It grew late, yet no one inside the castle slept. Upstairs, in the great hall, the people sat upon their sleeping pallets, murmuring quietly to one another until one of Seonag’s moans would sound from the kitchen beneath them. They would hush, waiting for that anticipated tiny cry of an infant while holding close to their own children, stroking them softly, cherishing them.
And when that cry did not come, they waited again, whispering prayers of hope in Gaelic.
Seonag was the sister of Deirdre’s deceased husband, Tom, and the only family Deirdre had left to her. By Deirdre’s estimate, Seonag was not to have given birth for at least another month; she had seen Seonag when she had gone to visit several weeks earlier and all had been well. All would have remained well, too, had the eviction’s agents not come in the twilight hours two days before.
Seonag had been alone at the small croft she and her husband, Eachann, worked on the Sunterglen estate, where they had been tenants for the past seven years. Seonag had already retired for the night when the soldiers had come. She could have had no idea what lay in store for her when she was summoned by a sudden and insistent knocking at her door. Eachann had gone from their croft only the day before to take their stock of cattle over the brae to where relatives lived on the other side of the vast Sunterglen estate. He planned to leave them to be tended so that he could keep close to home after the birth of their first child. Eachann knew he would return within ample time of the birth, else he would never have left Seonag alone as he had.
That night, as darkness fell, the eviction’s agents ordered Seonag, heavy with child, out of her home, giving her only enough time to gather up the soft woolen blanket she had been knitting for the babe. She was left to watch in terror as the soldiers set their torches to the meager cottage’s thatched roof, setting the night sky aglow. When it was done, they ordered her off the estate. She asked if she might stay among the smoldering ruins long enough for her husband to return, but was refused. Seonag had had no choice but to begin the arduous trek to Skynegal, knowing she would find shelter at the home of her brother’s widow. Eachann would return to find his home razed to the ground and his wife and unborn child missing.
It was after midnight in the tiny kitchen at Skynegal when the struggling infant’s cry finally broke the heavy silence. A relieved cheer went round the great hall and toasts were given over ale around the grand stone hearth, welcoming the tiny new life that had survived despite the terrible circumstances its mother had endured. It was a boy, with a mop of his father’s carroty hair and eyes as blue as the clearest Highland summer sky. Both he and his mother, despite her exhaustion, were soon resting and doing well.
Christian and Robert had retired soon after the birth, for they planned to leave at dawn to return to Sunterglen in hopes of finding Eachann to bring him to his wife and child at Skynegal. Flora had collapsed from nervous exhaustion, having fretted her way through the birth of Seonag’s child. Deirdre was yet with the mother and child, leaving Grace a few moments to walk out alone in the cool moonlight and confront the emotions she’d barely managed to hold in check during the past several hours.
Witnessing the birth of Seonag’s son had given Grace a new reverence for all that life represented—the vulnerability of its beginnings, the wonder at its continuous renewal. Brought on prematurely by the ugly deeds of others and despite great odds, that tiny child had overcome it all. Watching as Deirdre had guided that new life into the world had astounded Grace and frightened her more than she had ever thought possible. Deirdre had been remarkable, knowing just what to do, what to say to ease Seonag’s laboring. At the moment that straggling cry was heard, nothing else had mattered any longer. The soldiers, the fire—all of it vanished for the single instant in time. It was truly the most divine moment, an unquestionable symbol of hope for the future.
Grace lowered to sit on one of the flat granite slabs that lay at various places about the quiet courtyard. It was a chill night and she pulled her shawl close about herself while the moon shone down through the stars overhead. For the first time in many days, the sky was clear, the clouds that usually hung about at this hour oddly absent. Grace thought that it must surely be a harbinger of good fortune for the new life that had just come into the world. She rested the flat of her hand against where her own belly swelled so slightly beneath the loose skirts of her gown. She thought to herself that she had never felt the absence of a mother’s presence more in her life than she did now.
Grace had been raised to such a sheltered existence, where the things most fundamental to life were never discussed. She had been stunned by the harsh reality of birth, the unadulterated truth of one life begetting another. How she wished she could talk to Nonny, ask her the dozens of questions that were racing pellmell through her mind. How would she know when it was time for the baby to come? Had anyone ever fainted in the midst of bearing a child? How would she learn how to feed a babe, bathe it?
She heard the sound of footsteps on the graveled walkway behind her and turned to see Deirdre coming from the glowing light of the kitchen. She had removed the kerchief that normally covered her head, letting her hair fall freely down her back in dark rippling waves well past her bottom. As she drew near, Grace noticed that without her kerchief in place, Deirdre looked a much younger woman than she had thought, closer to her own age, which was remarkable for one so knowing. “You’re feelin’ a bit of the upset after the birthin’, are you?”
Grace shook her head. And then, “Not too much, really.”
Deirdre came to sit beside her. “It frichted you, din’t it, my leddy, seein’ the birthin’ up close like that? Makes you feared, does it no’, for when ‘tis time for your own bairn to come?”
Grace looked at her. She had thought no one but Liza knew of the babe she carried, but then she wasn’t really surprised Deirdre had sensed the truth despite her silence. Deirdre had a mysterious way of seeing straight through to a person’s innermost thoughts and most heartfelt feelings. It often left Grace wondering that she didn’t perhaps possess this “sight” Alastair seemed ever ascribing to her.
“It was a little startling to see. I didn’t know it would be so… so…”
“So messy?” Deirdre nodded. “I would imagine all you’ve seen of mithers and bairns is wee bundles o’sweetness wrapped in soft white blankets, cooing and smelling like the mornin’ sunshine.”
Grace nodded, suddenly ashamed at her own ignorance.
“Birthin’s an untidy business, my leddy, nocht a bit elegant about it. But doona wirry yourself o’er it too much. Seonag had it worse than most. She was brought to the birthin’ a bit too early and the bairn wasna yet ready. I had to turn him and—”
Deirdre must have sensed that Grace didn’t have the faintest idea of what she was talking about. She fell silent and set her hand gently over Grace’s middle, splaying her fingers outward. Grace could feel the warmth of the woman’s tender touch through the woolen of her gown and took comfort in it.
“That bairn you carry now has his heid nestled up here ‘gainst your belly. A wee bit afore a bairn is to come from its mither’s womb, nature turns him”—she moved her hands—“bringin’ his heid doon, to deliver him through the birthin’ the easiest.”
Grace looked down at herself, wondering at the child she carried, suddenly able to see the babe as more than a thought, a prospect, a dream, but as a reality growing within her. Would it be a boy, or perhaps a girl? Would she be dark or fair? Grace closed her eyes. Would he be loved by the father who didn’t yet know he existed?
“I’m so scared, Deirdre.”
Awash with emotion, Grace finally gave over to the tears she had kept at bay for so long. Her shoulders shook and she wept freely while Deirdre said nothing, simply enfolded her in her arms, tucking Grace’s head against the warmth of her cheek. Grace leaned into the woman’s smaller frame and they sat together for some time, neither speaking, neither feeling the need to. The evening breeze blew gently over them, stirring up a tiny whirlwind of
leaves as Deirdre stroked her fingers lightly over Grace’s forehead, through her hair, smoothing a stray lock of it behind her ear. Twice now, when she had most been in need, Deirdre had comforted her with a mother’s touch. And just as on her first night at Skynegal, her touch had put Grace at ease.
“You havna told the laird yet about the bairn, have you?”
Grace shook her head silently. “How long will you wait?”
“Until I know for certain if he will try to force me to leave Skynegal.”
Deirdre’s fingers went still against her forehead. “Do you mean to say that the laird hasna come to Skynegal to live?”
“No, Deirdre, he has not. In fact, he has already asked me to leave and return with him to London and the life I left there. I told him I will not.”
Deirdre was quiet for several moments. “You think to discover if he loves you by your refusal to go with him back to London.”
Grace lifted her head. “If only it were that simple, Deirdre, but it is much more complicated. Christian never wanted to marry me. He was forced to by his grandfather, the duke. His coming here to Skynegal was more out of a sense of duty than any concern for me.”
Deirdre shook her head. “I think ‘tis more than that.”
“Oh, Deirdre, I wish that could be so.”
Deirdre nudged Grace into looking at her. She smiled gently, smoothing a tendril from her eyes. “This makes no sense, my leddy, these words you speak. ‘Tis obvious he has some bit o’ regard for you. You are carrying his bairn, are you no’?”
Grace drew a deep breath. “Deirdre, you have never lived the life I had before coming here to Skynegal. It is so very different. You might find this difficult to believe, especially after the love you shared with your husband, but in some circles of society, a man and a woman couple for reasons other than love or even attraction. In London, it is more often induced by money and the desire for the continuance of that money through a male heir”—she frowned—“no matter how unappealing a chore that might prove to the gentleman.”
“Och, my leddy, nature has ensured that for the man at least, coupling is no’ a chore. I’ve yet to see the man who didna think on it both nicht and day. ‘Tis in their blood, it is.” Deirdre looked at her, one brow slightly cocked. “I’m thinking from wha’ you’re saying ‘tis that the laird cares for you mair than he may like to think.”
Grace shook her head against the thought.
“You love him.”
Grace stilled, staring at Deirdre deeply. “I do. From the moment I first saw Christian I knew I would love him for as long as I lived.”
“Then you must tell it to him.”
Grace opened her mouth to give voice to every reason she had against it, but Deirdre held up a hand, stopping her. “If you ne’er tell him that you love him, my leddy, then you will ne’er know if he feels the same for you. Doona wait too long, for there is ne’er a certainty of tomorrow.”
Grace felt the weight of a single tear trickle down her cheek. “But I do know his feelings, Deirdre. Christian left me with no doubt of them. He never wanted me in his life. Don’t you see? It was for that reason I left him to come to Scotland.”
Deirdre simply smiled, shaking her head again. “Nae, my leddy, ‘tis you who doesna see. For if he truly didna have a care for you, he wouldna be here now.”
Chapter Thirty
There exists a tradition in the Highlands called the ceilidh, begun in olden times when neighbors and friends would gather together for an evening of food and drink, singing, storytelling, and dancing. It was a celebration built on clan tradition and kinship, characteristics that sadly had faded away during the past half-century or more since the Jacobite defeat in 1745. It was an event that had been looked upon with much anticipation and long after remembered with joy. What better way could there be, Grace thought, than to honor thus the birth of Seonag’s son?
The warmth and good spirit that had enveloped Skynegal at the coming of the newly born babe was soon coupled with the blessing of the safe arrival of Seonag’s husband Eachann at Skynegal two days later. Christian and Robert had happened upon him soon after he’d returned to his devastated cottage. The crofter’s very worst fears at discovering his wife missing vanished behind his joy at hearing that Seonag and his new son were alive and well and being tended to at Skynegal.
They had ridden through the night to return to the castle, coming at dusk the night before, road weary and soaked through from the rain that had showered down upon them during the last leg of their journey. But Eachann had scarcely noticed the damp. He had gone at once to where Seonag lay in a small chamber off the kitchen and hadn’t left her side since. Together they named the babe Iain, ‘a gift from God,’ for indeed he was.
The small family would remain at Skynegal, a part of them all now for clan tradition embraced the bairn born on Skynegal soil. A cottage was being planned for them on an arable plot of farmland in the glen where they might begin anew without the threat of eviction again. Until the cottage was built, Eachann and Seonag would share their first precious weeks as a family in a pair of chambers situated at the far side of the stable, a place previously put to use by the Skynegal groom, a man who had been known to all in the castle’s heyday simply as Twig. A Tudor-style cradle had been uncovered in the castle’s garret for the babe, and the other tenants, those of the Skynegal estate and those who had come from elsewhere seeking shelter, had all donated clothing and other household necessaries to help replace those destroyed in the fire.
The ceilidh was to be held the following week on the grounds surrounding the castle, giving Flora and Deirdre ample time to prepare the traditional baked foods while McFee, McGee, and a party of men went off to the deer forest on a hunt for the feast. It was a perfect time for a celebration. The renovations at the castle and a good many of the tenant’s cottages were nearly finished. Summer had come to the Highlands in full regalia of rich heather and primrose and broom. The Skynegal that Grace had looked on at her arrival months earlier was but a shadow of what she was now in her current glory.
Standing atop a heather-swept hillock and looking on the castle from afar, Grace could only think that Skynegal was very much a fairytale place. The sunlight glittered on the water of Loch Skynegal behind her, winking on the newly glazed windows of the castle. In her pastures, reddish-orange shaggy Highland cattle grazed contently on lush green grass while the legendary birds soared in abandon about the castle parapets. Never had Grace felt more at home. She knew now that she had found Skynegal, she could never leave. She also knew that although he had agreed to the release of any funds for her to continue her work, Christian had made no indication that he would stay—but, as Deirdre had pointed out, he wasn’t leaving either.
Grace reached to where Dubhar stood at her side and scratched him on his grizzled head, gifting him with a nibble of cheese from her pocket before she turned toward the small grouping of children and mothers who awaited on the haughland ahead. It was a delightful, carefree day, the morning mist having burned off early under the summer sun, the tall grass still damp beneath her feet. She had dressed plainly in a gray woolen gown, her hair simply fashioned beneath a kerchief in preparation for an afternoon that would be spent gathering the blueberries and blackcurrants for the baking they would do for the ceilidh.
“Failte na maidne ort,” one of the women, Morag, called out to Grace as she approached.
Grace returned the greeting and began to hand out the willow baskets she’d brought with her to the eager hands of the waiting children, watching on a smile as they bounded off to fill them. A prize had been promised to the one who gathered the most berries, so they scattered into the surrounding heath, giggling and hunting amongst the ling and gorse, snatching a berry every so often for themselves as they began filling their baskets.
Grace was just starting off with her own basket when she spotted a figure racing up the hillside toward them, arms waving haphazardly, calling, “Lady Grace! Lady Grace!”
She
shaded her eyes against the sun and saw that it was one of the boys who tended the ponies in the stables, Micheil. He was obviously upset, but Grace wasn’t alarmed, for she knew that one of the mares was due to foal soon and she’d asked to be called when it was her time. Apparently it now was.
“What is Micheil?” she asked as he reached her, “Has Jo begun to foal?”
“Nae, my lady…” He came to a halt before her, heaving from having run so fast and so hard. It took him several moments, bent over at the waist to calm himself. Finally he gulped. “You must come right away. The man has come.”
“The man, Micheil? What man?”
” ‘Tis Donas.”
One of the women standing nearby gasped, dropping her berry basket to her feet. Grace looked at her and saw that the woman’s eyes were wide and she started babbling in rapid Gaelic to the others, but Grace only caught a few words, her limited knowledge of the language making it impossible to understand. Over and over she heard the word Micheil had spoken—donas. And then suddenly Grace remembered that donas was the Gaelic word for devil.
She took the lad by the arm. “Micheil, what is it? Who is this Donas?”
” ‘Tis Mr. Starke come from Sunterglen.”
Grace felt a chill run through her that had nothing to do with a sudden change in the weather. Starke was a name she had heard more times than she cared to count since coming to Skynegal. It was a name that evoked terror when spoken to anyone familiar with it—and there were far too many familiar with it. The fact that he was there at Skynegal was something that could only bode badly.
Grace set her basket on the ground and started for the castle, walking at first, then hurrying faster down the hillside, until she was running with her skirts in hand. Any doubt she might have had as to whether the man had truly come vanished at the sight of the faces of those standing about the castle courtyard.
White Regency 03 - White Knight Page 24
