“Is Jonathan Randall’s stone over there?” She waved toward the kirkyard, visible beyond the gate. “Mother will be so surprised!”
“Aye, I expect so. Haven’t seen it myself.” He hoped the surprise would be a pleasant one; when he had mentioned the stone cautiously to Brianna over the phone the night before, she had been enthusiastic.
“I know about Jonathan Randall,” she was telling Roger. “Daddy always admired him; said he was one of the few interesting people in the family tree. I guess he was a good soldier; Daddy had lots of commendations and things he’d gotten.”
“Really?” Roger looked back, in search of Claire. “Does your mother need help with that plant press?”
Brianna shook her head. “Nah. She just found a plant by the path she couldn’t resist. She’ll be up in a minute.”
It was a silent place. Even the birds were quiet as midday approached, and the dark evergreens that edged the plateau were still, with no breeze to stir their branches. Without the raw scars of recent graves or the flags of plastic flowers as testimony to still-fresh grief, the kirkyard breathed only the peace of the long-dead. Removed from strife and trouble, only the fact of their life remained to give the comfort of a human presence on the lonely heights of an empty land.
The progress of the three visitors was slow; they wandered their way casually through the old kirkyard, Roger and Brianna pausing to read aloud quaint inscriptions from the weathered stones, Claire, on her own, stooping now and then to clip a vine or uproot a small flowering plant.
Roger bent over one stone, and grinning, beckoned Brianna to read the inscription.
“ ‘Approach and read, not with your hats on,’ ” she read. “ ‘For here lies Bailie William Watson/Who was famous for his thinking/And moderation in his drinking.’ ” Brianna rose from examining the stone, her face flushed with laughter. “No dates—I wonder when William Watson lived.”
“Eighteenth century, most likely,” Roger said. “The seventeenth-century stones are mostly too weathered to read, and no one’s been buried here in two hundred years; the church was deconsecrated in 1800.”
A moment later, Brianna let out a muffled whoop. “Here it is!” She stood up and waved to Claire, who was standing on the far side of the kirkyard, peering inquisitively at a length of greenery she held in one hand. “Mama! Come look at this!”
Claire waved back, and made her way to where they stood beside the flat, square stone, stepping carefully across the crowded graves.
“What is it?” she asked. “Find an interesting grave?”
“I think so. Recognize this name?” Roger stepped back, so she could have a clear view.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Mildly startled, Roger glanced at Claire, and was alarmed to see how pale she was. She stared down at the weathered stone, and the muscles of her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. The plant she had pulled was crushed in her hand, unregarded.
“Dr. Randall—Claire—are you all right?”
The amber eyes were blank, and she appeared not to hear him for a moment. Then she blinked, and looked up. She was still pale, but seemed better now; back in control.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice flat. She stooped, and ran her fingers over the letters of the stone as though reading them in Braille.
“Jonathan Wolverton Randall,” she said softly, “1705–1746. I told you, didn’t I? You bastard, I told you!” Her voice, so flat an instant before, was suddenly vibrant, filled with a restrained fury.
“Mama! Are you all right?” Brianna, obviously upset, pulled at her mother’s arm.
Roger thought it was as though a shade had dropped behind Claire’s eyes; the feeling that had shone there was suddenly hidden, as she snapped back to a realization of the two people staring at her, aghast. She smiled, a brief, mechanical grimace, and nodded.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Her hand opened, and the stalk of limp greenery dropped to the ground.
“I thought you’d be surprised.” Brianna was looking worriedly at her mother. “Isn’t this Daddy’s ancestor? The soldier who died at Culloden?”
Claire glanced down at the gravestone near her feet.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “And he is dead, isn’t he?”
Roger and Brianna exchanged looks. Feeling responsible, Roger touched Claire on the shoulder.
“It’s rather a hot day,” he said, trying for a note of casual matter-of-factness. “Perhaps we should go into the church for a little shade. There are some very interesting carvings on the font; well worth seeing.”