Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Lady Branwen was waiting at the edge of the garden near a stone bench, wrapped in a thick shawl.
She held a walking stick in one hand, appearing to carry it more out of habit than necessity.
She observed Isobel as she approached and because Isobel so desperately wanted to earn Lady Branwen’s approval, she met the critical stare with a beatific smile.
“Good morning,” Isobel said pleasantly as she dropped into a quick curtsey.
“Ye look better than ye did when ye arrived,” she said. “The castle agrees with ye.”
“That is good to hear, since I have spent the last four days confined to the stone halls and chambers.” Isobel shivered dramatically, then sent Lady Branwen a catlike, playful grin. “But I am glad you sent Jane to fetch me. It is a pleasure to be outside,” Isobel said.
Lady Branwen’s eyes crinkled. “The sun is a blessing.” She tapped her cane on the path. “Come, then. Walk with me.”
They moved along the garden paths at Lady Branwen’s pace, which was slower than Isobel’s but just as purposeful.
The old woman knew every inch of the ground, stopping at each bed to point things out with her walking stick, naming plants in a mix of English and Gaelic as if it never occurred to her that Isobel might not understand both.
“This is yarrow.” A tap of the stick near a low clump of feathery leaves. “Crush the leaves, pack them on a wound. Stops the bleedin’ better than half the potions Moira keeps in her workroom, though daenae tell her I said so.”
“Is Moira the healer of the castle?”
“Aye.” Lady Branwen nodded.
“Is she…” Isobel tried to think of how best to phrase her question. “… Easily offended?”
“Nay. But she enjoys an argument, and I’ve learned nae to hand her the ammunition.
” Lady Branwen moved on and pointed to a plant Isobel already recognized simply by taking a long, deep inhalation of its perfume.
“Lavender here. It does nothin’ useful until summer, and then it does everythin’.
Ye can sleep with it, bathe with it, dry it, and put it in the linens, burn it when the air feels heavy.
The women of this household have been arguin’ about the correct use of lavender for three generations. ”
“Who’s winning?”
“Nobody. That’s the nature of lavender arguments.
” Lady Branwen said it with the satisfaction of someone who had survived all three generations of the debate.
“Currently, me granddaughter Sarah is of the opinion that it should be used exclusively in cookin’, which places her firmly in the wrong, but she says it with such conviction that nobody likes to argue with her directly. ”
“And you?” Isobel asked. “What’s your position?”
“That it belongs in the linen. Obviously. I’ve held this position for fifty years, and I see nae reason to reconsider it simply because Sarah has new opinions,” Lady Branwen said with magnificent composure. “The lavender kens what it’s for.”
Isobel pressed her lips together. “Has anyone told the lavender that?”
“It’s meant to steady the nerves,” Lady Branwen said, with the patience of someone who had explained this before and expected to explain it again. “Calms the mind. Helps a body sleep.”
“Then it and I are going to become best friends,” Isobel said.
Lady Branwen glanced at her sideways, and something in the old woman’s expression shifted into genuine interest. “I think I’m goin’ to enjoy havin’ ye here,” she said.
“Thank you,” Isobel whispered in reply. She felt as if Lady Branwen had just given her a mild compliment and the notion was heartwarming.
Lady Branwen sent her a crooked smile then, with the left side of her mouth lilting ever so slightly. The half-grin reminded Isobel so much of Laird MacRaeh and the animated faces he had produced the night before in the library while reading aloud that she had to stifle a giggle.
It did not seem as if Lady Branwen noticed Isobel’s distraction or the way her lips twisted into a broader grin because she continued their tour a heartbeat later, moving toward the next set of beds.
“And here, there’s rowan.” She stopped before the small tree near the eastern wall, its silvery leaves catching the morning light. “We plant it at every entrance. Old protection against ill intent. Me grandmother planted this one.”
Isobel looked up through the branches. “Do you believe it works?”
“I believe me grandmother believed it, and hers before her, and that between them they got those beliefs past a great deal of genuine trouble.” Lady Branwen touched the bark briefly, a gesture that was almost affectionate.
“Belief is nae nothin’, lass. It keeps people tendin’ the tree.
And the tree keeps growin’. Somewhere in that circle, somethin’ real is happenin’. ”
Isobel thought about that for a moment. “That’s either very wise or very practical.”
“On a good day, it’s both.” Lady Branwen moved on. “Come. The bluebells are starting at the far end, and they’re worth seein’ before they peak.”
They walked toward the wilder edge of the garden, where the formal beds gave way to something less managed. Bluebells were pushing up in drifts of soft violet-blue beneath the trees, and Isobel stopped at the edge of them without quite meaning to.
“My mother would lose her mind entirely over these,” she said.
“Is she a woman for flowers?”
“She’s a woman for anything that grows without being asked to. She has a windowsill at home so crowded with propagated cuttings that my father has given up trying to use it for anything else.” Isobel looked at the bluebells with a smile she couldn’t quite contain.
Lady Branwen laughed, and the sound of it transformed her face entirely. “I’d like to meet this woman.”
“She’d like you enormously. When we used to visit the Highlands, my mother would spend days walking through gardens and glens…feeling the flower petals with soft fingertips…whispering to the plants…telling them her secrets and willing them to grow.”
“Tell her the rowan tree is here when she’s ready to visit.” Lady Branwen was still smiling. “I’ll make sure Sarah doesnae cook it.” Lady Branwen’s eyes moved to Isobel. “She’s Highland-born? Yer mother?”
“Yes. MacLeod, before she married my father.” Isobel’s voice was tinged with wistfulness as crouched at the edge of the bluebells, gently touching one of the small bells.
“We stopped visiting this part of the country years ago but my mother continues talking to the plants at home and she never ceased telling me stories from her own childhood.”
“The Highlands have a way of stayin’ in people,” Lady Branwen said. She tapped her cane on the ground sharply, as if to emphasize her words. “Even the ones who leave.”
Isobel straightened up. Something in the old woman’s voice had shifted slightly. She could detect a shade of melancholy now coloring Lady Branwen’s tone. “You say that as though you know it from experience.”
“I say it as a woman who’s watched a great many people try to leave this land and never look back but they never succeed.
” Lady Branwen met Isobel’s gaze and held it.
“They cannae forget their roots.” Her words echoed around them for what seemed like an age, then Lady Branwen turned from the bluebells, and began moving back along the path, her walking stick finding the stones with quiet certainty.
“Ye said yer maither used to bring ye north. In the summers? Was that before… things changed?”
“Yes, when I was younger. I barely remember the journey or the adventures we had here. More feeling than memory.” Isobel fell into step beside her.
“The smell of heather. Cold river water. Running until my legs gave out.” She shook her head.
“I used to wonder sometimes whether I’d dreamed it.
Those summer days feel nothing like anything else in my childhood. ”
Lady Branwen was quiet for a moment. “Good,” she said finally. “Some things ought to feel different from everythin’ else. It means they were real.”
They walked back through the garden in comfortable silence, pausing once more at the yarrow bed while Lady Branwen explained the difference between the first spring leaves and the summer ones with a specificity that suggested she had very strong opinions about it.
Isobel listened, asked questions, and realized she was genuinely interested in the answers.
She made a mental note to share all this new information about the plants at Dunalasdair Castle with her mother, and perhaps with her friend Margaret too, the next time she sent letters.
“The gardens have been without a mistress for a long time,” Lady Branwen said as they drew nearer to the stone bench where they’d started their walk.
“They’ve managed. But they’d do better when someone pays attention to them.
” She glanced at Isobel sideways. “Ye strike me as someone who kens how to nurture a bud until it grows into somethin’ more robust.”
“I do not have the gardening skills my mother possesses, but I will tend this garden with care.” Isobel tilted her chin high and met Lady Branwen’s gaze.
Something told her that the Laird’s grandmother had not merely taken her on this tour of the garden and tasked her with tending the flowers and shrubs for that sole purpose.
She could read more in Lady Branwen’s words and see more lurking behind those critical stares.
So, Isobel smiled broadly, then vowed, “I will cherish what was planted here long ago but also try to make something new flourish.”
* * *
Later that evening, Alasdair was sitting at his desk when his grandmother entered the study without knocking. He was bent over some correspondence, his jaw clenched, but he smoothed his expression once he saw her.
"I expected to find ye here," she said with a disapproving tone.
"Granny." Alasdair acknowledged her presence but completely dismissed her comment. He had no time to go over this conversation again.
“Ye look tired.”
“Ye say that every time ye come in here.”