Chapter 19
The next morning was immensely bright, a sharp contrast to the storm from the previous night. Kristen swung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground before Neil could offer a hand. Her boots met the earth with a soft thud. She kept her chin up, her thoughts sharp, and her list short.
Ribbon and a dress for Anna.
A tunic for Finn.
Thread.
Neil stepped up beside her anyway. His palm settled on her waist for balance, the touch light and polite.
It should have meant nothing. But it lingered a heartbeat longer than it should, and as usual, she pretended not to feel it.
“Ye daenae need to hover,” she said lightly, patting the horse’s neck.
“Aye,” he said, his voice even. “And yet here I am.”
She did not answer.
The door to the dressmaker’s shop stood ahead, varnish shining where many hands had pushed it open for years. Kristen walked towards it, acutely aware of her husband’s proximity.
Bells tinkled as she walked inside, and warmth rose at once.
The air was familiarly scented with chalk dust, lavender sachets, and oil rubbed on old oak shelves.
Bolts of fabric lay along the walls, and spools of even more material were stacked in painted boxes.
Kristen’s eyes flicked to a measuring rod near a glass case full of pins.
The door clicked shut behind them as they walked further into the shop.
“Good morning, me Lady,” greeted the dressmaker, round and rosy-cheeked, her spectacles perched low on her nose. “And Laird Drummond.” She bobbed a curtsy. “What can I fetch ye today?”
Kristen smiled with ease, grateful for her voice. “We need small things. For the bairns, and for the cèilidh. A ribbon and a dress for Anna and a tunic for Finn if ye have one strong enough to take a fall or two.”
“Aye, I have just the thing.” The dressmaker turned, already reaching for a shelf. “The lad sizes run by rope if ye daenae ken the measurements.”
“That will help,” Kristen said. “If I bring him in, he will hide behind the fabrics till the rooster crows.”
A soft huff came from behind her. Almost a laugh. She kept her gaze on the goods.
She set her gloves on the counter, pulled the list from her sleeve, and breathed slowly until the tension left her ribs. Work steadied her. Buying clothes for the children steadied her more.
She took a step toward the ribbons, every loop a bright promise in its tray.
“This one,” she murmured, her fingers hovering over a pale blue ribbon.
Then she saw it, a narrow satin strip in the exact hue of Anna’s blanket. She lifted it, and it slid like water over her knuckles.
“Look at ye,” she whispered, not caring if she sounded foolish. “Ye are perfect for a bow on a lass who willnae sit still.”
“Ye always find the right shade, me Lady,” the dressmaker praised. “Anna will be a picture.”
“She will pull it off in five minutes,” Kristen said, smiling. “Then I will tie it again and pretend I daenae see.”
Neil moved to the far side of the shop and folded his arms, saying nothing. She felt him like a fire near her skin, not touching but there all the same.
“Tunics are by the window,” the dressmaker indicated. “Ye ken the sun shows the weave best. Ye can choose there.”
Kristen crossed to the row and ran a knuckle along sturdy hems. “Finn has put two holes in his best one,” she said. “A week ago, he tried to climb a fence. Ye willnae believe he is only five.”
“A brave lad.” The dressmaker smiled.
“A reckless one,” Kristen said fondly. She lifted a small brown tunic and held it against her own body to judge the length. The hem reached her hip. “He might drown in this.”
“Rope, me Lady,” the dressmaker chuckled, passing her the cord. “Wrap and mark. I can stitch to match.”
Kristen looped the cord around her arm to roughly the length of Finn’s little torso, pinched the measure, and handed it back. “Add a finger’s breadth,” she said. “He grows while I blink.”
“Aye.”
She pressed the tunic to her middle and pictured Finn enjoying the cèilidh, clumsy and proud, his hair sticking up like straw, trying to bow to every woman old enough to be his grandmother. Warmth bloomed in her chest.
She set the tunic in a neat fold on the counter, then reached for a stack of soft handkerchiefs, thumbing a red one she might use to mark Maggie as part of the family when the hall grew crowded.
“Ye are smiling at the fabric,” the dressmaker observed softly. “That is the look of a woman who loves her home.”
“I love the people in it,” Kristen said. “Buying clothes is one of the many ways I show it.”
Neil spoke for the first time since they had entered the shop, his voice carrying clearly. “Aye.”
Kristen looked up before she could stop herself. He had not moved. Arms still crossed, shoulder pressed against a beam, face unreadable, eyes steady on her. She lowered her gaze at once and got back to work.
“Do ye have thread strong enough for Finn? Remember what I just said; I need something that wouldnae snap if he decides to jump two steps at a time.”
“I do.” The dressmaker went to a drawer. “And buttons that willnae pop the hour he eats.”
“God bless ye,” Kristen murmured.
On the corner table, a neat stack of cloth sat in the shade. She let her hand drift from bundle to bundle, testing weight and fall. Her fingers landed on a length of blue silk.
“A beautiful color,” the dressmaker remarked.
“Aye,” Kristen breathed. “Twilight.”
She did not lift the fabric. She let her hand rest there for a breath, porcelain to blue, heart settling with the thought of a child held safe by a music that belonged to them all.
“Shall I cut ye a length?” the dressmaker asked.
“Aye,” Kristen said softly. “A sash’s width for the boy, a little for the Anna’s dress, and a strip for a wee hair tie if I lose this ribbon. And two fingers’ length for later mends.”
“A sensible head.” The dressmaker nodded. She measured, her string whispering over the blue silk, then cut it with neat snips.
Kristen reached into the pocket in her skirt and took out a handful of coins. “What do I owe ye?”
“Ye owe me nothing till I finish the clothes,” the dressmaker replied. “Keep the ribbon and the strips for now.”
“Nay,” Kristen said with a small smile. “I will pay for what I take.”
“All right, if ye must.”
She counted out the coins, lined them evenly on the counter, and tucked the ribbon in her pocket. She felt Neil near her shoulder before she heard him. His nearness hummed like a fireplace behind her back.
“Ye will want leather laces for the boy’s shoes as well, me Lady?” the dressmaker asked.
“Ye see everything,” Kristen said.
“Only the very best for the lady of the clan.” The dressmaker smiled. “Nothing less.”
Kristen’s cheeks flushed, and she dipped her head. “Ye flatter me.”
“It is only the truth.”
“Do ye have everything ye came for?” Neil asked, his voice low.
Kristen kept her eyes on the dressmaker’s hands as they wrapped the blue strips. “Aye. For the bairns.” She tested her smile to be sure it held. “I promised Finn a sweet if he minds his letters. We will find one at the bakery.”
“Good.” Neil nodded.
The dressmaker tied the parcel with twine and slid it across the counter. “There. Tell the little ones that I expect a twirl at the cèilidh.”
“Daenae worry about that,” Kristen said. “They will give ye as many twirls as ye want.”
“I cannae wait.”
Kristen let out a light laugh and reached for the parcel, only for her fingers to brush Neil’s. It was the briefest touch, yet it sent a quick shock up her arm. She closed her hand around the parcel and drew back as any calm woman would do.
“Thank ye,” she told the dressmaker. “We will see ye soon.”
“Aye,” the dressmaker said, her eyes twinkling. “Even with this, I daenae believe I can thank ye enough for everything ye have done in the past few years.”
Kristen’s mouth curved. “It wasnae only me.”
“It felt like it.”
The words hung in the warm air with the lavender and chalk, simple and kind.
Bells chimed as the door opened again. The cool air touched Kristen’s cheeks.
She stepped out into the light with the ribbon tucked safely and the blue strips bound neatly, and she turned her thoughts to Finn’s height and Anna’s curls and nothing else.
Neil followed her out of the dressmaker’s, the bells giving a faint ring as the door fell shut.
She lifted the small tunic toward the light, measuring by eye, talking about hems and how fast Finn grew.
He heard the words, yet his mind stayed on the clear blue pressed to her cheek and the peace that had settled on her face when she forgot the world.
They had taken only a few steps when three villagewomen came up the lane with baskets of eggs and herbs. The first woman stopped, a smile breaking wide.
“Och, Lady Drummond,” she greeted. “Ye look well.”
Kristen’s answer came warm and easy. “Ailsa, ye look well yerself. How is wee Rab sleeping now?”
“Like a proper bairn since ye sent the poppy water,” Ailsa said. “God bless ye for that.”
The second woman pulled her basket higher on her hip. “Mirell here,” she murmured shyly when Kristen’s eyes flicked to her. “Me Tam still has a limp, but the salve ye had yer healer make eased his pain.”
“I am glad.” Kristen smiled. “Tell him to rest when the rain sets in. He willnae like it, but it will save him the pain.”
The third woman, older with a neat braid and a rigid back, gave Neil a careful look and then stepped close to Kristen. “I’m Fiona, me Lady. Ye fetched the midwife in the middle of a storm while me daughter was in labor with her second. The child lives strong thanks to ye.”
Kristen flushed and shook her head. “The child lives because she is a fighter, and because ye held the door against a wind that wished to knock off the roof. I only provided the barest help.”
The women laughed, the sound soft in the bright light.
Ailsa touched Kristen’s sleeve as if to make sure she was real. “Ye have done many things for us, Me Lady. We almost cannae finish counting them,” she said. “Really, we cannae.”
“Ailsa is right, Me Lady,” Mirell piped up. “Ye have done so much for everyone in this clan. At this point, ye are nothing but an angel in our eyes. Ye can never do wrong.”
Fiona tipped her chin toward Neil. “Ye took in those bairns without a blink, and ye never once let anyone speak ill of them. We saw it. We talk, and we remember.”
Pride and guilt coiled tight behind Neil’s ribs.
He stood a little behind Kristen and listened to the list of small mercies that had stitched these people to her.
He wanted to say that a lady should not have had to run for midwives or do any of the other things the women continued to list. However, the words stuck in his throat.
Kristen steered the conversation back to them. “Enough about me. Ailsa, what of yer maither’s cough? Is she taking thyme with honey like the healer recommended?”
“Aye,” Ailsa replied. “She swears at the taste and still asks for more.”
“And Mirell,” Kristen said, “have ye started the dye for the winter wool? The last batch was finer than any I have seen.”
Mirell’s eyes lit up. “We tried the onion skins the way ye said. It took better than we hoped.”
Fiona hugged her basket closer and gave Neil another assessing look. There was no malice in it, only the focus of a woman weighing a stranger beside the safety of her folk.
“There will be a wee festival later in the night,” she said. “’Tis nothing grand, ye see. Just a fire and a piper, and tarts if I can finish making them on time. If the Laird and the Lady would honor us by coming, we would be proud.”
Neil’s nerves prickled at the thought of ribbons and faces and the press of bodies. The urge to refuse and fold back into stone and silence rose fast. He clenched his teeth against it.
Kristen glanced up at him. She did not plead. She did not cajole. Her eyes were steady and kind.
“It would please them,” she whispered, her voice low enough so only he could hear.
“Do we have to?”
“I have succeeded in cultivating a relationship with the people simply by attending events like this. Ye doing the same willnae hurt.”
The women waited, with their baskets held close, hope plain on their faces. Ailsa’s thumb stroked the rim as if she could rub luck into the wood, and Mirell’s heel tapped once and stilled. Fiona kept her gaze on him, patient as a mother waiting for a child to do the right thing without being told.
Neil looked from one woman to the next, then to Kristen. He heard the names they had given her. The gratitude that had fallen from their lips like breath. He thought of the blue silk against her cheek and the soft, unguarded look he had not earned.
“Aye,” he replied at last, seeing the anticipation on Kristen’s face. “Aye, we will stay.”
The women dipped into quick curtsies. Relief and delight flashed across their faces like the sun breaking through the clouds.
“Ye are kind, me Laird,” Fiona said. “We will keep the fire low if the wind turns rough.”
“I will bring strawberry tarts,” Mirell added. “Ye can even eat a few and let me ken which one is sweeter.”
Ailsa laughed. “Mirell is trying different recipes. She doesnae believe us when we tell her that they taste good. Perhaps she will believe ye.”
Kristen’s smile touched them all. “We will see ye later. Thank ye.”
The women stepped away, talking fast, already spreading word down the lane.
Kristen looked at Neil, surprise and something warmer flickering in her eyes. He kept his face turned toward the lane and felt the small shift inside him settle like a stone in a riverbed.
They had been invited. He had accepted. And for the first time, he did not feel a door slam shut in his chest. Instead, he felt the village square widen and breathe.
Something about doing this with Kristen made his heart race. Like a boy’s first time falling in love.