Chapter 5
“Jamie’s workin’ for the sergeant today, is he?” Dores poured some cream into her tea. “Isna that a fine thing?”
Aileen watched the older woman for any movement of her brow. When it remained in its natural arc, she nodded. “Aye. A fine thing.” She fought her urge to fidget, feeling restless as she worried about the lad spending the day with the stern marine.
“A blessed addition to the village, the sergeant.” Her brows wiggled. “And he’s handsome, to be sure. Broad shoulders ’neath his coat, caramel curls fallin’ over his ears and forehead. And ye ken what they say about a man with a cleft in his chin . . .” She waggled her brows again.
Aileen rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Cambell, yer a hopeless case.”
Dores grinned wickedly, her teeth shining in the firelight. “And a kind man he is, to take our Jamie and put him to work.”
In spite of herself, Aileen smiled. She hadn’t told Dores the circumstances leading up to Jamie’s employment, not after the woman’s criticism yesterday, and as a result, Sergeant Stewart appeared the hero, takin’ the boy under his wing and keeping him from becoming a miscreant. That she could bear. But for Dores, or anyone for that matter, to think ill of her boy . . . ’twould break Aileen’s heart.
“Some more tea then?” Mrs. Campbell asked.
Aileen looked down at her cup and realized she’d drained the entire thing without noticing. “Oh, aye. Thank you.” Her foot tapped on the hard-packed floor as she worried how the man might be treating her darling. Was he critical? Insulting? Was her boy at this very moment crying for his mother? Jamie had been in the wrong, but he didn’t deserve cruelty.
“Perhaps we should become better acquainted wi’ Sergeant Conall Stewart.” Dores’s brow wiggled. “Livin’ up on the hill in that grand house. It must get lonely. Mrs. Ross tells me he’s fond of scones. Perhaps I’ll invite him to supper. You and Jamie too, o’ course.”
Aileen set her teacup onto the table. “I dinna think the sergeant wants to spend th’ evenin’ with a group o’ strangers.”
“Strangers?” Dores looked appalled at the term. “He tipped his hat to me after Sunday service. Even said, ‘Good mornin,’’ polite as could be.”
“Perhaps he fancies you.” Aileen waggled her own brows, earning a chuckle from the old woman. She brushed off her apron and stood. “I need to be goin’ now, Mrs. Campbell. I thank ye for the tea.”
Dores gasped, and Aileen whipped around. “What is it? Is somethin’ wrong?”
The older woman stretched out her arm, pointing to the fire. “There. See that bit o’ wood? It fell from the fire in yer direction.”
“I hardly think that’s cause for alarm.” Aileen lifted the iron poker and pushed the branch back.
“No, my dearie. Fire bodes marriage.”
Aileen gave her a flat look.
“We were jes’ discussin’ Sergeant Stewart.” Dores tapped her finger against her chin, talking to herself. “And the fire pointed toward ye. I think ’tis a sign. One that shouldna be ignored.”
Aileen rolled her eyes and kissed her friend’s cheek. “I’m leavin’ now.”
“Wait, wait! Before ye go, I’ve somethin’ for ye.” Dores crossed the room and returned with a bundle of clothing. “For Jamie. Bless the lad, but he’s growin’ like Prinny’s belt size.”
Aileen unfolded the clothes, inspecting the homespun material. They looked as if they belonged to a man at least twice Jamie’s size.
“They’ll take some adjustin’, but—”
“Mrs. Campbell, ’tisn’t necessary. I—I can’t accept these.”
She crossed her arms. “Well, why ever not?”
“I’ll find clothes for Jamie myself, once the honey’s harvested.”
“That’s months away. The boy needs clothes now.”
“Aye, but I should be the one to provide them. I’ll not take yer charity, Mrs. Campbell.” She held up another shirt. “And where did ye get these anyway?”
Dores became very interested with something on her sleeve. “Ye heard Hamish Lachlan’s passed . . .”
“An’ ye took a dead man’s clothes?” Aileen couldn’t keep her voice from growing louder.
“Well, he doesna need them anymore, does he?” Dores’s tone rose to match hers.
Aileen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips and blew out a breath. “Ye’ve taken leave o’ your senses.”
Dores grinned. “And jes’ think how fine our Jamie will look on Beltane.”
Aileen gathered the clothes, wondering what on earth the old woman was thinking and at the same time feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. Even if Dores showed her love in strange ways, ’twas love all the same. “Mrs. Campbell, yer always doin’ kind things fer me an’ Jamie. I can’t pay ye in honey and candles forever.”
“’Tis all I’ve need o’, dearie. Besides yer visits every day.”
“But ’tisn’t enough.”
Dores’s mouth twisted in a mischevious smirk, and her brow lurched upward. “I’ll think o’ somethin’ ye can do to pay me back.”
Aileen didn’t like the sound of that. “As long as it doesn’t involve dinner with former marines.”
“Handsome former marines,” Dores corrected. “An’ I’ll be makin’ no promises.”
Aileen took her leave of Dores and crossed the street. When she entered the cottage, she found Jamie kneeling beside a wall, chipping off the plaster she’d used to fill a leaking gap.
When he saw her, he jumped up. “Mam! Sergeant Stewart learnt me how to use mortar. I’m repairin’ the cottage.” He pointed with the chisel in his hand toward a few other spots that had been patched.
She let out a breath of relief. Jamie didn’t seem worse for his experience. If anything, he appeared happy. She joined him near the wall.
“Ye need to remove the ol’ mortar. That’s verra important, or th’ new mortar won’t bond tight to the stone,” Jamie explained.
She cupped his freckled cheek in her hand. “And how was yer day, mo croí?”
Jamie kept scraping the stones as he talked. “Sergeant Stewart told me aboot the time he saw Napoleon. And he has two horses. One is gray and the other brown. I’m settin’ his apiary in order tomorrow after my lessons.”
Aileen started. “Ye’re going back?”
“Aye. There’s plenty o’ work to do on th’ farm and in th’ orchard. But nay to worry. I’ll not shirk my chores at home.”
She stood, astonished at the transformation in the lad’s attitude. This morning, she’d left behind a frightened boy. And now . . . How could a few hours with Sergeant Stewart have made such a change? She couldn’t fault the lad for wanting to work, and it appeared as though the sergeant had been kind to him. How could she be angry about that? Jamie needed men in his life to show him things like how to mortar stones and to tell him about Napoleon. She set the clothes on the table beside a basket she didn’t recognize. “What’s this then, Jamie?”
“Mutton. Sergeant Stewart sent it for our supper.”
She peeked beneath the cloth, and anger kindled in her chest, burning up her neck to her cheeks. Just because Jamie thought of the sergeant as a hero didn’t mean she had to accept a handout from the man. “And what did he do that for?”
She must have been unable to hide the resentment in her tone because Jamie set down the trowel and joined her. “’Tis nay charity, Mam. Sergeant Stewart said Mrs. Ross prepared too much for him to eat alone.” He lifted the cloth all the way off. “’Twas a favor I did for him, takin’ the mutton away.”
“I see.” Aileen had half a mind to march up the hill, bang on the sergeant’s door, plop down the basket in front of him, and give him a talkin’ to. But of course, a woman couldn’t call on a single gentleman unless she had business to discuss. Was this business? She couldn’t bring herself to justify it as such. And besides, Jamie hadn’t eaten meat in months. How could she take it away from him?
The he
at continued to build. Why did everyone consider her incapable of caring for her son? A small part of her wondered if they were right. The anger swirled with no outlet, turning her stomach sick.
Jamie returned to the wall, using his trowel to spread the pasty substance. “There, that’s seen it.” He stood straight with a pride she’d seen but rarely. “I’ve just a bit o’ the mortar left. I’ll have a look at Mrs. Campbell’s garden wall afore I wash oot the bucket.”
Once Jamie left, Aileen sat staring at the freshly repaired spots in her cottage walls. Her unkind thoughts toward Sergeant Stewart made her feel petty. The man had done nothing but show a bit of attention to her son.
Jamie was growing up, and sooner than she’d like, he’d be a man. His time with Sergeant Stewart had only made that fact more apparent. After only a day with the sergeant, Jamie had brought home a finer meal than they’d seen in months. He spoke and worked with a man’s confidence. A boy needs a hero. His love of stories, of Fionn mac Cumhaill, made that all too apparent. She should be happy, proud of what he was becoming, but instead she was filled with unease and even jealousy.
The anger turned into bitter guilt, and she wiped a tear from her cheek. Jamie was her world, and now his own world was expanding, leaving her feeling unneeded and alone.
Chapter 6
Conall pulled back on the leads, stopping the wagon at the end of the road. He climbed down and patted the workhorse, surveying the area. The plot of land sat high on a stony ridge above the harbor. Below, he could hear the water lapping against the rocks of the shore, though he couldn’t see it through the morning fog. He moved to the back of the wagon and started hauling out branches.
’Twas easy to see exactly where he was meant to pile the wood. A flat, ash-stained spot on raised stones in the center of the field was obviously where the people of Dunaid had built their Beltane bonfire for generations. He glanced back along the road and saw the kirk steeple poking out of the fog. He estimated himself to be less than half a mile from the center of the village—a fine location for the celebration.
As he’d ridden through Dunaid, he’d seen decorated May bushes in front of houses and businesses, a sign that May had arrived. Not only was Dunaid busily planning for the festivities, but for the first time in years, arrangements were also taking place in his own house. Mrs. Ross and Brighid were busy at work, weaving yellow flowers into wreaths and garlands, decorating the May bush in front of his door with ribbons and flowers, and cleaning the hearths in preparation for the sacred fire.
The day before, Conall had brought a sheep to the minister for his wife and the church ladies to prepare for the Beltane feast. Everyone in the village would contribute something, and he knew most had only a small bit to give. His stomach growled as he thought of the mutton roasted slowly on a spit, the boiled eel, and the Highlander haggis the British soldiers had teased him about. They had no idea what a true delicacy ’twas.
He whistled a tune as he worked, surprised at how much he looked forward to Beltane and its traditions. More than ten years had passed since he’d enjoyed the grand bonfire or eaten bannoch Bealltainn, the holiday’s special oatcake. The last time he’d attended the festival was only a few months before he’d run away to become a soldier. He smiled as he remembered helping his ma gather flowers to adorn the farmhouse’s door and windows. Elspeth, his sister, had decorated the family’s May bush, and Conall had helped his father lead their cattle and goats and even a few chickens around the bonfire, making sure the smoke blew over them to protect the animals from disease. The memories brought an ache, and he wondered if the absence of his family and the worry about where they’d gone would cast a shadow over the festival.
Once the wagon was empty and the dead wood piled in a heap, he turned and started back along the main road toward the village. The fog had turned into a damp, misty spray which he wouldn’t quite describe as rain but wouldn’t describe as “not rain” either. Smirr was the word his ma had used to describe this type of damp. Conall smiled. As much as he loved this weather, it left him very evenly drenched.
Perhaps he’d stop at the Stag and Thistle and get something warm to drink. He left the wagon outside Davy’s livery shop and walked toward the inn. Villagers were bustling about, preparing May bushes in front of their shops and homes, adorning their doors and windows with yellow flowers, and calling well-wishes. The excitement of the holiday buzzed in the wet air.
From ahead, he heard children’s voices. One he recognized, and it brought him up short. Jamie Leslie was hollerin’, and he sounded angry. Conall hurried toward the dry goods store, finding Jamie, red cheeked and hands fisted, standing face-to-face with a girl a few years older than him.
“Yer a wee pest, Jamie!” the girl shouted.
“An’ yer a rag-headed ninny!” The lad yelled the words in an indignant outburst.
So intent were they on their argument that they didn’t notice Conall’s approach until he spoke. “Good mornin’ to ye, Jamie lad.”
Jamie turned away from the girl, his angry expression falling away when he saw Conall. “Mornin’, Sergeant.” He smiled then shot a glare to the girl.
“And what’s upset ye then?” Conall asked. “Surely nothin’ tae do wi’ this bonny lass.”
“Robena.” Jamie spoke the name with a scowl.
Robena scowled back.
“Tell me then. What’s caused the two o’ ye to cross swords?”
Jamie folded his arms. “Mr. Graham read to us about Judas Iscariot in lessons, and Robena said red hair’s the mark o’ the devil.”
Conall glanced at Robena. The girl had pulled back, becoming shy when he’d approached.
Jamie’s scowl relaxed, but his brows still pulled together tightly in worry. “’Tisn’t so, is it, Sergeant? Jes ’cause I played a trick on cranky auld Mrs. Brodie, I’m not an evil lad.”
Conall coughed to hide a smile. He’d heard of the infamous red-bloomers affair. But looking at the boy’s earnest face, his amusement changed to sympathy. He felt the urge to put a reassuring arm around Jamie, take him away, and give the girl a scolding, but he thought such an action would just lead to more teasing in the future. He rubbed his chin. “Can’t be true now, can it?” he mused in a conversational tone. “I ken Robert the Bruce and Mary, Queen o’ Scots, had red hair. And, o’ course, Cú Chulainn. Now, I’d no’ consider any o’ them to be evil, would ye?”
“Nay,” said Jamie.
Robena remained silent, shifting her feet.
“An’ my own ma, she’s bonny red hair, much brighter than Jamie’s. A sweeter soul you’d nay find anywhere. ’Twouldn’t do for someone to call my ma evil.”
“I’m sorry,” Robena said.
Conall smiled. “O’ course ye are, lass.” He jerked his chin upward. “Now off ye go then.”
The girl looked toward Jamie, but instead of speaking, she gave Conall a quick curtsey and made her escape, dashing off down the street.
Jamie watched her go then looked up. “Is it true, Sergeant? Yer mam’s hair is red like mine?”
“Aye, although she’d a bit o’ gray above her ears the last time I saw her. ’Twas over ten years ago.”
“You must miss her.”
Conall nodded, swallowing. “Robena shouldna have said those things to ye. But, lad, ye must always be a gentleman, no matter what a lass says.” He held up his hand when Jamie opened his mouth to disagree. “Always. Think o’ somethin’ kind to say, bow when ye meet and when ye depart”—he demonstrated, bending his head forward, his hand on his heart—“and most of all, ye mustn’t yell at a lady. Not ever.”
“But Robena isn’t a lady,” Jamie said, his nose wrinkling. “She’s naught but a lassie. And a bad-mannered one at that.”
“Aye, lad.” He tried to keep his face somber, though ’twas becomin’ more difficult. “Ye can’t change her. But yer duty is to be a gentleman. Ye ken?”
Jamie shrugged, looking reluctant. “Aye.”
“That’s a good lad.” He patt
ed the lad’s shoulder. “An’ what’s brought ye to town today then, Jamie?”
He shrugged. “Lessons wi’ the minister. We finished early because o’ the holiday. My mam was to meet me after, but—” He looked past Conall and waved. “Och, there she is now.”
Conall turned and saw Mrs. Leslie walking toward them, a covered basket over her arm. He tipped his hat when she neared and inclined his head. “A good day to ye, Mrs. Leslie.”
Jamie laid his hand on his chest and inclined his head as well. “A good day to ye, Mam.”
Mrs. Leslie looked back and forth between the two, raising her brows. “Good day, Sergeant. Jamie.”
“Sergeant Stewart is learnin’ me aboot bein’ a gentleman,” Jamie said.
“Is he now?” She glanced at Conall with a curious expression.
“Aye,” Jamie said. “A gentleman should bow to a lady. And say somethin’ nice. An’ he should never yell at her. Even if she is a rag-headed ninny.” He muttered the last sentence beneath his breath, and Conall pressed his finger to his lips, the urge to laugh nearly triumphing.
Mrs. Leslie’s brows remained arched, but her lips twitched. “It sounds like a verra timely lesson. How nice of Sergeant Stewart.” She turned toward Conall. “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll have a word wi’ ye.”
He dipped his head and turned to the side, indicating for her to lead the way.
Mrs. Leslie smiled at her son. “Run on home with ye, Jamie. I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Mam, must I?” His gaze moved to Conall, and Conall couldn’t help but feel flattered that the lad wished to remain with him.
“Aye.” She gave Jamie a smile that made her bright eyes twinkle, a welcome sight on such a bleak morning. “Mrs. Campbell told me she could use some help decoratin’ her May bush.” She winked. “An’ ye ken, she’s likely makin’ bannock cakes already.”
Jamie grinned, starting away and calling over his shoulder. “I’ll save one for ye, Mam. And ye as well, Sergeant, if ye’d like.”
Miss Leslie's Secret Page 4
