Chapter 26 Picking Up the Thread
Two months later …
“THAT WAS QUICK, lass.” The crabber’s leathery face creased into a grin as Fiona placed a steaming mutton pie down. “Ye must have flown into the kitchen.”
“I didn’t want to keep a hungry man waiting, did I, Ian?” she replied with a wink. “Especially when ye are craving one of Ewan’s famous pies.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Ewan’s pies—whether they were grouse, venison, boar, or mutton—were the best Fiona had ever tasted.
It was always a treat when he baked them, and the tavern was packed this evening as a result.
Her feet would ache by the end of the night; even so, she enjoyed the work, and the company too.
The folk of Ardnacross were opening their arms to her.
“Ye look after us well,” Ian replied approvingly.
“I do my best.” She refilled his tankard with ale before moving on to the next table.
“I hear ye are a weaver, lass?”
Fiona glanced right to find Diarmaid, the local carpenter, eyeing her from one of the booths. He was a dour man and usually had few words to say. His interest now surprised her.
“Aye,” she admitted cautiously, for as comfortable as she was becoming here, she was still wary of talking about her past. “I was.”
“And why have ye given it up?”
She shrugged. “There isn’t much of that kind of work here, and Beth the weaver doesn’t wish for an assistant.”
He gave a soft snort.
She straightened then. “I like it here, though.” She glanced over to where Eithne was serving up more pies. “Eithne and Ewan are fine employers.”
The carpenter snorted. “Aye … but a woman with yer talent shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
Fiona gave him an incredulous look. “My talent?”
“I hear ye did some work for Lady Kylie of Dounarwyse,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin. “Look, my wife passed away … but I still have her loom. I’ve moved it out to a shed at the end of the garden. Ye can use it during the day, if ye wish? There’s even some yarn ye can get started with.”
Fiona stilled, her eyes widening. “Ye’d give me a loom and a place to work?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.
This was the last thing she’d expected, especially from ‘dour Diarmaid’, as the locals knew him.
He watched her, his gaze difficult to read. The man had a scruffy, unkempt look—the look of a widower, a man who no longer had a wife to look after him. Wood shavings were in his hair and on his grubby lèine.
He certainly wasn’t one of the patrons she liked the most here, and that was why his offer surprised her. And it wasn’t delivered with much warmth either. Just in a practical tone, as if she’d be doing him a favor.
“It will not be completely for free,” he muttered. “I will expect a copper a week for rent, if ye can manage it.”
Fiona considered this. A copper a week to rent her own workshop didn’t sound like a bad deal at all.
Excitement flickered under her ribs.
Oh, to be able to weave again. To feel the thread sliding through her fingers. To lose herself in the rhythmic clack and cadence as she wound her shuttle through the weft.
Even though the past two months here in The Shepherd’s Crook had been happier than she’d expected, she missed her trade—her calling. Weaving was a part of her, and sometimes, she felt as if she’d lost a limb.
An instant later, the spark under her ribs died, and anxiety fluttered up in its place. She glanced over to see that Eithne had turned from serving the other patron and had overheard their exchange.
This wouldn’t do.
She didn’t want to jeopardize this position or her friendship with this woman, for despite her caution, she and Eithne had become friends. It had been a gentle, wary softening between them both, almost as if Eithne, too, let her guard down slowly.
But every evening after work, while Ewan tidied up in the kitchen, the two women would sit for a short while and talk about the day over a quiet cup of ale.
And Fiona cherished those moments. She didn’t want to lose them.
“I’m sorry, Eithne,” she blurted out. “I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t ye dare turn him down,” Eithne said, putting her hands on her hips, her brow furrowing. “There’s no reason why ye can’t still work here and do some weaving too. I can get someone else to help me during the day … if ye’re happy to continue working in the evenings?”
Fiona nodded. She was.
“And that way,” Eithne continued, “ye can spend yer days at yer craft.”
She frowned. “But there won’t be enough work here for me, anyway. Beth said so.”
Diarmaid snorted. “Ye won’t know unless ye try.”
“He’s right, ye know?” Eithne added. “Beth could’ve been lying. Why don’t I ask around for ye?” She pulled a face. “Although weaving sacks and blankets won’t be as glamorous as weaving a tapestry, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll commission yer first blanket,” Diarmaid said gruffly. “The one I’ve got is falling to pieces, so I’ll need another before winter.”
Fiona took all of this in, stunned.
With Eithne’s blessing, there really wasn’t anything she could say.
And she liked the idea of continuing to work at The Shepherd’s Crook in the evenings. The company of the locals warmed her heart, and she’d started to feel part of things here. She didn’t want to be shut away all day and all evening with her loom as she once had.
She realized now that such a life hadn’t always been good for her.
She needed people. Everyone did.
And so, after a brief pause, she nodded. “Very well. Thank ye, Diarmaid. That is kind indeed.”
He grunted as if he agreed and wasn’t quite sure why he made the offer. “Right then, lass,” he said. “Now get me another ale, and I’ll see ye tomorrow morning.”
A windy morning greeted Fiona as she stepped out of The Shepherd’s Crook.
Pulling her woolen shawl about her, she pushed back a stray curl that had escaped her braid—one always did—and moved down the street.
She’d just broken her fast with Ewan and Eithne at their kitchen table, enjoying a wedge or two of fresh bannock smeared with rich wildflower honey and washed down with milk.
There was a freshness in the air this morning, a warning that summer was waning and autumn was on its way. The harvest had ended now, and soon the leaves of the twisted oaks that grew around the village would start to change color.
Ardnacross was a lovely spot. Often, she’d take a walk along the rocky shore in the mornings and watch the crabbers haul in their catch as gulls circled, shrieking, overhead. With each passing day, her sense of belonging grew, soaking into her bones.
She walked with a spring in her step this morning, happier than she’d been in a long while.
Things were looking up.
The night before, she’d lain abed, too excited to sleep, imagining a life where she was able to weave, to gain customers and a reputation for herself. She realized then that it still meant a lot to her.
She wasn’t sure why Diarmaid had been so generous, but at the same time, if his late wife had left a loom behind her, it seemed a pity just to leave it unused. And she would be paying him, so he was getting something out of it.
It was market morning in Ardnacross. The street ahead was filled with local farmers hawking their wares, selling neeps and onions from the back of carts and live fowl that squawked indignantly in their cages.
Fiona smiled and waved to one or two of the local women she’d gotten to know of late, and they waved back.
She’d been so on edge in the village at first. And maybe she was right to be cautious—to let people earn her trust before giving it away so readily.
But her relationships here felt more grounded now. As if they might actually last.
“Does Eithne need ye to pick up two dozen eggs again?” Annie, a local elderly woman, called out.
“She’ll be there shortly,” Fiona called back with a grin. “I’ve got somewhere else to be this morning.”
Annie’s wrinkled face tightened with interest.
“I’ll tell ye about it later,” Fiona said, laughing.
And with that, leaving Annie in suspense, she walked on.
However, she’d nearly reached the end of the line of vendors, weaving her way in and out of the crowd of women with wicker baskets over their arms, when she spied a familiar figure.
A tall man with broad shoulders and wavy auburn hair was haggling with a man selling bunches of wattle.
Fiona’s step faltered, a little of her excitement fading.
She usually managed to avoid Ailean. He didn’t frequent The Shepherd’s Crook as often as she’d feared, and when he did, she let Eithne serve him. But his presence at the market this morning meant she’d have to walk right by the man.
Which meant he’d see her.
And he did.
As she approached, his gaze jerked her way, and he stopped mid-sentence. The wattle vendor continued to talk, not noticing that his potential customer was distracted.
Across the crowd, their gazes locked for a heartbeat.
Then another.
And to her chagrin, Fiona stumbled.
Righting herself and clutching at her shawl, she was mortified to realize her cheeks had grown hot.
Curse it—and curse him too. Why did he still have such a disarming effect on her?
She couldn’t stand the man now, could she? And yet, of late, even a glimpse was enough to send her pulse racing like a bolting pony.
She was tired of it. Tired of her own weakness.
She’d been lucky. Her menses had come just a week after her arrival here. Their careless coupling hadn’t caused any further consequences. The relief had been so great that she’d wept. Her womb quickening with his bairn would have been the last straw.
And so, she drew her shoulders back, stiffened her spine, and kept walking.
Nonetheless, she felt the weight of his stare and knew he was still watching her.
Her face hotter than a glowing coal, she hurried on, resisting the urge to break into a run. It was bad enough she’d blushed. She didn’t need to humiliate herself further.
She was surprised Ailean was still here in Ardnacross.
Since his arrival, he’d worked ceaselessly on that ruin. She heard snatches of gossip in the tavern on a nightly basis about how work was progressing. He had hired some of the locals to help him with certain tasks and bought materials to rebuild.
But it was a lengthy job. One that would take him a long while.
From a distance, it didn’t look as if the tower house was much different from how it had been upon her arrival here. But according to the local men who had come and gone from the tower, the ground floor was now repaired, the floor re-laid, and the walls sturdy once more.
Ailean was now beginning the long process of rebuilding the upper floors.
And in all this time, there had been no sign of the laird himself. Rae Maclean had not ventured north to visit his son.
The rift between them was deeper than she’d thought.
Maybe Maclean really wasn’t going to forgive his son. Maybe this really was Ailean’s new life.
She wondered how he was faring. Was he sorry? Was he lonely? Was he bitter?
She had no idea.
The locals gossiped, of course, speculating on why he was here.
And all the while, she’d waited for one of them to whisper that they’d heard news from Dounarwyse of the scandal of the weaver and the laird’s son.
But no such tale appeared. There were the odd travelers from the castle, but none of them seemed to bring gossip. And with the passing of days and then weeks, and as the sting of humiliation faded, Fiona had gradually felt stronger.
When news did arrive eventually, she’d weather it.
Dour Diarmaid’s cottage sat behind the others, surrounded by an overgrown garden. Obviously, his late wife had tended it once. The carpenter had let it grow wild. A large wether goat was tethered in one corner. It watched Fiona balefully as she made her way up the path.
Knocking on the door, Fiona waited only a few moments before it flew open and Diarmaid stepped out. The man was brushing bannock crumbs off his front, his hair and beard looking even more disheveled than usual.
“Good,” he grunted. “Ye’re not late.”
She flashed him a nervous smile. “I’m excited to see the workshop.”
“Aye, well.” He jerked his head to the left. “It’s more of a shed … but it’ll do the job.”
He led the way down a path, past his own workshop, where the pungent and familiar smell of planed oak drifted out to greet her.
She felt a twinge then—not of homesickness, but at the familiarity of that smell.
It reminded her of her father, a man she’d adored as a bairn, worshipped even, but one who’d given her little love or affection in return.
Pushing aside the memories, she followed Diarmaid to a small shed at the end of the garden. She waited while he pulled open the wide doors, allowing the morning sun to stream in.
As he’d warned, it was a humble space—in a timbered building with a packed-dirt floor.
But it was clean. And it was hers.
A sturdy vertical, warp-weighted loom sat at the center of it, with a stool beside it. There were baskets of thread and yarn too, as well as a small hearth and iron pots for dyes stacked neatly in one corner.
Her vision misted, her throat tightening.
“What do ye think?” he asked, turning to her. “Will it do?”
“It’s perfect,” she said huskily.
“My Moira liked her weaving,” he said, his tone softening just a little.
Fiona turned to him, really looking at him for the first time. “When did ye lose her?”
“Nearly three winters ago now.”
“Ye still miss her greatly though … don’t ye?”
His throat worked, and he nodded, as if not trusting himself to speak.
Then he cleared it. “She was the light of my life,” he said gruffly.
“We never had any bairns. But we were happier than most couples. Losing her … it makes me wonder what the point is sometimes.” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “Ye know … of life.”
Fiona didn’t reply at once. She didn’t want to make light of his feelings or offer him empty condolences. He wasn’t that sort of man.
“It must be painful,” she said at last, “to lose someone ye love so much.” Her throat tightened as their gazes met. “But ye were lucky, Diarmaid. Not everyone finds what ye had.”