Chapter Seven
Dougal nodded, satisfied and oddly proud as he watched Fiona MacCarran greet each person in the schoolyard.
She repeated their names as he introduced her and spoke to them in deft, good Gaelic, winning over even those suspicious of outsiders and Lowlanders.
Everyone seemed more at ease after speaking with her.
“This is Pol MacDonald,” Dougal continued as they made their way through the group, “and my young cousin Jamie MacGregor. And here is another MacGregor—Andrew, Ranald’s son.
” He indicated the lads, tall and small, standing together.
Knowing Miss MacCarran would recognize Andrew from their first encounter, he prayed she would not let on.
She smiled as if she had never seen Andrew before, while the boy blushed furiously.
Jamie, just seven, his thatch of red-gold hair bright as a setting sun, straightened his narrow shoulders and shook his teacher’s hand.
And Pol MacDonald, with a trace of new blond whiskers along his jaw, was so nervous that his voice cracked as he spoke to the new teacher.
Dougal was pleased to see how Miss MacCarran took time for each person, pausing to chat with Pol’s father, a farmer with a rough manner and a kind nature; and Ranald’s sturdy wife, Effie; then Fergus’s daughter Muriel, her hair as fiery as her son Jamie’s.
Shy Helen MacDonald, Pol’s cousin, welcomed the new dominie quietly, pushing her twelve-year-old daughter, Annabel, forward, who was as timid as her mother, both of them delicate, blond, and fairy-like in appearance.
Then Pol’s sister Mairi MacDonald and her friend Lilias Beaton came forward smiling. Both girls were among the older students in the class, and Dougal knew that Lilias was engaged to a young man in the next glen. Hugh MacIan had been discussing the upcoming wedding with the girl and her mother.
As they made their rounds through the small crowd clustered in front of the schoolhouse, Miss MacCarran glanced up at Dougal.
“So boys and girls are together in this school? Genders are often separated in other glen schools, with classes on alternating days or scheduled for mornings and afternoons.”
“We have so few students just now that Reverend MacIan thought it best to combine them in one class. It is not easy for them to find time for lessons, as they have chores at home. Many are kin, and used to being together.” Seeing Lucy standing nearby with Jamie, Dougal beckoned her to come forward.
“And who is this?” Miss MacCarran smiled down at her.
“My niece, Lucy MacGregor. Lucy, this is your new teacher.”
Lucy looked up at Miss MacCarran very sweetly, brown eyes sparkling, dark hair gleaming after a good brushing. He was pleased, and a bit relieved, to see that she had decided to comply nicely.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran. Welcome to Glen Kinloch,” Lucy said in English.
“Thank you, Lucy. Your English is very good.”
“Aye, it is. So I do not need to go to school. I can speak Gaelic and English, and I can read a little. Uncle Dougal taught me.”
“She is a quick study,” Dougal explained, as Fiona MacCarran looked at him in surprise. “Away with you, lass—go inside with the others. A little reading is a fine thing, but you need schooling.” Lucy scowled at him and then ran toward the schoolhouse.
“I expected more students this morning,” Miss MacCarran said, looking about.
“Some families will wait to see what the others say. They must be sure the lessons are worth the time the children are away from their chores. They might also wonder if you will stay. Previous dominies have not remained here for long.”
“I will stay. I gave my word.”
He nodded, silent, impressed by her steadiness. She was stubborn, this Lowland lass, but he was too. And he was still convinced that sending her away was in everyone’s best interest, even if it proved difficult to accomplish.
“All Highlanders should learn to read and write in English and in Gaelic,” she was saying. “I am glad that you have been tutoring your niece, and it is good to know you encourage your tenants to obtain an education.”
“For all my sins, I do,” he answered quietly.
She looked at him as if puzzled and intrigued, and once again Dougal felt an undeniable pull toward her. Despite common sense—the need to send her away—he was beginning to feel protective of the new teacher. He wanted to know more about her—wanted her to thrive here. Wanted her to stay.
He stepped forward to hold the door open as she entered the schoolroom, and her shoulder brushed his chest. The clean, womanly scent of her was enticing.
“I confess, sir, I am nervous,” she whispered. “Would you come in for a bit?”
Nodding, he followed her inside.
*
Fiona set her packet of papers on the sturdy battered table that served as the teacher’s desk, complete with a stiff, high stool.
Standing at the front of the room, she folded her hands and tried to appear calm.
While the students settled on long benches, she waited.
She had taught in a few schools before this, but already she could see that this group—mixed ages, mixed genders, and a mix of interest in learning—might prove challenging.
But suddenly she felt more distracted by the tall Highlander standing by the door than nervous about the class.
Kinloch leaned a broad shoulder against the doorjamb.
Sunlight from the window spilled over his powerful torso and long limbs, haloing his dark hair, and brightening the tones of moss, earth, and cranberry in his tartan plaid.
He was like sunlight and rock, warm, earthy, and handsome.
She drew a breath, and a sense of calm from his solidity as well.
He might be a dangerous sort, but there was something reliable and secure about this quiet laird.
She smiled at the class. The students, from small Lucy and Jamie to lanky Andrew and Pol to the older girls, sat on the plain benches looking awkward, expectant, a bit nervous as well.
“Good morning,” she said in Gaelic. They murmured the same. Soon enough she planned to speak most often in English, requiring them to use that language so they could learn it naturally. “And good morning to MacGregor of Kinloch as well.”
Again the children, big to small, murmured in unison. Lucy squirmed in her seat and waved to her uncle. He came to the front of the room.
“Good morning. Miss MacCarran is your teacher now,” he said in Gaelic, “and will be in charge here. Remember the rules of the schoolroom. We do not want Miss MacCarran to think we are all savages, eh?” Some of the children giggled.
“Obey your teacher,” he explained, and Fiona recognized the rules so often recited in Highland schools. “Do not run inside, or in the yard. And what else?”
“Neither shout nor stare at others,” Jamie said, raising a hand, “nor quarrel while you are here.”
“And?” Kinloch asked.
“Bow or curtsey when we enter and go quietly to our seats,” Lilias said.
“Aye, thank you. Miss MacCarran may have rules of her own.” He inclined his head toward her.
“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” Fiona folded her hands. “Here is what I expect from each of you. Treat others with respect. Wait your turn to speak, and raise your hand if you have something to say. And pay attention to your schoolwork and apply yourself to your books.”
A hand rose at the back of the room. “Miss, we have no books,” Andrew said.
Fiona raised her brows. “None?” Most schools had a few copies of certain texts.
“None in English, Miss, and only a couple in Gaelic,” Andrew answered.
“I have a book,” Lucy said. “So I brought it. But it may not be what you want.” She waved it. “It has some poems in it.”
“Thank you, Lucy. There are only seven students. I wonder, Mr. MacGregor.” She turned toward him and spoke softly. “Translated texts for teaching English to Gaels are scarce. But I was told we would have some books.”
“Few books have been translated into Gaelic, I am sure you know,” he said, as she nodded. “I purchased several from a Glasgow bookseller, but the other teacher took them when she left. Your arrival was something of a surprise, but I will purchase more books for the schoolroom—if you are staying.”
“You know I am,” she told him under her breath. “The Bible and some religious texts have been translated—do you have those in your home? We could use them, if so.”
“This is a school, not a kirk.”
“I agree. But they are useful if they are all we have. Scholars need texts to read and to improve their English skills. Perhaps Reverend MacIan has some books in both languages that I can borrow for the class.”
“I have a small library at Kinloch House. Lucy found her book there,” he said.
For an instant, Fiona wondered if he were jealous of her mention of the reverend, but she dismissed that.
“You may borrow whatever texts you like.” He tilted his head.
“I recently acquired a copy of a book by the American Thomas Paine, which has been translated into Gaelic. I would be happy to lend it to you.”
“I would find it quite interesting, though it is above the level of these students. Without proper texts to suit, they may as well stay home.”
MacGregor smiled slowly. “Very true.”
She leaned close, speaking in nearly a whisper. “That is not a reason to close the school and send the dominie away.”
He raised his brows, looking amused and innocent. “Miss MacCarran, I am wounded,” he murmured. “I am here to help, not plot your demise. The offer to borrow my books stands. Farewell for now, and I wish you luck of the day.” He lifted a hand to the students, and left.
Fiona turned back to the class, aware that her heart was beating very fast. “Can anyone tell me what supplies we have here?” she asked.
Mairi MacDonald raised her hand. “We have slates and chalk in the cupboard.”