#david berry
WE HAVE THE CAST FOR ADULT WILLIAM RANSOM PLAYED BY CHARLES VANDERVAART IN SEASON 7
Lord John Grey was a surprise a surprise. She had heard her mother speak of John Grey—soldier, diplomat, nobleman—and expected someone tall and imposing. Instead, he was six inches shorter than she was, fine-boned and slight, with large, beautiful eyes, and a fair-skinned handsomeness that was saved from girlishness only by the firm
set of mouth and jaw.
He had looked startled upon seeing her; many people did, taken aback by her size—but then had set himself to exercise his considerable charm, telling her amusing anecdotes of his travel, admiring the two paintings that Jocasta had hung upon the wall, and regaling the table at large with news of the political situation in Virginia.
What he did not mention was her father, and for that she was grateful.
Where did you…meet my father?” she asked carefully, her own troubles superseded for the moment by curiosity. “In prison. You knew he was imprisoned, after the Rising?”
She nodded, frowning slightly.
“Yes. Well. Leave it as said that I harbor feelings of particular affection for Jamie Fraser, and have for some years.”
He shook his head, sighing.
“And here you come offering me your innocent body, with its echoes of his flesh—and add to that the promise of giving
me a child who would mingle my blood with his—and all this, because your honor will not let you wed a man you love, or love a man you wed.” He broke off and sank his head in his hands.
“Child, you would make an angel weep, and God knows I am no angel!” “My mother thinks you are.”
He glanced up at her, startled.
“She thinks what?”
“Maybe she wouldn’t go quite that far,” she amended, still frowning. “She says you’re a good man, though. I think she likes you, but she doesn’t want to. Of course, I understand that now; I suppose she must know—how you…er…feel about…” She coughed, hiding her blushes in a fold of her cloak.
“Hell,” he muttered. “Oh, hell and thundering damnation. I ought never to have come out with you. Yes, she does. Though in all truth, I am not sure why she regards me with suspicion. It cannot be jealousy, surely.”
Brianna shook her head, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip.
“I think it’s because she’s afraid you’ll hurt him, somehow. She’s afraid for him, you know.”
He glanced up at her, startled.
“Hurt him? How? Does she think I will overpower him and commit depraved indignities upon his person?”
He spoke lightly, but a flicker in her eyes froze the words in his throat. He tightened his grip on her arm. She bit her
lip, then gently detached his hand, laying it on his knee.
Diana Gabaldon
Drums Of Autumn
It took three days to convince herself of the virtue of her plan, to overcome her own scruples, and, at last, to find a suitable time and place in which to catch him alone. But she was thorough and she was patient; she had all the time in the world—nearly three months of it.
On Tuesday, her opportunity came at last. Jocasta was closeted in her study with Duncan Innes and the account books, Ulysses—with a brief, inscrutable look at the closed door of the study—had gone to the kitchen to superintend the preparations for yet another lavish dinner in his Lordship’s honor, and she had gotten rid of Phaedre by sending her on horseback to Barra Meadows to fetch a book Jenny Ban Campbell had promised her.
With a fresh blue camlet gown that matched her eyes, and a heart beating in her chest like a trip-hammer, she set out to stalk her victim. She found him in the library, reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius by the French windows, the morning sun streaming over his shoulder making his smooth fair hair gleam like buttered toffee.
He looked up from his book when she came in—a hippopotamus could have made a more graceful entrance, she thought crossly, catching her skirt on the corner of a bric-a-brac table in her nervousness—then graciously laid it aside, springing to his feet to bow over her hand.
“No, I don’t want to sit down, thank you.” She shook her head at the seat he was offering her. “I wondered—that is, I thought I’d go for a walk. Would you like to come with me?”
There was frost on the lower panes of the French door, a stiff breeze whining past the house, and soft chairs, brandy, and blazing fire within. But Lord John was a gentleman.
“There is nothing I should like better,” he gallantly assured her, and abandoned Marcus Aurelius without a backward glance.
It was a bright day, but very cold. Muffled in thick cloaks, they turned into the kitchen garden, where the high walls gave them some shelter from the wind. They exchanged small, breathless comments on the brightness of the day, assured each other that they were not cold at all, and came through a small archway into the brick-walled herbary. Brianna glanced around them; they were quite alone, and she would be able to see anyone coming along the walk. Best not waste time, then.
“I have a proposal to make to you,” she said.
“I am sure any notion of yours must necessarily be delightful, my dear,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, and took a deep breath. “But here goes. I want you to marry me.”
He kept smiling, evidently waiting for the punch line.
“I mean it,” she said.
The smile didn’t altogether go away, but it altered. She wasn’t sure whether he was dismayed at her gaucherie or just
trying not to laugh, but she suspected the latter.
“I don’t want any of your money,” she assured him. “I’ll sign a paper saying so. And you don’t need to live with me,
either, though it’s probably a good idea for me to go to Virginia with you, at least for a little while. As for what I could do for you…” She hesitated, knowing that hers was the weaker side of the bargain. “I’m strong, but that doesn’t mean much to you, since you have servants. I’m a good manager, though—I can keep accounts, and I think I know how to run a farm. I do know how to build things. I could manage your property in Virginia while you were in England. And…you have a young
son, don’t you? I’ll look after him; I’d be a good mother to him.”
Lord John had stopped dead in the path during this speech. Now he leaned slowly back against the brick wall, casting
his eyes up in a silent prayer for understanding.
“Dear God in heaven,” he said. “That I should live to hear an offer like that!” Then he lowered his head and gave her a
direct and piercing look.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No,” she said, with an attempt at keeping her own composure. “It’s a perfectly reasonable suggestion.”
“I have heard,” he said, rather cautiously, with an eye to her belly, “that women in an expectant condition are
somewhat…excitable, in consequence of their state. I confess, though, that my experience is distressingly limited with respect to…that is—perhaps I should send for Dr. Fentiman?”
She drew herself up to her full height, put a hand on the wall and leaned toward him, deliberately looking down on him, menacing him with her size.
“No, you should not,” she said, in measured tones. “Listen to me, Lord John. I’m not crazy, I’m not frivolous, and I don’t mean it to be an inconvenience to you in any way—but I’m dead serious.
_”We are not in the new world because it is new. These lands are as old as any. It is new because there is hope. And hope in the heart of love…”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴏsᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴏғ sᴀᴛɪsғᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀᴄᴇ.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ғɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsome people you grieve forever;
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ” ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏsᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀs,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᴡʜᴏsᴇ ᴘʀɪᴄᴋʟʏ ғʀɪᴇɴᴅsʜɪᴘ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ɢɪғᴛ,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᴡʜᴏsᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴏsᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʜᴇʟᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇғɪɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ? “
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ, ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ, ғʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʙᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ’s ғᴀɪʀ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀʀ.
