Chapter Eleven
“Good to see you here, Mr. Stewart,” Fergus said, just above the sound of Norrie MacNeill’s fiddle. “The ceilidh is in honor of wee Sean’s rescue and your brave deed in the waves.”
Dougal smiled, nodded as the fiddle music drew to a rousing finale amid wild clapping and shouts for more.
“Thank you, Fergus. And thank you for the supply of fish. Our cook is making fine meals for the workmen this week.” Fergus had brought buckets of fish to the barracks after Sean’s rescue to express his personal thanks.
“There’s more from my catch for you and your crew anytime.” Called by an acquaintance, Fergus excused himself, leaving Dougal content to stand in the midst of the crowded main room of Norrie MacNeill’s house.
Anywhere he turned, he was shoulder to shoulder with the inhabitants of Caransay as well as his work crew.
Standing by the hearth, Norrie guided the bow over the fiddle, filling the room with music.
The songs varied from happy rhythms that set dancers spinning to evocative, poignant songs that had some wiping away tears.
captured the emotions and raised more than a few tears.
Norrie was accompanied by a few kin and neighbors playing drums and even a piper, and Fergus stood up to sing a tune or two. Dougal remembered that Meg had remarked fondly that Fergus reminded her of her deceased father.
As the hour grew later and the whisky flowed freely, Dougal was surprised to see Evan Mackenzie stand to sing a tune as well, his voice so rich and sure that the room grew quiet, and applause and cheers rang out when he finished.
The crowd had sung a familiar refrain with him, and Meg joined them.
Silent, Dougal closed his eyes to listen to the sweet magic of her voice.
The walls and floors fairly shook with dancing and stomping feet, and the modest house glowed with music, chatter, laughter and happiness. Content to listen and watch much of the time, Dougal leaned a shoulder to the wall as Meg swirled past him in Alan’s arms, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.
Remembering the gentleman who had walked with her on the beach the other day, he frowned.
He had asked Norrie about the man and learned he was Sir Roderick Matheson, a banker and owner of the nearby Isle of Guga, who had come out for the day to visit Meg MacNeill.
A cousin on the girl’s mother’s side, and fair smitten by the lass; with that, Norrie had sent Dougal a sideways glance and said no more of it.
Dougal had noticed how they had strolled arm in arm on the beach, and he had certainly seen her allow Matheson to kiss her.
That sight felt hard as a blow. Yet he sensed resistance and displeasure in her posture and the way she stomped away, leaving the fellow alone and looking as out of place as a penguin.
Just as well, Dougal thought, that he had not met the man himself. Best he kept distant.
As the dancers changed partners, Meg whirled through some complex steps with Sean, their effort so comical that Dougal laughed in delight. Meg looked up and smiled at him. A flood of affection tinged with longing rushed through him.
The other day, kissing her within the little cave, he felt sure she was attracted to him, that she cared. Yet Matheson might be a suitor; Dougal had not asked, and she had not said. He could hardly expect her to wait seven years, knowing naught about him. He sighed, smile fading.
As Norrie began a slow, poignant fiddle piece, Meg tapped Dougal on his shoulder.
“Grandfather Norrie asked to see you before you leave tonight.”
“I will not sing a tune, unless you want to hear caterwauling,” he drawled. Then he noticed Sean peeking up at him. “Laddie! Having a fine time?”
“Oh, aye! I know all the dances.”
“I saw you dancing with Meg MacNeill,” Dougal answered. “Very fine indeed.” He smiled at her and saw a burst of pink in her cheeks.
His smile went rueful. Just standing near her, speaking with her, felt good. He only wanted to enjoy her company, but the memory of another man kissing her dropped a shadow over the ceilidh’s celebration.
“It’s late,” she told Sean. “You should be going to bed. Where is Fergus MacNeill? He was to take you home.” She turned.
“He’s gone off with friends,” Sean said. “Even small Anna is still awake, over there with Grandma Thora. I want to stay up late with everyone else.”
“This is the lad’s celebration,” Dougal said in his defense.
“It is,” Sean agreed.
Meg shook her head. “You will be exhausted tomorrow when it’s time for lessons.”
“Lessons?” Dougal asked.
“Berry is teaching me English and reading and math at the Great House,” Sean said. “I’m doing very well, she says.”
“The baroness is teaching him?” Dougal asked Meg, confused.
“Mrs. Berry,” she said, though he felt bewildered. “Look, my grandfather is about to speak,” she added. Seeing Norrie beckon to him, Dougal stepped forward hesitantly as the old man set down his fiddle and took up a glass of whisky. Then he began to speak in Gaelic.
Not sure what was being said, Dougal was grateful when Meg leaned close to explain. She translated, but soon Norrie switched to English for the benefit of Dougal and his crew.
“When Mr. Stewart came to Caransay,” Norrie said, “we were not pleased with his idea of a lighthouse. Some of us have not changed our minds about that.
“But we have seen that Mr. Stewart is a good and brave man,” Norrie continued.
“He plucked our wee Sean safe from the sea and drove off a shark, even if it was a basker,” he added.
“I am thinking he is the equal of the great hero Fhionn MacCumhaill himself. And on Caransay, he is as great as any kelpie or selkie, a man of courage and magical feats!” He grinned.
“To Mr. Stewart—the Great Toast!” Norrie stepped up on a stool and raised his glass.
Everyone who held a glass or cup lifted it, then lowered it, held their drink out and pulled it in, all the while chanting in unison, first in Gaelic, then in English.
Up with it, up with it,
Down with it, down with it,
Over to you, and over to you,
Over to me, and over to me.
May all your days be good, my friend!
Drink it up!
“Drink it up!” They shouted in unison, walls ringing, lifting their glasses.
Norrie drained and smashed his glass on the hearthstone to rousing cheers.
Dougal, accepting handshakes and claps on the back, hoisted Sean to his shoulders.
The little boy raised his hands toward the roof beams, yelling happily.
“Aye, my wee friend. Celebrate! All this is for you!” Dougal grinned. As he held Sean’s legs, he saw Meg’s sparkling smile. But he sensed an undercurrent of sadness in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just thinking—thank you, Mr. Stewart,” she said quietly.
“You are very welcome, my dear Miss MacNeill,” he answered magnanimously, realizing that the whisky and the merriment had loosened his tongue a bit and had even set his restrained spirit free for the moment.
Her answering smile was all in her eyes now, and he felt as if the room all but disappeared.
Norrie spoke again in Gaelic, and the crowd cheered loudly, clinking glasses in salute.
“What did he say?” he asked Meg.
Meg blushed. “Oh, they’re drinking a toast to me now.”
“‘And here’s to our Margaret,’” Fergus translated, standing nearby, “‘the finest lady with the kindest heart in all the Western Isles. May she have all the happiness she deserves!’”
“Quite a compliment,” Dougal remarked.
“Grandfather has half a keg of whisky in him by now,” Meg said. Her cheeks were fiery. “When his fiddle playing goes wild and beautiful and he calls for the Great Toast, the drink has opened his soul. They say the more whisky in the fiddler, the better the fiddling.”
Dougal laughed. “Whisky or not, I agree with Norrie. Our Meg MacNeill is a fine lady.” He leaned toward her. “If Mackenzie had let you jump into the water, I have no doubt you would have saved the lad yourself, and kicked that shark away, as well.”
Instead of laughing, her eyes were somber, so beautiful with it that he ached. “I would never let the sea have my son,” she said fiercely.
“Sean should learn how to swim. I’ve offered to teach him. He’s like me, I think. He’s drawn to the sea. It’s in his blood.”
“In my blood!” Sean said giddily from his high perch on Dougal’s shoulders. He stretched his arms high and laughed as Dougal turned around with him.
Meg stared, still serious. Then she whirled and shouldered through the crowd. Hands resting on Sean’s knees, Dougal watched her go. Then he slid the boy to the ground to go enjoy a cup of the fruit brose that Thora had prepared with cream, oats, and wild strawberries.
As Meg left the room, Dougal wondered what the devil he had done to upset her.
*
Meg stood near Alan Clarke, listening as Norrie ended another song and an off-tune string gave a narrow whine. She wondered when she could leave, take Sean with her, and flee to Clachan Mor.
“Miss MacNeill,” Alan said. “I am curious. Is that Lady Strathlin over there?” He indicated the woman who now chatted with Thora and some of the fishermen’s wives as they served food and drinks.
Seeing Mrs. Berry, Meg hesitated. She had dreaded this question ever since her grandmothers had let Dougal believe that Mrs. Berry was the baroness.
“I—ah—oh,” she said, as Dougal Stewart joined them.
“I am curious too,” he said, having heard the conversation.
“That lady? She is Mrs…. ah, Berry, Lady Strathlin’s… companion.”
“I have seen her,” Dougal said, “but we have not met.” He frowned, and Meg could see that he was working out the puzzle of who Berry was, which would lead him to wonder who Lady Strathlin might be.
“Everyone is here tonight but Lady Strathlin,” Alan said. “Even such a high-and-mighty shrew as that one should be moved by Sean’s rescue.”
“I am sure she was quite moved,” Meg snapped.