Chapter Thirteen #2
I reached for Ailie’s hand. “I’m fine, Ailie. Tell me what else I can do to help.”
“’Tis nearly done, I think,” she said. “We’ll take a rest in my chambers, Roses, and decide what to wear for the evening festivities.”
“I’m not certain if I’ll attend the gathering. I’ll be content to wait for Wilkie.”
Ailie gave me a stern look. “I’ve been given strict instructions, Roses. Wilkie wants you there. He asked me to help you prepare, then to meet him in the hall when they return for the meal.”
I had attended Ogilvie clan parties many years ago as a child and under the wing of my parents.
Since then, the only gatherings I’d attended were those that I had served.
I felt nervous that I wouldn’t know how to act, that it would be obvious to all that I was different and unsophisticated and out of place.
But then, if accompanying Ailie to the great hall was the quickest way to see Wilkie again, I would do it. I felt starved for his nearness.
After a time, and once the final preparations had been attended to, I went with Ailie and Christie to Ailie’s private chambers, escorted silently by Fergus, who took guard outside the door.
Ailie’s chambers were equally lavish to Wilkie’s but much cozier.
Where Wilkie’s chambers contained his large bed, a small table, a few chairs and a scattering of his weapons, Ailie’s was cluttered with an array of her neatly hung clothing, a large table on which she kept sewing instruments and fabrics and several pleasantly laid out sitting areas.
Two cushioned chairs sat welcoming by the lit fire, and a pretty table had been laid by the window seat.
I realized then, from the look of the fabrics and the dresses themselves that it was Ailie who had made them.
“You make these beautiful dresses,” I said, in awe.
“Aye,” said Christie. “Ailie designs them, too, and many of her ideas come from the fashion books from Edinburgh, London and even from Paris. She’s wonderfully talented, don’t you think so, Roses?”
“Oh, aye.” I fingered the soft fabric of a dress that lay on her work table, of a pale pink velvet material. I’d never seen such a beautiful garment.
“Roses should wear that one tonight, don’t you think so, Christie? I like you in the pastel colors, Roses. They set off your eyes, and your hair.”
Christie nodded her agreement. “Put it on, Roses.”
“I can take it in a little, if need be,” Ailie commented, already lifting the dress to hold it against me.
Aghast from the very thought of wearing such finery, I murmured, “I could never wear this. ’Tis yours. ’Tis too fine.”
Ailie dismissed this instantly. “Nonsense, Roses. I have many.”
“As you should for the amount of time you spend sewing them,” Christie said to her sister. To me, she said, “And Ailie’s dresses are sought out by other clans, too. No doubt the Morrisons will want to see some of these creations.”
“’Tis doubtful they would fit any of the Morrisons,” Ailie said, and I detected a note of disdain in her tone.
“Don’t be too disparaging of one of your prospective sisters-in-law, Ailie.” Christie laughed. But she immediately caught herself when she looked at me, and her laugh was cut short. “Maybe Kade will be the one to get lucky,” she said, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It wouldn’t surprise me, in fact. He’s mentioned one of the Morrison sisters several times in passing—have you noticed? Now I can’t recall which one it was.”
“Stella, of course, my dear sister. All the men speak of her. I heard Shamus and Robb discussing her the other day. Ravishing was the word they used, if I remember correctly.” Christie rambled happily; I could see her vivacious manner was even more piqued this evening by anticipation of the party.
“Especially compared to her more comely sisters, I’m sorry to say it.
Even if they are voluptuous, which the men react to, of course.
Come, Roses. Put this on. You’ll outshine every other lass at the gathering. ”
“Take everything off,” instructed Ailie. “You can’t wear a shift under this one. It would ruin the line.”
I froze.
She’ll be beaten, flayed, burned at the stake! Keep this hidden!
“Come on, Roses,” coaxed Ailie gently. “You don’t need to be so shy with us.”
I did as she instructed, glad my hair was down and that I faced them.
I could only hope that my secret would not be revealed.
And on some grasping level, I almost wanted them to discover it.
I wanted them to forgive me for this very darkest of my imperfections, as they had forgiven me for all the others.
They gathered around me.
And so it was, before Ailie was able to slip the dress over my head and with Christie smoothing my hair to the side in an affectionate, curious gesture, that my secret was revealed.
Christie went still.
My fear poured into the empty moment of silence, enveloping me.
“What’s this, Roses?” Christie asked, in mild shock. “You’ve an inked tattoo.”
“Aye,” I whispered, moving away, my heart racing.
I waited for her reaction as I stood before them, naked and shamed.
Ailie approached me and walked around me to take a look for herself, curious. I thought to run away, to hide. But I was so tired of hiding. Instead I allowed her to move my hair to the side and examine it for herself. Christie joined her.
“’Tis an unusual design,” Ailie commented, and her voice—to my intense relief—sounded neither repulsed nor frightened. “What does it mean, Roses?”
My voice was barely audible. “I don’t know. It was already inked to me when I was found as a child.”
“Your parents never researched its meaning?” asked Christie.
The sisters continued to study the mark, outlining it and examining its lines.
I had never thought that there might be someone to consult on such matters. “I— Nay. How would one go about doing that?” I had no access to information of that kind. Laird Ogilvie would certainly be the last person I would have thought to consult on that—or any other—matter.
Could it be possible that the old woman had been wrong about the tattoo’s meaning? I had, in fact, never felt like a witch. The young, fair-haired woman from my dream-memory certainly didn’t look like a witch. But then, who was I to know what witches even looked like?
“There are books on the subject,” Christie said.
“I was once told—” I began quietly, dreading the sound of the word I was about to admit.
But Christie was halfway through a thought and determined to finish it. “I’ve seen Knox reading one, just lately.”
Ailie continued before I could force out the dreadful revelation. “All the lairds, I believe, like to be informed about the ritualistic tattoos, the clan tattoos, those of clandestine movements and alliances, royalty ink designs, religious marks and so on.”
“Aye,” Christie agreed. “There are prisoners’ marks, too. And marks for military valor.”
I took a deep breath to steady myself. “I’m quite certain I wasn’t inked for military valor,” I said.
“Does Wilkie know of it?” asked Christie. Then, smiling but with eyes cast down, she said, “Of course he does—”
“Nay,” I said. “He doesn’t.”
Both sisters contemplated me, and I couldn’t guess at their thoughts.
“I’m afraid,” I said, my voice sounding shaky and hesitant, “I don’t know what it means.
” And I could admit: “And I’m frightened by what it could mean.
I’ve purposely hid it from him. I thought...
that it might be the mark of...something sinister, something Wilkie would be horrified by.
I was afraid Wilkie would no longer want me.
” I was ashamed to feel tears stinging my eyes.
“Surely that wouldn’t happen, Roses,” said Christie, but I knew, as she likely did, that only Wilkie could verify that for sure.
“We won’t tell him,” said Ailie, and her expression was uncharacteristically clouded and urgent.
“But you must tell him, Roses. You must. Knox ensures that all his officers are familiar with the inked marks of the Highlands and those that might be seen throughout Scotland. Wilkie will know what it’s about, I’m sure of it.
He’s always taken a special interest in clan markings and those further afield.
’Tis best if you ask him, and find out what it is.
It might give you a clue to your heritage. ”
And that was exactly what I was afraid of. But I said, truthfully: “I was going to show him, and I will. I was just waiting for the right time.”
“So many mysteries to our Roses,” commented Christie lightly, as Ailie slipped the dress over my head, fitting it with a critical eye to my body. I felt better immediately once my tattoo was once again covered.
My hair was pulled out to drape over the fabric.
“You’ll show him, then, Roses?” Ailie asked me as she continued to adjust my outfit. There was an assertive edge to her question that was unusual, and I could sense that she thought it most important that Wilkie know of this, and soon.
“Aye, Ailie. I will. I promise to.”
Ailie nodded, squeezing my hand and looking at my eyes. I could see concern in her expression and a thread of uneasiness. And I understood. At least I could be thankful that this was her reaction and not one of pointing fingers and shrieked, horrified warnings.
As though the matter had now been resolved, Christie changed the subject, commenting, “’Tis a bit tight up top.” She was standing back with her arms folded across her chest to study me. “Her breasts are fairly toppling out of it.”
“They’re not ‘toppling out of it.’ That’s the fashion in Paris.
Your dress has the same cut. And so does mine.
And so will the Morrisons’, no doubt,” she added, with some emphasis.
I had to feel grateful at that last comment.
I felt the sisters’ quiet support for me and my unstated cause.
I loved them for it. And for everything else.
“Aye,” Christie continued. “Well, neither you nor I has quite as much to topple out, it must be said.”
“Nay. But the Morrisons do.”
We exchanged glances.