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The Diary

Sorry, I had intended this to be an update of Ceart, but I left the house today without my notebook with information I needed for the next chapter.

So I figured something was better than nothing, and wrote this instead 😘

Chapter 7

Jesus Christ what the hell am I doing?

He dropped the pen onto the bed and brought his shaking hands up to rub at his face. It had been almost an hour since the diary had reappeared, but he was still in shock. In the blink of an eye his whole life had changed. Everything he’d ever believed had suddenly been shot to shit and he was struggling to come to terms with it.

He’d read, and reread her words over and over again trying to let it sink in. They were real: she was real. But the truth was so fantastical that he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. The evidence was right there in front of him, but he didn’t know how to rationalise something like this.

How could he?

How could anyone?

Accepting something so extraordinary required a massive shift in his psyche, and it left him feeling like the world had just been ripped out from under his feet. He’d lived his whole life in black or white. Things were either possible or impossible, right or wrong, acceptable or unacceptable. There was no middle ground, he didn’t have the time or the patience to flounder in the grey areas.

But that was exactly where he found himself now.

Two of the greatest minds to have ever lived had believed that this very thing could happen. That an occurring event, or in this case an object, could be witnessed by different people at different times. But those events were meant to take place somewhere out in deep space, not in the middle of the Scottish fucking highlands.

Yet it was happening. Here, now…or then…almost three hundred years in the past.

Or both.

Shit.

It was a complete mind fuck.

He’d been on auto pilot when he’d rushed down to his car for a pen, and set himself up on the bed to write back to her. But as he sat, trying to decide what to say, his mind was suddenly flooded with what if’s and maybe’s. Even if he did just simply accept that he was witness to some divine event, or groundbreaking scientific discovery. If he wrote back, and she read his response, his actions could have untold consequences.

One wrong word from him, and like the preverbal flutter of a butterflies wings, the whole world could change. If she was his ancestor he could say something that could alter his whole life, or end it completely, as though he’d never even existed. Or he could be responsible for world war three, or some other catalytic event that destroyed humanity.

But on the other hand, maybe the world exists the way it does because he was supposed to reply and if he didn’t, the world could end tomorrow.

Shit. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.

Reply or don’t reply?

If he replied, he’d have to really accept that she was a living, breathing woman. He couldn’t go in half arsed, constantly doubting her existence. It would be cruel to her, and he would eventually end up driving himself crazy.

But if he didn’t reply, then he needed to destroy the diary and never think of her again.

His stomach knotted at the though and he knew he had his answer. He had to respond, for himself and for her.

At this point he knew next to nothing about her, but what he did know was that, despite her obvious strength, she was also extremely fragile. She was living in poverty, close to starvation, and hiding from a man that had caused her harm.

She’d claimed to be unafraid of him, and if he hadn’t read the rest of her diary, he would have believed her. But he’d seen the false bravado in her last entry, and he knew that she was scared.

Christ, so was he.

But at least he had some idea of what was happening. She didn’t have a clue, and he had no idea how to explain it to her.

He hadn’t considered it before, but for a woman in the eighteenth century, she was surprisingly well educated. That she could read and write at all indicated that she must have been from an affluent family. But at least she stood a greater chance of understanding.

With a sigh, he reached for his pen again and brought the diary up to rest on his bent knees.

17th June

Firstly, allow me to apologise for defacing your diary with my untidy scrawl. Writing in somebody else’s diary isn’t something I’d normally do, but as it’s the only means I have to respond to your questions, I didn’t have much choice.

Actually, perhaps the first thing I should have apologised for, is reading your diary in the first place. It was wrong, but I hope that with time you’ll come to understand why I did it.

You ask me who am I, and where I am. Both are relatively easy questions to answer. But, without a doubt, they will only lead to more questions.

Questions that demand an open mind and a complete absence from reality.

My name is James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser, and I’m currently sat in the rear west bedroom, on the first floor of Lallybroch House.

Your bedroom.

My bedroom: for now at least.

You were right in your assumption that I’m not a ghost, in fact I’m very much alive, in my time at least. In yours I haven’t even been born, and I won’t be for another 235 years.

I have absolutely no idea how this is even possible. It shouldn’t be, and I’ll admit that after I saw you disappear from the garden, I questioned my sanity.

The last Laird, Robert Fraser, died three years ago and the estate was left to me. I’ve lived in Edinburgh most of my life, and until his lawyer contacted me two years ago, I had no idea that Lallybroch even existed. Work commitments kept me away until yesterday, and it was shortly after I arrived that I found your diary.

I was replacing the old mattress when it fell to the floor, and as the house had been empty for so long, it’s newness surprised me. That was the reason I opened it. I wanted to know who had been living in the house.

But I read it because you fascinated me.

It seems, that for whatever reason, the diary exists in both times simultaneously. The only time it seems to disappear from here, is when you’re writing in it. Twice now, it’s vanished completely, and the last time I actually saw it disappear from the windowsill, and reappear an hour later on the bedside table.

I’m not sure if it’s the same for you, but I imagine it is.

So, to answer your remaining questions.

No, Claire, I have no agenda. I’m not here to hurt or scare you. Jonathan hasn’t sent me, and I want nothing from you. But by my own admission, I am apparently a voyeur to your life.

I have no wish to invade your privacy, as I said, it was wrong of me to do so in the first place. So if you place it beneath your mattress, I promise that I will never look again. But if you do wish to respond, leave it on the windowsill in the evening, and I’ll be happy to read what you have to say.

I’ll leave by saying, that unfortunately you’ll find no satisfaction here in saying I told you so.

Your life is anything but dull.

I only wish there was something I could do to help you.

He read over his words twice, trying to imagine what her reaction would be, and failing miserably. With perfect recall, he could see her beautiful face, staring up at him in shock. He could see the fear and surprise in her dark eyes, and the slight parting to her full, rosy lips. But people of the eighteenth century were more open to the unexplainable. Especially in Scotland, where tales of water horses, fairy hills and witchcraft would still be running rampant.

She might just accept it easier than he had, or she could run for the fucking hills. But either way, he wouldn’t find out unless he put the diary down.

Taking a deep breath, he closed the book, and wrapped the leather laces securely around the cover, before leaning over and placing it carefully on the bedside table. It vanished almost instantly, as though, like him, she’d been sat waiting for it to reappear. His lips twitched, but the realisation that he might never see it again, kept a full smile from materialising.

There was so much more he wanted to say, hundreds of question he wanted to ask, and a thousand things he wished he could do to aid her. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. He had more money than he could spend in five life times. Easy access to medicine, food, and protection should he ever need it.

Yet there she was, with absolutely nothing. They were foraging for food in the wild, just to keep from starving to death. Children were sick and dying due to malnourishment. And at any moment, her husband, a man she had described as sick and twisted, could find her and cause her serious harm.

Yeah, he felt completely fucking helpless.

His head fell back against the bed and he closed his eyes. There had to be something he could do. Maybe he could send the things she’d need through the diary? If he could get hold of some old coins, he could enclose them in the pages.

Surely that would work?

Even if she didn’t want him to read it again, he could still slip them inside without breaking his promise. A promise that would be next to impossible to keep.

He didn’t really know anything about old coinage, so he dug his phone out of his pocket, and pulled up google. While he went through one website after another, checking the currency, converting it to modern values, and searching auction houses, his eyes constantly drifted to the bedside table.

The diary hadn’t turned back up, and although he was tempted to check under the mattress, he didn’t. It had only been half an hour, but he could already feel the disappointment creeping in and he wasn’t quite ready to deal with her rejection.

It was ridiculous, he didn’t really form emotional connections to anyone. His parents had all but destroyed that part of him as a child. But there was just something about her that had drawn him in. Even when he thought he was going crazy, he still hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

Maybe it was their unique situation, or maybe the fact that he’d seen into her private mind, or even a classic case of white knight syndrome. He wasn’t usually drawn to damsels in distress. He was more likely to have a fling with a professional, self assured woman. They were less needy and complicated, and like him, tended to have less time and inclination for a long term relationship.

But he was safe from that with Claire. Not only did she live almost three hundred years in the past, but she wasn’t a classic damsel. She needed help, desperately, but she was a fighter. He had a feeling that, if her husband did find her, she’d go down throwing punches.

And she could be his fucking grandmother.

It took him awhile to find what he was looking for. It seems that guinea’s from the first half of the eighteenth century were pretty rare…or he was shit at searching. But for just under seven grand, he found and purchased six.

One, five guinea coin, one, two guinea coin, and four, one guinea coins.

Apparently that was just over eleven pounds, the equivalent of one thousand three hundred pounds in today’s money. It wasn’t a massive amount, but until he knew whether it would work or not, it would be enough to put food on the table.

If there was any available to buy.

“Fucking hell!”

He slammed his head against the wood behind him, and scrubbed at his face. They were completely fucking isolated at Lallybroch, and every family in the highlands was suffering the same fate. There was no food to be had, so having money wouldn’t help.

It would most likely just get them in trouble with the scavenging redcoats.

Why the hell haven’t they left for the colonies already?

She’d mentioned that William had asked his cousin for passage in the spring. But that was months ago, why the hell were they still there? If it was because of lack of funds, he’d supply them with all they would need to make a new life in America.

If he could send them.

He rolled his head, and opened his eyes to look at the table, but it still wasn’t there. Sighing, he pushed to his feet, and quickly pulled his t-shirt up over his head. He was exhausted, and the lads would be back at seven in the morning.

After placing his t-shirt over the back of the chair, he kicked off his shoes, and unfastened his jeans. He was just about to push them down, when movement by the window caught his eye. His head span so fast, that pain shot down his neck and shoulder, and he grabbed at it as he stared at the place he’d swear to God he’d just seen her.

“Claire?” He called stupidly as his eyes darted from one end of the empty room to the other. There was no sign of her, but he’d definitely seen her, he knew he had. She’d been stood by the window, in a plain white nightdress, with her long wavy hair falling down her back.

With his heart lodged in his throat, he slowly walked toward the window, and with a huffed laugh and a shake of his head, he picked up the diary.

Believe me when I say, Mr Fraser, a disappearing diary is not the most astonishing thing I have ever witnessed. So if you wish to shock me, you must expand your imagination beyond your birth in the year of our lord 1982.

It did not escape my notice that you conveniently omitted the current year from your entry, so I am left to ponder when it is that you live, and of course, your age. I know you are not an old man, for I have seen you with my own two eyes, but it was hard to discern your precise age from such a distance.

From that one glimpse, I would presume that you are younger than William, who is now one and thirty. Your untidy scrawl notwithstanding, you write relatively well, but your use of contractions suggest a certain laziness that could be attributed to youth.

But what man below the age of eighteen would site work commitments as an excuse for neglecting his inheritance?

So, I would estimate that you now reside somewhere between the year 2000 and 2012. Am I close, Mr Fraser?

I will admit that pondering a time so far in the distance, does boggle my mind. What is it like? Has the world changed much? I would assume that as a man that can read and write, you must have had a tutor at some point. Did you study history with him? Do you know how things are for me?

I will also say that it offers me great comfort to know that Lallybroch is still standing, and still owned by the Fraser’s. William is working tirelessly to sow the lands, but if the harvest is as abysmal as it was last year, I was afraid that we would not survive here.

But enough of the doom and gloom.

You know a lot of my secrets, James Fraser, I think it only fair that you tell me yours.

If a time traveling diary is not enough to shock you, I honestly dread to think what it is that you’ve seen.

Because it shocked the shi heck out of me.

But having said that, people are more sceptical of the unknown in 2018. They look to science for an explanation, and myths and legends are nothing more than stories told to children. So perhaps it’s modern advancement that would shock you, rather than a divine intervention.

You mentioned that William was arranging for you to sail to the colonies. I’d like to know why you haven’t gone. Yes, the voyage would be dangerous, but you’d be safe there, away from your husband, and well fed.

Speaking of the voyage, you may be interested to know, that if I left Lallybroch now, I could travel to Glasgow, and from there to America (the colonies) in less than twelve hours.

I’ll let you ponder the possibility of that one.

The world has changed a great deal, and I will try to explain one of our advancements with each entry. I’ll start with cars as we are on the subject of travel.

A car is a metal carriage, run on its own power, without the need of horses. (Horses are really only ridden for pleasure now). They can travel at high speeds over long distances, which is why it only took me four hours to get to Lallybroch from Edinburgh.

Does that count as one of my secrets?

No?

I do have many, Miss Beauchamp, I’m not a man to share my thoughts with others, and my feelings are hidden even from myself. But you’re right, fairs fair, and I can pair one in with your reference to Lallybroch.

I’m an architect and I’ve devoted my life to designing, building, and renovating properties. I also own a lot of land in Scotland and northern England, and spend what free time I have working to restore the highland culture. But both jobs can be stressful, and I’ve nearly worked myself to death.

I was mist sick as a child, and unbeknown to anyone, the sickness left my heart vulnerable, and the stress has made it worse. Three weeks ago, I suffered a heart attack, (apoplexy I think you call it) and landed myself in the hospital. I will admit to no-one but you, a veritable stranger, that it terrified me. To actually feel my heart stop beating, was the single most horrifying experience of my life.

And like you, I’ve had a few.

It made me extremely aware of my own mortality, and I still feel the cold fingers of death gripping me.

It was that which brought me to Lallybroch.

I needed to escape from my life, and this was the perfect place. The old laird had let the house fall in to disrepair. So I came here to begin the renovations. As it turns out, my employees won’t let me complete the work alone, and I now have a team of fifteen working with me. We dismantled the ground floor today, and will start on this floor tomorrow.

That’s why I requested that you leave your diary on the windowsill. There will be no furniture in here after tomorrow. So if you place it on the bedside table, or under your mattress, I won’t be able to find it.

But enough about me. With your initial reprimand, you haven’t written about your day, and as your official voyeur, I would like to know what you have been doing.

If you have suffered a heart seizure, and miraculously survived, should you not be confined to your bed? Continuing to work will surely only exasperate the problem. It seems to me as though it is a good thing that you have help, although I do not think you should be working at all.

Consider that a new reprimand.

To answer your question with regards to our passage to the colonies. You will know, of course, voyeur that you are, that we lost young Rabbie in March. Mary is still understandable devastated, as are we all, and as yet, she is unable to bring herself to leave her son behind. William has attempted to make her see reason, but she refuses to go, and he will not travel without her.

Maybe if the journey was as little as twelve hours, he might have had more luck. How is that possible? Not by car surely, for if it takes four hours to get to Edinburgh, it would take much more than twelve to travel across the ocean.

And I have yet to see a carriage that can sail.

I will admit, you have shocked and stumped me, Mr Fraser.

I too have felt the icy fingers of death, and I feel them closer still each time that Jonathan returns to the area. I do not know why he suspects that I am here, I have no previous ties to Lallybroch, I was just fortunate enough to find shelter with the family.

But I know that he knows, and I fear for William as much as I do myself. He has a short temper, and Janet informed me that he was very close to being carted off to Fort William at their last encounter. The English are extremely hostile toward the Scots, and a redcoat needs no excuse to run a highlander through.

Jonathan needs less than most.

But you ask about my day. Janet, Mary and I have been about the most ladylike task of dying wool. We chose red today, and for the life of me, I can not get the stain, or the scent of urine, out of my hands.

I look as though I have slaughtered a pig.

But such is the work of a woman.

I am sorry to hear that Lallybroch has fallen into such a state of disrepair, that it now requires dismantling, and I can only hope that you do not mean the whole house itself. But I can not regret it, for without its mismanagement, you may never have come.

And for that I would be very sorry indeed.

Which is strange, is it not?

I should be terrified, and suspicious of your claims of being from 2018. Yet no fear or distrust resides within me. I do not know you at all, and you know me only a little more. Yet, since the moment I saw you standing in my window, I have been drawn to you in a way that I cannot explain. I have read your words but twice, but I feel as though I have known you forever.

And I cannot remove you from my thoughts.

Why is that do you think?

I should not feel as comfortable as I do, being so forward and sharing my secrets with an unknown man. Just as I should be mortified at asking for yours, but I do not.

It is just the opposite in fact.

I long to know everything about you, and for you to know all of me. But with so much to say, and so few pages left to write on, I fear we will run out of time before I am ready to say goodbye.

There is always a way.

He scribbled the last on the corner of an envelope, ripped it off and placed it within the pages of the diary. Then he stepped back and waited. But she had either given up for the night, or something had gone wrong.

As the diary didn’t vanish. It stayed exactly where he had placed it on the windowsill.

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