? And speaking of pigs…Jemmy! Germain! Keep an eye out for pigs, and watch Mandy!” The boys were squatting by a pine tree, picking bits of bark shaped like puzzle pieces off it, but at my call, looked vaguely round.

“Where _is_ Mandy?” I shouted.

“Up there!” Germain called, pointing upslope. “With Fanny.”

“Germain, Germain, look, I got a thousand-legger! A BIG one!”

At Jem’s call, Germain instantly lost interest in the girls and squatted beside Jem, scrabbling dried leaves out of the way.

“Had I better go look, do you think?” I asked. “Millipedes aren’t venomous but the big centipedes can have a nasty bite.”

“The lad can count,” Jamie assured me. “If he says it’s got a thousand legs, I’m sure it does—give or take a few.” He gave a short whistle and the dog looked up, instantly alert.

“Go find Frances, _a nighean_.” He flung out an arm, pointing uphill, and the dog barked once, agreeably, and bounded up the rocky slope, yellow leaves exploding under her eager feet.

“Do you think she—“ I began, but before I could finish, I heard the girls’ voices above, mingled with Bluey’s excited yaps of greeting. “Oh. She _does_ know who Frances is, then.”

“Of course she does. She kens all of us now—but she likes Frances best.” He smiled a little at the thought. It was true; Fanny adored the dog, and spent hours combing her fur, taking ticks out of her ears, or curled up by the fire with a book, Bluebell comfortably snoring on her feet.

“Why do you always call her Frances?” I asked curiously. “Everybody else calls her Fanny—she calls herself that, for that matter.”

“Fanny is a whore’s name,” he replied tersely. Seeing my look of astonishment, though, his expression relaxed a bit. “Aye, I ken there are respectable women wi’ that name. But Roger Mac tells me Cleland’s novel is still in print in your time.”

“Cleland’s…oh, John Cleland, you mean—_Fanny Hill_?” My voice rose slightly, less in surprise that the famously pornographic “_Memoir of a woman of pleasur_e” was still going strong two hundred and fifty years on—some things never go out of style, after all--than at the fact that he’d been discussing it with Roger.

“And he tells me the word is a…vulgarism...for a woman’s privates,” he added, frowning.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “Or for someone’s bottom, depending whether you come from Britain or America. But it hasn’t got that meaning _now_, does it?”

“I dinna ken,” he admitted reluctantly. “But still—Lord John told me once that “Fanny Laycock” is an English term for ‘whore.’” His brow furrowed. “I did wonder—her sister gave her name as Jane Eleanor Pocock. I thought it maybe wasna her real last name, but more a—a—“

“_Nom de guerre_?” I suggested dryly. “I shouldn’t wonder. Does “po” mean a chamber pot, these days?”

“_Pot de chamber_?” he asked in surprise. “Of course it does.”

“Of course it does,” I murmured. “Putting that aside—if Pocock _wasn’t_ her real last name, do you think Fanny—er, Frances—knows what the real one is?”

He shook his head, looking slightly troubled.

“I dinna like to ask her,” he said. “She hasna spoken again about—whatever it was that happened to her parents, has she?”

“Not to me. And if she’d told anyone else, I think they’d have mentioned it to you or me.”

“D’ye think she’s forgotten?”

“I think she doesn’t want to remember—which may not be the same thing.”

He nodded at that, and we walked in silence for a bit, letting the peace of the wood settle with the slow rain of falling leaves. I could hear the children’s voices under and over the rustle of the chestnut trees, like the calling of distant birds.

“Besides,” Jamie said, “William called her Frances. When he gave her to me.”

[sassenach4life]

Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTellTheBeesThatIAmGone #NoIHaveNoIdeaWhenItWillBeFinished #IllLetYouKnow#AHintOfGhosts #HappyHalloween ! “Mama’s been busy,” Brianna said, automatically turning the potatoes on one shelf as she selected a dozen to take. “I suppose you have, too,” she added, smiling at Fanny. “You helped gather all of this, I’m sure.” Fanny looked down modestly, but glowed a little. “I dug up the turnips and some of the potatoes,” she said. “There were a lot growing in that place they call Old Garden. Under the weeds.” “Old Garden,” Bree repeated. “Yes, I suppose so.” A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the root cellar rose up her neck and contracted her scalp. Her mother had written in a letter, with a brevity that made her words strike like rubber bullets, about Malva Christie’s death in the garden. And the death of her unborn child. Under the weeds, indeed. She glanced sidelong at Fanny, who was twisting an onion off its braid, but the girl showed no emotion about the garden; probably no one had told her—_yet_, Bree thought—about what had happened there, and why the garden had been abandoned to the weeds. “Should we take more potatoes?” Fanny asked, dropping two fat yellow onions into the basket. “And maybe apples, for fritters? If it doesn’t stop raining, those men will stay the night. And we haven’t any eggs for breakfast.” “Good thought,” Bree said, quite impressed at Fanny’s housewifely forethought. The remark turned her mind, though, to the mysterious visitors. “What you said to Da—about one of the men being an officer. How did you know that?” _And how did Da know you would know something like that_? she added silently. Fanny looked at her for a long moment, her face quite expressionless. Then she seemed quite suddenly to have made up her mind about something, for she nodded, as though to herself. “I’ve seen them,” she said simply. “Lots of times. At the brothel.” “At the—“ Brianna nearly dropped the pawpaw she’d picked off the upper shelf. “Brothel,” Fanny repeated, the word clipped short. Bree had turned to look at her; she was pale, but her eyes were steady under her cap. “In Philadelphia.” “I see.” Brianna hoped her own voice and eyes were as steady as Fanny’s, and tried to speak calmly, in spite of the inner, appalled voice saying, _Jesus Lord, she’s only eleven_! “Did…um…Da—is that where he found you?” Fanny’s eyes welled quite suddenly with tears, and she turned hurriedly away, fumbling with a shelf of apples. “No,” she said in a muffled voice. “My—my sister…she…we…we wan away togevver.” “Your sister,” Bree said carefully. “Where—“ “She’th dead.” “Oh, Fanny!” She’d dropped the pawpaw, but it didn’t matter. She grabbed Fanny and held her tight, as though she could somehow smother the dreadful sorrow that oozed between them, squeeze it out of existence. Fanny was shaking, silently. “Oh, Fanny,” she said again, softly, and rubbed the girl’s back as she would have done for Jem or Mandy, feeling the delicate bones beneath her fingers. It didn’t last long. After a moment, Fanny got hold of herself—Bree could feel it happen, a stopping, a drawing in of the flesh—and stepped back, out of Bree’s embrace. “It’s all right,” she said, blinking fast to keep more tears from coming. “It’s all right. She’s—she’s safe now.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her back. “After—after it happened, William gave me to Mr. Fraser. Oh!” A thought stuck her and she looked uncertainly at Bree. “Do you—know about William?” For a moment, Bree’s mind was completely blank. _William_? But suddenly the penny dropped, and she looked at Fanny, startled. “William. You mean…Mr. Fraser’s…Da’s…son?” Saying the word brought him to life; the tall young man, cat-eyed and long-nosed, dark where she was fair, speaking to her on the quay in Wilmington. “Yes,” Fanny said, still a little wary. “I think—does that mean he’s your brother?” “Half-brother, yes.” Brianna felt dazed, and bent to pick up the fallen fruit. “You said he _gave_ you to Da?” “Yes.” Fanny took another breath, and bent to pick up the last apple. Standing, she looked Bree straight in the eye. “Do you mind?” “No,” Bree said, softly, and touched Fanny’s tender cheek. “Oh, Fanny, no. Not at all.”