I n spite of Hugh’s assurance that Kezzie’s relationship with Margaret was no problem, Sophia was to watch, helplessly, as bonds very like grandmother and grandchild were woven between her servant and her child. But always, as during Margaret’s illness, the nurse’s service was such that Sophia didn’t know how she would manage without her. Somewhat detached from her child, Sophia often fretted; it certainly was not the way she had planned and dreamed that things would be. Life as the Galloways lived it, however, called for Sophia to be mistress, and children, as ever across the years in aristocratic households, to be seen and not heard. But seen only occasionally.

Now, during Margaret’s illness, was no time to reprimand Kezzie or jeopardize the delicate situation in any way. And, truly, Margaret was in the best hands possible. Sophia took comfort from that fact and turned her attention to being the companion and hostess her husband needed. Life, for Sophia Gowrie, had indeed turned out remarkably well.

Margaret’s ultimate restoration to health was due mostly to a service about which the household knew nothing. A small kitchen menial had been added to the staff, replacing a slovenly and undependable woman. Raised in a poverty-stricken but spotless home where dirt and grime were abhorred, Angie scrubbed and cleaned until her poor small hands were red and cracked. Caked nipples and milk-rimmed bottles were put to soak in hot and sometimes boiling water, not because the girl had any knowledge of germs and infection, but because of her fetish to be clean. She took her few cents home at the end of each day, and no one ever knew the daughter of the home owed her health and very possibly her life to a simple country girl with a penchant for cleanliness.

Kezzie was eventually able to write, sitting near the bairn’s bed, well within the sound of any faint cry or call.

Dear Mary:

We have just come through a very bad time. Wee Margo has been near death’s door. Many a time I’ve wished for some of those prayers you write about.

As you can imagine, I looked on all the bottles the doctor left with little confidence. Modern medicine! There may come a day, but as of now, the old ways are best. Certainly they worked for wee Margo, and she is recovering nicely.

As for those bottles, I took one sniff and marched them downstairs to be destroyed. Cook uncorked one, gave the cork a lick, made a face, and agreed with my decision. Geordie, the handyman, was put in charge of getting rid of them and he promised to do so. Just how he did it is not really known, but cook and I thought he seemed unusually frisky for a day or so, and his breath smelled remarkably like alcohol. I will say this—he didn’t show any symptoms of biliousness or colic!

Out of all of this has come the conviction that I have done the right thing by staying here with the wee bairn, though it means separation from my Mary and her babies. Often I am torn by the separation. But I know you are contented where you are, and I know Molly and Cameron are better off being raised free and proud, rather than in the bonds of service as our people have been across the centuries.

Let me tell you about Margo, so you can picture her. Her front teeth have come in; she has such a charming grin that it is hard to resist her. Her hair is as dark as ever and loses none of its curl. Her little face is rounding out again. Her paddies are dimpled now, just as Molly’s were, and the little fingers on each wee paddie have that same inward curl to them as Molly’s, making me think often of my darling girl so far away. If you could see her you would love her, Mary, I know you would. It seems a precious task to spend the rest of my life looking after her.