I love him.
Well, of course she did. Never having experienced this sort of love before, it was no wonder she had failed to recognise it before now. Love to her previously had been the affection she had felt for her parents, for the children she looked after. It was warm, steady and good and she knew it to be real. It made her want only the best for them, even if the people she loved were occasionally difficult or irritating. It had commitment in it, and self-sacrifice, and a knowledge of the other person gained through time and proximity.
This love was more. It had all of those qualities in abundance. Yet it was also a burning conflagration—a passion so sharp it felt like fever. It had begun with a small flame—a tendre which she had tried to tell herself was a passing infatuation. Yet the flame had grown and spread until it was deep within her, burning internally with heat and with force. Everything he did fascinated her. Everything he was inspired her. Even when he was cross, or burdened, or curt, she never doubted his character, his nobility, for an instant.
One thing though, one crucial aspect of love, was missing. Closing her eyes, she tried again to sense the love she had shared with her mother and father, with the children. It had thrived in an atmosphere of reciprocation and mutuality. Mairead loved her back. As had John. As had her parents.
In that sense her love for Alasdair was not the same. While she believed he had come to respect her, and might even call her ‘friend’, there was nothing to suggest any deeper feeling, not to mention anything like the passion she felt for him. Oh, he had kissed her. He had even teased her in an enticing way earlier. The memories did wonderful things to her insides and made her curl her fingers and toes. Even the way he had looked at her sent delicious thrills curling through her body. Yet she knew better than most maidens how men could be slaves to passing desires. She had little doubt that the numerous men who had claimed to ‘adore’ her in an attempt to bed her had now quite forgotten her. Not one had sought her out after she had been dismissed from whatever post she had held. Not one.
Men behave differently here.
The thought came unbidden, with echoes of Mrs Gray’s words, yet she could not trust in it. Yes, islanders were more respectful generally and Eilidh Ruadh, in one of their more intimate conversations, had revealed that it was expected that both men and women would go to the marriage bed as virgins. Yet men were, after all, men. Were they not?
A cry went up from the other side of the Hall. Opening her eyes, Lydia saw a group of women clustered around someone and made haste to join them, anxious to discover what was amiss.
‘Get her to her chamber,’ one of the women said. ‘We shall need the doctor, I fear.’
Reaching the group, Lydia discovered that young Eilidh had collapsed, her face paper white and a blueness about her lips that looked ominous. Working briskly, the women loosened her stays, then together they carried her upstairs. Lydia went along in the hope she could be of service, but the Ardmore ladies were briskly, kindly efficient. Eilidh was put to bed, a hot brick at her feet and the fire lit. By this time she had come round and was crying bitterly, while enduring fits of coughing. She seemed to find it difficult to get her breath and Lydia could see the concern in the eyes of the women, Maggie among them.
Lord! Here am I, in a haze of self-pity, while Eilidh has nearly drowned, lost her sweetheart and now looks to be seriously unwell.
The doctor, she was informed, lived near Nunton on the other side of Benbecula, and it would take a couple of hours for some of the younger women to fetch him, particularly if he was from home. The men were still at the funeral and no time could be wasted awaiting their return. In the meantime Mrs MacLeod gave Eilidh a pungent tisane, which the girl took without demur.
She knows herself that she is very ill.
Lydia knew that they were all likely thinking the same thing.
We have lost Dòmhnall. We cannot also lose Eilidh.
Lydia, knowing she was of no use, for the castle women had everything in hand, quietly departed, taking a last, lingering look at Eilidh as she did so. The girl remained pale, but with spots of bright red colour in her cheeks. She had reported a severe pain in her right side, but the blueness around her lips had eased a little, or so Lydia told herself.
Returning downstairs, she assisted with clearing up after the feast, then spent a couple of hours with the children, entertaining them with games, songs, and stories. Mairead, perhaps feeling uneasy at the grief and worry in the atmosphere, clung to Lydia much more than she was used to and even told another child, who had come to Lydia for a hug, ‘No! She is my Lydia!’
Lydia smoothed over this, settling both children before distracting them all with a new story. Soon afterwards, their mothers and older sisters arrived to fetch them for, they said, the men had returned and families were dispersing to their own rooms and cottages. Lydia engaged in all the goodbyes with smiles and warmth and got more than a few embraces from contented children.
Afterwards, she organised some food for Mairead from the kitchens, then put the child to bed, for the day had run away from them all and it was now evening. Following the huge feast earlier, there would be no evening dinner and Lydia was unsure whether she should even go back downstairs. Standing outside the door to Mairead’s bedchamber, she hesitated. She longed to see Alasdair again and to revel in the secret knowledge that she loved him. Equally, it terrified her to think that he might somehow read her feelings in her eyes or through her unwitting signs. She shuddered. That would not do!
Besides, she had slept little during the wake—indeed her last full night’s sleep had been last Saturday, before the ill-fated boat trip. And today, the day of Dòmhnall’s funeral and Eilidh’s collapse, felt like the longest day she had ever lived. Her mind made up, she turned away from the staircase and made for her own bedchamber. Solitude was best this evening.
Alasdair cradled his whisky without drinking it, having had, he knew, quite enough of the spirit for one day. At each lift in the funeral procession there had been whisky, and after the interment they had retired to the croft house of Donaidh and Maggie, where neighbours had laid out bread, cheese and salmon, with yet more whisky to wash it down. Alasdair had done his duty, naturally, but he now felt exhausted. Iain, who had done sterling work in organising some of the practical details around the funeral, had fallen asleep in the facing chair—the combination of the fire, the whisky and the silence too much for him. Of Lydia, there was no sign.
She has probably retired early.
She would be just as fatigued as everyone else, he knew, for he had seen her working with the rest, taking her place among them as though she were truly a woman of the islands. Squirming at this, he reminded himself not to be taken in by appearances. Lydia was a good woman, but she could not be expected to truly adapt to the harshness of life here. And no-one should require her to do it. Lydia was not Hester, but she was also not an islander born and bred.
He thought about this. Life was harsh, yes, but worth it, for surely this place was as near to Paradise as anyone might find on this earth? A lad like Dòmhnall, had he lived in Lancashire or Lothian, might have fallen prey to a farming accident, or been killed by brigands, or even lost his life in a carriage accident, as Hester had. Instead, Dòmhnall’s life had been taken by the sea. And now possibly Eilidh’s life, too. Alasdair had returned to the castle to hear the doctor was with her and that worthy gentleman had afterwards confessed to Alasdair that the girl could die.
‘Her lungs are inflamed, I am sorry to say.’ He had shaken his head sorrowfully. ‘Hippocrates held that such an inflammation often leads to death on the seventh day, so we must wait and see how she fares.’
Another death, and as ever I am powerless to prevent it.
He and Lydia had found Dòmhnall’s body six years to the day since Hester perished. His wife, young and healthy at the time, had perished in order to escape from him. From him, from Ardmore and from island life. A life cut short. A life unlived.
He had visited her grave once, in Edinburgh, regret and sorrow almost crushing him as he stood there, recalling her vivacity, her strong spirit. Gone, like Dòmhnall. Her family had refused to meet him, clearly believing him to be responsible for her death. Which, naturally, he was.
Am I cursed?
Hester, Mairead’s affliction, Dòmhnall, and now Eilidh. The common factor was him.
Eilidh will die.
How he knew this, he could not say. Be logical, man. Curses are not real. Yet the hopelessness he felt about Eilidh’s survival was implacable. He called to mind the doctor’s sad expression, the tone in his voice as he had spoken of Eilidh. The man’s attitude suggested a miracle would be needed for her to survive, and Alasdair no longer believed in miracles. Death should wait for the old, not take the young. Yet death would do what it willed. Despite his people’s crushing faith in him, just now Alasdair knew himself for a fraud.
Again, his rational mind reasserted itself. He could not reasonably hold himself to blame for every tragedy. Dòmhnall, Eilidh and the others had had a boating accident. Hester had made her own choices. He had been young. He squirmed uncomfortably.
I excuse myself, and belittle everyone in doing so.
It occurred to him to wonder if perhaps there was a darker reason why Lydia had not wished to join him tonight. Yes, everyone was weary, but he had behaved badly towards her, had he not, when he had kissed her on the night of the accident? Should he apologise, or would that leave things even more uncomfortable?
I am not rational tonight. I am overcome by dark thoughts, and grief and guilt.
Engulfed by brooding melancholy, he sipped his whisky and allowed his mind to return to Lydia.
She had matched his hunger, or so he had thought. For him it had been the first kiss since coldness had come between him and Hester, a lifetime ago. In that moment though, in the half darkness of the Great Hall, all he had thought of was Lydia. Lydia of the golden hair, eyes as blue as summer seas and a body as divine as that of Venus. Lydia the serene. Lydia the quick-minded. Lydia the compassionate.
Lydia, who had thought to ensure her passage back to London was confirmed. Lydia, who had left every family she had worked with. Lydia, who was not of island stock. Should he ask her how she liked life in the islands? He shook his head, recognising that, even should she say she was enamoured of island life, he would struggle to believe her, for Hester had soured him.
The second occasion when he had been foolish had been earlier today. Quite forgetting himself, he had flirted with her and teased her as though they were sixteen-year-olds dancing at a gathering. Oh, at the time it had been nothing short of exhilarating, fencing with her, giving her looks that revealed his fancy for her and wondering if she would respond in kind. He frowned. At the time he had thought she hungered for him, too—at least a little. But now, all he could remember clearly was that she had seemed nervous at his actions.
Damnation!
She, a lady in his household, to be respected and protected, might not, after all, have enjoyed his advances, indirect as they were. He was her laird—nay, her employer, but both were positions of power. He had had no reason to consider this before, because he had not made any advances towards her before. He had been raised well by his father to understand the power contained within his role and to use it only in ways that were of benefit to others. Self-sacrifice, his own papaidh had often said, was at the heart of the Laird’s work. He would be the first man into battle, the first to enter the burning farmhouse, the first to jump into the sea after a drowning child. The last to think of himself.
Yet what of me? What of my needs?
Loneliness and frustration rose in him like bile and he shook off the unworthy thoughts in disgust. Raising his glass, he drank. Time to retire.
Normality—or at least what passed for normality—resumed the next day. Dòmhnall was spoken about with great affection and deliberate frequency, and his family would continue to receive support from visitors and neighbours, Lydia was informed. Eilidh remained severely unwell and, Lydia discovered, a list was being created of Ardmore women willing to take a turn in caring for her.
Leaving Mairead in the care of Sadie, one of the maids, Lydia went searching for the housekeeper, who was in her own room writing up her accounts.
‘Madainn mhath, Mrs MacLeod. I wish to help care for Eilidh.’ Her words were uttered baldly, without any artifice.
Will she allow it? Am I seen as the stranger still?
Reminding herself that she had been treated with only kindness, she held her breath, awaiting the woman’s reply.
The housekeeper raised an eyebrow and set down her pen. ‘Oh, you do, do you? And when do you propose doing this? For you are with Mairead most of the day, with the Laird in the evenings and you need your sleep at night.’
‘I—’ Lydia was slightly taken aback. ‘I had not thought about that. But she is my friend and I need to do something to assist her.’ She frowned. ‘I could suspend my lessons with the other children for a while. I could get up early. I could do one night every week. I could do without my evenings with Iain and the Laird.’ Pointedly, she mentioned Iain first, as she felt uncomfortable with Mrs MacLeod’s hint that she spent evenings ‘with the Laird’. She did not: she spent her evenings with the Laird and sometimes his steward, and had done so ever since her arrival. ‘I also used to spend a half-hour or an hour with Eilidh most evenings, either before dinner or later, before retiring. I am teaching her French.’ She felt tears sting her eyes at the notion that her French lessons with Eilidh might not resume.
Mrs MacLeod paused, looking at her closely, then nodded. ‘Very well. I shall add you to the schedule—though not in the evenings, for—’ Clearly stopping herself from finishing her sentence, she stepped to the dresser, fetching a paper which, Lydia saw, had a series of times and days with names against them. ‘Eilidh’s own mother, aunts and sister have the lion’s share, but Maggie has asked me to include her and I shall now add you.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘You may sit with her from four until five each afternoon. That way Eilidh’s family can have dinner together every day, even if it is a little early, and Maggie can cook for her own clan. I believe it will be good for Eilidh to have someone different as she recuperates.’
‘You think she will recover, then?’
The housekeeper shrugged. ‘I know not. “May we be preserved from lawyers and from doctors”, they say, and it is certainly true that when one or other of those worthy gentlemen are called for, someone has troubles to bear. But I do know that Eilidh will be offered every comfort and all the attention we can give her. Now then—’ her tone turned brisk ‘—she is to be encouraged to drink as much fresh water as she will take and wine, too, if she will accept it. My tisane made from hyssop and oil of mint is efficacious in clearing phlegm, so we are encouraging her to cough as much of the pestilence out of her as she can. And finally, when her breathing is poor, she may rest on her stomach, for it seems to ease her a little. Apart from that, she needs only the common comforts—her chamber pot, a sponge wash when she has exhausted herself with sweats, and fresh nightgowns and sheets every day or so.’
‘Yes, Mrs MacLeod. And thank you.’
The older woman smiled grimly. ‘Let us hope and pray that the girl keeps fighting for her life. Her lowness of spirits is just as great a threat as any inflammation of the lungs. She must want to live.’
Hurrying back to the schoolroom with the housekeeper’s words ringing in her ears, Lydia’s newfound insight into her own heart allowed her some understanding of how Eilidh might be feeling.
If anything were to happen to Alasdair...
Her heart clenched in sudden fear. The very notion left a sick feeling in her stomach and an ache in her chest.
Love makes us vulnerable. She remembered her thoughts on the day of the funeral. Love and loss—two parts of the same whole. Briefly, she recalled her former life with the Barnstable twins. She had felt affection for them, yes, but had recovered relatively quickly to the loss of contact with them. Here, she was surrounded by people she had come to care for deeply—the Laird and Mairead most of all. Her governess armour could be pierced from many directions now. Yet she knew deep within her that it was worth it. Love was worth the pain of loss. Once more, she allowed herself to briefly imagine Alasdair dying. Once more, the entire world felt as though it were rocking. She paused, steadied herself, then continued on.
Passing through her bedchamber, she opened the schoolroom door. ‘Apologies, Sadie!’ She stopped.
‘Good morning, Lydia. I let Sadie return to her duties.’ The Laird, having risen at her entrance, eyed her closely. ‘Is something amiss?’
She felt herself flush.
Only that I had you dead and buried, and myself in mourning for you. Only that I love you.
‘Oh, no, nothing at all!’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You are very early today.’
‘Well, I have not seen much of my daughter this week, because of the wake. And as I am sure she has missed numerous lessons, I decided to join you both, rather than take her out of school for another day.’ He looked beautiful, she noted idly, her gaze skimming over his kilt and jacket towards his handsome face.
‘She will not fall behind, I assure you!’ she declared earnestly. Was there criticism in his comment?
He waved his hand. ‘I do not doubt it, for she is prodigiously clever. Are you not, mo nighean?’
‘I am,’ Mairead replied simply, and Lydia suppressed a smile. Was this truly the same child who had been so lacking in confidence just a few months ago?
‘Now then,’ she said to the child in a brisk tone, ‘have you finished the arithmetic I set for you when Sadie came?’
‘Almost, Lydia. I have but one more sum to complete.’ She bent her dark head to her work and a wave of affection coursed through Lydia. Glancing at the Laird, she saw a similar softening in his eyes and they shared an understanding half-smile.
‘Good. Next we may all speak French together.’ Perhaps she would be less flustered if the lesson was a three-way conversation, rather than her having to perform as teacher under his devastating gaze.
This proved to be the case and over the next half-hour she settled a little, although her heart continued to pound in a most inconvenient manner at his nearness.
She glanced out of the window. ‘As we have another sunny day, I had planned for us to go outside, for I do not believe Mairead has had enough fresh air this week.’
‘Then I shall accompany you!’ he declared promptly, ‘for I have frequently wished to discover what you do on your sojourns out!’
Mairead frowned, glancing at Lydia. Will she tell him? Waiting for a moment to discover if the child meant to share her secret, Lydia then responded into the brief silence, ‘Of course! I have agreed to sit with Eilidh later, so we cannot go far.’
‘The courtyard?’ asked Mairead hopefully. ‘It has been an age since we counted the chickens!’
And they never worked on Mairead’s exercises in the courtyard. Very well, child. ‘The courtyard it is!’ Lydia moved to lift her, but Alasdair intervened, gathering Mairead up into his strong arms and kissing the child’s cheek. The sight made Lydia’s heart quite turn over.
She accompanied them through the castle, down the grand staircase and out through the Great Hall, enjoying a sense of companionship with them both. Stepping outside, they all blinked in the strong sunshine. The courtyard seemed to have trapped the sun’s heat, for the air hit them in a wave of unusual warmth. Unfortunately, it also reeked with the aroma of animal dung and Lydia immediately fumbled for a handkerchief to bring to her nose.
‘The odour offends you, Lydia?’ Alasdair’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘Occasionally I forget that you are a fine London lady and unused to our way of life.’
For some reason this made her clench her teeth briefly. ‘Not at all, sir.’ Her tone was cool. ‘I am a simple governess and my parents were not of the gentry. My father was a lawyer, but his income was modest. I was well raised with a good education, yes, but my blood is of country stock.’ Why was she reminding him of her lowly birth? Or was she reminding herself?
‘No need to be in high dudgeon with me, Miss Farnham!’ he retorted, still laughing at her, ‘for I know full well when I am in the suds with you. You do not even need to call me “sir” in such moments, for your demeanour quite gives you away.’ His smile faded, replaced by something serious, intent and frighteningly wonderful. ‘I have made quite a study of you and believe I am now adept at reading your moods.’
She flushed. He makes a study of me? Flustered, and knowing not what to say, she took refuge in aloofness. ‘I apologise. A good servant should be unreadable and I consider it a failure on my part that you can divine my humours. I shall endeavour to be less transparent in future, s—’ She bit off the sir that she had been about to utter, which seemed to restore him to amusement.
‘Ah, Lydia, Lydia,’ he declared, when he had finished laughing. ‘Has it not occurred to you that it is not your behaviour which is so revealing, but rather my discernment in reading it? That this is my achievement rather than your failure? Hmmm?’ He sent her a sideways glance. ‘And you are not a “servant” in the usual sense.’
This mollified her a little. She sniffed. ‘We are spending too much time standing here discussing nothing when I should be continuing with your daughter’s lessons! Mairead, I suggest we sit on the bench outside that cottage, for the chickens are at the other side today.’
Without awaiting Alasdair’s agreement, she picked her way across the courtyard to the bench she had seen, half listening to ensure he had followed her. Placing Mairead between them, he sat on the sun-drenched side of the bench, stretching his long legs out before him. Lydia, determined not to allow his presence to divert her further, played the usual games with Mairead, but could not shake her continuous awareness of him. His head was turned towards her and his daughter, but she did not dare to check if his gaze was directed towards her, or Mairead. His presence was enough, though, to deeply unsettle her and she was finding it difficult to remember how to behave in a usual manner.
She stopped, listening. Above the cacophony of farm animals and seabirds, a new sound had been added. It came from outside the walls and sounded remarkably like a brawl. There were shouts and exclamations, as well as a peculiar thudding sound. Her gaze swivelled to Alasdair, her heart now pounding with alarm. He was looking at her.
‘What is it? What is amiss?’
He grinned. ‘Come with me.’ Picking up his daughter, he strode towards the arched gateway that led out of the castle courtyard to the countryside beyond. Skipping to keep up, Lydia tried to take reassurance from his relaxed demeanour and from the fact that he was carrying his vulnerable child towards whatever the commotion was.
Outside, on the long flat field lately occupied by some of the Laird’s terrifying long-haired cows, a space had been cleared and a group of twelve or fifteen men and youths were engaged in what seemed to Lydia to be a massed battle. All had dispensed with their jackets and ganseys and were fighting bare-chested, or in their shirts. At first, she could discern very little save movement and intent and what seemed to be bludgeons being carried by the miscreants. Why on earth had Alasdair brought his daughter here? Surely the violence could easily spill over and the child could be injured—even accidentally? Lydia’s palms were damp with sudden fear and her stomach twisted.
It then occurred to her that, in the short moments she had been observing, she had seen no blows actually land, although the weapons were being swung with alarming intent. She had seen no knives, swords or pistols, which was somewhat reassuring. Strangely, all the sticks had a curve at the end—a crookedness which marked them as being something other than random branches.
But there are no trees nearby! Where did they—?
Abruptly, the entire group of combatants dived across to her left, as if following a common prey. Her hand went to her mouth.
Is this some barbaric form of hunting? Is there some poor creature beneath their feet being bludgeoned to death?
She gazed intently at the action. The men were not using the curved sticks to attack one another after all, but were swinging at—
‘A ball! I see a ball there!’ A small brown sphere, which looked to have been formed from dark wood or leather, was being battered about the field by the men, using the curved sticks. Now that she understood, her hand had moved to her chest, where she tried to tell her foolish heart to settle itself. ‘Is this a game of some description?’
Alasdair was gazing at her, and she just knew he had been watching her the whole time. ‘Aye. It’s camanachd. Shinty, if you prefer. The sticks are called camans.’
‘But what on earth are they trying to achieve?’
He laughed. ‘It must be hard to divine for one who has not seen it before. One group must get the ball to this end of the field and through the space marked by the two jackets on the ground, while the other must get it to the other end and through the space there.’
She nodded, only now noticing the four jackets, strategically placed at each end of the field. As she watched, someone’s stick shattered and he ran towards them, picking up a new caman from a pile to their left that Lydia had quite failed to notice. His body was slick with sweat and he was out of breath, but he was grinning.
‘Come on then, Alasdair, shake yourself. We are a man down!’
‘If I must,’ the Laird replied, a slow grin growing on his own face. Handing Mairead to Lydia, he divested himself of his jacket and loosened the laces at the front of his shirt. Picking up a caman, he trotted lightly to the fray and was soon lost in a melee of sticks, tartan and limbs.
Well!
Just when she believed this place had nothing more to teach her, along came another surprise. Hefting Mairead more securely on to her hip, Lydia made her way to the pile of camans, where they both sat on the sweet, dry grass. Lydia, fascinated, rummaged through the sticks. All were the same shape, but they had been fashioned out of a range of materials. A couple were formed from precious wood, which would probably have been imported. Ash, Lydia guessed. Or beech. The majority had been painstakingly crafted from what looked like interwoven strands of seaweed, fashioned into thick dried staves. One was formed from stiffened canvas sailcloth that had been tightly rolled, then twisted and strapped into the model of a workable caman. Her gaze returned to the action and she could not resist watching Alasdair as he ran and swung, twisted and bent. He was shouting orders in Gaelic to his own side and exhorting one man to move away from the melee, in readiness for the ball to appear. Sure enough, another of Alasdair’s corps managed to get a good hit along the ground, sending the ball in the right direction. Too late the other side realised what was occurring and tried in vain to reach the player. He sent the ball between the jackets, then wheeled around triumphantly to the cheers and acclamation of his comrades.
At this stage a few more shirts were discarded and Lydia watched with helpless hunger as Alasdair revealed his well-formed shape. Clad only in his boots, stockings, and kilt, and brandishing his caman, he was the very epitome of male beauty. Even the sight of his exposed knees made her feel weak.
Surely, Lydia mused, her eyes devouring his fine form, the great sculptors could have wished for no better subject?
Alasdair knew she was watching. He felt it in every moment of the camanachd. Once again, he realised he was no better than a youngling, for today he was playing with a heart and commitment that he had not felt for a very long time. He recalled, in his younger days, loving camanachd with a passion, but then his father had died and the Lairdship, marriage and fatherhood had reduced his ability to truly engage with it. Today, seeing the ancient game through Lydia’s eyes, he hoped she would get a sense of the skill, effort and accuracy required. He was also relishing the opportunity to go shirtless in front of her and hoped it might inspire her in a different way entirely. If only he were closer, he might be able to read her expression. He had genuinely become a student of all things Lydia and, in his more confident moments, could swear that she was developing warmer feelings for him. He could not be certain and he was not yet sure enough of his own path to know what he wanted for the best. Today, though, was not the time for excess thought. Today was sunshine and camanachd, and the bittersweet joy of being alive.