by Susan King
“Struan House was my grandmother’s home, and she enjoyed having charge of the estate. I did not want to interfere with that, and I admit there was little time to visit her, unfortunately. I am much occupied with lecturing duties, although my research sometimes brings me into the Highlands.”
MacArthur nodded, looking pleased. He speared a roll with a two-pronged fork, slathered it with butter and jelly, and glanced at Elspeth. “Stays in the city, does the Laird of Struan,” he said, tearing off a bit of roll and popping it into his mouth.
“I realize that,” she said tersely.
In the awkward silence, James accepted another slice of cold beef in a roll, offered by Mrs. Graham, and gave his attention to cutting it in half.
“Where are the yarns from Margaret, then?” Donal MacArthur asked. “Is your cousin doing well? How is it that Lord Struan came to take you home?”
“I have not visited Margaret yet,” Elspeth said. She stared into her tea for a moment, then lifted her head, cheeks high pink, a spark of bravado in her eyes. “I stopped by Struan House first, and became stranded in the bad weather.”
“Ah.” Donal set down his fork and looked from his granddaughter to James, while Mrs. Graham sat silent. James felt suddenly like a boy caught out at school. “Why did you go there?”
“To look for the blue stone in the garden,” she said. “I thought I could find it.”
“It will be found when it wants to be found.” Her grandfather scowled. “So you went there, and Mrs. MacKimmie away and all.”
“What are you saying?” Elspeth asked warily.
“I saw Reverend Buchanan on my way home today. He told me you had been caught in the rains, that he and his father met the pair of you under some unusual circumstances, were his words.” He set down his knife. “Is there something the kirk minister knows that I do not?”
James sat forward. “Sir, Miss MacArthur did stay at Struan House. She had a mishap while traveling over Struan lands and was injured.”
“She has a twisted ankle, Donal MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham supplied. “I looked at it myself this afternoon and made her soak it in a salt bath. She must rest it and cannot walk about as usual. Did you not notice her limping in the yard?”
“Aye,” Donal said. “Injured. Go on, sir.” He fixed James with a stern stare.
“I happened upon her where she fell in the garden, Mr. MacArthur. The storm was fierce by then, and of course I offered her shelter at Struan House. My housekeeper was detained elsewhere, ah, due to the storm.”
“And the rest of household staff gone, too,” Donal MacArthur said, “due to the Fairy Riding.”
“Grandda, it could not be helped,” Elspeth said.
“Alone,” her grandfather went on. “Together.”
“Lord Struan treated me cordially, as a guest.” Elspeth lifted her chin. “Reverend Buchanan has no right to suggest otherwise.”
James noticed a spark in Donal MacArthur’s leonine eye and the man’s nostrils flared, but the older man held his composure. This was where Elspeth got her temper as well as her dignity, James thought.
“Elspeth had turned her ankle, Donal,” Mrs. Graham reminded him.
“I slid down a hill in the mud,” Elspeth said. “I could not walk.”
“An unfortunate situation,” James explained. “Between Miss MacArthur’s incapacitation, a lightning storm, and the muddy roads, travel was out of the question for two days. I would not let her risk walking home, nor could I risk a horse slipping while traveling.”
“Two days!” MacArthur thundered, setting down his custard spoon.
“Oh, dearie!” Mrs. Graham fanned herself. Then she recovered. “How fortunate Lord Struan was able to help. Elspeth could have come to real harm if she had tried to make her way home.”
MacArthur tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. “I commend you for considering the horse, and my granddaughter’s well-being. What of her reputation?”
“Sir, these were extraordinary circumstances. Unavoidable,” James said.
“Extraordinary,” Elspeth echoed. “Grandda, we saw the Riding!”
MacArthur stared, teacup in hand. “On Struan lands?”
“Aye. We heard the horses, and we saw—I saw—” She stopped. “I will tell you later. It was an exceptional night.”
“How exceptional was it,” her grandfather growled.
“Lord Struan is a gentleman,” she said with dignity.
“I understand how this appears, Mr. MacArthur,” James said. “And I realize such things can jeopardize a family’s reputation. I am prepared to make it right.”
“Make it right,” Donal MacArthur repeated thoughtfully. He regarded James and then Elspeth. “Normally we would speak alone, you and I, sir,” the older man said. “But this is not the usual. Do I understand that you are offering to marry her?”
“I am. I have told her so.” He could not look at Elspeth, but felt her hot gaze turned keenly on him.
MacArthur grunted and looked at her. “And will you have the man, then?”
“No,” she said, setting down her teacup.
“He’s a fine gentleman,” her grandfather said, “with a title and property, and apparently good morals. I believe he has a good heart as well.”
“He is and he does. But my answer is no,” Elspeth said.
“He has an estate and a lineage to be proud of,” MacArthur went on, as if Elspeth had not blatantly refused, “and a generous income. Sir, may I assume that your income is excellent?”
“I am, ah, comfortable,” James said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“There,” MacArthur blustered, waving a hand. “And he has a teaching position and a house in Edinburgh as well.”
“I do,” James said, watching Elspeth. “And a Highland property.”
“I do not care,” she said firmly.
“Whether the man is Highland or Lowland, the decision was made for you when you stayed the night at Struan House.” MacArthur said. “The two of you make a fine match.”
“We do,” James ventured.
“We do not,” Elspeth said decisively at the same moment.
“Peggy Graham agrees with me, do you not?” MacArthur boomed.
“Lord Struan is a true gentleman,” Mrs. Graham said. “But if the girl refuses, she has her reasons and you should listen to her as her grandfather and guardian.”
The old man raised his china cup. “To Struan!”
“Indeed, Grandda, you should listen to me. But you have not.” Elspeth stood. “I have weaving to do.” She went to the door, turned. “This matter is not decided by any means, so do not celebrate.” She shut the door firmly behind her.
“There,” MacArthur said in a satisfied tone, “that’s done.”
“You are interfering, Donal MacArthur,” the housekeeper said.
“Stubborn as yon lass is, we need to interfere. Eh, Struan?”
“I rather like her stubbornness, sir, and she has her reasons, as she said,” James replied. He stood. “Let me see to the matter properly, sir. Mrs. Graham, thank you for the excellent supper.” He bowed his head and went toward the door.
“Hoo hoo,” Donal crowed as James left. “A wedding for sure, Peggy dear!”
The loom clicked and its heddle bars shifted as Elspeth pressed the foot pedals. She threw a small threaded shuttle right to left, and another left to right, through the gap between the threads. All the while, her body swayed side to side and back and forth with the steady rhythms created by loom and shuttle. Her hands moved quickly, the repetition soothing, erasing all but the moment.
This was what she most needed, this letting go of thought and worry. She felt herself begin to release fears and relax. Click, clack. Red, black, green, black, yellow.
She pressed the treadle quickly, the motion shifting the wooden heddle bar, bringing one set of warp threads down, and creating a new tunnel between the layered warp threads. Taking up another shuttle for the weft, threaded with yellow, she tossed that deftly
through the gap, and as it sailed through, caught it in her left hand. Treadle, drop the warp, snug the yellow into the weave, toss the yellow through, drop it, pick up the black—quick and nimble she went, clicking on and on, weaving the weft, yellow and green, through the warp, red and black.
The length of the new woolen cloth grew steadily, its span as wide as the reach of her arms. The cloth turned on the wooden roller, pressing against her taut waist as she leaned into the work.
The rhythms went on, and seemed to speak to her. Go to him, stay here, go to him, stay here. The colors reflected her feelings: red for passion and temper, black for fear, yellow for hope. Green for growth, for a new start.
Go with James, leave Kilcrennan, said the loom. She tossed the shuttle, pressed the treadle. All will be well, all will be well.
Press the treadle, fling the shuttle, right to left; catch the shuttle, press the treadle; fling and catch and press. Just keep a watchful eye on warp and weft, heddle and roller, keep watch over the sett pattern as the tartan grew like a living thing.
She would need to decide. She knew that. For now, there was respite in the rhythm, satisfaction in the work. Someone would treasure this cloth. For now, that would do. But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.
Catch and fling, catch and press. Yellow goes over, black comes back; hope flies through, and shadows follow.
James stood in the open doorway, shoulder leaned against the jamb as he watched the weaver absorbed in her work. He had never seen tartan cloth produced on a loom. He had taken the woolen fabric for granted, not thinking much about how it came into existence; only what it cost per ell, how it looked and felt, how neatly the tailor cut it for kilt or waistcoat, how nicely warm and dry it kept one.
A few minutes of watching loom and weaver showed how the colored threads interwove as stripes and blocks to form the plaid pattern. The cloth spooled, taut and handsome, over the roller.
But the weaver held most of his attention.
He was fascinated as much by the girl as her skill. She sat on a wooden chair and leaned into the loom, arms out, hands moving as if she played upon a great harp held sideways in her lap, an instrument that created a rhythmic melody of clicks and shushing sounds. She was practiced and efficient, leaning and tossing, pressing and catching, while the loom posts shuddered gently and the roller turned.
He watched her deftly snatch the shuttle with its long tail of color and send it flying through the gap in the threads; saw her catch it on the other side and send it back. Every movement was perfectly timed as the loom moved sweetly, steadily under her guidance.
Compelled, James watched, appreciating her focus, her trancelike calm. He saw the focus on her face, a soft light within. She was enchanting. And he appreciated, too, the swan-like grace of her body as she moved, her supple, slender curves, the whole action more like a dance than work. His body stirred, surged inwardly. He knew the feel of her body against his. He wanted that again with her, fiercely so.
Yet he saw more than a beautiful young woman weaving color on a loom. He saw her gift, and her love, for the work. And he understood why she did not want to leave Kilcrennan. She was part of this place. This was more than a pastime for her. It was art and devotion. And he could not ask her to leave it.
In silence, he turned away.
Chapter 14
“The sky is clearing,” Donal MacArthur remarked as he entered the parlor. “The roads will be better by morning. You are welcome to stay the night.”
James turned, standing by the window. “Thank you,” he said. “I will do that. I am grateful for your hospitality, Mr. MacArthur.”
“We are glad of your company, Struan, and the help you gave my granddaughter. Elspeth mentioned that you are here to complete Lady Struan’s last book?”
“I am editing the pages. It was her request. I plan to return to Edinburgh in two or three weeks.” He could not stay much longer, with university duties. And he would have to accept that he might never convince Elspeth to join him in Edinburgh.
“I see. Whisky, sir?” MacArthur opened a cupboard and withdrew a brown glass bottle and two glasses. He poured and returned, handing James a glass.
James thanked him and sipped. “Excellent stuff,” he said, as the heat of it spread like smooth fire down his throat and throughout his body. “Is it made by a local distiller?”
“It is,” MacArthur said, and swallowed.
“Mellow, yet with a subtle spiciness and—a bit of power. Extraordinarily pleasant.” He sipped again. “I’ve never tasted its like.”
“‘Gie us the drink, to make us wink,’” MacArthur recited. James laughed to hear the Burns quote. “My cousin makes it. A MacGregor. He has a small distillery far up in the hills. So long as he makes just the legal amount for family and friends, no one bothers about his whisky-making.” Donal grinned, blue eyes gleaming.
“Ah.” James was well aware that the manufacture of illicit whisky, and its smuggling for export, was rampant in the Highlands despite legal strictures imposed by the government. And he knew that the laws benefitted the government far more than the Scots involved in brewing the whisky that had been made in the Highlands, especially, for centuries. “I wish your cousin well of his enterprises. This is a fine product.”
“This is a special brew, not his usual make, that he produces each year from a family recipe. He always sends some to Kilcrennan. They call it fairy brew.”
James sipped again. “For its delicate flavor, I suppose.”
“And because it is the fairies’ own recipe, or so they say.” He lifted his glass in salute. “An old tradition. The difference in any good whisky is in the water, and where the particular barley was grown, and so on.”
“It’s very good stuff, and the legend makes it richer.” The whisky warmed like fire, and yet soothed him down to his very inner spirit, somehow. “Your cousin would be a wealthy man if he made more than small batches, and sold this.”
“Legitimately? Tcha! The taxes would be so high there would be little profit left. My cousin does well enough exporting his other whiskies. I suspect he could never make enough of this particular potion to meet demand, once news got around. The legend forbids profiting from the recipe, and the ingredients are too rare. Fairy dew, they say, is necessary for the fairy brew.” He winked. And wobbled slightly on his heels, steadying himself.
“Fairy brew,” James said thoughtfully, studying the glass. “It seems potent.”
“Oh aye! The Daoine Sìth know how to make a good uisge-beatha!”
“Dow-in shee. Uisge-beatha.” James attempted the Gaelic, which seemed safer than talk of fairies brewing whisky—among their other talents, he thought wryly. “My sister has good Gaelic, learned from our nanny. I did not pick up much myself,”
“You had a Highland nanny in Edinburgh?”
“I was born in Perthshire, and spent some time in the Highlands there, and at Struan with my grandparents when they acquired the estate.”
“Then you have a Highland nature, for all your Lowland years.”
“I suppose so. Mr. MacArthur, do you truly believe in this business of fairies?”
“I do,” the older man said firmly and took a long swallow.
“My grandmother mentions you in her manuscript. She was impressed with your knowledge of fairy lore, and devoted many pages to your stories.”
“Did she, aye?” Donal MacArthur carried his glass and the bottle toward the fireplace and sat in a threadbare brocade chair, indicating the other for James. “Well, I am honored. We were friends, I like to think, and I am pleased to be in her book.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Struan, a good lady and a friend to the weavers of Kilcrennan.”
“To Lady Struan,” James echoed. “She also mentioned Niall MacArthur.”
“My son. Elspeth’s father.”
“So I understand. A painting of his hangs in the library at Struan House.”
“The fairy grove, aye. He painted that just months before he disappeared.”
“Disappeared? May I ask...what became of your son, sir?”
MacArthur drank, refilled his glass, poured more into James’s own. “He was lured by the charms of a fairy lass.”
“Some women can enchant a fellow.” James thought of Elspeth.
“And some are of the fairy ilk themselves.” MacArthur sighed. “Niall would roam the hills to make his drawings—he was gifted, that lad—and he worked at the weaving too. One day he went out with his drawing box, and never came home again. He went over to the fairies.”
Unsure how to respond, James sipped. Perhaps MacArthur embellished the account to hide the shame of a young man abandoning his family. He had a small daughter, and presumably a wife or lover, who Donal termed a fairy lass. “His disappearance must have been tragic for your family. I am sorry,” he said carefully.
“Sad, aye, but he is enjoying his life where he is. One can lose all sense of time and duties in the fairy realm. One day there could be a year for us. A week, seven years. I know this, myself.”
James tipped his head, skeptical, remembering something he had read in his grandmother’s pages. “So Miss MacArthur never knew her father?”
“Never saw him but in dreams. She has a gift, you know. The Highland Sight.” He tapped his forehead.
“So she tells me,” James replied.
“It is strong in her. Some say it is the gift of the fairies.” The old man sighed again. “Mrs. Graham and I have raised her to be a proper young lass, and so we allowed her to go to Edinburgh for her debut and to attend parties with her cousins and so on. But the lass decided she dislikes the city. She prefers to be here, weaving the cloth. She is a brilliant weaver. But to be honest, sir,” MacArthur added, leaning forward. “I would prefer to see her married, and happy—and away from this place.”
“She seems determined to stay.”
