A Voice from the Past

Chapter 2: The Unbeliever

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. . . . .

The incompetence of the Inverness police was only superseded by their lethargy. This was beyond vexation; his grandmother could move faster. The sabbatical allotted by the University had come to an end, and he had to return to London. With a heavy heart, Frank packed his bags and loaded them into the trunk of the car. He wrestled with what to do about Claire's things, but ultimately, they traveled to London with the rest of the luggage.

The dean had apparently apprised all his colleagues of the terrible misfortune, and many words of condolence were heaped upon him. No amount of useless platitudes could soothe the ache in his lonely heart, however.

Dreary months passed, and one day, a letter arrived from Reverend Wakefield, explaining that he had found another box in his predecessor's belongings with a plethora of documents, and missives. Some of them were original, and several signed by none other than Jonathan Wolverton Randall. There was also Captain Randall's personal seal that the kind reverend offered to bestow on him. Despite his lingering grief, he wondered how he could possibly pass up this fortuitous circumstance. The chance that Claire would ever be found became a distant dream.

In the following weeks, he made plans to make a short visit to the vicarage.

# # # # #

We had just finished collecting the rents, and were on our way back to Castle Leoch, and a return to my captivity. While we were stopped at a brook to fill our canteens with water, a group of redcoats gazed down on us from a nearby ridge. I recognized the leader as the same chap that inquired about my situation at the last collection site. He left his horse hobbled with the others, and came down the bank to talk specifically to me.

"Ma'am, are you sure you're quite all right? That you are willingly accompanying these ... Highlanders?"

In an attempt to avoid bloodshed, I lied like a representative of the House of Lords. "I appreciate your concern, Corporal, but I assure you, I'm in no need of your protection."

Proffering his hand, he said, "Nevertheless, I shall escort you to Fort William, and affirm that you are indeed among friends."

Now was my chance. English gentlemen would come to my aid, and see that I could continue my journey back to those blasted stones. Unfortunately, Dougall insisted on joining me; in hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise.

. . . . .

In a most peculiar turn of events, the officers I'd met with got called away, and I was once again in the clutches of that madman, Black Jack Randall, as Mr. MacTavish called him. Needless to say, this second encounter did not fare well, and if Dougall hadn't been on the premises, I might have been thrown into prison, and become fodder for the rats. Captain Randall negotiated with my chaperone, that I was to meet with him in three days' time. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! How in the bloody hell could I avoid another meeting—and beating—with the sadistic bastard? As they say, the third time's the charm, and I was not looking forward to that at all.

Dougall continued eyeing me after this debacle. What was the war chief thinking? Surely nothing good. I imagine he had drummed up some strategy to impede Randall's nefarious plans. That something culminated in a coerced marriage with Mr. MacTavish, who as it turned out, was not Mr. MacTavish after all. The wedding was a hurried affair. I was to be Jamie's wife in under two days.

Jamie was not as disturbed about the impending nuptials as was I. But, then neither was he already married. As the day approached, I got pie-eyed drunk and had a monstrous hangover, when awakened by the exuberant Mrs. Fitz. I was a puppet, and she, the puppeteer, pulling the strings ... literally. I was strapped into a tight corset, and surrounded by a beautiful, shimmering-gray, pleated, wool gown with a silk stomacher embroidered with silver and black acorns. The ingenious Ned Gowan had managed to procure it—somewhere disreputable, no doubt.