Chapter Thirteen #2
Christina chewed the end of her pen, deep in thought, then applied nib to paper to finish her reply to Sir Edgar, choosing her words carefully. He had a sharp nose for the scent of an antiquity and would come running if he thought there was any merit.
She did not want to see him. Neither did Aedan, though she was not sure why.
Clearing and digging may yield interesting results, she wrote.
But it is too soon yet to declare it worth your time.
She needed more time to search for the Arthurian connection she hoped to find for Uncle Walter’s sake.
After the digging of the last two days, she was now certain the walls had once belonged to a Pictish house.
She was not yet ready to tell Edgar Neaves, however.
She glanced at his note again. He had ended it in a way that unsettled her.
My dear, I trust you think of me with the same affection I tender to you.
Somehow, she had to disentangle from his affections and intentions.
She had misled him inadvertently, for she had been lonely and succumbed to his encouragement of her scholarly interests, even arranging for her to volunteer as an amateur antiquarian for the museum.
He had misunderstood and so had she, and it was time to undo it.
Now she saw more clearly what she wanted, needed.
The thrill of being in Aedan MacBride’s arms filled a deep hunger that she had hardly realized.
Even though she knew no future existed with him, it was overtaking her thoughts and dreams lately.
A future with Edgar was unpalatable, she saw that now.
She would rather live out her life as a bookish widow who had once known passion than continue with Edgar.
His cold formality and dull kiss could not hold a candle to Aedan’s kisses, his depth, his beauty, his intriguing intensity.
Her reply to Edgar was businesslike, giving no hint of her feelings. That time must come. Yet her hand trembled, holding the pen, and drops of ink spattered over the lace-trimmed cotton undersleeve tucked beneath the wider sleeve of her gray plaid gown.
Dismayed, she regarded the stained fabric. Aunt Emmie, Walter’s wife, had made the delicate lacework. Setting pen and letter aside, Christina headed upstairs, planning to scrub her sleeve with soap in the black-and-white-tiled bathing room.
In the foyer, the housekeeper turned to see her. “Mrs. Blackburn! Ye’re in a rush!”
“I’ve spoiled my sleeve with ink.” She held up her arm.
“Och, and such pretty work! Effie MacDonald can tend to it. She’s our laundress, and is here today in the washhouse. It’s out the kitchen door, past the herb garden. A stone building. Ye’ll smell the bleach,” she added. “Effie will right that stain for ye.”
Christina found the washhouse easily. Opening the door, she was assailed by heat, damp, and the pungency of bleach, lye, and soap.
The large room, whitewashed and light-filled, held long tables for folding, mending, and tending the laundry, and a wide brick hearth where two enormous copper urns bubbled.
The high ceiling was hung with racks draped in snowy linens.
Two young women and a third older woman wore aprons, their faces flushed as they worked at various tasks. The older woman came forward.
Tall and gray haired, she had a beautiful smile. “Madam, can I help?”
“Are you Mrs. MacDonald? I am Mrs. Blackburn, a guest at the house.”
“I know.” Her eyes were deep brown and penetrating, cheekbones pronounced, hair iron gray, skin dusky. Her gown was a simple cotton print, and her earlobes gleamed with gold hoops. She had the mature, exotic beauty of a Gypsy, Christina thought, enchanted.
Showing Effie the undersleeve, Christina removed it. Effie scrutinized the spots.
“Gunnie was right to send ye. If that ink sets, that bonny lace would be ruined.” Effie carried the sleeve over to the tub in the wall set with brass spigots, and flowed cold water over the spots.
Then she reached overhead to a shelf filled with labeled brown bottles, taking one down with a small brush.
“Some use chemists’ potions for their laundry now, but I say old and cheap works best. This will take it oot straightaway. ” She uncapped the bottle.
“Augh, what is it?” Christina leaned away, catching the sharp whiff of ammonia. Effie dipped the brush in the liquid and smoothed it over the stained cotton and lace.
“Horse piss and lemon.”
“Oh!” Christina coughed. Within moments, the spots quickly vanished. Effie then rinsed the sleeve with soap and water, then opened another small brown bottle.
“Lavender water,” she said. “So ye willna smell o’ horse piss.” Effie folded the piece in a linen towel. “We’ll dry and press it, and ’twill be guid as new. Dora!” she called. “Here’s a bit o’ lace for the iron.” She carried it across the room, and Christina followed, curious.
The young woman set down the flat iron and turned, reaching out for the lace cuff.
She felt around it carefully, fingers nimble.
Christina watched as Dora ironed the half-sleeve inside the toweling, keeping her fingers just out of range of the hot iron as she gently guided the heavy thing over the towel. Steam rose as she worked.
Watching, Christina realized with a slight shock that the girl was blind, or nearly so. Glancing at Dora, she saw a resemblance to Effie in her beautiful complexion and dark eyes.
Effie perched her fists on her hips. “Mrs. Blackburn, so ye’re the one come from the museum to look at the laird’s hill? He told us about ye, mistress.”
“Did he!” Christina was surprised.
“Och aye, he came to tea last week as he often tries to do, dear lad. I’ve known him since he was a bairnie in skirts,” she confided. “Hector MacDonald is my son. Dora is Hector’s daughter, y’see.”
“Ah. Mr. MacDonald mentioned you, but I did not know—”
“That I’m the laundress? Aye, and my mum and grandma afore me. We’ve ay worked for Dundrennan, ever since our Gypsy ancestors settled here long ago. So here I am. And Dora crochets bonny shawls and whatnot, and sells ’em in the town,” she added proudly.
Dora handed Effie the clean, pressed half-sleeve, which Effie slipped over Christina’s arm, tying its ribbons beneath her plaid sleeve. The warm cloth smelled fresh and good.
“Thank you so much, Effie,” Christina said. “I thought I had ruined it.”
“Och, there is always help about in life when we need it.” She smiled, dark eyes shrewd. “So ye’re the mistress o’ the mountain now, giving orders to the laird?”
Christina laughed. “Hardly that! I doubt he would take orders from me or anyone.”
Effie smiled. “He wouldna listen to anyone when he was engaged to Miss Elspeth, either. He will always be that stubborn.”
“You knew his fiancée?”
“She was Dora’s good friend from the glen school, and she had known the laird since they were both babes in arms. Her da was laird in a glen across the hills.
’Twas natural for them to come to marrying.
But she took ill.” Effie shook her head.
“Sometimes lovely blithe souls are not meant to live long in this world. And the lairds of Dundrennan are na meant to be content in marriage, y’see. ”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Do you ask me, he needs to find his true love and prove that sorry curse wrong. Aedan has had too many troubles, and yet so bonny and braw a man with such a guid heart. He cares about others, and cares about this place. He doesna show it, but ’tis there.
I feel there is a special love for him. Perhaps he will be the one to change the future of Dundrennan.
” She smiled ruefully, and Christina saw a wise glow in her crinkled, keen eyes.
Sudden tears pricked her eyes. Just bleach and lye in the air, she told herself.
But she, too, wished that Aedan MacBride could break the curse that doomed the lairds and the brides of Dundrennan.
She desperately wanted him to be happy—whether she was with him or not, he deserved it. The Dundrennan line deserved it.
“Out wi’ ye, the noo, for I’ve work here.” Effie walked with her to the door.
“Thank you again, Mrs. MacDonald.”
“Effie. The other makes me sound so auld, aye!” Laughing, she opened the door, and Christina stepped outside. Cool air blew through her hair, billowed her skirts as she hurried back to the house.