Chapter 14
Gracie sat by the hearth with a warm cup of tea cradled in her hands, the steam curling like soft breath before her face.
“April,” she said gently, “I would have ye gather some maids and servants that ken of a village called Glenmoor, and have them meet me in the great hall in one hour.”
April’s eyes brightened with purpose as she replied, “Aye, me lady, I will do so at once.” She dipped into a curtsy and hurried away.
An hour later, Gracie stood facing five maids and three servants who lined themselves in a neat row. They were a varied lot, some young and bright-eyed, others weathered by years of work, all watching her with a mix of curiosity and respect.
“Thank ye for comin’,” Gracie said, clasping her hands before her. “I have need of yer knowledge, and I would hear ye plain.”
She drew a steady breath and asked, “Have any of ye visited Glenmoor, or have kin there?”
A stout maid with auburn hair stepped forward and said, “I am Morag, me lady, and me sister wed a shepherd there.”
A lean servant named Alasdair added, “I hauled grain through that valley once, years past, afore the rains failed.”
A timid girl called Isla whispered, “Me gran was born there, though she left when she was but a bairn.”
An older man with silver in his beard cleared his throat and said, “Name’s Ewan, me lady, and I ken Glenmoor well.”
A freckled maid named Pippa chimed in, “Me cousin writes from there, and she says the fields are naught but dust. They are proud folk, but pride doesnae warm an empty hearth.”
Gracie listened, her heart tightening with each word.
Morag spoke again, voice heavy, saying, “The drought withered their barley, and the sheep perished on bare hills.”
Alasdair added, “The cold came early to that valley, me lady, and the woods near are stripped, so there’s little firewood left to heat their homes.”
“They burn peat and broken fence,” Isla said softly, “and still the nights bite hard.”
Gracie asked, “What of the children and the elders, how are they farin'?”
Ewan answered, “The wee ones are thin, and the old ones keep to their beds, for they’ve nay strength for the chill.”
“Do wagons reach them easy?” Gracie continued.
Nessa shook her head and said, “The road is narrow and steep, but passable if the weather holds.”
Gracie stepped closer and said, “Ye have given me a gift in speakin’ so true, and I thank ye all.”
They bowed and murmured their gratitude, surprise softening into hope. As they departed, Gracie felt something settle within her, a quiet certainty that she could be more than she knew.
Gracie crossed the inner yard and made her way toward the stables, the air rich with hay, leather, and warm horseflesh.
The long stone building echoed with soft nickers and the clink of tack, sunlight slanting through narrow windows to stripe the packed earth.
Grooms moved about with practiced ease, brushing flanks and tightening girths.
She paused, feeling small amid the size and strength gathered there, and searched for Jaxon.
She found him beside a broad-shouldered bay, sleeves rolled, speaking with Connor over stacked crates and sacks.
“Count it twice,” Jaxon said, his voice firm, “for I will nae have a single family go hungry on me watch.”
Connor nodded and replied, “There’s grain, dried meat, and barrels of clean water, me laird.”
Jaxon added, “Make sure there are casks of wine and dried fish.”
Connor gestured toward the wagons and said, “We have room for more if ye wish.”
Jaxon considered and answered. “Aye, add what ye can.”
His tone carried weight and care alike, and Gracie felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest as she listened. She realized she enjoyed hearing him speak of duty, of people, of responsibility borne without complaint.
She watched as Jaxon glanced up and saw her standing there. He excused himself with a nod to Connor and crossed the stable toward her.
“Gracie,” he said, voice softer now, “did ye need me?”
Gracie swallowed and replied, “Aye, may I speak with ye a moment?”
They stepped aside near a stall where a mare snorted and stamped.
“How many people live in Glenmoor?” Gracie asked, hands clasped before her. “And have ye arranged for blankets? I hear they suffer from the cold as much as hunger.”
Jaxon lifted a brow and said, amused, “They complained of food and water, nae of chill, so that’s what I handled.”
He added more gently, “The village is small, less than a hundred souls.”
Gracie nodded, absorbing this, her thoughts already turning. “Thank ye,” she said, and before he could ask more, she turned and walked away. Jaxon watched her go, puzzled, as she disappeared between the stone walls.
Gracie meant to find April at once, but small hands seized her skirts.
“Lady Gracie,” Eden cried, eyes bright, “will ye play with us?”
Rose hovered beside her, hopeful and shy, saying, “Just for a wee bit?”
Gracie knelt and smiled sadly. “Nae today, me dears, for I am on a mission.”
Eden’s eyes widened. “A real one?”
Rose clasped her hands and asked, “Can we help?”
Gracie’s heart lifted, and she said, “Aye, I would love yer help.” She leaned close and whispered, “I need ye to gather as much yarn as ye can and bring it to the solar.”
The twins gasped, then ran off, skirts flying, shouting of yarn and heroics.
Gracie hurried on and found April in the servants’ quarters, where women folded linen and murmured over baskets.
“April,” she said, breathless, “I need as many women as ye can find who ken how to knit and can spare the day.”
April blinked, then straightened. “For the village, is it?” she asked, already understanding.
“Aye,” Gracie replied, “for Glenmoor is cold as well as hungry, and I will nae send them bread without warmth.”
April smiled with pride and said, “I will fetch them, me lady, every spare hand that can hold a needle.”
She clapped once and began calling names, her voice brisk and eager. Gracie stood watching, feeling a steady resolve grow within her, as though she had finally found a way to be what this castle needed.
An hour later, the solar filled with the soft click of needles and the low murmur of women’s voices, firelight dancing across stone walls and polished tables.
Yarn lay in bright coils upon every surface, and half-formed scarves draped over chair arms like sleeping serpents.
Women of every age sat shoulder to shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration, hands moving in tireless rhythm.
Gracie stood at the center of it all, heart full as she watched warmth being born stitch by stitch.
Rose tugged gently at her sleeve and asked, “Why do they knit so much, Lady Gracie?”
Eden echoed her, eyes wide as she held up a strip of wool, saying, “Is it for a feast?”
Gracie knelt between them and answered softly, “Nay, me loves, it is for our people who are cold and hungry in Glenmoor.” She added, “Sometimes help isnae bread alone, but warmth for the bones.”
Rose frowned in thought and said, “Is it a duty, then?”
Eden tilted her head and asked, “Faither is always speakin’ of duty.”
Gracie smiled and replied, “Aye, it is a duty, but it is also a kindness.” She brushed a curl from Rose’s face and said, “Duty is best when it is done with heart.”
The twins nodded solemnly, taking the words as if they were sacred.
Eden lifted a finished scarf and said, “Where does this go?”
Gracie pointed to a wooden trunk near the hearth and answered, “There, so we may carry them all together.”
Rose took Eden’s hand, and together they began gathering each completed piece with careful reverence.
Gracie watched them move among the women, tiny figures bearing warmth as though it were treasure.
A maid named Morna smiled at them and said, “Bless ye, wee ones,” as she handed them a pair of gloves.
Eden puffed with pride and replied, “These will keep someone’s hands from freezin’.”
Rose whispered, “Like a hug,” and Gracie felt her eyes sting.
As the hours passed, the pile in the trunk grew, wool in every shade of earth and sky. The women spoke quietly, sharing stories of children, winters, and hopes for those they had never met.
One said, “Me sister lives near Glenmoor,” and another answered, “Then let this scarf reach her.”
Gracie moved among them with thanks and gentle encouragement, her presence steady as a hearthstone.
The twins worked until their steps slowed and their eyes drooped.
Eden yawned mightily and declared, “I am still strong,” even as her head tipped forward.
Rose leaned against Gracie’s knee and murmured, “I think I could sleep standin’.”
Gracie laughed softly and drew them close, saying, “Ye have done more than enough for this day.”
She guided them to a cushioned bench near the fire, wrapping a blanket about their shoulders.
Eden protested weakly, “Just one more glove,” but her words melted into a sigh.
Rose nestled against her sister, whispering, “We helped,” before sleep claimed her.
Gracie kissed each brow, whispering, “Aye, ye did,” as their breathing evened.
The women continued long into the night, inspired by the sight of the sleeping bairns.
Gracie returned to her place and took up yarn, hands moving though her heart felt heavy with tender awe. She understood now that leadership was not command alone, but the quiet gathering of hearts toward one purpose.
When at last the fire burned low and the trunk stood full, Gracie rose and looked upon the room. Scarves, hats, and gloves lay ready, each carrying a thread of care from these walls to distant hills.
She stood before the women and said, “We have done well. Ye all have me deepest gratitude. Ye have woven more than wool this night,” she said, her voice trembling yet clear, “ye have given warmth to bairns who shiver, and hope to folk who fear winter’s teeth.”
She lifted one scarf and pressed it to her chest, adding, “These stitches may well keep someone from freezin’ to death, and I will carry them with pride to Glenmoor.”
She promised them, “When I return, I shall thank ye all in a better way, for this kindness will echo long.”
One by one, the women rose and curtsied, their faces glowing in the firelight.
“Ye have a big heart, me lady,” said Morna softly.
“The clan is blessed in ye,” murmured another, while a third added, “Ye will be good for us, I ken it.”
Gracie answered each with quiet gratitude, her eyes shining as they filed out, leaving behind only warmth and the soft scent of wool.
When the solar finally fell silent, Gracie turned to April and whispered, “Help me, if ye please.”
Together they lifted Rose and Eden, each child light in their arms, their heads resting trustingly against Gracie’s shoulder.
“Sleep well, me wee stars,” she murmured as they walked, feeling the weight of their small lives like a sacred charge. The corridor candles glowed low, guiding them through the quiet castle as if it, too, watched over its children.
In the nursery, Gracie laid Rose upon her bed, smoothing the curls from her brow, then tucked Eden in beside her sister. She drew the covers up, brushing a kiss upon each small cheek.
“Ye did a brave thing today,” she whispered, though they could not hear her. She stood there a moment longer, committing their peaceful faces to her heart.
At last, she returned to her bedchamber, the echoes of the evening still humming through her bones.
The hearth burned low, shadows stretching long across the room, and Jaxon was not yet there.
Gracie sat upon the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, thinking of Glenmoor and woolen scarves and small hands carrying hope.
She waited, telling herself she would speak to him of all that had been done.
The silence wrapped around her, gentle and heavy all at once.
She lay back against the pillows, staring at the canopy above, replaying the night in her mind.
For the first time since coming to this castle, she felt certain she had done something that mattered.
That certainty soothed her more than any blanket.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and her thoughts drifted from needles and firelight to snow and distant hills.
She imagined the scarves around children’s necks, imagined their laughter in the cold, and a soft smile curved upon her lips.
Sleep claimed her before she knew it, leaving her dreaming of warmth carried across winter winds.
Gracie slept, wrapped in the knowledge that she had begun to belong… to be Lady McMillan.