James shrugged into a borrowed tartan waistcoat of dark green and black, lined in satin and very neatly made. He picked up a neckcloth and wrapped it around the high collar of his fresh linen shirt. The borrowed things included leather boots, along with trousers and a frock coat of dark gray superfine. They fit well, a bit too wide for him, but long enough for his height. Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, had provided them, showing him to a guest room where he could wash, change, and rest. The clothing, she had explained, belonged to Mr. MacArthur himself.
“He would not mind lending these to you. Lord Struan, we are so grateful to you for taking care of Miss Elspeth in her injured state and seeing her safe home. I will lay out a hearty tea in half an hour if you would come downstairs, sir.”
Safe home. James savored the phrase. If Mrs. Graham knew that Elspeth had spent two days alone with him, the woman made no fuss over it.
Knotting the cravat, he went to the window to look over the courtyard of the modest estate. Only two thousand acres, Elspeth had explained when they had arrived. Kilcrennan itself was a fine house, old but respectably kept, an ancient stone tower keep converted to a manor house. Its walls were a bit tilted, its interior a bit shabby and spaces cramped, its age and its charm evident. A few outbuildings included weaving cottages, as the housekeeper had explained earlier. In the distance, blue mountains were visible through the mist beneath a sky that promised clearing soon.
Glancing down, he saw Elspeth walking out of the entrance two floors below his bedchamber window. She had changed to a gray gown and a plaid woven of pale colors around her shoulders. As she hurried away from the house, he wondered where she was headed, with tea being laid soon. He hoped to see her before he left.
Just the sight of her tugged at his heart, and he felt an inexpressible yearning. He realized how much he wanted to marry her—a sudden revelation, more powerful than his earlier insistence. He wanted that fey and fascinating girl in his life. The sense went far beyond obligation or the dictates of his grandmother’s will. He was falling in love, he realized. Somehow, that was simply unexpected.
He was glad for the distraction when a gig and horse rolled into the yard. This must be Donal MacArthur, he thought, as the vehicle drew to a halt.
The man who stepped down was older, yet looked fit in a dark suit and red plaid waistcoat. When he removed his hat, his thick hair and beard shone like copper and silver. He flung his arms wide as Elspeth appeared, flinging herself into his arms, enveloped in a deep hug. From his window, James heard her laugh, heard her grandfather’s booming reply.
“Home, wee girl! I worried you might vanish on the moor in the rains!”
“The fairies did not take me, Grandda. I stayed safe at Struan House.”
Mrs. Graham approached then, and James was surprised to see the housekeeper receive a kiss on the cheek from the master. The three stood together in lively conversation. Donal set his arm around Elspeth, and Mrs. Graham put an arm around her too. They were linked, the three, snug, supportive, loving.
James pulled in a breath. He remembered the warmth of his own family, years ago, the love and affection of his mother, father, of siblings and kin; remembered joyful holidays, smiles, encouragement. He and his siblings still had some of that closeness, although they saw each other infrequently, and distance had grown.
Watching the MacArthurs, he felt the old loneliness returning. But that had no business affecting him now, he thought. He had learned to live with what was lost.
And so if Elspeth MacArthur would not marry him, he would be fine. He would survive that, too, he told himself. But he was not ready to give up the quest yet.
Donal MacArthur looked up then, meeting James’s gaze at the window, and nodded, lifting a hand. That silent greeting thanked him, acknowledged and included him. Elspeth looked up and smiled too. He felt the warmth of it. It was very like love.
Be careful, he told himself. Love was too easily lost. He stepped back, adjusted his cravat, and headed for the stairs.
Tea was supper after all, James discovered, a generous spread served in the dining room. He joined Elspeth and Mrs. Graham, and as they chatted, he glanced around the small, cozy room with its blue walls, creaking wooden floor, and aged but gleaming furnishings. The table was set with crisp white linens, delicate china dishes, and a silver service that even his fussy aunt would be proud to claim.
The fare was excellent: hot rolls and salted butter, cold sliced beef and lamb, rowan jelly and sweet custard, a variety of small cakes and biscuits, and a rich brew of steaming black tea. Mrs. Graham poured, encouraging Lord Struan to add cream and sugar and help himself liberally to whatever he liked.
His Aunt Rankin, James thought, might have to admit that the Highlands was not a crude and backward place at all, but quite civilized. She had maintained that opinion all her life, and had reluctantly sent her wards, James and Fiona, up to the Highlands to visit their grandparents. “You will catch your death of colds up there, and come home undisciplined and having to be educated all over again,” she had claimed more than once. “Although it is said to be a pretty place,” she said begrudgingly.
Of course, he and his sister had never become sick or unruly. They had happily searched for rocks in their grandfather’s company, and quick-witted Fiona had learned a good bit of Gaelic. Each time James had departed the Highlands and Struan House, he had longed to go back. By the time he had gone from Eton to Oxford and then Glasgow, later achieving a teaching position in Edinburgh, he was too busy to visit his widowed grandmother often, although he had always craved to spend more time in the Highlands.
Now, here, glancing through the window at a stunning view of the mountains, he felt at home. The warmth of the place and its inhabitants created that sense, and he savored it quietly.
Mrs. Graham poured liberal amounts of tea and filled their plates with cold meat and rolls, custard and cakes. James watched Elspeth, admiring her simple loveliness in the gray gown, her hair softly drawn up, small pearls dropping from her earlobes. Her shawl was a crisscross of soft green, lavender, and rose yarns.
“A handsome shawl, Miss MacArthur,” he said. “My sister would admire it.”
She smiled. “Thank you. It is one of my own weavings. I would be honored if you would accept a similar shawl as a gift for your sister.”
“She would like that,” he murmured.
“I could show you the looms later if you have time.” A blush seeped into her cheeks. He nodded, smiled.
“Please stay the night, Lord Struan,” Mrs. Graham said. “It is going dark, and the roads will not be improved yet.”
“I’ll gratefully accept the hospitality if the MacArthurs do not mind.”
“Of course we would not,” Elspeth said.
“Mr. MacArthur will join us shortly,” Mrs. Graham said. He learned during their conversation that the housekeeper was a cousin through Mr. MacArthur’s late wife, and had been with them since Elspeth had been in infancy.
“Are you kin to Sir John Graham, and his sister Lucie?” James asked. “I consider Sir John a good friend. I was with them at the king’s reception in Edinburgh, when, ah, Miss MacArthur and I were first introduced.”
“Oh, aye, they are cousins of mine, but keep to Edinburgh,” Peggy Graham said.
“Sir John is a fine road engineer. Naturally, that gives him a keen interest in geology too, and we sometimes consult together on his plans.” As he spoke, the drawing room door opened, and Donal MacArthur entered.
“Ah, Lord Struan! Good to meet you, sir,” the man said briskly, coming toward him. James stood to clasp his hand. “Welcome to Kilcrennan.”
“Lord Struan will be our guest for the night, Mr. MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham said, sounding more like a wife than a servant, or even a cousin.
“Excellent!” MacArthur sat beside his granddaughter and helped himself to food, and accepted a cup of steaming tea, heavily sweetened, from Mrs. Graham.
“Thank you for the loan of the clothing and boots, sir,” James said. “Unfortunately my own things got quite wet as we crossed some high water.”
“Down by the Durchan Water, Grandda,” Elspeth supplied. “It was very floody, but Lord Struan got us across, very bravely.”
“And so we are further in your debt, sir,” Donal MacArthur said. “Souls have been swept away in lesser floods than this week. I had a de’il of a time coming back from Edinburgh. Would have been home sooner if not for the high waters and poor roads. I feared that Elspeth had been caught in the rains, and it worried me so I traveled even faster. We are very grateful to you for helping her.” MacArthur leaned forward. “I understand you are a professor at the university, sir.”
“I teach natural philosophy, specifically geological sciences, and do research and writing on the subject as well.”
“Rocks and such, hey! A good use of a fine education. We have many interesting rocks here in this glen. Though I hear you do not spend much time at Struan House. Beg pardon, you have been viscount since your grandfather passed on a few years back? Yet Lady Struan told me her grandson kept to the city.”
“Struan House was my grandmother’s home, and she enjoyed having charge of the estate. I did not want to interfere with that, and I admit there was little time to visit her, unfortunately. I am much occupied with lecturing duties, although my research sometimes brings me into the Highlands.”
MacArthur nodded, looking pleased. He speared a roll with a two-pronged fork, slathered it with butter and jelly, and glanced at Elspeth. “Stays in the city, does the Laird of Struan,” he said, tearing off a bit of roll and popping it into his mouth.
“I realize that,” she said tersely.
In the awkward silence, James accepted another slice of cold beef in a roll, offered by Mrs. Graham, and gave his attention to cutting it in half.
“Where are the yarns from Margaret, then?” Donal MacArthur asked. “Is your cousin doing well? How is it that Lord Struan came to take you home?”
“I have not visited Margaret yet,” Elspeth said. She stared into her tea for a moment, then lifted her head, cheeks high pink, a spark of bravado in her eyes. “I stopped by Struan House first, and became stranded in the bad weather.”
“Ah.” Donal set down his fork and looked from his granddaughter to James, while Mrs. Graham sat silent. James felt suddenly like a boy caught out at school. “Why did you go there?”
“To look for the blue stone in the garden,” she said. “I thought I could find it.”
“It will be found when it wants to be found.” Her grandfather scowled. “So you went there, and Mrs. MacKimmie away and all.”
“What are you saying?” Elspeth asked warily.
“I saw Reverend Buchanan on my way home today. He told me you had been caught in the rains, that he and his father met the pair of you under some unusual circumstances, were his words.” He set down his knife. “Is there something the kirk minister knows that I do not?”
James sat forward. “Sir, Miss MacArthur did stay at Struan House. She had a mishap while traveling over Struan lands and was injured.”
“She has a twisted ankle, Donal MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham supplied. “I looked at it myself this afternoon and made her soak it in a salt bath. She must rest it and cannot walk about as usual. Did you not notice her limping in the yard?”
“Aye,” Donal said. “Injured. Go on, sir.” He fixed James with a stern stare.
“I happened upon her where she fell in the garden, Mr. MacArthur. The storm was fierce by then, and of course I offered her shelter at Struan House. My housekeeper was detained elsewhere, ah, due to the storm.”
“And the rest of household staff gone, too,” Donal MacArthur said, “due to the Fairy Riding.”
“Grandda, it could not be helped,” Elspeth said.
“Alone,” her grandfather went on. “Together.”
“Lord Struan treated me cordially, as a guest.” Elspeth lifted her chin. “Reverend Buchanan has no right to suggest otherwise.”
James noticed a spark in Donal MacArthur’s leonine eye and the man’s nostrils flared, but the older man held his composure. This was where Elspeth got her temper as well as her dignity, James thought.
“Elspeth had turned her ankle, Donal,” Mrs. Graham reminded him.
“I slid down a hill in the mud,” Elspeth said. “I could not walk.”
“An unfortunate situation,” James explained. “Between Miss MacArthur’s incapacitation, a lightning storm, and the muddy roads, travel was out of the question for two days. I would not let her risk walking home, nor could I risk a horse slipping while traveling.”
“Two days!” MacArthur thundered, setting down his custard spoon.
“Oh, dearie!” Mrs. Graham fanned herself. Then she recovered. “How fortunate Lord Struan was able to help. Elspeth could have come to real harm if she had tried to make her way home.”
MacArthur tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. “I commend you for considering the horse, and my granddaughter’s well-being. What of her reputation?”
“Sir, these were extraordinary circumstances. Unavoidable,” James said.
“Extraordinary,” Elspeth echoed. “Grandda, we saw the Riding!”
MacArthur stared, teacup in hand. “On Struan lands?”
“Aye. We heard the horses, and we saw—I saw—” She stopped. “I will tell you later. It was an exceptional night.”
“How exceptional was it,” her grandfather growled.
“Lord Struan is a gentleman,” she said with dignity.
“I understand how this appears, Mr. MacArthur,” James said. “And I realize such things can jeopardize a family’s reputation. I am prepared to make it right.”
“Make it right,” Donal MacArthur repeated thoughtfully. He regarded James and then Elspeth. “Normally we would speak alone, you and I, sir,” the older man said. “But this is not the usual. Do I understand that you are offering to marry her?”
“I am. I have told her so.” He could not look at Elspeth, but felt her hot gaze turned keenly on him.
MacArthur grunted and looked at her. “And will you have the man, then?”
“No,” she said, setting down her teacup.
“He’s a fine gentleman,” her grandfather said, “with a title and property, and apparently good morals. I believe he has a good heart as well.”
“He is and he does. But my answer is no,” Elspeth said.
“He has an estate and a lineage to be proud of,” MacArthur went on, as if Elspeth had not blatantly refused, “and a generous income. Sir, may I assume that your income is excellent?”
“I am, ah, comfortable,” James said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“There,” MacArthur blustered, waving a hand. “And he has a teaching position and a house in Edinburgh as well.”
“I do,” James said, watching Elspeth. “And a Highland property.”
“I do not care,” she said firmly.
“Whether the man is Highland or Lowland, the decision was made for you when you stayed the night at Struan House.” MacArthur said. “The two of you make a fine match.”
“We do,” James ventured.
“We do not,” Elspeth said decisively at the same moment.
“Peggy Graham agrees with me, do you not?” MacArthur boomed.
“Lord Struan is a true gentleman,” Mrs. Graham said. “But if the girl refuses, she has her reasons and you should listen to her as her grandfather and guardian.”
The old man raised his china cup. “To Struan!”
“Indeed, Grandda, you should listen to me. But you have not.” Elspeth stood. “I have weaving to do.” She went to the door, turned. “This matter is not decided by any means, so do not celebrate.” She shut the door firmly behind her.
“There,” MacArthur said in a satisfied tone, “that’s done.”
“You are interfering, Donal MacArthur,” the housekeeper said.
“Stubborn as yon lass is, we need to interfere. Eh, Struan?”
“I rather like her stubbornness, sir, and she has her reasons, as she said,” James replied. He stood. “Let me see to the matter properly, sir. Mrs. Graham, thank you for the excellent supper.” He bowed his head and went toward the door.
“Hoo hoo,” Donal crowed as James left. “A wedding for sure, Peggy dear!”
The loom clicked and its heddle bars shifted as Elspeth pressed the foot pedals. She threw a small threaded shuttle right to left, and another left to right, through the gap between the threads. All the while, her body swayed side to side and back and forth with the steady rhythms created by loom and shuttle. Her hands moved quickly, the repetition soothing, erasing all but the moment.
This was what she most needed, this letting go of thought and worry. She felt herself begin to release fears and relax. Click, clack. Red, black, green, black, yellow.
She pressed the treadle quickly, the motion shifting the wooden heddle bar, bringing one set of warp threads down, and creating a new tunnel between the layered warp threads. Taking up another shuttle for the weft, threaded with yellow, she tossed that deftly through the gap, and as it sailed through, caught it in her left hand. Treadle, drop the warp, snug the yellow into the weave, toss the yellow through, drop it, pick up the black—quick and nimble she went, clicking on and on, weaving the weft, yellow and green, through the warp, red and black.
The length of the new woolen cloth grew steadily, its span as wide as the reach of her arms. The cloth turned on the wooden roller, pressing against her taut waist as she leaned into the work.
The rhythms went on, and seemed to speak to her. Go to him, stay here, go to him, stay here. The colors reflected her feelings: red for passion and temper, black for fear, yellow for hope. Green for growth, for a new start.
Go with James, leave Kilcrennan, said the loom. She tossed the shuttle, pressed the treadle. All will be well, all will be well.
Press the treadle, fling the shuttle, right to left; catch the shuttle, press the treadle; fling and catch and press. Just keep a watchful eye on warp and weft, heddle and roller, keep watch over the sett pattern as the tartan grew like a living thing.
She would need to decide. She knew that. For now, there was respite in the rhythm, satisfaction in the work. Someone would treasure this cloth. For now, that would do. But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.
Catch and fling, catch and press. Yellow goes over, black comes back; hope flies through, and shadows follow.
James stood in the open doorway, shoulder leaned against the jamb as he watched the weaver absorbed in her work. He had never seen tartan cloth produced on a loom. He had taken the woolen fabric for granted, not thinking much about how it came into existence; only what it cost per ell, how it looked and felt, how neatly the tailor cut it for kilt or waistcoat, how nicely warm and dry it kept one.
A few minutes of watching loom and weaver showed how the colored threads interwove as stripes and blocks to form the plaid pattern. The cloth spooled, taut and handsome, over the roller.
But the weaver held most of his attention.
He was fascinated as much by the girl as her skill. She sat on a wooden chair and leaned into the loom, arms out, hands moving as if she played upon a great harp held sideways in her lap, an instrument that created a rhythmic melody of clicks and shushing sounds. She was practiced and efficient, leaning and tossing, pressing and catching, while the loom posts shuddered gently and the roller turned.
He watched her deftly snatch the shuttle with its long tail of color and send it flying through the gap in the threads; saw her catch it on the other side and send it back. Every movement was perfectly timed as the loom moved sweetly, steadily under her guidance.
Compelled, James watched, appreciating her focus, her trancelike calm. He saw the focus on her face, a soft light within. She was enchanting. And he appreciated, too, the swan-like grace of her body as she moved, her supple, slender curves, the whole action more like a dance than work. His body stirred, surged inwardly. He knew the feel of her body against his. He wanted that again with her, fiercely so.
Yet he saw more than a beautiful young woman weaving color on a loom. He saw her gift, and her love, for the work. And he understood why she did not want to leave Kilcrennan. She was part of this place. This was more than a pastime for her. It was art and devotion. And he could not ask her to leave it.
In silence, he turned away.