Chapter Fourteen #3
From a distance, she found it difficult to consider it devastated by tragedy.
Puffy white clouds filled the sky and the sun shone.
But no boats floated beyond the rocky waterfront, only pieces of debris.
Planks, crates, and a few bundles lay on the shingle beach and narrow walkway nearest the water.
Only a few figures stirred to pick them up.
A group of men labored on a collapsed wooden building at the end of town, led by a lean darkhaired man with windblown curls.
Only when they approached near enough to hear the work crew’s voices did she recognize her husband’s cultured pronunciation.
Unadulterated pride filled her as she watched him join another man to pull a heavy pallet of wood to one side.
Billy cleared his throat. “D’ye want to go see him, your ladyship?”
She shook her head. “He’s busy. I should make myself useful.”
He guided the cart onto a muddy path leading to a scattering of houses above the harbor. “I’m taking you to Doctor Andrews.”
They found the medical man inside the church. In his shirtsleeves, he and the rector moved the pews against the walls. Billy murmured in her ear that any bodies washed up on the shore would be brought here.
Dr. Andrews did not look particularly happy to see her. “Your ladyship, I’m not sure but that your presence here is a hindrance rather than a help. You’re very good to show up, but what can you do to assist?” He spoke without rancor, but his bluntness took her aback.
The rector spoke up. “My wife is in the Herring House trying to comfort the bereaved. Perhaps you could be of assistance there.”
Diantha mentally cursed her sheltered upbringing for not giving her more practical skills. “Of course. I just need someone to show me where it is.”
Billy told her about the Herring House, a two-story stone building not far from the church, as he drove his wagon load of food, blankets, and clothing to its single door.
Built to shelter the young women who migrated from town to town along the Scottish coast following the herring runs, it was a dormitory built by a previous Lady Rossburn. At the moment it stood waiting for this summer’s crew of girls who gutted and filleted the catches.
Diantha regarded it with interest. “That was kind of her.”
Billy snorted. “No’ likely. She didna want immoral creatures from outside the estate to corrupt Duncarie folks.”
She ordered Billy to start unloading the cart and stepped through the low door. Finding herself in a low-ceilinged, shuttered room, she located the rector’s wife, who sat reading from the Book of Job to a few silent women and children.
A few looked in her direction, but most of the occupants stared straight ahead. Some cried, most did not.
Diantha took a deep breath and introduced herself. A stir of interest awoke on some faces, almost immediately extinguished by grief.
She wasted no time. As Billy brought in the first load, she conferred with the rector’s wife. The good woman explained that times like this provided excellent opportunities to remind sinners of their own mortality and hopefully save souls.
Diantha looked at her for a long minute. “Indeed?”
Turning her back on the woman, she saw a boy of about ten huddled next to his mother on a hard wooden bench. He stared at her with vacant brown eyes, but she approached him anyway. She stooped to his level and spoke softly. “Good afternoon. I am Lady Rossburn.”
He blinked, but gave no other response. Very gently she asked, “Was your papa on one of the boats?” The boy’s lips moved and tears filled his eyes, but did not overflow. Her own vision blurred at the sight, but her tears would not help any of these people.
Reaching out, she took hold of a grubby hand already tough with calluses. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss. When did you last eat?” One thin shoulder shrugged. “Do you think your Mama would like something to eat?”
Finally focusing on her, he nodded. A few minutes later, she had coaxed him into helping Billy. His mother leaned against the wall, wrapped in her own silent world, but when Diantha touched her hand in sympathy, she felt a twitch from the cold fingers.
The boy acted as the first crack in an ice dam. An old man got up to help unload as well, and when Diantha apologetically asked if someone could start cooking fires on the hearths at each end of the room, a few women stirred.
An hour later, porridge cooked over one fireplace while mutton stew bubbled at the other. Bread from the Duncarie ovens sat on clean towels next to piles of plates and bowls provided by the villagers. MacAdam had sent along more than enough supplies; fewer than sixty souls called Cariford home.
The room had warmed from the fires, and Diantha ordered the shutters opened to let in as much light as possible, both upstairs and down. The sound of forks and spoons scraping tin filled the room, interspersed with occasional soft conversation or sobs.
She and a few other women made up pallets for those men who had come in from other parts of the estate to remove the debris and help repair those buildings that needed it.
She returned to the ground floor as the first of the visiting men entered. The younger women and children had returned to their homes after eating. Only a few older ones remained to help serve and wash up.
One old woman sat by the porridge pot, and Diantha picked up the ladle for the mutton stew.
Most of the visitors knew her by sight and murmured amazed thanks at being handed their supper by a peeress.
After working all day without hot food, they wolfed down seconds and thirds.
She filled bowl after bowl, scarcely noticing the faces above them.
One bowl stayed in front of her after she put in not one, but two ladlefuls of stew. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Startled at the furious whisper, she looked up to see Kieran’s scowl.
After witnessing the devastating grief of the people around her, she welcomed even his anger.
“I’m serving mutton stew. And you’re slowing everyone down.
” She smiled for the first time since arriving at Cariford as he looked guiltily over his shoulder, then back at her.
“We’ll talk later.”
Still smiling, she gave thanks that her husband stood glaring down at her, breath flowing in and out of his lungs. “Very well, Kier.”
He stalked away and she dipped her ladle into the mutton stew to serve the next man.