Chapter 29
In the following few days, Clara learned several important things, to wit:
First and foremost, her husband wanted to make love all the time. He called it that other, rougher word that sent sparks down her legs every time he muttered it in her ear and led her into the bedroom.
Second, their household staff was perfectly happy to be banished to the stable area. Elsbeth showed every sign of becoming a formidable housekeeper. Mr. Cobbledick had taken on the role of butler with gusto. One of his first actions was to hire a second scullery maid and a boot boy to support his daughter as the south tower was emptied and scrubbed.
And third . . .
And third, she was deliriously in love. She choked back “I love you”
once on the first day of their marriage, twice on the second, thrice on the third. It was absurd.
This morning she’d removed herself from her husband’s company in order to stifle the truth from leaping out of her mouth unbidden. Having carried several reticules down to the courtyard, she was seated under the tree, apple blossoms drifting around her slippers as she turned horsehair, silk thread, thin wire, and beads into flies—some bigger, some smaller.
She looked up when Cobbledick—no longer Mr. Cobbledick, except to the household—entered the courtyard. “Lady McIntyre and Master Alfie.”
As butler, his mustache not only curled, but ended in sharp points, and he wore a coat with shiny buttons.
Alfie ran out of the kitchen, Wilhelmina bouncing at his hip, feathers bursting out of her bag. “Where’s Thursday? And the other puppies?”
he shrieked.
“They’ve moved out to the stables,”
Clara said, standing up and kissing him on the forehead. “Perhaps you might set Wilhelmina down, since they aren’t here?”
“That’s a good idea,”
Alfie said, unceremoniously yanking his chicken out and putting her on the ground.
“Look whose carriage followed ours,”
Fiona said, strolling into the courtyard followed by Mrs. Gillan.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gillan, Fiona,”
Clara said, curtsying. “Cobbledick, will you please fetch us tea and scones?”
Fiona ignored the curtsy and gave her a hug. “These are adorable,”
she said, sitting down at the table and picking up a reticule. “What is this one?”
“That’s obviously a rabbit, Mama,”
Alfie said. “This is a cat, and that’s a dog. This one is sad because he lost both eyes.”
“That used to be a mouse,”
Clara explained.
“Isla used to have a subscription to The Lady’s Magazine, which had lovely patterns for embroidered seat covers,”
Mrs. Gillan said.
“Alas, these reticules represent the whole of my ladylike skills.”
“Did you take the kitty to the most fashionable resorts in London?”
Fiona asked, slinging it over her wrist.
“The queen herself was complimentary when I brought it to one of her drawing rooms,”
Clara said, dismissing Prince George’s sour comment from her head. “One of her ladies-in-waiting requested a mouse reticule.”
“That bag has been in the presence of a queen,”
Mrs. Gillan mused. “My daughter would have loved to know that.”
Fiona cleared her throat. “Mrs. Gillan.”
“Will you make me a chicken re-ti-cule?”
Alfie asked, pronouncing it carefully. “Please, Aunt Clara?”
“Reticules are worn by ladies,”
Fiona said.
“I need one that Wilhelmina can travel in,”
Alfie said, ignoring the question of gendered garments. “She’s grown so much that her tail feathers get squished.”
They all looked at the chicken, pecking contentedly in a corner of the courtyard.
“She’s the biggest chicken I’ve ever seen,”
Mrs. Gillan confirmed.
“I feed her a lot. All the time.”
“We’ve been discussing the fact that Wilhelmina is of an age where she’d like to live with other chickens,”
his mother said. “She’s a good-natured bird, but she dislikes being carried about, doesn’t she?”
“She clucks in a very disagreeable manner,”
Alfie told Mrs. Gillan and Clara, his mouth drooping.
“I could make you a sporran, like your uncle wears to the kirk,”
Clara said, inspired.
Fiona burst out laughing.
“You mean the pocket that Papa wears with his kilt?”
Alfie asked. “Could you give it a beak like a chicken? I have a Sunday kilt too. That would mean Wilhelmina would be at church with me!”
“I could make you one that looked like Wilhelmina, but it wouldn’t be large enough to hold her,”
Clara said.
“She’s a very unusual-looking chicken, because she’s half rabbit. Look at her head.”
They all looked; Wilhelmina’s plumes were swaying in the breeze, not unlike those of the infamous helmet. “I could sew feathers to the top of your sporran,”
Clara suggested, “Unfortunately I didn’t bring any plumed bonnets.”
“Don’t look at me,”
Fiona said. “Plumes would make me look even taller than I already am.”
“I have Isla’s French bonnets,”
Mrs. Gillan said. “I can donate plumes for the sporran.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t make a sporran big enough for Wilhelmina to ride in?”
Alfie asked.
“Yes, because she needs to be free,”
Clara said. “I’ll make it big enough to carry a book, how’s that?”
“I don’t have any books.”
“Well, I have a lovely new copy of The Castle of Otranto that you may have.”
He jumped up and grabbed her around the waist. “Thank you, Aunt Clara!”
“Alfie talks about that blasted armor day and night,”
Fiona said. “It’s been hard to keep him away from you long enough that you and Caelan could have a honeymoon.”
Mrs. Gillan made a clucking sound, not unlike Wilhelmina when faced with Alfie’s traveling bag. “Yesterday, everyone in the bakery was talking about that armor.”
“If you run to the study and ask your uncle for the book, I can read a chapter aloud,”
Clara told Alfie.
The little boy dashed off, skidding through the kitchen and apologizing to Elsbeth for nearly knocking her over. “It’s a very small kitchen, isn’t it?”
he said, his clear, piping voice carrying out into the courtyard.
“Thankfully, there’s a second kitchen in the other tower,”
Mrs. Gillan commented. “I know that Isla—” She stopped because Fiona bent over the table, looking like one of the furies in Clara’s illustrated book of Greek myths.
“Enough is enough,”
Fiona said, slapping her palm on the table. “You have a choice, Mrs. Gillan. You can continue to nurture the illusion that your daughter’s marriage was utterly perfect—even though no one’s is perfect!—or you can accept that she is gone, and your son-in-law has married again.”
Mrs. Gillan winced.
“It’s up to you,”
Fiona said, not unsympathetically. “But I will say that you’re needed here. Clara doesn’t know a thing about the Highlands. She doesn’t have a mother in this country, and I doubt she ever will. You took on that role after the wedding.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
Mrs. Gillan said, looking startled.
“Caelan is very fond of you and your husband. But if you continually bring Isla into the conversation, he and Clara will draw away. Their children won’t want to hear about their father’s first love, no matter how romantic.”
Silence fell. Then, when Clara was about to change the subject, Mrs. Gillan said heavily, “You’re right.”
Clara let out a silent breath.
“You can be a grandmother to Caelan’s children and Alfie, a beloved part of our family,”
Fiona said, “or you can be one of the people in the village whom we greet on a Sunday. That may be what you wish to be, Mrs. Gillan, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You can nurture Isla’s memory. But you can’t ruin Caelan’s life with your memories. I won’t let you.”
“I understand.”
“We who knew Isla will never forget her. Clara won’t forget her, either, because Clara is the sweetest woman in the world, Mrs. Gillan. You can see that. She would hurt herself over and over, talking to you about Isla’s virtues, but Caelan wouldn’t put up with it. You know he wouldn’t.”
“Caelan cannot tell me what to do,”
Clara interjected.
“Nay, she is right,”
Mrs. Gillan said. She reached across the table and took Clara’s hand. “I’ve been foolish.”
“You’ve been grieving,”
Clara insisted.
“Part of my heart will always grieve for my daughter, but I don’t want to live in the past. We love Caelan, and you too, Fiona, and Alfie. It’s been a joy to be part of your lives.”
Clara swallowed hard. “Of course.”
Mrs. Gillan nodded. “That’s settled, then. I’ll call you Clara.”
She smiled. “Mrs. Potts never did set right with me.”
Fiona was not one to linger over delicate issues. “What are you doing with these little bobbly things, Clara?”
she asked, sorting through the four flies Clara had made so far.
“Making flies for fishing.”
She held up her favorite. “I think that trout will like this better than the ones Caelan tied.”
Fiona laughed. “I’ve seen Rory messing about with horsehair. Maybe I’ll make one and best my husband as well.”
“I have the book!”
Alfie cried, throwing himself out of the kitchen.
“We could have a fishing contest,”
Clara suggested. “I’ve seen them on the banks of the Thames, men all lined up with their fishing poles.”
“Make my bag first, please,”
Alfie implored. “My sporran that looks like Wilhelmina.”
“My son will be quite a sight with a tuft of feathers adorning the sporran covering his privates,”
Fiona said, her grin showing that she didn’t care a whit. “It’d be very kind of you to make him one, Clara.”
“I think the greatest kindness would be allowing me to be a grandmother to this lovely boy,”
Mrs. Gillan said. “And a mother to you, Clara, as much as you’d like.”
“That’s enough crying,”
Alfie said, frowning. “It’s time to read!”