2
Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.
Samuel Johnson
Magnus moved about the castle’s unlit corridors, the taper he carried a-dance in Kerrera’s draft. ’Twas chill for May, and the prior winter had been long and lean. The village children who’d perished from disease and want of nourishment over the cold months were never far from his thoughts, as marked as the crosses that shadowed their graves in the kirkyard. His view from his study window took in those wind-beaten crosses. They and his own desire for a child melded into a lasting melancholy he prayed warmer weather would mend.
How different it would be if childish laughter echoed in Kerrera’s halls. Six bairns lost in as many years. What he would give to have his half-dozen ringing his table and overflowing the nursery. On the heels of this wistful thought came the crushing reality that Kerrera would stay empty and echoing.
His bride was weak. Not in strength of will. Her pedigree and even the jut of her jaw bespoke a far from congenial partnership. But she was barren. Unable to carry a child. If only such calamities could be foreseen ahead of contracts and commitments. “Till death do us part” now held an onerous ring. But he would honor his vows, the covenant they’d made, and keep praying for miracles.
He passed Isla’s door, treading lightly so as not to disturb her, his collie at his side, the nuzzle of the dog’s damp nose a comfort.
His wife’s bedchamber was partly ajar, her voice leaking out. “Magnus?”
He motioned for Nonesuch to stay in the hall before entering, aware his fading candle was mostly melted. No matter. Her sumptuous room—gold themed with London’s finest furnishings—glowed with no less than a dozen tapers in candelabras. Tonight, despite the late hour, a book lay open on her lap, more volumes on her bedside table. She read her days away and sometimes her nights till dark circles rimmed her eyes. Kerrera’s library seemed more hers than his. He was a man of action, managing his tenants and holdings with little time for the printed page other than Scripture.
“Isla.” He stood at the foot of the immense bed he shared less and less, its curtains half closed. A fire in the hearth warmed his backside but failed to make its way to the castle’s cold corners. Her lady’s maid was busy doing whatever ladies’ maids did.
“I cannot sleep.” Abandoning her book, she stroked the twin pugs on either side of her. “I must have more of the stillroom’s tincture. From the bees’ mistress.”
“Lark’s remedy?”
Isla all but bristled, and he rued the stubbornness that kept him naming the servants if for no other reason than it nettled his wife. Never did she call the servants by anything other than their standing in relation to her. That nettled him.
“The stillroom maid, yes.”
“Did yer own maid not give ye the tincture this morn?” he asked.
“Indeed. But ’tis all gone, she gave me so little. Can you not send for the lass now? Rouse her?”
“Nay.” His mind skipped back an hour to midnight when he’d last seen Lark on the cliff’s path with her burden. She was no doubt abed, having taken tea with her granny like the three of them had oft done in his youth. They’d sipped the hot brew while the stillroom’s former mistress spun stories of Kerrera’s glory days when his father and grandfather, former lairds, were alive. “In the morn she’ll return to the stillroom. Bide yer time till then.”
Isla made a face. Arguing was pointless. His nay was nay. “Have her make me a generous quantity. I shan’t be without again.”
He bade her good night, starting for the sitting room that adjoined their two bedchambers, but stopped cold at her next words.
“My maid tells me the free traders were on the beach tonight before the turn of the tide. Is that true?”
“Tonight, aye.” Why did she ask? He rarely mentioned what happened after dark, though sometimes he himself disappeared. “The haul went well. All the cargo is on its way inland.”
“Last time a great quantity of goods was stashed in the kirk.”
“An unsuspecting location,” he replied.
“Reverend Blackaby is more sot than saint!”
“We all have our besetting sins,” Magnus said quietly.
Isla settled back on the bank of feather pillows, twisting her flaxen braid with agitated hands. “Rather he dangle from a noose than the laird of Kerrera Castle.”
He waved a hand at the draped windows. “No gallows are in sight.”
“Don’t make light of such. Betimes the castle cellars are as full as the kirk. Ye turn a blind eye to the dubious goings-on—”
“The cellars last held salt. Oats. The staples of life. Would ye wish the deaths of more bairns? More aged? More disease from lack of nourishment?” His voice rose in thunder, his stub of candle held high. “’Tis a small risk to incur when we dinna go begging bread.”
She looked away from him, bristling. Her ever-present maid seemed to be taking a long time to return the jewels her mistress had worn at dinner to their case. Eavesdropping again?
“Good night,” he said, thinking of the double portion of smuggled goods the reverend had sent to the crofts of the bereaved this very eve. But did it fill the hole in their hearts? Return their kindred? Nay.
With a shrill whistle, he called for his collie, then pushed open the door to his own turreted room, the tapestry walls holding the fire’s heat. He stood before the snapping hearth, feeding the remaining taper to the flames. The wind was rising, forcing a dark plume of smoke into the ancient chamber. He never minded. ’Twas the scent of simpler times. Boyhood. More carefree days on Kerrera.
In Gaelic, he gave vent to his angst beneath his breath. “’Tis better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman.”
The thorny Scripture was followed by a far sweeter one. Husbands, love your wives.
“Ready to retire, sir?” Brown, his manservant, appeared with his Bible and a dram of the water o’ life. Both were bracing but a curious combination, truly.
Brown disappeared, and Magnus sat down in his favorite chair, feet to the fire, as a blast of wind forced more than smoke into the masculine chamber. ’Twas long past midnight. Full dark. He opened to the Psalms, reading in Gaelic the holy words he’d read most every night of his married life.
Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.
A half measure of comfrey. A pinch of lemon balm. A palm full of mint. What needed gathering next? When would the next need arise? Growing up in the castle by Granny’s side had taught her much. Lark knew by heart the helping herbs and those with poison in their bite. Some were like gentle friends, others she need be chary of. She had within her power to heal or hurt. ’Twas not a task she took lightly.
Queen of the stillroom and bees she was, or so the laird once said. He’d come upon her in the castle’s bee garden one day, a daisy chain crowning her, bees ringing her. The slant of the sun had turned her golden from the tip of her flaming head to her bare feet, he’d said. She had no memory of that long-ago moment, but Magnus had not forgotten.
Now, the day after the Merry Lass’s landing, her hands worked with mortar and pestle, grinding dried rosemary to mere ashes. Its pungent scent was like the sweetest perfume. Queen of the stillroom and bees, indeed.
“Are you at work?”
Lark turned. ’Twas Rhona, the mistress’s maid. Inwardly Lark recoiled like she would at an adder. Rhona never looked at her directly. Like Isla, she looked everywhere else as if she could not lower herself to meet a servant eye to eye.
In turn, Lark was curt, always glad to bring their hasty meetings to an end. “What is yer need?”
Frowning, Rhona moved inside. “’Tis not mine but milady’s. She desires a wine tincture . . . something stronger.”
“Stronger?” Lark questioned. “I am pondering a remedy, something to truly help. Not spirits.”
Coming to the table, a slab of coastal oak that served as a work counter, Rhona surveyed the gathered herbs. “What are you concocting?”
“Help for rheumatism. Auld Abel, the gardener—”
“The gardener? ’Tis your mistress that needs attention.” Rhona folded her arms. “Have you something for more than sleep? Have you nothing for her womb?”
Six babes lost. Lark bit her lip. Ye are asking for the moon. “Aye. Prayer.”
“Are you implying my mistress is not devout?”
“I ken little of yer mistress’s habits as she keeps herself closeted so.”
“She is not well enough to leave her bedchamber, except to dine with the laird.”
Lark continued her mashing and mixing. “Get her on her feet. Take a thimbleful of whisky with her porridge. Saddle her mare and ride along the beach. Stroll about the garden beneath the spring sun.”
A grunt of disgust. “Is that what you islanders do? ’Tis so . . . common.”
“Lying abed makes one weak.”
“So you’ve no herbs? No help? You are the stillroom’s mistress. Do you not value your place?”
Lark fell silent as Mistress Baird’s tall form darkened the doorway. “Yer mistress is ringing for ye, Rhona. She doesna like to be kept waiting.”
Finished with her mixing, Lark began to bag the tonic for rheumatism as Rhona disappeared without a word before the housekeeper’s rebuke. Watching her go, Lark felt a stab of pity. For all her bristling, Rhona seemed naught but the worst sort of servant, subject to Isla’s moods and whims, rarely out of her mistress’s sight.
Mistress Baird came nearer and raised a sleeve, revealing a pale arm that had been reddened with rash before. “The salve ye gave me is quite effective.”
Lark smiled. “’Tis naught but oil, oats, and sea salt.” She could take little credit for nature’s gifts. “I’ll gladly make more should ye need it.”
“I doubt I shall.” Passing into a small anteroom, Mistress Baird was joined by Cook to take stock of the pantry for the coming ball.
“One gill of brandy for the laird’s cake,” Cook said, tallying items on paper. “A quantity of dried currants and raisins as well.”
“Dinna forget rosewater and essence of lemon,” Mistress Baird replied. “And ample cinnamon.”
“Aye, aye. The mistress is wanting a confection of her own,” Cook added, sounding vexed. “She’s forever wanting a great many things.”
Their talk dwindled to disgruntled whispers. Lark’s mind spun back six years prior when Isla had arrived at Kerrera’s gates. All the servants had lined the drive that autumn day to greet the castle’s new mistress, each holding something that bespoke their service. Cook fisted a beater. The grooms sported horseshoes and riding whips. The butler, a small silver salver. The maids, feather dusters.
Lark herself held a bouquet of fragrant lavender, representing refinement, grace, and elegance, all of which she hoped her new mistress would be or bring from faraway Edinburgh. The simple nosegay’s stems were tied with silk ribbon from her mother’s dower chest. When she’d held it out to the laird’s bride as she passed, Isla had not taken it but turned aside, silken skirts swirling.
“Never ye mind,” Granny consoled Lark later. “She mightn’t have seen it. Just think what a spectacle awaited her—an army of servants and an auld castle. ’Twas her first time on the island, ye ken.”
Truly, mayhap Lark’s hopes had been too high in assuming the lofty lady would take her humble offering. ’Twas Magnus who had reached out and plucked it from Lark’s hand at the last. It had assuaged her somewhat, though the memory was still sore.
“We’ll be needing yer help for the ball, Lark.” Cook stood at table’s end, a long list in hand. “Fiona is out with her sick bairn, and Archie is in Oban for his father’s wake.”
Shorthanded again. “Granny can help too if ye like. In the kitchen, at least.”
Cook turned contemplative. “We’re expecting no less than a hundred. The Great Hall’s being readied as we speak. ’Twill be quite a feast. The laird’s ordered sweetmeats and provisions from Glasgow.”
Lark’s heart lifted. Twice a year came the tenants’ ball. Betimes it seemed the only occasion the people felt full. Relieved of their labors. Though the ball was for the laird’s servants, his tenants, and the like, she didn’t mind helping as she was one of them. The joy it brought was worth the extra work. She would dress in her best. Mayhap step a reel or jig. There’d be small gifts for each, a compliment or two. The laird would oversee it all.
Rory MacPherson was a fine dancer. Not so fine as Magnus but less ticklish than the laird. With Rory, there was no chasm to cross, no title other than captain. No lady to call his own. Hope took root. Was he still at the Thistle?
Mistress Baird and Cook left the stillroom to make the most of the fortnight before the ball. As for Lark, time enough to ready a gown. Mend her hose and garters. Carry her shoes to the cobbler. Decide how to dress her wayward hair. School her disappointment if the captain did not come.
And ponder the best tonic for Lady Isla.