by Susan King
"Aye. And we can send the behemoth that way to shovel the new path until we can begin blasting."
"Right." Rob stood, gathered some of his papers into a leather case. "I'll go talk to Angus Gowan about doing a new survey of the other side of the hill. Are you coming back out to the work site with me, sir?"
"What? No. I have some charts to do for the new plan. I'll work on them now." Aedan nodded as Rob left the library.
Sitting back, chewing his pencil's blunt end thoughtfully, Aedan watched Christina, curled reading in his father's favorite leather chair, with his father's terrier asleep at her feet. He noticed the rich, dark fire in her hair as the afternoon sun spilled over the crown of her head. A long while passed before he could focus his attention on his maps again.
Chapter 17
"Mrs. Blackburn," Hector called, "ye should come see this."
Clouds covered the hot morning sun as Christina looked up. She was perched on a rock, writing another note to Edgar to tell him that the foundation stones of a Pictish house now seemed to be emerging from the earth. Several days of digging had exposed more of the structure.
"Yes, what is it, Mr. MacDonald?" she asked.
"I believe we've found something here, lass."
"Oh!" She set aside the writing box that held her paper, pen, and ink pot and nearly stumbled in her haste to reach the spot where the foreman and Angus Gowan stood. The Gowans, who had been working diligently all morning, stood back, shovels in their grimy hands, dust smudging their faces.
"One of the stones shifted a bit when we were clearing here, mistress," Angus Gowan said. "That flat one in the flooring there. Rocked, it did, and seemed loose."
"We pried it up," Donald Gowan said. "See what we found."
She saw a dark hole in the earth, filled with curious shadows. Sinking to her knees, she peered inside. The cavity was cleanly cut and walled with fieldstone. Round shapes, apparently pots and vats, were stacked two deep along the far wall.
"Can you move the stone any more, Mr. MacDonald?"
"Aye, lass. The thing is on a lever stone, as if 'twas meant to be opened. And look. There are steps for going down. Is it a tomb, d'ye think? Och, we'll find a king's ransom now," Hector said gleefully, rubbing his hands.
She brushed earth from her hands and stood back as the Gowans heaved the great stone to expose more of the square opening. Angus lit and held an oil lantern for her, shining it down into the gap. Looking into the gloom, Christina saw the shapes more clearly. Several large clay pots were stacked against a wall.
She smiled as she turned toward the others. "We might find vats of wine or tubs of grain, but not gold, Mr. MacDonald. This is a storeroom. It's called a souterrain, an underground room. Like a butler's pantry."
"A sootie—a what? A pantry in the ground? They had suchlike, them that lived here?"
"Aye, they had surprising sophistication in their homes, with luxuries like wall cupboards, shelves, even private lavatories."
"Och, mistress, dinna tell me that." Hector turned pink.
"Storerooms like this one are fairly common in this sort of house, from what I understand. Food would have stayed fresh and cold in here. They would have kept grain and so on in those clay jars." She stood, gathering her skirts. "I'd like to go down to see. Can you move a ladder in there for me?"
Hector beckoned to the Gowans, who hastened to bring her the wooden ladder they had brought to use while clearing the taller sections of the wall embedded in the torn hillside.
"Ye want to see grain and auld stale cheeses that's been doon there for a thousand years?" Hector asked, and he shrugged. "Ye'd best wait, lass. We'll send Donald doon first, in case there's danger. He's a braw laddie. Donald," he directed. Christina handed the young Highlander the lamp, and he carefully descended the ladder into the hole.
"Souterrains are not very exciting, I suppose," Christina said. "I have read about them, though I have not yet seen one myself. They were often used as storerooms and were simple chambers cut into the earth, lined with stone blocks to retain the coolness. Sometimes there are several chambers linked together, and when they are filled with stone and pottery vats, it can prove quite exciting."
"Oh aye, pots. Verra interesting," Hector said, sounding unconvinced. "I'd rather find pots o' gold!"
"So would I, Mr. MacDonald. But this will do." She waited anxiously, looking over the edge as Donald wandered about. Although she tried to act scholarly and detached, she felt very excited, for she had secretly wondered if the site would yield anything other than crumbling stone partitions.
Donald looked up. "Nothing here but auld jugs and chamber pots!" As he came up, Christina moved to step down the ladder.
"Mistress, dinna go down there," Hector said. "The laird wouldna want that."
She looked around. "Why would he care? Does he worry that I'll find some gold and steal it away for the museum?"
"Och, dinna get in a kerfuffle. He cares aboot yer welfare, I'm thinking," Hector replied. "He told us to watch everywhere ye set yer bonny foot and sweep the verra earth where ye walk, and make sure the stones were clean where ye set yer cup o' tea and where'er ye rest."
"He said that?" she asked in surprise.
"Nae exactly, but near enough," Hector admitted.
Angus nodded vigorously. "Himself said to me, 'Angus Gowan, you are never to be leaving the wee lassie alone up on the hill, and she is never to be wanting for anything, or it's I will be hearing of it.'"
"So if I let ye doon there the noo, and something were to happen," Hector said, "a scratch to yer finger or dirt darkening yer wee nose... och, the laird will be after me for it."
Christina stared at him, her thoughts racing. Although Hector was making something of a joke, she wanted to believe that Aedan could care that much about her. "I'm sure the laird is concerned about a further delay to his road, or something interesting turning up here in his absence," she replied primly.
"It's ye he thinks of, and nocht else. I canna let ye doon there, lass, 'til the laird says it's safe."
"Do you think it's safe?" she asked bluntly.
Hector shrugged, looked at Donald, who shrugged.
"Well, then," she said, gathering her skirts and stepping down, "I shall take responsibility. If the laird does not like it, send him to me." She moved into the shadows.
"A muckle fuss over stale oats," Hector muttered.
After carefully descending the ladder, Christina reached the earthen floor of the storage chamber. She noticed that the clay jars stacked against the wall were painted with various animal and abstract designs, in a primitive yet elegant style.
A closer look confirmed that they were all sealed with thick wax. She wanted desperately to discover their contents, but she did not want to disturb the centuries-old dust on their shoulders, nor spoil the peace and the mystery of their secrets. She turned and looked up at the men waiting.
"This is truly marvelous," she said, her voice echoing in the cool, musty space.
"Is it gold?" Hector asked hopefully, peering down. The lantern he held poured light over her.
"Old pots, Hector, my friend!" She felt giddy with delight. "Come down and see!"
"Och," he said with resignation, stepping into the opening. "Only for you, lass."
Yet more mud. This road was cursed, Aedan thought. He shoved a hand wearily through his hair and gazed around the work site. Another night of thundershowers had created even more muck. His men toiled along the side of the road, picks and shovels making sloppy noises, the work going slowly. The steam engine, garish red in the cloudy light, huffed and spat in a forceful rhythm, straining to lift the heavy earth. One of the men hopped up on the wagon that supported the great beast and checked the gauges, keeping an eye on the machine.
Rob Campbell sauntered toward Aedan. "We've made progress, despite all, sir," he commented. "Another half mile or so yet to grub out and dig, and we'll reach that long stretch of road from Glasgow that was completed last year. Then the top layer of
crushed stone goes on, and after that. " He shrugged, looked at Aedan. "We have nearly a month left. We may make it."
"Aye, perhaps—if we can cut through the other slope of Cairn Drishan in an efficient manner," Aedan said.
"Providing that we find no other ancient sites," Rob said dryly. He glanced at the incline of the great hill nearby. "Has Mrs. Blackburn had word from Sir Edgar yet?"
"She had a letter from him, and I presume she will answer, but I do not know what they discussed. I'll be going to Edinburgh myself in the next week or so, but I intend to avoid him."
"I understand you intend to escort Miss MacDonald and her grandmother to see the doctor. Dora—Miss MacDonald—told me about your offer. I want to thank you for your generosity."
"No thanks needed. I imagine you would have done the same, given the opportunity."
"Oh, aye. I'd accompany you if I were not needed here in your absence. I'd like to give Miss MacDonald my... support."
"I gather that your friendship with Miss MacDonald has grown close. Effie mentioned something of the sort."
"It has. And I'd like our friendship to become closer, sir. I hope Dora feels the same way, but I feel I must wait a bit."
"Perhaps if the treatments improve her eyesight, you might wish to court her," Aedan suggested carefully.
Rob frowned. "Do you think it makes a difference to me if she can see or not? I'd court her now if she'd allow it."
"Ah. The last time I was there, I mentioned your name, and Dora blushed a fine pink. Then she wanted to hear news about Robert Campbell and none at all about the laird." Aedan grinned. "Even talk of our trip to Edinburgh did not interest her as much as hearing that you posed for an ancient Scottish warrior in John's mural. I told her that you wore a tunic and carried a targe shield and a sword from my father's collection. And I made sure to say that you looked as fine as a warrior from the ancient Fianna. The young lady seemed very impressed."
Rob laughed. "Thank you. That may help my case. I'm not quite sure of her feelings yet, so I've been cautious."
"My friend," Aedan said, "caution is wise around fires and steam engines. But matters of the heart sometimes require courage and boldness, rather than caution."
"You sound like a man who knows whereof he speaks." Rob studied him calmly.
Aedan shrugged. "I've learned that some men have courage for everything but love. They might regret that caution later in their lives. Do not be one of those."
"Are you saying Dora might like to know how I feel?"
"Just so, sir."
Rob nodded. "That might take bravery, indeed."
"I have faith in you." Aedan glanced toward the steam engine, which had begun to sputter. "Rob, go turn off that infernal machine, if you would. The behemoth has had enough exercising for one day."
"Aye," Rob said, and he strode away.
Frowning, thinking about his own lost chance at love, Aedan looked toward the high ridge of Cairn Drishan, far up the moor. Earlier, he had noticed a small figure perched near the site of the old wall.
She was there now, her dark skirt billowing behind her, her white blouse and straw hat pale in the gray light of a gathering rainstorm. He narrowed his eyes, watching her intently.
Her small figure was fragile compared to the massive hillside, yet she was determined, undaunted by the task ahead of her, undeterred by rising storm winds. He admired her strength and stubbornness, even though it conflicted with his own goals, his own determination.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and wondered if she could see him now—one still dot upon the moorland—as he could see her. He wondered if she sensed his spirit or felt the same pull he felt, like an invisible gossamer thread spun out between them.
A great, aching need rose in him to go to her, to declare his feelings, to take the advice he had just given Rob Campbell. He wanted her desperately—the intensity of it shook him, astonished him—but he dared not acknowledge that need.
If the curse of his forbearers held true, declaring his feelings for Christina would doom her. He was not a superstitious or fearful man by nature, but that risk he could not take.
Hearing a rumble, he looked up, seeing greenish gray clouds gathering from the west. He muttered a low oath, realizing that yet more rain would bring fresh mud and further delays. He shook his head at the prospect.
More thunder. The air felt alive, charged with the power of the storm. What drove through him in that moment felt even greater, capable of shifting his life out of its habitual track.
Change. He felt its inevitable strength, dreaded it, unsure where it would sweep him. He did not particularly like change, but he was a realist. He knew it had already entered his life. Whether he would continue to resist it, or if he would surrender to its power, remained to be seen.
Fat drops of water pelted his shoulders as he whirled and marched off, calling to his men to cover the great metal beast before the thing began to rust.
* * *
"I would rather you were not alone up here, Mrs. Blackburn," Aedan said. "There is a thunderstorm brewing. There were some raindrops not long ago, and those clouds look ominous."
Startled, Christina glanced up through the fall of black lace fringing the brim of her straw hat. She was kneeling, so that Aedan's spare, muscular form silhouetted against the pewter sky seemed vastly tall. Glowering, hands fisted at his waist, he did not look pleased.
Resuming her task, she stretched a measuring tape across part of the souterrain's stone cover. "Good afternoon to you, too, sir. I will not melt in the rain," she said stiffly.
"Nevertheless, there is a danger of mud and potential rockslides up here. You should always have someone with you on this hill. I saw Hector down on the moor just now, as I was coming from Dundrennan." He looked up as thunder rumbled. "He said you wanted me to come up here. I thought you might need me urgently for something, so I hurried."
Need him, she thought. Yes, she did, heart and soul, but she could not let it show—she had only begun to admit the possibility to herself. "I am perfectly fine alone up here."
He glanced around. "Where are the Gowans?"
"If you must have a count of heads, Mr. MacDonald has gone to take luncheon with his mother, and Angus and his sons went with him. I was invited as well, but I thought to finish this part of the work before going down the hill." Picking up her memorandum book, she recorded the measurements, then pulled the ruled ribbon over a long edge of the stone, stretching to reach.
Aedan took the metal-tabbed end and drew it out to span the stone. "You might come to harm here alone, with a storm on its way. Six and one-half feet," he said, releasing the tape.
She wrote down the number. "I am not helpless, sir. I can find shelter if I need it. And since you're here, you can save me if I faint from the exertion of using my sewing tape," she snapped as she yanked the tape outward.
He huffed at that and silently helped her stretch the tape over another section of stone. Christina jotted the numbers down and made rough sketches, all the while aware that Aedan stood just beside her. She glanced at him from beneath the brim of her lace-trimmed hat.
One booted foot propped on the stone wall, his black jacket draping from his hand, resting on his shoulder, he seemed all earthy strength and ease. A slight breeze ruffled the rolled sleeves of his white shirt and lifted his dark, wavy hair. He looked far cooler and more comfortable than Christina felt.
Gloved, bonneted, and swathed in several layers, she longed to be half so unencumbered. Because of the day's warmth and the nature of her work, she had worn only three petticoats beneath her dark gray skirt, and had done without her stays, which had made the long climb to the excavation site easier and had proven cooler. Although she had opened the top button of her linen blouse, sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her back beneath her chemise and camisole.
She picked up a little fan to flutter air over her face and throat, glad for the shade of the straw hat.
"A little rain will give us some r
elief from this heat," Aedan said. "You look rather warm, Mrs. Blackburn. I have some lemonade—not so cool as when Mrs. Gunn gave it to me this morning, but at least it's wet." He handed her a silver flask wrapped in leather.
Accepting the flask, she drank the sweet, tart liquid gratefully then handed it back.
"The men have made a good bit of progress since I was last here," Aedan said, glancing around. "Have you found anything in particular? Hordes of gold, chests of silver, that sort of thing?" His tone was amused rather than sarcastic.
"We've exposed more of the walls, which I think are the foundation of an ancient Pictish house. And this hole here is a storage chamber." She stood, smacking earth from her hands.
Aedan frowned. "Ancient Pictish house? Are you sure?"
"It's nothing modern, I can assure you of that. The walls are rounded and nearly six feet thick in stacked stone. Not so large as a fortress, but fine enough for its day. Over there is the entrance of the house or tower, with the fallen lintel—do you see that long stone, there?"
In silence, Aedan walked toward the ancient stones and touched them thoughtfully. Christina followed.
"That square niche over there is a stone cupboard. Along there are three beds built into the thickness of the wall. And in the center is a hearth." While she spoke, he went there to look.
"Cozy," he said. "This is no black house at all, is it? I see I must admit defeat, Mrs. Blackburn." He looked at her over his shoulder.
"We were never at war," she said quietly, and he lifted a skeptical brow. She went on. "The house has certain features in common with Pictish habitats. My uncle studied ancient ruins in the north while writing his history of Celtic Scotland, and I traveled with him to examine some of them. These are very like what we saw."
He walked toward the storage pit. "And this hole?"
"A souterrain, an underground chamber." She followed him. "We found it this morning. A storage cellar, lined in stone. There are over a dozen tall clay jars inside."
