Alasdair was in heaven. When he had awoken this morning, in the knowledge that a day of poring over accounts was planned, little could he have imagined that he would instead be enjoying unfettered time on Rossinish with Mairead. And with Lydia. Despite himself, he knew that his fascination with the governess was, if anything, deepening. He had tried his best to not submit to spending so much daily time with her that it would lead to gossip, and today was his reward. It was perfectly reasonable, he had told himself, for him to attend his daughter’s lessons for a hour each day, and entirely reasonable for Lydia to dine with himself and Iain in the evenings. Why, they had decided to do so even before Lydia’s arrival, for any governess deserved such respect. At that point he and Iain had still expected a stiff, middle-aged dame.
Instead, there had been a golden-haired beauty with an intelligent gaze and a habit of self-restraint. Used to the more open nature of his compatriots, Alasdair had struggled at first to understand who she was. With time, though, had come comprehension. He had not been jesting when he had told her, on the day of the shinty, that he could read her moods. In truth, reading her moods and attempting to divine her thoughts was his current favourite diversion. She was not completely transparent to him. Not yet, at least. But he could generally tell when she was contented, or anxious, or cross. He knew when she was worrying about something and when she disapproved of something he had said or done. He suppressed a chuckle, setting Mairead down on the soft sand in Rossinish bay. As Lydia bent to attend to the child, he gazed hungrily at them both.
My Mairead! My Lydia!
He caught the sense of his own thoughts and checked. Lydia was not his. She was an employee—and a good one, at that. She was clearly devoted to his daughter. And while he had occasionally wondered if she had warmer feelings towards him, he had yet to identify any definitive proof.
Yes, they had shared a passionate kiss—his heart skipped a beat at the memory—and she had chosen to come with him to find Dòmhnall and Eilidh—something for which he remained profoundly grateful. Yet he could not take it to mean she had a partiality for him. Indeed, she was warm towards everyone she encountered and was universally liked and respected. And he, having avoided women for years, now had no idea how to divine if a woman might like him in a particular way. Oh, his foolish heart believed she did. But proof there was none. And besides, his logical mind continued to attempt to dissuade him from falling for a beauty once again. He found himself frequently arbitrating inner arguments and had even caught himself muttering aloud on occasion.
He sighed inwardly. He had noted carefully her response to his question earlier, which had been decidedly guarded. No plans to leave. She had chosen her words carefully and they gave him no assurances whatsoever.
And if she had instead vowed to stay forever, would he have believed her? Hope and fear warred within him. Probably not. His experience with Hester had burned deep. Rationality had little to do with the matter.
‘All is well,’ she was murmuring to the child and he wondered at it. Why would Mairead need reassurance? Observing their two heads so close together, Mairead so dark and Lydia so fair, he was taken unawares by a wave of emotion that shuddered through him. It left him with a thudding heart, a confused mind, and a gut curling with an unknown feeling of warmth, happiness, and something else he could not quite name. Lydia had knelt down on the soft sand beside Mairead, the warm southerly breeze teasing her golden hair, and suddenly his throat was tight with words that could not be uttered.
‘Papaidh.’
His gaze swivelled to his daughter. ‘Yes, my love?’ His voice was husky with emotion.
‘I shall just show you.’ He watched, puzzled, as Mairead, a look of intense concentration on her little face, swung her legs around and beneath her. Something about it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand to attention. Since her illness Mairead had always been able to move her legs a little, but he could not recall a movement so notable, so co-ordinated, so...purposeful.
While his mind was catching up, Mairead was continuing to act, raising herself on to her knees and taking both of Lydia’s hands.
‘Careful!’ He could not help the exclamation, for years of needing to protect his vulnerable child from falls was embedded within him. Instinctively, he bent towards his child, aiming to catch her, to pick her up and to keep her safe.
‘No! No, Papaidh!’ Mairead’s tone was sharp, so he paused, dropping down beside them. ‘Just watch me.’
‘I have her,’ Lydia murmured, her tone calm.
Very well.
His heart pounding with fear, nevertheless he decided to trust Lydia. ‘I am watching, mo nighean.’
His jaw dropped as his daughter, her expression still tight with concentration, raised herself up on one leg, then the other. ‘Mairead!’ he gasped, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
‘Ready?’ Lydia’s voice was soft. Mairead nodded and Lydia let go of one of Mairead’s hands, then the second.
Time seemed to stop and all of Alasdair’s senses seemed sharpened somehow. There was still the salty scent of sea and seaweed, the sounds of crashing waves, celebratory gulls and the thud of his own heart. The soft sand felt warm and solid beneath him, yet the world was spinning away into the heavens. His mouth was dry, his palms damp, and there was a decided weakness in his skeleton, as though bone had momentarily softened in shock. His eyes were telling him impossible things. There, in front of him, framed by blue sky, dark blue sea and white, white sand, was Mairead, his weak and sickly daughter. And she was standing by herself, an anxious smile on her face and rosy colour in her cheeks.
His eyes locked with hers and in an instant he understood how much this moment meant to his child.
‘Mairead! Mo nighean, you are standing by yourself!’ His words were stupid, obvious, almost meaningless in the moment. And yet, as his ears heard them and his brain understood them, it somehow reinforced that this was no dream. It was actually happening. ‘How?’
‘I practised and I ate more, and I went outside. A lot. Ooh—’ As she watched, she lost her balance and sat down hard. ‘Again!’
Lydia had already offered both hands and, as Mairead once again swung her legs beneath her, then carefully rose, Alasdair allowed himself to accept that the miracle before him was real. This child, again standing tall and proud before him, this girl with bare white feet and sturdy little legs, was his Mairead.
And the woman kneeling close to her, murmuring words of reassurance and holding her little hands, the woman with golden hair, was the angel who had wrought the miracle.
‘Lydia.’
She turned to look at him and he was unsurprised to see tears on her face. Belatedly, he realised that he, too, was crying and he reached for his handkerchief. ‘How did you do this? How?’
She smiled mistily through her tears. ‘Mairead did it herself. I have honestly never known a child so determined.’
‘Strong-willed,’ he murmured and she nodded, laugh-crying.
‘And now my legs are strong-willed, too, Papaidh. I practised all the time and Lydia taught me.’ Mairead went on, talking about baby legs and girl legs, and how Lydia had helped her meticulously follow the stages a baby would go through before learning to walk.
‘But this is astonishing! I wonder at the expensive doctors who could do nothing for you, yet this governess—’ he inclined his head towards Lydia ‘—this angel, has helped you stand when no-one else could.’
‘I cannot walk yet, Papaidh.’ Mairead’s tone was serene. ‘But I shall.’
‘I do not doubt it.’ Unable to contain himself any longer, he enveloped his daughter in a tight hug, noticing how unusual it was to hug a standing Mairead. How tall she seemed! ‘You are a wonder!’
‘Yes, I am. And so is Lydia.’
‘You are entirely correct.’ Keeping his left arm around the child, he reached for Lydia with his right. She entered his embrace as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and they stayed like that for a long blissful moment, while the waves splashed and the sun warmed them and the understanding began to sink in that a true miracle was occurring, right here on Rossinish.
As he reluctantly released them, Mairead lost her balance again and so he was able to pass over the compelling urge he had had to kiss Lydia. If he had turned his head just a fraction her lips would have been just there and he might have...
He shook himself, focusing instead on his daughter, and Lydia’s role in teaching her. Although he had naturally noted his daughter’s increased appetite and how she was gradually losing the pale listlessness that had held her back for so long, he had not allowed himself to even comment on it, for fear she would return to sickliness and tiredness.
They told him of how hard Mairead had been working in secret, how dearly she had wanted to surprise him, how Lydia had insisted they share the secret today. ‘She said you would want to see my first steps, so I plan to do them today.’
‘Oh, you do?’ He raised an eyebrow at this, but Mairead remained composed. Yet they stayed and Mairead practised, and Alasdair and Lydia encouraged her. By the time the afternoon’s warmth was beginning to cool, Mairead had managed twice to take a single step, losing her balance as she tried to move her other foot. They clapped, cheered and hugged her, then sat facing one another as Mairead attempted to launch herself from her papaidh to Lydia, from Lydia to her papaidh. This proved to be a more useful arrangement, and within the hour, Mairead took three clear unaided steps before collapsing into her father’s arms.
‘I did it, Papaidh! I told you that I would!’
‘You certainly did.’ Above Mairead’s head Alasdair and Lydia smiled at each other and Alasdair felt as though his heart had never been more full.
A sudden gust of cool westerly air brought him back to reality. The sky was darkening as heavy clouds moved in, obscuring the July sun’s slow descent towards sunset. ‘Lord! They said there would be rain, but I have lost all track of time.’ He smiled at his daughter. ‘You must be exhausted, mo nighean. You have achieved quite enough for one day. Time to go back to the castle.’
‘Do not tell anyone!’ Mairead was frowning. ‘Only Eilidh knows. I want to surprise everyone once I can walk better.’
Understanding from their conversations all afternoon that the ‘secret’ element was a great part of how Mairead was able to incite herself to keep practising, he agreed. Besides, there was something special in the thought of keeping the miracle just to themselves for now. He did not mind Eilidh knowing—heaven knows Eilidh needs something good in her life right now—but truly, this miracle now belonged to the three of them. Mairead, himself and Lydia.
Lydia.
The hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention again now.
She is the mother that Mairead never had. And a hundred times better than her own mother would ever have been.
The sense of guilt at speaking, even silently, ill of the dead was fleeting. What was much more apparent was his utter confidence that he was right about this.
‘Alasdair?’ Lydia was looking at him, puzzled.
‘Apologies, I was wool-gathering. What did you say?’
‘I just wondered if there was a quicker way back home.’
Home.
He grimaced. ‘I’m afraid not. I did not need to bring us here via a scenic diversion because, as you have seen, it is all scenic. Never fear, we shall go quickly.’
Inwardly, he was not so confident and, sure enough, before they were even halfway across Rossinish the rain began, large raindrops turning quickly from spits and spots to a full spate. By the time they had reached the strait they were all drenched. Wet weather did not bother him, but he could feel Mairead shivering with cold and did not dare think about how miserable Lydia must be. Worse, the darkening sky made it hard to spot holes and obstacles underfoot and the likelihood of Lydia twisting an ankle or losing her footing was increasing. Had Mairead fought back from sickliness only to catch a chill because he had failed her as a father? Knowing that it would likely rain all night and calculating that they had at least another hour to walk to get to Ardmore, he made a decision. Instead of turning southwards, he led Lydia in a northerly direction where he knew they could find shelter.
Ten minutes later, he saw it in the distance. ‘Look there,’ he pointed. ‘We can take shelter in the àirigh.’
‘What is an àirigh?’ Lydia managed.
Idly, he noted that even when she was freezing cold and soaked to the skin, she still managed to look beautiful.
‘It is a sheiling—a shelter to be used in inclement weather.’
‘You people think of everything.’
Was there criticism in her statement? He could not pause to consider, because Mairead was now softly whimpering. Mairead, who almost never cried. Lord, what a fool he had been! Caught up in the idyll of Mairead and Lydia, and the beach and the miracle, he had let go of his basic responsibilities to keep his family safe. His people. Mairead was family, Lydia was not, he reminded himself. Still, he was responsible for keeping them both safe.
He trudged on, keeping the sheiling in sight. The reason why Mairead had become ill in the first place was that she had had a severe inflammation of the lungs. If it happened again, he could never forgive himself. One step, then another. Trudge forever.
Perhaps this is a punishment. I should not have dared to allow myself to develop feelings for a woman.
Trudge. Ignore the ache in his arm from carrying Mairead. Ignore the wet. Ignore the cold. Keep walking.
Mairead cried again and guilt flamed again within him. ‘Hush now, mo nighean. We shall soon be inside.’
Thankfully, just a few moments later, they reached the sheiling. It was a low, stone-built structure, with a turf roof and a simple chimney. With a hand that was a little clumsy from the cold, he managed to lift the latch and they stepped inside.
Instantly, there was relief. The roof had held and the little hut was watertight. The rain drummed down outside, a distant thrumming, and slanted down on the two tiny windows. Glancing about, Alasdair was relieved to see candles and a flint box on the only shelf and a small settle beside the fireplace. They would not have to sit on the grimy floor.
Good.
Setting Mairead down carefully in the centre of the settle, Alasdair was unsurprised to note that Lydia immediately began to tend to the child. Ignoring her own needs, she began removing some of Mairead’s wet clothing, at the same time untying the bundle that she had loyally carried all the way.
She should have dumped it, for the weight probably added to her discomfort.
He had no energy for speech, however, and so he wordlessly turned away to find the flint. There was a large pile of dried twigs and neatly stacked peat in the corner and he managed to start a fire in the fireplace with little difficulty. Lighting a single candle against the advancing darkness, he noticed immediately that the candlelight created an entirely new sense of intimacy in the sheiling.
Avoiding Lydia’s eye, he stripped off his own jacket, boots and stockings, placing them to the left of the fireplace. He knew from experience that the hut would be warm in no time and that their clothes could be dry in a matter of hours. Mairead was now in her shift and Alasdair was relieved to see that large parts of it were dry, with wet patches along the shoulders and where her back had been exposed as he had carried her. Similarly, his own shirt was dry down one side, where carrying Mairead had protected him.
Lydia had had no such protection. He glanced at her, worried to see how pale she was. He looked closer. ‘Ach, you are shivering, Sassenach! Can I do anything to assist you?’
She shook her head. ‘I am sure the fire will dry my gown. My main concern is for Mairead.’ Her teeth were audibly chattering as she spread Mairead’s clothes out before the fire.
‘Come, I shall pull the settle closer to the fire—’ He did so, Mairead gripping the arm of the settle as it moved. ‘Now, come and sit where it is warm.’
She turned away, bending to her bundle. ‘First, let me do this.’ Untying it with some difficulty—her hands must be as clumsy as mine just now—she handed him a hunk of bread and some cheese, the remains of their picnic earlier.
‘You kept this? I had thought you left it for the birds. You are a treasure, Lydia!’ She smiled wanly as he cut it with the small knife he always carried and he was glad to see that both she and Mairead ate hungrily.
Always a good sign when a person wants food.
He chewed his own portion slowly, savouring every morsel. Afterwards he picked up the blanket that had formed Lydia’s bundle, hanging one corner on a nail in the wall, and tying the other around one of the roof struts. Almost immediately steam began to rise from the wet parts of the thick woollen cloth as heat from the fire reached it. Lydia had sat beside Mairead on the settle and Alasdair decided to take one last look outside before joining them. Cautiously, he lifted the latch and glanced outside. It was still pouring and almost dark. Somewhere south of here, in the castle, Mrs MacLeod and Iain would even now be worrying that they had not arrived. Hopefully they would have the sense not to send out a search party. Unlike the tragedy where Dòmhnall was lost, the castle folk knew that he and Lydia had not been planning to take to the sea today.
Stepping outside, and heedless of his bare feet, he set his flask upright in the ground, hoping to gather even a small amount of rainwater, for they had drunk the last of the water just now. After relieving himself around the side of the sheiling, he hurried back inside, tending to the fire while Lydia took Mairead outside briefly.
A half hour later, Lydia was still shivering. There was no way he could allow her to sit in damp clothes all night. ‘Lydia, I suggest you remove your footwear, for we shall have a long march in the morning and your boots need to be thoroughly dry.’
She considered this for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well. This entire situation is highly unusual and I must be sensible. Besides, my feet are like two blocks of ice.’
‘We cannot have anyone catching a chill,’ he added gruffly. This reminded him to look closely at his daughter, now perched once again on the settle alongside Lydia. She had begun to warm up nicely and her little face was flushed. ‘Well, mo nighean, how are you?’
‘I am cold, Papaidh. And I should like to go to bed.’ She looked about her. ‘Where are we to sleep?’
‘Did you know,’ he offered, leaning close and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, ‘that Bonnie Prince Charlie is said to have slept in this very sheiling the night before he left the islands?’
‘Really?’ She looked around, wide-eyed. ‘So this is where he put on the woman’s clothes?’
He laughed. ‘I expect so. Now, if this sheiling was good enough for the Bonnie Prince, it will certainly do for us, will it not?’
‘Yes, but where am I to sleep?’ Her tone was exasperated and he could tell that the long march in the rain had taken its toll. Still, at least she did not seem unwell.
‘You can sleep on my lap to start with and then, once everything is dry, we shall make you a nest on the floor before the fire.’
‘Like a bird’s nest?’
‘Yes, but made of soft clothing and this blanket.’
‘I think I should like to be a bird for one night.’ She eyed him sideways. ‘If I practise very hard with Lydia, might I be able to fly one day?’
‘Lord, no—and you must not even attempt it!’ He extracted a promise from her in this regard, then glanced ruefully at Lydia. She matched his expression, then bent to her boots again. She seemed to be having trouble removing them.
Bending to assist, he discovered that the laces were hopelessly tangled, the knots tightened by hours of rain and tramping through wet grass. He tutted, knowing he could not simply cut through them, for she would need the laces on the morrow. ‘This is going to try my patience,’ he muttered, then dropped fully on to his knees to begin working on the stubborn knots. Above him, Mairead shuffled sideways to cuddle into Lydia, who began telling the child stories in a soft, low voice.
Finally, one of the boots was untied, and he gently slid it off Lydia’s foot, frowning as he felt how cold she was. Quite without thinking about it, he rubbed her slim foot vigorously, as he would have done for any islander in a similar plight.
But Lydia is not an islander.
She was a beautiful young woman who haunted his thoughts and about whom he had had regular imaginings in the dark of night. Her voice had faltered, but he did not dare look up. Resisting the urge to kiss her slender white foot, or to explore her shapely ankle with his fingers, he moved his attention to the other boot. Just as he felt the knot begin to loosen, she stopped talking and he glanced up.
Mairead was fast asleep in the circle of Lydia’s right arm and Lydia—Lydia was looking at him in the semi-darkness, her expression inscrutable. There was a peculiar intensity about her gaze, though, and he knew not what it meant. He swallowed. ‘She is asleep.’
Lydia nodded. ‘The poor child is exhausted.’
‘I have no doubt you are equally exhausted. There!’ He slid the second boot off, but this time resisted the urge to rub her foot. Setting her boots before the fire, he straightened, stretching to relieve the aches in his back and shoulders. Mairead was no longer a light baby, easily carried for extended periods. With his own eyes he had seen the muscle on her little legs and knew that the miracle had been months in the making. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured.
‘For what?’ Lydia seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘For helping her to walk again.’
She shook her head. ‘Mairead did all of the work. Really, she is the most determined child!’
‘Yes, and now she believes she might fly!’
Lydia laughed softly. ‘It is wonderful that her belief in her own abilities has been so transformed. When I first met her she had fully accepted her fate. She saw herself as weak and sickly.’
‘As had we all.’ He indicated the space beside her and she shuffled herself and Mairead along the settle to make space for him. It was a tight squeeze and he was conscious of his right side being pressed up against Lydia’s left. After a moment, the coldness of her damp gown permeated his consciousness and he tutted.
‘Lydia, you are still soaked, and freezing!’
She shrugged. ‘We both know I cannot undress here. I can survive this, you know. I am no wilting lily.’
‘No, you are not. You are more like a proud orchid, standing tall and strong in the machair amid the wind and rain.’
Tall, strong and beautiful.
A flush spread across her cheek. ‘I shall have to keep an eye out for Mairead trying to fly. Despite her promise to you just now, I would not be surprised if she secretly means to pursue the notion!’
Allowing her to change the topic, he responded in kind and for the next hour they spoke quietly of everything and nothing. In later years he would remember this time clearly—the flickering candlelight, the scent of the peat fire, the sleeping child, the sound of rain on the windows and the easy, natural connection between himself and Lydia. There was a comfort and intimacy about the moment that, he knew, he would never sense in the same way again. It had been a day for miracles and part of him was vaguely aware that this moment was unique, special and wonderful.
I must not fall asleep, he told himself, for then morning will come, and this perfect night will have ended.
Gradually their talk ceased into a companionable silence. He created the nest for Mairead and gently laid her down, where she stretched out in relief without waking up. After building up the fire, he rearranged the boots a little, ensuring the other side would benefit from the fire’s warmth. Returning to the settle, he wrapped his right arm around Lydia and she rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder as if it belonged there. Before long, her breathing told him she was asleep.
Glancing down without disturbing her, he felt his heart warm at the sight of her golden head resting so naturally on his chest. Daringly, he lifted his other hand and stroked her soft hair, just once. Lydia! Unable to stop himself, he kissed her golden hair gently, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. She nuzzled into him and he held his breath. A moment later sleep fully overcame her again and her body sagged against his. As the fire crackled and the rain began to ease, he kept vigil over Mairead and Lydia, and knew that to do so was the greatest privilege of his life.