Finding Fraser(34)

I leaned against a fence post and pulled out my copy of OUTLANDER, flipping through the early chapters. Some of the pages were beginning to feel loose. I was going to have to be careful not to lose any.

The last of the bus people—a pair of middle-aged ladies—stumped past me, chatting animatedly. I was scanning quickly through the middle of chapter three when I felt a tap on my sleeve.

“Best hurry along, dear. Angus gave us last call at least ten minutes ago.”

Her companion giggled conspiratorially. “Evelyn and I wanted to wait for the dusk, in case a group of local women showed up with sheets under their arms. But I guess we’re going to be disappointed again.”

I blinked at them. It seemed so odd to hear American accents after nearly three weeks, that I had trouble taking in what they were saying. “I—I’m not on the bus,” I said, sticking a finger between the pages. “I rode my bike.”

The first lady—Evelyn—pointed to the book. “You’re not on the OUTLANDER Tour?” she said. “But you have the book …”

A little clarity began to seep through. “The OUTLANDER Tour,” I repeated slowly. “You’re here on a tour …?”

“… Based on the television program!” finished Evelyn, triumphantly.

“And the book, of course,” chuckled her companion.

“Ladies!” came a shout from below us on the road.

“I—I even didn’t know there was such a thing,” I stuttered, as the ladies each took one of my arms and marched me down the path. “Really—I came here by bicycle.”

“I’m sure Angus will be delighted to add another participant, don’t you think, Helen?” said Evelyn, as she hustled me down the path. “You can take Gerald’s place—he’s disappeared somewhere.”

“And you have a copy of the book,” said Helen, who was her friend’s equal in energy and speed. “That should be enough for Angus. He was just saying today that he’s almost never sold out on this spring tour.”

“Plenty of seats, plenty of seats,” said Evelyn. “Lots of space, even for the missing Gerald! Tonight we stay in Inverness, and there’s a whisky tasting event. Tomorrow’s Stirling Castle!”

“And the brewery!” added Helen.

I was beginning to feel a bit breathless at the pace the sturdy ladies were setting as they hauled me along. Since logic hadn’t worked, I tried fruitlessly to extricate my arms as we speedily approached the waiting bus. The impatient bus driver stood inside on the front steps with one arm raised to his tardy passengers. Even at this distance I could see the puzzled look on his face.

“Look who we’ve brought you, Angus,” called Evelyn, in a voice that carried the distance with no difficulty. “We’ve found a wee Claire!”

“She’s got a copy of the book,” cried Helen, not to be outdone. “And just look at that hair! She looks just like the actress who plays Claire!”

I put my hand up to find the ponytail I’d jammed my hair into that morning was, in fact, long gone. I could feel my hair cascading around my head in frizzy, damp ringlets.

“I sold my hair straightener,” I muttered. But by that time we had lurched to a stop at the foot of the bus steps, where the astonished face of the tour driver looked down at us.

“I’m not on the tour,” I said to him apologetically. “These ladies were hoping to change my mind.”

The driver stepped down through the door. “Now, Evelyn,” he said calmly. “You must stop capturing young ladies. This is clearly not Claire. For goodness sake, she sounds as American as you are! You must remember Claire was an Englishwoman.”

For the record, I have to say I look about as different from Claire Beauchamp Fraser as is humanly possible. I’m taller, for one—five foot seven when I remember to straighten my spine. And my hair—on a summer day—could charitably be described as dishwater blonde, but is more often mousey brown. My eyes are green, but the contacts somehow make them come out a hazel color, too. I guess I share a certain paleness to the skin in common with Claire, but apart from that and the inclination of my hair to go curly in the damp—nothing.

Apparently this truth began to sink in with Helen. I could feel her grip on my arm lessen. “Her hair is a bit too fair, if you look at it carefully,” she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice. Evelyn, however, was not prepared to give up yet.

“But she has the book—there it is in her hand,” she said pleadingly to the driver.

“We all have the book, Evelyn. It’s why we are here. But that doesn’t mean every young woman we meet has to be Claire.”