Chapter 14: A Marriage Takes Place

In this chapter, plenty of alcohol, a pretty dress, and a sickeningly earnest blood vow.

Claire wakes up with a terrible hangover. She can only offer passive resistance to Murtagh and the publican's wife, who get her up and dressed for her nuptials.

"Ye dinna want to miss yer own wedding, now, do ye?"

"Yes," I said, but was ignored as she unceremoniously stripped off my shift and stood me in the middle of the floor for further intimate attentions.

Claire gets through this will a little hair of the dog and a high level of disdain for the proceedings:

"We who are about to die," I said to my reflection, sketching a salute in the glass. I collapsed on the bed, plastered a wet cloth over my face, and went back to sleep.

Well done.

But Ned and Murtagh won't leave her alone. They come back with various attendants, bearing baskets of flowers and a gown. It's not the same as the gown in the TV show, but it sounds nice enough. I dunno, I don't really care that much. My own wedding dress was a cocktail dress I bought off the rack at Macy's for $98, so what do I know? But my sister is a costume designer and she loved that dress in the TV show, so I'll take her word for it. I liked the embroidery, but the bodice looked like it was squishing poor Catriona Balfe's boobs. And I say that as someone who has worn plenty of historically-accurate corsets in my day. They can actually be comfortable if they aren't too tight — good for the posture. It does note here that "the fit was not quite perfect," so we'll just say that tortured breasts are canonical and call it a day.

Claire is still protesting the marriage, but feebly. And she does seem to be enjoying a chance not to be wallowing in filth, both for her own sake and for the admiring attention of the men. 

Not that she's completely resigned:

Marrying. Oh, God. Buoyed temporarily by port wine and cream lace, I had momentarily managed to ignore the significance of the occasion. I gripped the banister as fresh realization hit like a blow in the stomach.

To be fair, I think that happens to people even if they're not being forced into marriage.

And here's her third glass of wine so far this morning.

Suddenly, the inn door opened, and the sun came out, in the person of James. If I was a radiant bride, the groom was positively resplendent. My mouth fell open and stayed that way.

Awwww. I'm sort of sad that they reversed this in the TV show. Not that the people at Starz are shy about letting us admire Sam Heughan. But they switched this moment and made it Jamie admiring Claire when he saw her. Sort of conventional and boring. Here, it's Jamie who is "breath-taking." Points go to Book Canon on this one.

His tartan was a brilliant crimson and black that blazed among the more sedate MacKenzies in their green and white.

Did we establish whether this is based in reality (vs. being a 19th-century romantic invention)?

Dougal and Jamie hiss at each other a bit, first over the tartan and then over Jamie's mother's pearls. Jamie gives them to Claire here, which makes more sense than the TV show version.

We made a rather morose wedding party, the bridal pair encircled by the others like convicts being escorted toward some distant prison.

In addition to a body count, we should also be keeping track of Claire and Jamie's imprisonments, both physical and metaphorical.

Through the drizzle and mist, I saw the chapel jutting out of the heather. With a sense of complete disbelief, I saw the round-shouldered roof and the odd little many-paned windows, which I had last seen on the bright sunny morning of my marriage to Frank Randall.

WHAT? Shit! That is very unfortunate.

"No!" I exclaimed. "Not here! I can't."

Yeah, this is pretty rough. 

Unable to tell anyone the truth, Claire channels her hysteria into protests that she doesn't even know Jamie's real name.

"It's Fraser. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser."

True story: When I first got the idea to start this recap blog, I spent a week going back and forth about whether I should actually do it. Not that I don't enjoy it, but I have a job and little kids and a book draft that is not finished and sort of a lot going on in my marriage, and I wasn't sure I could commit to a new project. On the very day I had given myself the ultimatum to either start writing or forget about it altogether, I was driving to pick up my son from daycare and found myself stopped at a light behind a red car with the license plate "FRASER." And here we are. (No pics, as I was driving, but it was a Massachusetts plate and was something along the lines of a tallish, boxy, car-based SUV, like a Kia Sportage.)

Thus inescapably pinioned, I squelched up the path to my wedding.

I'm sure we can discuss at length whether Diana Gabaldon is a "good" writer. But I enjoy this character's voice, and that's good enough for me.

Rupert was idly slicing a willow twig with a large knife, and while he had laid aside his horn-handled pistols on entering the church, they remained in easy reach on the rim of the baptismal font. The other men also disarmed, as was suitable in the house of God, leaving an impressively bristling pile of lethality in the back pew.

Claire is not enjoying this wedding. Phrases from this page: "cold, hollow shell," "empty pit of my stomach," "numbed," "chilly," "cold."

She finds some comfort in the realization that Jamie is as nervous as she is.

Whatever we were in for, at least there were two of us.

They stammer their way through their vows, Claire "wish[ing] fervently for a drink."

The ring bit is different from the TV show — here, Jamie gives her one of his own rings. It doesn't fit (like their marriage), so maybe she'll get a more permanent one later. Also, I thought that women in 18th-century Britain wore wedding rings on their thumbs, but I don't remember where I heard that, so it may not be true.

More mumbling from the priest, and Jamie bent to kiss me. It was clear that he intended only a brief and ceremonial touching of lips, but his mouth was soft and warm and I moved instinctively toward him.

Get it, Claire.

Then Dougal slices their wrists so they can swear a blood vow. Is a vow binding if you don't understand the words you are repeating? Help us out here, Ned.

Claire gets through the wedding, but faints on the walk away from the chapel. 

I came to lying on damp leaves, my head in my new husband's lap. He put down the wet cloth with which he had been wiping my face.

"That bad, was it?" He grinned down at me, but his eyes held an uncertain expression that rather touched me, in spite of everything. 

No worries. Still a little drunk from breakfast.

Judging by a quick Etsy search, the part where Jamie recites the blood vow in English is a big favorite in the fandom. "Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone," etc. I imagine this will be repeated at significant junctures in future books. But it's more than a little earnest for my taste. I'm sure there are better quotes to embroider on a pillow.

They briefly (and awkwardly) discuss the necessity of consummating the marriage. Which, TBH, is one of the main reasons for reading this book, so let's get to it.

Body Count:

Jamie: 3 + assorted redcoats