Chapter Text
PART I : OUTBREAK
Early 1940, during the “Phoney War”
Compiègne, Northern France
“So, this is healing nicely, Monsieur Perraud,” stated the young surgeon in French, taking a close look at the large scar on the man’s thigh. “I’m glad that you won’t be needing any antibiotics. It’s not like we’re large on the supplies anyway, nowadays…” she pouted.
“So, can I go home now?” asked the farmer with a thick northern French accent. “Only the wife is waiting for me, and I’ve got the beasts to tend to.”
“Yes, you can,” agreed the doctor. “And I’ll advise you to be more careful next time you handle your axe…”
“Sure, Docteur Beauchamp,” said Monsieur Perraud, hiding a shameful smile behind his bushy moustache.
“Come back in five or six days so that I can take the stitches off.”
“Alright, thank you Docteur.”
“Docteur Beauchamp?” interrupted a young nurse, her head appearing in the door frame.
“Yes, Juliette?” replied Claire, looking up from her patient’s scar.
“It’s Madame Duret. She’s feverish.”
“Alright, I’m coming. Prepare one dose of Prontosil.”
“Yes Docteur,” said the nurse, hurrying to obey the surgeon’s orders.
“Goodbye Monsieur Perraud, I’ll see you next week then,” said Claire before following the nurse, muttering to herself, “Thank God for sulfonamides…”
It was dark outside, when Claire Beauchamp-Randall finally went to her office to take her white coat off (which wasn’t that white anymore after a long day in the hospital). She sighed, shook her brown curls free from their tight bun before pinning them back into submission, and looked at the time. Frank would be cross with her. Again. He would probably have eaten dinner without waiting for her. Oh well… At least here she felt she was useful. If Frank couldn’t put up with that… It was not as if there were children to be taken care of at home, she thought with a pang of regret. She sighed and shrugged, before taking her purse and getting out of her office, closing the door behind her.
“Hello there!” she chanted, opening the door to her home after a ten-minute bicycle ride from the hospital.
“Good evening, Frank,” she said entering the sitting-room, where her husband was sitting in an armchair next to the fire, reading a newspaper, a very small glass of whisky sitting on the table next to him. He had been rationing his last bottle for weeks, since it was virtually impossible to buy some more these days. He looked briefly up from the newspaper to receive her greeting kiss on the cheek, muttering back a reluctant “Good evening”.
“I suppose Madame Lantier has already gone home?”
“Of course she has, if she wanted to get home before curfew,” he said pointedly. “It’s been close for you. One of these days you are going to find yourself stuck at the hospital all night even if you’re not on call…”
“I’m sorry I’m late, Frank,” she said apologetically. “You know we have a lot of work lately, with all those refugees from the North…”
“I’m not sure you’re even that sorry,” he stated calmly.
“Frank…”, she sighed. “Don’t start on that again…”
She left the sitting-room and went to the kitchen to help herself to dinner. Mme Lantier, their cook/housemaid, had left a pot of soup on the charcoal stove. There was also a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, and a few apples. It was a good meal, by 1940’s standards in Northern France. It was getting harder and harder to get a hand on the most basic supplies these days. There were talks that they would soon have rationing tickets. She was enjoying the warmth and the filling sensation from the hot and thick soup (God, she hadn’t eaten anything all day, she realized, as she noticed how hungry she’d been), when Frank joined her, and sat across the table, spreading his newspaper wide in front of him.
“God, this soup is soo good!” she exclaimed.
“Claire.”
She looked up from her bowl, her brows raised in question:
“Yes?”
“I’ve been reading the newspaper. The Germans have taken over all of Belgium and the Netherlands…”
“Yes, I know that. We’ve been having refugees for weeks at the hospital.”
“It’s obvious to me that they won’t stop at the Belgian border. Sooner or later, they are going to cross into France. Rather sooner than later if you ask me. I think we should hurry back to England.”
“What? But we have our life here…”
“What life? My family is in England. You have no family left here, now that your uncle Lambert is dead.”
“But what about our jobs?”
“I’m a British citizen. I’ve been trained to work in the Intelligence services. I will be of more use on the other side of the Channel.”
“What about me then?”
“You could find a job in England. You could even enrol as an Army surgeon.”
She laughed dismissively.
“Yes, as if the British Army would hire a woman as an Army surgeon. They would take me on as combat nurse at best. I will not lower my ambitions, Frank. It has taken me enough time and work to get myself accepted as a surgeon in this little hospital here. I’m not going backwards! Here people know me and trust me now.”
“As usual, you are putting your career above us, above our family…” he sneered.
“Our family?” she asked. “What family?”
“Yes, what family indeed! You told me when we got married, that you wanted children. It’s been three years now. I can’t say I feel you’re in a very nesting mood…”
Claire felt a pang of injustice. Yes, she wanted children, although she didn’t fool herself as to how difficult it would be to be a mother and a surgeon…
“Well, it’s not my fault if nothing’s happened in three years… I might as well continue to work meanwhile…”
“I do wonder sometimes, though…”
The feeling of injustice ran deeper into Claire’s heart.
“You wonder what, exactly, Frank?” she asked curtly.
“Well, if you’ve not been actively preventing things from happening… Since your precious career is so important to you! You would know how to do that…”
“Frank!” she yelled. “How can you imply such a thing!”
Her voice wavered now, and tears stung in her eyes.
“This is so unfair!” she went on angrily. “You know I’ve always wanted a family!”
Frank felt that he had crossed the line, and started backpedalling. He got up to approach Claire, and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.
“I’m sorry Claire. I didn’t mean that. I’ve just been feeling rather lonely here lately… Pardon me?”
She sighed and got up from her chair, scooping her empty bowl to put it back in the sink.
“Leave it,” said Frank. “You’re exhausted. I’ll wash it in the morning. Come to bed.”
He reached for her hand and started pulling her into his arms. She laughed softly, and allowed him to hug her.
“Let’s go up?” he asked. “I promise I’ll make it up to you before you fall asleep.”
“You had better,” she replied, following him.
Moments later, Frank was snoring lightly, after having “made it up to her”. Claire, however, kept staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t bad, she had to admit. But nonetheless, she wondered how much more time they would continue to walk side by side on the path of life. They seemed to be drifting farther and farther apart with each day that passed. She felt a burst of shame when she remembered the eternal vows she had most sincerely made to this man, only three years ago. Forever was a pretty long time, it turned out. Especially in this fast-changing world…
***
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England
Mary and Matthew Crawley, Countess and Earl of Grantham, were standing in front of Downton Abbey’s great door, welcoming Mary’s distant cousin, Lord John Grey. The new and rutilant car came to park in front of the entrance, and John Grey came out, then turned around the car to go and open the door to his new bride.
“John, how glad I am to see you again,” beamed Mary, opening her arms to her cousin, with whom she had spent many a mischievous hour during their childhood. “It’s been too long!”
“Hello Mary,” replied Lord John, accepting her hug.
He then turned to shake Matthew’s hand.
“Mary, Matthew, allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Isobel Grey”.
“Welcome to Downton, Cousin Isobel,” said Matthew, offering a handshake to the shy newcomer. “It feels a bit strange to say that, doesn’t it Mary?” noticed Matthew. “My mother’s Christian name is also Isobel,” he explained, seeing the young lady’s puzzled look.
“Oh, I see,” she replied. “This is funny. It is not such a common name after all…”
“Come inside my dears,” instructed Mary. “I’m afraid you’ve missed tea, but you just have time to change and freshen up before dinner is served. Barrow will show you to your room.”
Dinner at Downton was a much less formal affair nowadays than it had been for the previous centuries. Times had changed, and the staff had been reduced. There was no footman anymore, and the house ran with its Butler, Thomas Barrow, its Housekeeper, Anna Bates, who oversaw a small team of housemaids, and the eternal cook, Mrs Patmore. Mrs Hughes was enjoying a well-deserved retirement with her husband Charles Carson, and John Bates had retired from being a valet when the former Lord Grantham had passed, a little more than a year ago. The Bateses had bought a house in the village, in which they operated three rooms as Bed-and-breakfast, but Anna had found that she couldn’t leave her employer and friend Mary Crawley altogether, at a time when the latter was already quite shaken by her father’s passing. So, she had accepted Mary’s offer to become Housekeeper after Mrs Hughes.
That night’s dinner party was completed by Cora, the now Dowager Countess, and Isobel Crawley, Matthew’s mother. The chatter was amicable, but the larger international picture weighed on everyone’s mind.
“How’s the Kindertransport going, Mother?” asked Matthew.
Isobel Crawley, always one to volunteer for good causes, had been working for the organization for two years. Jewish children from the eastern European countries were being sent to Britain by their desperate parents, and the organization worked in organizing the travel, and placing the children into foster British families. Isobel’s smile faded at her son’s question.
“Oh, I’m afraid it’s coming to an end. Not that there aren’t any children in danger left out there, but with the start of the war, borders have closed, and apparently it has become impossible to bring the children all the way to Britain.”
“Poor children, taken away from their families and sent to a foreign country, to live with people whom they don’t even know the language…” stated the young Isobel.
“It is hard on those poor children, for sure,” agreed the old Isobel. “But then, if it’s a choice between that or being arrested, deported, or worse, with their parents…”
“They wouldn’t arrest and deport children surely?” said Mary in horror.
“Oh, I wouldn’t put anything past Herr Hitler and his minions,” disagreed John Grey.
“Jesus Lord…” sighed his wife.
“But I’m told children are really resilient,” said Mary. “Our former Housekeeper and Butler have taken two of those Kindertransport children, two sisters, what are their names again, Isobel?” she asked, turning towards her mother-in-law.
“Patience and Prudence Hartmann. They do come from France, actually, from Alsace. Their mother, who is a widow decided to send them away because she feared Alsace was going to be annexed back by Germany.”
“Well, anyway, Mrs Carson says they have adapted pretty well, and that they’re taking English fast. Although of course they do miss their mother.”
“May it please the Lord that they see her again one day…” said Cora. “Speaking of hopefully seeing people again one day, I’ve had a letter from Rose this morning.”
“Who’s Rose?” asked Lady Isobel.
“It’s a cousin of ours, who’s lived with us here for a while a few years back,” replied Mary. “She’s moved to the Netherlands with her husband after they married. He’s working in finance in Rotterdam. Has she said when they’re coming back? They can’t stay there now!” she asked her mother.
“She says Atticus won’t leave yet. That he’s confident his British citizenship will protect him from any disagreement with the Germans.”
“Well, I think he is sadly mistaken!” stated Matthew. “They should come back as soon as possible, if it is indeed still possible. It is a folly to stay, in my opinion. Time is running out, and the nazis won’t give a damn whether he’s British or Brazilian…”
“Why would the nazis do him wrong?” asked Lord John.
“Atticus is Jewish…” said Mary.
“Oh.”
A heavy silence descended over the dinner table for a moment.
“I’ll write her back that she should come back with the baby at least, even if he doesn’t want to,” said Cora. “Although I don’t know how long my letter is going to take to get to Rotterdam, if it ever does. Her letter has been sent three weeks ago…”
“Could we maybe try and telephone her?” wondered Mary.
“I tried a few days ago, but the operator has never been able to get my call through…” pouted Cora. “I’m really worried about them.”
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” said Mary. “What about you, John? Aren’t you going to be called back by the Army?”
“In fact, I have been yes. I’m due to join my base in two weeks. We are going to spend our time left visiting some friends in Scotland.”
“Oh? Where?” asked Mary with interest.
“A charming little place called Lallybroch. It’s not far from Inverness. One of my old army pals lives there with his sister and brother-in-law. I wanted to introduce Isobel to them too, before I need to go.”
“I have a friend who lives near Inverness too,” replied Mary. “Tony Gillingham, he’s got an estate a bit outside of the town. Maybe they’ll know of each other?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said John. “I’ll ask if you want. Anyway, Isobel and I are going to spend a few days up there before Jamie and I have to go south to our Army bases.”
“It makes me so angry that we are going to be sending our young men away to war yet again!” exclaimed Cora. “Just twenty years ago, when the Great War ended, everyone swore all they had that this was going to be the last war!”
“I agree, dear Cora,” said John. “But I’m afraid fighting wars is in the profound nature of mankind… And we really can’t let this Hitler fellow do what he wants with Europe. If no one stops him, he’ll try to cross the Channel you know. He won’t stop at the Atlantic beaches.”
“I know, and of course you’re right. But I never though we’d have to live through this twice in our life…” lamented Cora.
When dinner ended, they moved to sit in the drawing-room for a quiet after-dinner chat. As they exited the dining-room, John Grey’s gaze crossed Thomas Barrow’s, who had come in with a tray to start and clear the table. Their eyes stayed locked for a few seconds longer than was necessary, and John felt something pass between them, acquiring the immediate certainty that Barrow and himself shared one very particular quality. He quickly shook himself and joined his young bride, who was waiting for him at the door.
A bit later in the evening, both the young and the old Isobel had excused themselves, as had Cora. It was only Mary, Matthew and John left in front of the fire, nursing a late brandy.
“So, John, now that your charming bride has left and it’s just us,” said Mary with a matter-of-fact tone and a raised eyebrow, “can you tell us why the hell you married her? And don’t play coy with me. I know perfectly well it’s not because you’re in love with her.”
John chuckled.
“What can I say? I have fallen prey to social normality. It felt easier to get married than withstand everyone’s repeated questions about when I would get married. And I do like Isobel. She’s kind and clever.”
“And what does she have to say about you? Does she know? Is she alright with it?”
“She does. And she is. She was herself berated by her parents about getting married, and she said she never received any interesting proposals, so in the end, mine seemed acceptable. She didn’t fancy staying a spinster. We might not be madly in love with each other, but we are well suited you know. We are good friends, and we have a lot in common. I think we can make it work.”
“And doesn’t she mind that she won’t have children?”
“Oh, I am perfectly capable of giving her one or two children if she so wishes,” replied John pointedly.
“Oh. Well, I guess everything is for the best then,” concluded Mary.
“I think it is. Well except for the fact that I am going to have to leave her alone in two weeks, and I hope I won’t make her a very young widow…”
“Don’t say that John…” pleaded Mary, shaking off a sudden shudder.
***
Lallybroch, Scottish Highlands
“Oi! Mo bhràthair!” bellowed Jenny Murray towards her brother Jamie Fraser, who was chopping wood with his brother-in-law.
Jamie looked up and wiped his sweaty brow with his shirt’s sleeve.
“What’s up?” he yelled back at her.
“You should both come back home and wash if you want to be presentable when your friend arrives! Do you really want to greet him in that state?” she asked, her fists on her hips, shooting a dubious look to their grimy clothes and dishevelled hairs.
Jamie was vividly red-haired, and her husband Ian was a fair blond, but right now both were grey with dust. Jamie took a quick look at himself and Ian, and laughed.
“Aye, ye’re right, mo phiuthar. Come on, Ian, I think we’ve done enough for today.”
He let his axe down onto the large tree stump they used as support, and started to make his way towards Jenny and Lallybroch.
He was indeed looking completely different moments later when he entered the sitting room, freshly washed, shaved, his unruly hair gone back to its original colour, and sporting his best Fraser tartan kilt, in honour of the upcoming guests. Wee Jamie, Janet and Ian’s son, aged four, opened wide eyes when he saw his uncle enter the sitting-room in his fancy outfit. Traditional Scottish clothes weren’t worn often these days, and Jamie wore his kilt only on special occasions.
“Why did you put on your fancy clothes, Uncle Jamie?” asked the lad.
“Because we are expecting guests, a balach. Remember, I told you, my friend John is visiting, with his new wife? So maybe you could go and wash your face and hands too, lad?” replied Jamie, pointing to the boy’s sticky hands.
By the look of him, Mrs Crook, the household cook/maid, had given him toasts with strawberry jam for his afternoon snack.
“Yes, Uncle Jamie,” said the boy, scurrying back to the kitchen to use the sink.
“I think they’re here, Jamie,” his sister informed him, coming in from the hall, holding her second child, Maggie on her hip.
As she said those words, they heard the sound of John’s car tyres on the yard’s gravels. Jamie grinned at the thought of seeing his old friend. He hurried outside to greet the young couple.
A few hours later, after introductions had been properly made, Isobel had been abducted into Jenny’s kitchen, busy cooing over little Maggie, and Jamie had taken John outside for a tour of the estate. He showed him the improvements that had been made since the last time John had visited, and described his and Ian’s next projects, most of which would be put on hold because of the upcoming war. When they had reached the higher spot of the estate, where one could enjoy a large view of the surroundings, they sat on a stone wall, and shared the bottle of ale Jamie had wisely brought. The uphill walk had made them thirsty, even if the weather was still rather chilly on this early spring. The surrounding mountains were still capped in snow. As he handed the bottle to his friend, Jamie asked:
“So, are ye happy with your situation?”
“My marriage, you mean?” asked John with a crooked smile. “Well, since marrying you was apparently not an option, I guess this is the best I could ever ask for. I like Isobel very much, and I daresay the reverse is true too.”
Jamie chuckled.
“Alright. I guess I’m happy for you then…”
“But married life won’t make that much of a difference to her, at least for now… I think she’ll spend quite a lot of time at her parents’ while I’m away.”
No one had yet mentioned their upcoming departure to war and Jamie sighed.
“Makes sense… She’ll be less lonely for sure. I hate to think of Ian and I leaving Jenny alone here.”
“She won’t be alone though. There’s still Mrs Crook.”
“Aye, well,” replied Jamie dubiously. “As much as we all value Mrs Crook, it’s not the same as having yer husband with you. Nor yer brother. And Mrs Crook won’t work the estate like we do.”
“Then we’ll have to have those German bastards bite the dust as quickly as we can.”
John Grey was a major of Infantry, while Jamie was a trained fighter jet pilot in the RAF. Ian was also in the RAF, but as a plane mechanic. The three men had planned to travel south together in a few days, but John would split from Jamie and Ian when arriving in London, to join their separate bases.
“I suppose we’ll all do our best for that, aye,” concluded Jamie.
The mood was quite downcast a few days later on the eve of the men’s departure. When the children had been put to bed, all adults sat in the sitting room in front of the fire, not knowing how to break the tension.
“The house is going to feel so empty with you two gone…” lamented Jenny. “I dare ye not to come back to me in one alive piece, James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser,” she warned, pointing an accusatory finger to her brother.
“Ach, dinna fash yerself, sister. You know what that French lady said to me once! I’m a cat. I got nine lives! That should keep me going till the end of the war,” he said, trying to laugh to ease the heavy mood.
“Well, do use them wisely. I know ye far too well to my liking,” she rebuked. “At least I know Ian is going to keep both his feet on the ground, not like my foolhardy brother…”
Ian smiled to her, but didn’t dare tell her that army bases on the British soil were bound to be the first targets for the Luftwaffe planes to drop their bombs onto… She would worry enough as it was.
“And you John, be careful too!” added Jenny.
“I will, I promise,” said John with an obedient nod. “If you ever feel your house is too empty though, I know of a solution to fill it again. My cousin Mary’s mother-in-law is working for an organization that places city children into rural foster homes. You know, since they’re worrying about the Germans bombing London and other big cities. You’ve got the space here, and if there’s one sure thing, German planes won’t come all the way up here.”
“Oh? Well, I’d have to think about that,” said Jenny.
Her motherly instinct had fiercely kicked in at the thought of children being forced to evacuate their homes.
“All expenses would be paid of course. And there’s a little subsidy for the trouble I think, but I couldn’t tell you how much,” added John.
“Doesn’t matter…” cut Jenny. “Though one or two older bairns could be a good helping hand on the house and the farm, I guess. They’d still go to the local school, of course.”
“Yes, of course”, approved John. “I’ll give you Isobel Crawley’s address, you can write to her if you’re interested.”
“Well, aye, I thank ye kindly John.”
The prospect of having something to do to contribute to the war effort and not just suffer it seemed to give her a boost of energy.
There were tears still, on the next morning, when the time came to say goodbye to the men.
“I love ye Jenny,” said Jamie in a wavering voice, before turning towards his young namesake. “Ye take good care of yer mam and yer wee sister for me, hey lad? Ye’re the man of the house now.”
“Aye, Uncle Jamie,” piped the boy, who clearly didn’t understand the extent of the situation. “When will ye be back, Da?” he asked, looking up to his father.
Ian sighed, not wanting to lie to his son.
“Very soon, I hope… And meanwhile, I want ye to be good to your mam and Mrs Crook. Deal?” he said, holding his hand out to his son to shake on their agreement.
The lad solemnly took and shook his hand.
“Come on now, off ye go!” said Jenny curtly. “And dinna forget to stop at Murtagh’s to tell him goodbye on yer way, or he’ll be pretty cross”.
She wasn’t one for dragging out tearful goodbyes. And she wasn’t at all sure she could manage to maintain a good façade in front of her children for much longer.