4

Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.

Scottish proverb

Magnus walked along the cliff’s edge to the ruins of Gylen Castle as the Sabbath dawned. Nature seemed to have reversed itself, teasing them with the blues and greens of spring before returning them to the silvery white of winter. Through the mist of May came the pealing of the kirk bell in the village.

His absence in church would be felt now that he’d returned home—sure to set a dozen tongues wagging—but in truth he was more at worship outside kirk walls where the grandeur of sea and sky and headlands took his breath away. Even if he was a stray sheep far from the fold.

He sat on an outcropping of cold feudal stone, Nonesuch at his side, glad there was no wind. Patient he was, and that patience was soon rewarded. Slowly the fog began to lift. But not his fog of spirit. Nor his circumstances.

Squinting into the endless indigo sea, he saw a few fishing boats riding the water’s calm surface. The view before him never changed, the beauty had by all, whether rich or poor. And the poor ruled on Kerrera. He himself had never suffered want. He only suffered secondhand, feeling the lack of others and wanting to relieve it. The villagers—especially the fisherfolk—regarded him as if he was some sort of savior. But he was quick to remind them he did not walk on water and the miracle of the loaves and fishes was well beyond his ken.

Father, do Ye care about the tenants’ ball and the goods slow to arrive from Glasgow? The moods and whims of my wife? The sick-to-death bairn of a tenant farmer? The smuggled goods in kirk? My own relentless discontent?

Forgive me, Father, was always quick to follow his every honest prayer. Ye care in ways I canna ken. Ye defy the box I’ve built for Ye in my mind.

Reaching out a hand to stroke Nonesuch’s fur, he cast a glance at Gylen’s sole castle wall, the lancet windows tall and arched and still beautiful. Once he’d written a bit of verse about Lark’s kinfolk, but of late life left little time for poetry.

He blinked, adjusting to the sun’s strengthening glare. Through the haze he saw a figure, shawl about her shoulders, basket in hand. Nonesuch sat up and took notice, her plumy tail swishing in welcome.

“Ye growl at all but Lark,” Magnus murmured as she drew nearer.

She was out early on so chill a morn. Likely on the way to Kerrera’s southernmost tip to visit the few kin she had there. Other than the Sabbath, she seldom wandered far from castle or croft.

Her lips were moving. Was she praying? Singing? She had a loosome voice. She looked . . . cheerful.

“And what would the laird be doing in enemy territory?” she asked as she caught sight of him.

“’Tis more peaceful here than at Kerrera, enemy territory or no.” He gave a grin. “No ponderous party preparations. No business begging to be dealt with.” He eyed her basket.

“Just oatcake fresh from the bake oven.”

“Yer granny’s?”

“None other.” She lifted a coarse linen cloth and gave him what was surely the biggest of the batch along with a ready smile. “Ye can have two if ye like.” She unearthed another for Nonesuch.

“’Tis a frightful waste as she hardly tastes it,” Magnus exclaimed before devouring his own. “Mayhap ’tis the reason she ne’er growls at ye.”

“But ye still do.”

His collar heated. “Ye dinna seem to mind.”

“I’m used to it, raised alongside ye. The laird can do as he likes. ’Tis us simple folk who have to mind our manners.”

“I’m sorry, lass.” He meant it. Circumstances oft turned him terse. And made a rare bannock all the better.

“How is her ladyship?”

“The same.”

“I’m pondering a remedy. I’ve not forgotten. Granny is thinking on it too.”

“She’s missing Edinburgh.” And already packing to return there. He’d lost count of all the trunks his wife owned. But in six years’ time he’d gotten used to all the comings and goings, the massive preparations and leave-takings between their Edinburgh townhouse and the castle. ’Twas no secret Isla loathed island life. “We’ll likely depart after the ball.”

“She’ll be well enough to attend, I hope.”

“I’ll make no promises.”

“And I’ll ask no more questions.” With a little dip of both her head and her knees, she went on her way again, Nonesuch following, the bannock basket an outright temptation.

He wanted to do the same. Fall into step behind her. Listen to her simple singing. Canting his gaze away, he returned his attention to the sea and let the sun seep into his winter-weary bones.

In time, Nonesuch returned, tail still a-wag, eyes bright. Lark had that effect, be it on man or beast. She made both better than they were, better than she’d found them.

Despite her warlike MacDougall roots.

“Tell me about yer gown,” Catriona said wistfully. “I’ve no such finery of my own, especially big with a bairn as I am.”

Lark studied her comely cousin, who was expecting another child and was all round and rosy. “Ye dinna need any trappings, yer so bonny.” Though Lark did wish she had some colorful cloth to counter Catriona’s paleness and drape her wide girth. “Mother’s gown is auld. Granny’s set to press it, though I fear ’twill fall to pieces.”

“And the color?”

“Blue brocade. Bonaventure blue.”

“To match yer eyes. But no heirloom brooch, sadly. Just yer family pearls? What about yer shoes?”

Lark extended one naked foot beneath a flounced petticoat. “I’d best go barefoot as I’m missing a heel, and no time to see the cobbler.”

Catriona smiled. “Best go barefoot, aye, so ye willna tower over the laddies.”

Lark drew herself up, shoulders back, striking a regal pose as she’d seen Isla do. Isla was tall like the laird and owned a finesse and queenly carriage unknown to the islander women. She only lacked a crown. Lark had long wondered what it was that had caught Magnus’s eye. Surely this was it.

“Mayhap hunch yer shoulders. No man wants a lass so tall.”

“Captain MacPherson is taller,” Lark mused.

“Hoot!” Catriona chuckled. “Not so tall as the laird. He’s got Norse blood, I tell ye.”

Magnus was immense. Viking-like. And with such queer blue eyes, more silver in a certain light. “His hair was the color o’ milk as a lad before it went dark.”

“But Saundra’s stayed fair as flax.”

They grew quiet, lost in the sorrowful memory. Lark’s longing for Magnus’s sister never left. She’d been as fairy-like as Magnus was formidable. And far sweeter of temper. Her untimely death had sent the island spinning. Left Lark spinning still.

“No more mourning,” Catriona said, patting her great roundness. “’Tis time for births and balls, not wakes.”

Lark’s spirits soared. More than one tenants’ ball had kindled a romantic match. Laboring hard as the islanders did, courtship was hard-won and frolics few and far between.

“I’d best get back to Granny.” A last look at her bannock basket returned her thoughts to Magnus and Nonesuch. And the dangling remedy for Lady Isla.

“Till the ball then, cousin.”

Over the next week, Cook and Lark gathered the needed herbs from the kitchen garden to season the fowl and mutton and other manifold dishes being prepared for the coming fete. A palpable excitement seemed to thread the island, making people merrier. Or was it just her own?

So intent was she on her task she hardly noticed Cook pause at the garden wall. At the clatter of a coach, Lark joined her. Through the swirling mist of midmorning came a small army of servants bearing trunks of all shapes and sizes. Someone seemed bent on leaving Kerrera forever.

Isla?

“I canna believe it.” Cook pursed her lips in contemplation. “And there goes the high and mighty Rhona with her. Good riddance!”

Lark’s eyes widened at Cook’s outburst. Usually curt, she was in rare form this morn.

“Edinburgh bound?” Lark whispered.

“Aye. Where else? And on the very eve of the ball.”

Oh, Magnus. Did he know? When she’d last seen him at the ruins he’d said he and Isla were to leave after the fete.

“And the laird’s gone to Balliemore, none the wiser, likely.” At that, Cook stalked out of the garden and into the castle, leaving Lark alone with her burgeoning basket.

Try as she might, Lark couldn’t tear her gaze from Isla as she got into the coach. The sky-blue feather atop her hat was nearly crushed as she cleared the door and disappeared inside, Rhona right behind, each of them carrying a twin pug. They seemed in a great hurry, perhaps on account of Magnus’s imminent return?

Chewing on a piece of mint, Lark found it sour. Isla’s departure would cause a scandal ricocheting from one end of the island to the other. Any sympathy given her latest loss would be stripped away, her leaving considered a slight. To the laird. His tenants. The entire isle.

How would he explain his wife’s absence?

Knowing Magnus, he would not.

As the coach rolled down the drive and turned east at the gate, Granny emerged from the stillroom to Lark’s hasty explanation.

“Gone, ye say?” Her tone was as grievous as Lark felt. “But I’ve just been concocting what might help her. Stinging nettle. Red clover and red raspberry. A bit o’ dandelion too.”

“I’ve already tried them, Granny.” The lament in Lark’s tone had more to do with Magnus’s dismay than Isla’s condition. At least she’d done what she could while Isla was in residence. Half a dozen tonics had been dispensed, but Isla declared them of no use.

“Oat straw . . . black cohosh . . .” Granny went away mumbling, her tread slowed by rheumatism.

Lark gave an exasperated poke to her basket. Rosemary. Thyme. A favorite, sage, could not be had so early except in the orangery. Magnus had talked of rebuilding the damaged hothouse on the castle’s south side between the kitchen and formal garden. She and Cook supported him wholeheartedly, but Isla protested the expense, dust, and noise. Mayhap the project was not timely. Isla’s leaving certainly wasn’t.

The fading of the coach wheels gave way to the sight of the laird riding the beach. A fierce tug-of-war began. Should she mind her work and stay out of the MacLeishes’ personal affairs? Or should she run down to the water and tell Magnus the news so that he might go after Isla? Reason with her?

“Yer as downcast as I’ve ever seen ye.”

She whirled, stunned to see the captain peering at her over the garden wall. He removed his hat, the strong coastal wind riffling his longish hair. Expression aggravated, he batted at a bee bedeviling him.

“What brings ye to the garden?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could, bending to pick a sprig of parsley.

“A meeting with the laird. The Merry Lass is in need of repairs before the next run.”

Repairs the laird would help fund, no doubt. Setting aside her basket, she joined him at the wall and pointed. “His lairdship is down there.”

Rory’s gaze swiveled to the long stretch of beach. Magnus was already riding from sight around a rocky bend. “Och, I just might give up sailing if I had such a horse.”

“’Tis far safer, riding,” she chided. “No Philistines in pursuit.”

He cracked a wry smile. “Next they’ll be taxing saddles and bridles and whatnot. Hide and watch.”

She made a face. “Surely not.” Leaning into the sun-warmed wall, she pondered a bold question. “Are ye coming to the ball? Or off to Éire as I’ve heard?”

He grimaced. “Jillian’s mouth’s a mite big.” A sly wink. “If I stay on, will ye dance with me?”

“Hide and watch,” she echoed. With a half smile, she returned to her work just as Cook appeared, no less agitated.

“Supposing this means the ball will be canceled.” Raising her fists, face red as a Glasgow apple, Cook stared at Lark as if waiting for her to confirm or deny it. “I’ve worked my hands to the bone preparing and have enough to feed six generations of islanders. Will it all come to naught?”

Rory stared at Lark in question, obviously unaware of Isla’s leaving.

Lark opened her mouth to explain when Granny reappeared. “Yer in need of some mint tea, Margaret. Shall we?” Taking her old friend by the elbow, Granny steered Cook back into the kitchen, leaving Lark alone with the captain again.

“No ball?” he queried.

Lark shrugged. “The mistress just left for Edinburgh.” At his scowl she added, “Ye canna blame her for not feeling like a frolic. She’s gone to seek a physic, likely.”

His scowl held. “Seems like a physic can be had as readily after the ball as before.”

True enough. So far the physics had not helped Isla, nor the island midwives. Nor Lark. She longed to endear Kerrera to the mistress in some way. Turn round Isla’s dim view of them.

She met his hard gaze, trying to soften her own dislike by being kindly and bringing Isla into every conversation if she could. “Mayhap she needs the comfort of her family in the city.”

“Mayhap she needs to think of someone besides Isla.” At that, the captain returned his hat to his head and took the path to the stables, the crunch of shells beneath his boots.

Sighing, Lark felt in need of some mint tea herself. Reclaiming her basket, she entered the castle kitchen, where Granny was attempting to mollify Cook as she put the finishing touches on a grand dessert, a towering confection of sweetmeats.

Jillian, the sole scullery maid, gave a tart greeting as two kitchen girls scurried hither and yon under Cook’s watchful eye and a footman polished silver in a corner. Lark eyed the copper pots and pans suspended from iron hooks over the immense worktable. The stone room was cavernous and cold but replete with every Scottish staple and delicacy, the mingled aromas heady. Stomach growling, Lark took a mincemeat tart when Cook gestured to the tea tray.

“Ye might as well have one now that the mistress has fled,” Cook said. “They’ll not keep.”

Would the ball go on?

A bit defeated, they sat in the servants’ hall at one end of the long table nearest the hearth, just Lark, Granny, and Cook entwined in a rare idle moment.

With the harsh light from the tall window falling over her, Cook looked worn to a frazzle, shoulders bowed. “Michty me! I’m too auld for dramatics. The laird likes things nice and smooth. But his lady—she errs on the theatrical side.”

“She’s young yet,” Granny replied. “Give her time.”

Lark held her tongue, wondering about Magnus’s reaction. Somehow she sensed he was unaware of Isla’s leaving. ’Twas Magnus who always accompanied his wife and ferried her across to the mainland half a mile distant. Rarely did he remain at the castle without her.

As she thought it, the butler came in, expression downcast. “Ye’ve heard news of the mistress?”

“Oh aye. Wretched timing!” Cook replied with a sweep of her hand. “But I’ll not throw all this bounty into the sea, nor work myself to the bone for naught.”

Lark swallowed hard to stifle a chuckle. Cook’s bulk was far from bony. Of all the islanders, she was the thickest. But never trust a malinky lang legs of a cook, she said.

“Ye’d best tell Brown,” Granny said of Magnus’s manservant. “Who will tell the laird.”

With a nod, the butler withdrew and Cook huffed a sigh, her teacup drained dry. “The musicians are set to arrive from the mainland, which means a half dozen more mouths to feed.”

Musicians among tenants were plenty, but Magnus wanted them not to entertain but to be entertained, for this night at least. And he spared no expense doing it, securing the best bow hands to be had among fiddlers from Oban.

“What more needs to be done?” Lark asked Cook as she pushed away from the table.

“Flower arranging. A great many blooms arrived from Glasgow’s hothouses in the forenoon. Take Annie if ye need help, though I can hardly spare any kitchen maids.”

“No need. Where are the vases?”

“In the storeroom. The best silver will do. None o’ that tawdry pewter or glass.”

Lark nodded. The quantity of blooms dictated the needed vases. Best take a look in the Great Hall first. She trod lightly, used to tiptoeing around Isla. But now, with the mistress on the way to Edinburgh, she grew bold. She even dared set foot in the stairwell where the massive cedar staircase climbed to elegant heights.

Odd how a person’s presence or absence changed the mood of a place. When Isla and her retinue left for the city, the castle was like a flower in bloom. The remaining servants talked and laughed more freely, doors were left open, the mood turned festive.

Lark listened to the staccato tap of her own footfall across the marble foyer of the Great Hall, past oil portraits and Flemish tapestries on paneled oak walls that hadn’t altered in the last century, to the waiting blooms.

The chill of the two-storied hall kept the flowers fresh, and there were armfuls of them in such varied hues she nearly gasped. Bending low, she breathed in their honeyed scent, the roses foremost—armfuls of scarlet roses the very color of British red-coated soldiers. Isla’s favorite flower, Lark remembered with a pang.

“I recall yer preference being lavender.”

She turned, finding Magnus behind her, arms crossed. And looking far more at ease than she expected. “Lavender, aye. Practical as well as bonny. If only roses grew as readily. Cook asked for help arranging these . . .” She was babbling, caught in the maelstrom of the moment.

“Ye heard about Isla.”

“I saw her leave myself. I’m terribly sorry.”

“The ball is to go on regardless.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Glad I am of that.”

“’Tis her loss, not ours.”

She pondered this. His tone held no bitterness, just regret. By shunning the island and its people when she might embrace them, Isla did lose. And her absence, while igniting gossip, would be mourned by no one Lark knew.

“Granny and I are at work on another, better remedy,” she said, but there was more hope than truth in it. “When the mistress returns . . .”

“If she returns.”

The flowers were forgotten. Lark simply stared at him, detecting a shattering shift in their circumstances.

“She might be done with Kerrera for good. Edinburgh has her heart.”

“Auld Reekie?” Her calm fled. How could a stinking, smoke-filled city compare? Even so, one’s heart should cling to people, not places. “But this is her home. Ye are her husband . . .”

He was looking at her like he’d done since boyhood—with obstinacy and admiration—yet reminding her of her place. “Have a care, Lark.”

“There’s the rub, Magnus. I do care. And ’tis she who should be standing here arranging flowers for an occasion that means so much to ye.”

“Ye canna blame her entirely. ’Twas rash what I did, marrying her with little thought as to how island life would suit her. Mayhap I should leave Kerrera for good and go to the city too.”

To Edinburgh? For keeps? In her angst, she clutched a stem too tightly, a thorn drawing blood. A stray drop stained her apron, crimson on creamy linen.

“Here, Lark.” He took the rose, his calm almost harder to bear than his temper, as if he’d thought it all out and the tenants’ ball would be his last. “Ye’ve ne’er been to Edinburgh. The city has its charms.”

He looked about the long, polished hall empty of all but banquet tables at the outer edges. The butler and footmen came in, bearing silver and place cards for the table settings of the more prominent islanders who’d feast on the raised dais at the hall’s far end.

Without another word she fled, trying to master her emotions. Once in the storeroom she selected the best vases, chin still a-tremble, the excitement of the fete tarnished and seeming frivolous in light of Isla’s leaving.

The castle needed a child. A family. But would a child change Isla? She did not seem meant to be a mother either in temperament or in body. There was no cure for being barren and selfish to the bone save Christ.