Weeks passed. The weather began to become more settled, as March gave way to April and the storms coming in off the western shore became less frequent. Mairead continued to make good progress with her reading, writing and numbers, despite a decided lack of belief in her own abilities, and she and Lydia were becoming ever-firmer friends. Young Eilidh had also taken to Lydia, who was teaching her French in the late evenings after dinner.
Lydia’s grasp of Gaelic, while still weak, grew better by the day. She could now recognise a number of common words and phrases, and was able to greet the castle staff with ‘madainn mhath’ and thank them with a ‘tapadh leibh’ in quite a relaxed way.
She had continued to puzzle over the mystery of Mairead’s affliction and had discussed the matter with Mrs MacLeod. Apparently, following a severe fever two years earlier, Mairead had been left too weak to walk, or play. Her appetite had never returned and she tired easily. Because of this, the staff had begun to carry her around. While their own local doctor had pressed them to insist on Mairead walking, this had been met with resistance from both the child herself and those around her, who had wanted only to care for her. By the time she had fully recovered from the fever, Mairead’s leg muscles had become wasted and weak and, despite every effort, no-one had been able to get them working again.
So far, Lydia had not broached the subject again with Mairead. She sensed that the Laird would not want her to speak of it—mainly to save his daughter from distress, but also, Lydia had realised, because he himself was uncomfortable whenever it was mentioned. She could not fail to observe his responses when the topic had come up at dinner, which was generally the only time she saw him.
Indeed, dinner with the Laird had become the highlight of her day, despite the fact that he had been horribly judgemental at first. They now enjoyed a relationship that was perfectly cordial, although... She stopped. Cordial did not do justice to the confusing feelings he engendered in her. Yes, she was relieved that he now seemed less hostile and cynical about her dedication to her work, but cordial was much too mild a word for the strong emotions she felt each time she saw him. Nervousness was paramount, but beneath it was a swirl of warmth and fear and confusion, along with a thudding heart and racing pulse.
Thankfully, the Laird had not again questioned her about her reasons for leaving her previous posts, although she had sensed his curiosity at the time. However, their dinner-time conversations had moved beyond the polite and they now enjoyed stimulating discourse about books, art and even history.
He—and Iain, when he was able to join them—had given her a little insight into Scotland’s history as understood by the Scots, which she was perfectly open to exploring. Emboldened, they had gradually inveigled her into full discourses about Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Royal lines of succession, and the ban on Highland dress, which had only been reversed in their lifetime.
‘So your family did not always wear the Highland dress, then?’ she had asked the two men.
‘Here, we never stopped wearing it. Travelling to Glasgow, or Edinburgh, our fathers were forced into English habits.’ The Laird’s expression had been grim, Lydia recalled. ‘Yet another reason why they were always relieved to return to the islands.’
Iain had agreed with him and Lydia had tucked away this detail as another piece of the puzzle that was this place and these people. Her fascination though, went beyond an intellectual interest in the islands and islanders. Something about the Laird himself fascinated her. The way he spoke. His rare smile. His hands. The way he held himself.
In his company, she had noticed a definite tendency for her heart to beat faster—particularly when he spoke to her directly. When his eyes met hers, her stomach would do strange somersaults, or a knot would develop in the centre of her chest, or she would find herself losing her train of thought...
‘I am done, Lydia!’ Mairead declared, bringing her back to the present. She had set the child a writing task, to which Mairead had applied herself with great determination.
‘Why, this is excellent, Mairead!’ Lydia smiled at her. ‘I think we shall be ready to show your papaidh some of your work soon. Perhaps you might write something for his birthday next month?’
Mairead beamed happily and Lydia’s heart swelled to see the child’s confidence was slowly improving. Mairead sent her a sideways glance, asking saucily, ‘Is it my turn yet?’ Their pact had continued, with alternating hours for each of them to choose their tasks. A side benefit was that Mairead was, quite without realising it, learning to tell time.
Lydia glanced at the clock. ‘Not quite. Can you see that the long hand is still to the side?’
‘It is nearly at the top though,’ Mairead offered, with hope.
‘It is.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, I wonder if, for these last few minutes of my turn, we could perhaps talk about your arms and legs.’
The child’s eyes widened. ‘What of them?’
‘Tell me what you think about them.’
‘Well, they do not work. They are not strong, or strong-willed. And so I cannot walk or run, and I cannot hold heavy things for very long.’
Lydia nodded, all attentiveness, ensuring that no pity was obvious in her expression. ‘Did you know that I was governess to another child who could not walk? His name was Master John.’
‘Was he the same as me?’
‘Not exactly. His legs were completely dead and would not move at all, whereas I think yours can move a little.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mairead calmly, ‘Look!’ She moved her right foot up and down, then her left. Concentrating hard, she lifted both legs outwards, straightening them from the knees. She also lifted her arms in the air, holding them up briefly before dropping them again. ‘I have always been able to move them a little. But that is not the same as walking.’
Lydia sank to the floor beside her. ‘But that is wonderful! Can you do it again?’
Mairead complied and Lydia clapped her hands. ‘Mairead, I must be honest with you. I do not know if it is possible for your arms and legs to get stronger, but if you wish it, I can help you.’
Mairead looked at her blankly. ‘But everyone knows my arms and legs do not work. I am like old Mrs Mackinnon—although her arms are strong. It is her legs that do not work.’
Lydia shook her head. ‘I am very glad that Mrs Mackinnon is so well thought of by everyone. Why, it is clear to me that she does not need to walk to be important and valuable to everyone here. Her knitting and sewing skills are legendary in the castle, I believe. But your case may be different, Mairead. You have just shown me that your arms and legs do work. They just get tired, that is all.’ Lydia tried a different tack. ‘Have you ever seen a baby who could not walk?’
‘Well, of course! There are always babies and they never walk!’
‘How do they go from not walking to walking?’
‘I—I do not know. They just do.’
‘I have cared for many babies and I have seen them change. First they roll over, then they sit and after that they work out how to hold themselves on their hands and knees.’
‘Yes! And then they learn to crawl!’
‘They do all of those things before they try to stand or walk. And they change from just having their mama’s milk to eating proper food and they eat more of it as they get bigger. Maybe we could try some of the things that babies do? It would mean lots of practising, just like your handwriting—but maybe your legs might become a little bit stronger.’
Mairead considered this. ‘I do not like to eat. They make me have breakfast and dinner every day, but I only eat it because I must.’
Lydia shrugged. ‘No-one can force you to eat more. But I think that the food may help the muscles in your arms and legs to get stronger. Only you can decide, Mairead.’
‘And I shall walk again?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘I cannot say. I make no promises, Mairead. Do you understand? I do not know, and you do not know, how strong your legs and arms may become. But we can make a game of it, do you not think?’
‘Can we do it now?’ The child’s eyes were shining. She glanced at the clock. ‘It is my turn anyway! I choose babylegs as my lesson!’
Babylegs?
‘Very well.’ She smiled. ‘Let us begin by sitting on the floor then, as babies do.’ Thinking quickly, she rose and took an apple from the bowl on the side table. ‘I am going to place this apple beside you and you must reach for it and pick it up.’
This Mairead did with no difficulty, so Lydia placed the apple in various places around her, gradually increasing the distance so that Mairead had to lean more and more to reach it. This she did, her stomach muscles and balance proving themselves up to the task. She even ate the apple—something that Lydia had not seen her do before. Carefully, Lydia did not comment on this.
Next they worked on rolling over and Lydia was pleased to see that Mairead’s legs moved to assist her as she clumsily and slowly manoeuvred herself from back to front and back again. Clearly pleased with her own efforts, the child pushed herself into a seated position.
‘Master John was not able to roll,’ Lydia told Mairead quietly. ‘His legs would not help him.’
‘Then I am sorry for him. But I am happy that I can roll!’ She rolled again, slowly making her way to the edge of the carpet and back again, giggling at her own efforts. ‘This is very amusing, Lydia!’
Lydia grinned. ‘I am glad to hear it!’ Mairead’s face was flushed with a healthy colour, she noted. Children should be active. ‘Perhaps for our outside time, if it is dry later, I could take you to that small hill where we sit sometimes. You could sit there and practise reaching for things without toppling over.’
‘No!’ Mairead’s tone was sharp. ‘For we could be seen from the windows if we go there.’
‘You do not wish to be seen?’
Mairead took both Lydia’s hands in hers, looking up at her with a pleading expression. ‘We are going to tell Papaidh about my reading and writing soon and then I shall have no surprise for him. This—my babylegs—will be the next surprise.’ She shrugged. ‘And if it does not work, then at least he will not be sad.’
Lydia, tears stinging her eyes, enveloped the child in a warm hug. ‘You are very wise, Mairead. And very kind.’
‘Tapadh leat,’ Mairead whispered and Lydia’s heart sang at the child’s use of the more familiar form of address.
‘Now,’ she said, all practicality, ‘how are your poor legs and arms feeling after all that hard work?’
‘My legs are burning, Lydia. They feel very warm.’
‘That is a good thing, I think. May I stretch them? That might help.’
Mairead nodded and Lydia gently lifted Mairead’s right leg. There was little muscle in the calf, but Lydia could indeed feel warmth through the fabric of the child’s split dress. Gently, she stretched Lydia’s foot and ankle, bending and rotating it, then stretching the calf by bending the foot upwards. After doing the same with the child’s knee and lifting the leg to gently stretch the upper leg muscles, Lydia repeated the same with the other side. ‘And that is enough for now, I think. Time for lunch!’
Inwardly, she was suddenly quaking, questioning whether she was doing the right thing. What would the Laird say if he knew? Mairead was his child, after all. Still, strengthening Mairead’s ability to roll over easily was no bad thing, surely? If ever she took a spill from a chair, she could at least attempt to sit herself up—altogether more dignified than flailing around on her back or stomach, awaiting assistance. Like Mairead, Lydia was possessed of a strong independent streak and sensed that the child would value the sense of control this would bestow—even if it were limited control.
She sighed. The danger was not there. The true danger was that—despite deliberately trying not to—she might have given the child false expectations. I hope I do not break her little heart. That was the part that the Laird had every right to object to. And the fact that Mairead wanted it kept from him did not help. Indeed, it compounded Lydia’s sense of guilt, for he would not even know of his child’s hopes.
This was not the first time that Lydia had experienced a dilemma to do with her care of a child. Frequently, she had used unorthodox teaching methods—methods that she knew would be unacceptable to the children’s parents. Teaching outside was one of her favourites. She was not so old herself as to have forgotten the tedium of a dreary classroom. The same tasks in fresh air seemed easier, somehow. Thankfully, Mairead no longer protested about outside time and had even been known to groan in disappointment on a rainy day.
Today, her memory just as strong as her determination, Mairead insisted Lydia carry her well out of sight of the castle, to a part of the island where there were few houses. Gentle hills covered in crisp brown and bright green vegetation abounded and Lydia was flushed and perspiring before they reached a spot at the top of a hill that satisfied her charge.
‘Here!’ she declared imperiously, reminding Lydia of the Laird. He occasionally got just such a look on his face and used that tone, when he was at his most laird-ish.
There was a small bush nearby and Mairead amused herself by counting the green caterpillars that were swarming all over it. ‘Seventeen!’ she declared in triumph. ‘That means there will be seventeen butterflies in a few weeks.’
‘Unless the birds eat some of the caterpillars.’ Lydia sent her a wicked smile.
‘No, no, Miss Lydia.’ Mairead wagged a finger at her. ‘You shall not trick me into playing fox and hens with the caterpillars!’
Lydia laughed. ‘Very well. Let us rest here a while then, for I do declare I am exhausted from carrying you all this way, child!’
‘Then you must rest, Lydia, for I mean to practise my rolling!’ Before Lydia could stop her, she had lain down on her side, pushing herself into motion, then shrieking loudly as she rolled swiftly down the hill. Horrified, Lydia rose as quickly as she could, racing after the delicate child as she moved towards the bottom with alarming speed. She came to a halt just as Lydia reached her.
‘Oh, my dear, are you well? Mairead!’ She turned the child towards her, astonished to see Mairead’s eyes alight with devilish glee.
‘That was wonderful! I must do it again!’
‘Oh!’ Lydia sank down amid her own skirts, overwhelmed with relief. ‘You gave me such a fright!’
‘Please carry me to the top again, Lydia.’
‘Oh, no!’ Lydia’s tone was firm. ‘My job is to keep you safe, and rolling down hills is not in the least safe. Why, you might have struck your head upon a rock!’
‘But there are no rocks in this part, look! It is all bog moss!’ Mairead pointed out. Blinking, Lydia was forced to admit the child was correct. The green moss adorning the hillock was soft and springy—perfect for Mairead’s rolling.
‘And this will be good for my legs and my arms. Please may I do it again? Even once more?’
Seeing the unusual flush of healthy colour in the child’s cheeks, and the bright sparkle in her eye, Lydia found herself powerless to resist. ‘Oh, very well. But just once more, mind.’
This time, Lydia walked down to the halfway point before signalling to Mairead to go. The child’s shrieks resounded around the hills, but now Lydia recognised them as signalling delight, not fear. Afterwards, she spent a good ten minutes taking pieces of heather and moss from Mairead’s hair and clothing while the child munched on another apple, before picking her up and making for the safety of the castle. Really, the little rascal was becoming quite a handful!
That evening, at dinner, Lydia stole a glance at her charge. Gone was the hoydenish child with a head full of vegetation. In her place was the usual Mairead—neat, tidy and self-contained. Naturally, she was asking questions, but in a reasonably calm manner. When her papaidh asked what she had been doing all day, she made mention of their trip, but only to ask him the name of the hills. He told her, then moved on, and Lydia let her breath go a little. ‘Miss Lydia and I have been working hard, Papaidh, and we shall have something to show you soon.’
‘Indeed?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘May I know what it is?’
Shyly, Mairead glanced towards Lydia, who smiled. ‘You may tell him.’
‘I can write some things now, Papaidh. And I can read many words. I have been working very hard on my letters, have I not, Lydia?’
‘Indeed you have, my dear.’ Her voice thickened with sudden emotion, Lydia swallowed, looking at the Laird. ‘She is clever and she has been working very diligently, so her letters are coming along nicely.’
He was beaming with delight and, as he spoke to his daughter of his pride in her, Lydia’s heart turned over. These two! Underneath the table, she bunched her hands into fists. While she had usually come to love the children in her care, she had never before been so taken with one of the parents. Indeed, she had never before been so taken with any gentleman!
Yes, he had a tendency to glower and he had been terribly rude towards her when she had first arrived, but Lydia understood that his primary concern, naturally, was Mairead. Father and daughter had a firm friendship, and it delighted her to observe their interactions. Sometimes, when they were speaking Gaelic to each other, she would allow the rhythm of the beautiful language to wash over her, dreamily watching them both.
Naturally, she knew that developing a tendre for her employer was forbidden, but years of hiding her feelings in company gave her a reasonable level of confidence that he could have no notion. Never before had she encountered a gentleman who combined honourable behaviour with a fine face and form, and the combination was too much for her lonely heart. It would pass, she knew, for she had heard of such things before. In the meantime, she must be careful to not allow anyone to see her growing regard for the Laird—particularly the Laird himself.
Mairead had turned her attention to her food and Lydia was delighted to see that, tonight, the child was showing signs of an increased appetite. Perhaps rolling down hills and moving one’s arms and legs was of benefit in that way, too. Or perhaps this was simply a reflection of Mairead’s determination to help rebuild her strength. Gaining confidence in reading and writing seemed to be changing how Mairead saw herself.
They were seated side by side and Lydia suddenly became aware that, under the cover of the table, Mairead was continuing to exercise her legs. Lydia could sense the child moving her feet, gently straightening one leg, then the other, and seemingly lifting her legs to balance her feet on the cross bar of the tall chair. Six years old and such determination! She glanced at the Laird. Oblivious to his daughter’s surreptitious activity, he was currently conversing with Iain about arrangements for an upcoming wedding in the castle. Noting his firm jaw and the decided way in which he was directing his steward, Lydia had to hide a grin. It was clear where Mairead got her strong will from!
‘Something amuses you, Miss Farnham?’ His tone was mild, but the look he threw her was piercing.
‘Oh, I am just—just pleased to hear there is to be a wedding. It is always such a happy occasion, is it not?’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Indeed? I am delighted to hear of your pleasure at the prospect. I must disagree with you, however. Not all weddings are happy occasions, even if they seem so at the time.’
‘Who is getting married, Papaidh?’
‘Màiri is going to marry Calum MacLean in two weeks. You know—the Màiri who works in the kitchens.’
‘Oh.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘I thought it might be Eilidh.’
‘Which Eilidh? Eilidh Òg or Eilidh Ruadh?’
Aha! Òg was young, Lydia knew, and ruadh meant red-haired. So this is how they differentiate. Eilidh Òg would be the maid and Eilidh Ruadh the Laird’s red-haired cousin.
‘Eilidh Òg. She helps me and Lydia. She likes Dòmhnall Mòr. I think they should marry each other.’
The Laird glanced at Lydia, a clear question in his gaze. She replied with a shrug and a crooked smile.
I have no idea what Mairead is referring to.
‘Does she now?’ the Laird murmured. He glanced towards Iain and the two exchanged a knowing look. ‘She could do worse.’
‘Dòmhnall Mòr is a good lad,’ agreed Iain. ‘No fortune, though. All he’s done so far is work the kelp. They’ll need a cottage and he a trade.’
‘He’s good with livestock. Perhaps put him with the cattlemen.’
‘Aye. Leave it with me.’
Lydia watched this exchange with great interest. Young people, then, were able to choose their partners here? She shook herself. Naturally, servants and farm workers could always choose their mates, even in England. It was the aristocracy who tried to arrange marriages with ‘suitable’ partners for their offspring. Lydia had seen the outcome when such marriages did not go well—couples who could barely stand the sight of one another, children damaged by being caught up in a battle that was none of their own making. Happy marriages like that of Lord and Lady Barnstable, and her own dear parents, were rare. Was that what the Laird had been referring to, with his oblique comment just now? Or had it been something more specific?
For the first time it occurred to her to wonder about Mairead’s mother. According to the limited information she had gleaned in passing from the castle staff, Lady Hester had been young and beautiful and the Laird had been besotted with her. She had died when Mairead was still a young baby. Sadly, the child had no memory of her mother, Lydia knew. Had Lady Hester died in childbed, or of milk fever? Or had illness or accident carried her off? Either way, it was a tragedy, Lydia knew, for any child to lose her mother. Lydia’s own mama had died only a few short years ago, but Lydia missed her yet. Loneliness was her lot now and she had given up on the notion of marriage for herself. Her experiences with men had made her withdraw from any notion of being closer to any of them. Oh, she knew in her mind that some marriages could work. She just did not feel it in her heart.
Turning her thoughts back to the death of Mairead’s mother, she felt an ache of compassion for the child. But it was not only Mairead who had lost a loved one. It was a tragedy, too, for the grieving husband left behind. Lydia stole another glance at the Laird. He had his ‘business’ face on as he discussed with Iain the numbers likely to attend the upcoming wedding and the food that should be provided. The two men had lapsed into Gaelic, but Lydia was still able to understand the gist of their conversation. My understanding of Gaelic is improving. As people became more used to her presence, Lydia had observed, they were less likely to remember to speak English in front of her, although they always did so when addressing her directly.
Her mind drifted back to the two men’s plan to ensure the other soon-to-be groom had a trade. The way the community here looked after each other was heart-warming. While similar things sometimes happened with servants in the households where she had previously worked, here the nets of support reached out to cover everyone in the islands, it seemed.
Mairead was taken off to bed soon afterwards and Iain was called away, leaving Lydia alone with the Laird. These were the best evenings, when they would talk quietly together, sometimes for hours. Tonight, he was in a jovial, relaxed mood. They shared some whisky, discussed the trivial matters of the day and rested at ease with one another.
Recalling the conversation earlier, Lydia grinned as an unexpected thought occurred to her. The Laird, noting this, immediately asked her to share her thoughts—as he had before. He often seemed to wish to know what she was thinking. ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ she replied airily. ‘I am just wondering if poor Dòmhnall Mòr has any notion of marrying Eilidh!’
He laughed at this and her gaze travelled to his firm jaw and strong throat. So handsome! How, she wondered, had she gone from suspicion of all men to actually developing something of a tendre for one?
It is this place. No-one had accosted her, no-one had attacked her, no-one had declared themselves to her. She had been in the islands for less than two months, but she had begun to believe that perhaps here was a place where she could feel safe. Oh, she had seen admiration in some eyes, but the men involved had behaved properly at all time. Mrs Gray was right. There are different expectations of men here.
‘Yes, perhaps we should consult the young man himself, before we have him married! While my Mairead is very discerning and often notices things that others miss, perhaps we should leave the matter between Eilidh and Dòmhnall for the present.’
‘Absolutely! It must be difficult enough courting in a place where everyone knows everyone’s business, we should not make assumptions that may be ahead of the couple themselves.’
‘That is true,’ he replied slowly, clearly pondering her reply. ‘Such affections may develop suddenly, like a flash of lightning, or more slowly, like the rising of the sun.’ He seemed almost to be speaking to himself. ‘And lightning, while it may feel dramatic, can do great harm.’
‘I would not know, sir.’
His gaze swung back to her, laughter dancing in his eyes. ‘Of lightning, or courtship?’
She declined to engage, saying merely. ‘Is that the time? I must retire, for no doubt Mairead will be awake bright and early on the morrow!’
Mairead was not only awake early, she had clearly been pondering over the dinner table conversation herself. The very next morning, while Eilidh was seeing to the fire in the little study room, she asked the maid directly, ‘Eilidh, do you like Dòmhnall Mòr?’
The girl blushed a fiery red and stammered something about having plenty of friends, and that she supposed Dòmhnall Mòr was not unlikeable.
Ah. So there is no understanding between them.
‘Miss Lydia,’ Eilidh said, avoiding looking at Mairead, and clearly trying to leave the topic of Dòmhnall Mòr behind, ‘I have mended the hem on your yellow dress.’
‘Why, thank you so much, Eilidh. I have been used to doing all my own mending, so you really do not have to do this.’
‘I was wondering though, what will you be wearing to Màiri’s wedding?
Lydia shrugged. ‘I confess I had not given the matter much consideration. What should I wear?’
‘The blue,’ Eilidh declared, without hesitation. ‘Though I would wish to alter it a little.’
Lydia laughed nervously. ‘I do not wish for my bosom to be on display to the world, Eilidh!’
‘Of course not, miss. But your dresses in general are too large for you. Would you allow me to take this one in and see how you like it?’
To wear a dress that fitted her, that looked pretty and not dowdy? Caution warred with vanity within her and, for the first time, she allowed vanity to win. ‘Oh, very well, then. Why not?’