“Oh, more than twenty years ago. It’s been a long time.” There was an odd note in Claire’s voice that made Roger glance at her, but she met his eyes with a smile.
“Well,” he ventured, “if there’s anything I can do for you, while you’re in the Highlands…”
Claire was still smiling, but something in her face changed. He could almost think she had been waiting for an opening. She glanced at Brianna, then back to Roger.
“Since you mention it,” she said, her smile broadening.
“Oh, Mother!” Brianna said, sitting up in her chair. “You don’t want to bother Mr. Wakefield! Look at all he’s got to do!” She waved a hand at the crowded study, with its overflowing cartons and endless stacks of books.
“Oh, no bother at all!” Roger protested. “Er…what is it?”
Claire shot her daughter a quelling look. “I wasn’t planning to knock him on the head and drag him off,” she said tartly. “But he might well know someone who could help. It’s a small historical project,” she explained to Roger. “I need someone who’s fairly well versed in the eighteenth-century Jacobites—Bonnie Prince Charlie and all that lot.”
Roger leaned forward, interested. “Jacobites?” he said. “That period’s not one of my specialties, but I do know a bit—hard not to, living so close to Culloden. That’s where the final battle was, you know,” he explained to Brianna. “Where the Bonnie Prince’s lot ran up against the Duke of Cumberland and got slaughtered for their pains.”
“Right,” said Claire. “And that, in fact, has to do with what I want to find out.” She reached into her handbag and drew out a folded paper.
Roger opened it and scanned the contents quickly. It was a list of names—maybe thirty, all men. At the top of the sheet was a heading: “JACOBITE RISING, 1745—CULLODEN”
“Oh, the ’45?” Roger said. “These men fought at Culloden, did they?”
“They did,” Claire replied. “What I want to find out is—how many of the men on this list survived that battle?”
Roger rubbed his chin as he perused the list. “That’s a simple question,” he said, “but the answer might be hard to find. So many of the Highland clansmen who followed Prince Charles were killed on Culloden Field that they weren’t buried individually. They were put into mass graves, with no more than a single stone bearing the clan name as a marker.”
“I know,” Claire said. “Brianna hasn’t been there, but I have—a long time ago.” He thought he saw a fleeting shadow in her eyes, though it was quickly hidden as she reached into her handbag. No wonder if there was, he thought. Culloden Field was an affecting place; it brought tears to his own eyes, to look out over that expanse of moorland and remember the gallantry and courage of the Scottish Highlanders who lay slaughtered beneath the grass.
She unfolded several more typed sheets and handed them to him. A long white finger ran down the margin of one sheet. Beautiful hands, Roger noted; delicately molded, carefully kept, with a single ring on each hand. The silver one on her right hand was especially striking; a wide Jacobean band in the Highland interlace pattern, embellished with thistle blossoms.
“These are the names of the wives, so far as I know them. I thought that might help, since if the husbands were killed at Culloden, you’d likely find these women remarrying or emigrating afterward. Those records would surely be in the parish register? They’re all from the same parish; the church was in Broch Mordha—it’s a good bit south of here.”
“That’s a very helpful idea,” Roger said, mildly surprised. “It’s the sort of thing an historian would think of.”
“I’m hardly an historian,” Claire Randall said dryly. “On the other hand, when you live with one, you do pick up the occasional odd thought.”
“Of course.” A thought struck Roger, and he rose from his chair. “I’m being a terrible host; please, let me get you a drink, and then you can tell me a bit more about this. Perhaps I could help you with it myself.”
Despite the disorder, he knew where the decanters were kept, and quickly had his guests supplied with whisky. He’d put quite a lot of soda in Brianna’s, but noticed that she sipped at it as though her glass contained ant spray, rather than the best Glenfiddich single malt. Claire, who took her whisky neat by request, seemed to enjoy it much more.
“Well.” Roger resumed his seat and picked up the paper again. “It’s an interesting problem, in terms of historical research. You said these men came from the same parish? I suppose they came from a single clan or sept—I see a number of them were named Fraser.”