Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
M argaret spent the remainder of her morning penning the most important letters she would ever write. It was vital that she choose her words carefully. So much depended upon these letters. If she messed up and didn’t convey her message clearly (and without begging, of course), then all hope might be lost.
By the time she penned the last letter, her hand was cramping, and she had blotches of ink all over her fingers. Nonplussed, she smiled happily as she carefully folded the letters and tucked them into the pouch at her waist.
“Now, who would I see about gettin’ these letters to the right people?”
There was only one answer to that question: Flossie.
Few secrets could be kept amongst the large Randall brood. The fact that Margaret had penned numerous letters to the ladies of the clans that Flossie had suggested was no exception.
Within an hour of handing the letters off to one of Aiden’s men for them to deliver, one of the houseboys had knocked on her bedchamber door. “Aiden sends for ye, m’lady,” the young lad said when she opened the door. “He is in his private study.”
She was more curious than worried about her husband’s request. “Tell him I shall be there shortly,” she told the blonde-headed boy.
Before going below stairs, she took a look at herself in the looking glass she kept over her trunks. With care, she tucked in a few strands of hair that had fallen from her braid and washed the ink from her fingers using clean-smelling soap and frigid water. Smoothing away any wrinkles from her dark-blue gown, she donned her crimson-colored shawl and headed out of her chamber.
As soon as she stepped into the hallway, the sounds of children’s laughter floated up from the gathering room. Odd that, only a few short weeks ago, the sounds would have set her teeth on edge. But, now, she found she enjoyed hearing happy children playing without a care in the world.
Down the stairs and into the gathering room, she was met by Hugh and Symon. They rushed forward to greet her, as if they hadn’t seen her in days. “Aunt Margaret!” Symon exclaimed happily. “Will ye be our lady in despair?”
Confusion lasted only a moment when she saw each of them carrying wooden swords. ’Twas a game they were playing. “I fear I cannae play right now, boys,” she told them. “Aiden has requested the honor of my presence in his study.”
Crestfallen, their shoulders sagged with disappointment.
Margaret glanced about the room and found Alyce at her mother’s knee. Lizabet was stitching away at a piece of linen. “Alyce? Would you please be Symon and Hugh’s lady in despair?”
“I tried, Aunt Margaret. But they did nae like how I did it.” She stuck her tongue out at the boys before turning back to the doll in her hands.
“She will nae play it proper, Aunt Margaret,” Symon told her.
“Aye,” Hugh said with an expression that bordered on disgust. “She wants to rescue herself .”
Margaret couldn’t help but laugh. “And what is wrong with that?”
The two boys looked at her as if she’d just sprouted a new head. “Girls cannae rescue themselves.”
Amused, she said, “And why nae? I rescued myself once.”
“Ye did?” they asked, most astounded.
“Aye,” she said, affecting a most serious tone. “From a group of giants.”
The boys mouths fell open, and their eyes grew wide with wonder. “Ye did?”
“Aye. I shall tell ye the entire story sometime. But, for now, I must go see Aiden.” She patted each of their little heads and walked away. “Let Alyce play,” she directed them. “Ye might learn a thing or two about just how strong a lass can be.”
She left the children to discuss the matter and headed for her husband’s study.
Margaret had barely gotten inside Aiden’s study when he began to bombard her with questions. In a matter of a few short moments, she began to feel as though she were being interrogated by the king’s spies.
“What made ye think ’twas a good idea to invite our enemies here?” he asked as he paced back and forth behind his desk. “To break bread with us? And to invite their womenfolk and families, to boot?”
Realizing she wasn’t going to get a word in edgewise, she gracefully sat in the chair in front of his desk and listened. Or, at least, she pretended to. ’Twasn’t easy, considering how upset he was.
“And to not even discuss the matter with me?” He paused long enough to glower at her. “Might I remind ye that I am the chief and laird of this clan?”
He didn’t give her any time to answer.
“If there is to be any peacemaking or letter writing, it will be done by me.” A tic had formed in his left jaw. Oh, he was upset, all right. But, honestly, she didn’t understand why.
“Truly, Margaret,” he said as he began pacing again. “I cannae understand why ye thought ’twas a good idea.”
He stopped long enough to draw a breath, and she took that opportunity to finally speak. “And I cannae understand why ye dinnae think it is a good idea,” she told him.
More than slightly stunned, he stopped and glowered at her. “Because I am the chief and laird of this clan,” he told her. As if that explained anything.
“Ye said that,” she replied coolly. “But what ye have nae said is why ye think my idea is a bad one. Is it because ye had nae thought of it before?”
Oh, that didn’t sit well with her husband. Insulted, he came around the desk and stood before her. With his arms crossed over his chest, he glowered even more furiously than before. “Those letters will nae be sent.”
She wasn’t about to let him see how angry she was becoming. Quirking a brow and tilting her head slightly, she asked, “Why nae?”
“If ye cannae understand why I dinnae wish to invite my enemies to break bread with us, then ye are nae nearly as intelligent as I thought ye were.”
Was he calling her ignorant? Or, worse yet, dumb? She could feel her ire growing quickly. “Please, help me to understand it. And use simple words, Aiden. Speak to me as if I were only five.” She hoped he understood the sarcasm and disdain in her tone of voice.
His eyes turned to slits. “Because we cannae break bread with our enemies.”
Margaret couldn’t help but to roll her eyes at him. “Ye have said that, several times now,” she reminded him. “Ye talk in circles.” Imitating her husband, she lowered her voice and spoke in a growl. “ I am chief and laird of this clan. We cannae break bread with our enemies.” She shook her head.
His nostrils flared as his glowering intensified. “And that is all the explanation ye need.”
Slowly, she took in a deep breath and exhaled before rising to her feet. He was talking in circles, and it irritated her to no end. Placing her hands on her hips, she glowered back at him. “I wrote to the wives of the clan chiefs, Aiden. Not to the chiefs themselves. Our larders grow barer and barer by the hour. I invited those women here so that we might trade some of our fine wools, blankets, tapestries, crockery, and the like, in order to build up those larders. And, if by some miracle, ye and yer brothers are able to keep cool heads, we might be able to gain a little peace in our lives, instead of warrin’ with every clan in all of Scotia!”
She left him standing there, astonished and angry, and she didn’t give one wit about it. For good measure, she stormed off, slamming the door in her wake.
If her husband couldn’t see the good sense in her plan, then he was a buffoon of biblical proportions.
Down the dark corridor and through the gathering room, she stomped, ignoring everyone and everything. Angry with her husband’s hardheadedness and his condescending attitude towards her, she made her way above stairs and into her chamber, slamming the door behind her.
“How on earth could he nae see the rightness of our plan?” she ground out. “What is so wrong with wantin’ peace?” Pacing about her room, she continued to speak aloud, angry and upset. “And what is so wrong with wantin’ to help this clan, this new family of mine?” She answered herself. “Nae one single thing, that is what!”
Back and forth she went, talking aloud and answering her own questions. It felt good to let it all out, even if no one was there to hear her. ’Twas better to speak to the bed and trunks, she supposed, than to speak her mind to her husband.
Just as she was beginning to find some sense of calm, the door to her chamber opened. Aiden stood in the doorway. And he was angry.
“Dinnae ever just walk away from me, Margaret. I was nae done speakin’ with ye.”
And just like that, she was angry again. “Speakin’ with me? Nay, Aiden. Ye were chastisin’ me as if I were a child. And I will walk away from ye any time I damned well please!”
Not only was he shocked to hear his wife utter a curse, he found himself amused by it. It took every ounce of self control to keep from laughing aloud. He had to bite his tongue to keep from doing so.
“Now, ye listen to me, Aiden Randall, chief and laird of this clan.” She was wagging her finger at him, which he also found quite amusing. “I am yer wife. Nae yer child, nae just a clanswoman. I am yer wife. And ye will afford me some respect in that regard.”
There was something about the fire burning in her eyes that he found rather beguiling. That realization left him feeling quite puzzled. His wife was giving him a tongue lashing. Were she anyone else, he would have lashed back.
For the moment, at least, he found he could do nothing but stand there like a fool and stare at her. ’Twas then he noticed the tiny, faint freckles that dotted her nose. Those brilliant blue eyes of hers had turned dark with anger—something else he found appealing. Her lashes were thick and dark, just like her gloriously thick and dark brown hair.
As she gave him a piece of her mind, he also took note that her bosom was heaving up and down. ’Twas an ample bosom, to be certain.
If he didn’t possess an ounce of self-control, he would have lifted her into his arms, flung her on the bed, and had his way with her.
But she was angry with him. Chances were good that, were he to so much as attempt it, she would serve his ballocks to him in a jar. And smile while she did it.
“Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
Those angry words broke through his lascivious thoughts. “Nae really,” he replied drolly before leaning up against the wall. He crossed one leg over the other, his arms across his chest, and waited.
“Ye have lost yer mind,” she told him with a scowl. “’Tis the only explanation.”
She had been forced to marry an eejit. An eejit who had lost his mind. ’Twas the only explanation she could come up with.
She had just given him what for, told him exactly what she thought of his thick-headedness and his unwillingness to bend even slightly, and he stood there, like a fool.
“Tell me again,” he said in a most calm and even tone. “Explain it to me as if I were five.”
She growled. She actually growled.
Balling her hands into fists, she said, “Ye are tetched!”
A low chuckle escaped his throat. “I have been told that before.”
Margaret was not nearly as amused as he was.
Growing more frustrated by the moment, she threw her hands in the air in defeat. “I give up.”
“So easily?” His tone was a challenge.
Margaret closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Aye,” she replied before opening her eyes. “I would have better luck talking sense into the dust under our bed.”
He chuckled again, growing more and more amused with her distress as well as her insults.
Defeated, she walked away and sat on the chair at the table under the window. “All I wanted was to help,” she told him. “To help grow our larders and to do something that could potentially lead to peace for our clan.”
Our clan. Not his.
Theirs.
His heart swelled with a blend of relief as well as pride. His wife, it seemed, had started to feel like she belonged here, as a part of his family.
He had pushed her to the point of madness, he knew. Filled with regret, he decided to stop being an arse. All she had wanted to do was to help. That signified so many things at once.
“Margaret, I thank ye,” he began in a low voice. Standing upright, he walked towards her. “I ken ye want only to help.”
Somewhat relieved to hear him say it, she sat a little taller in her seat. “I dinnae like to see people suffer.”
Of course, he had known that for weeks. “I am glad that ye wanted to help. I was upset because ye took matters into yer own hands. Ye did nae discuss it with me first.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said.
“I am sorry that I allowed myself to get upset with ye. I am sorry that I yelled at ye.”
A flicker of something flashed in her eyes. He wasn’t certain what that something was. Relief? Gratitude? He couldn’t rightly say.
“Would ye have allowed me to pen the letters if I had come to ye first?” she asked.
“Nae,” he told her before quickly adding, “At least nae all of them.”
Her brow furrowed as she was puzzled by what he’d just told her.
“Lass, the last clan I would have invited is the MacAllisters,” he said as he grabbed the three-legged stool from near the hearth. Gently, he placed it near Margaret and sat. “Everyone kens they cannae be trusted any more than the MacKinnons or Duffies. I dinnae ken where ye got the idea to invite them.”
“Flossie,” she told him. “She gave me the list of people we should invite.”
He gave a quick nod of understanding. “It might surprise ye to learn this, lass,” he said as he leaned in more closely. Lowering his voice to but a whisper, he said, “Flossie does nae ken everythin ’ .”
Margaret couldn’t resist the urge to giggle at him.
“But I will deny I ever said such a thing,” he told her as he sat upright again.
Smiling, she asked him, “Who would ye invite?”
’Twas the truth that he had been giving it some thought. “The MacCallens, of course.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “But who else? Certainly we cannae be at war with all of Scotia.”
Aiden rubbed his stubbled jaw as he thought about it. “I would invite the Hays,” he began. “And the MacKenzies and Farquars. But I fear I would nae want to invite many others.”
Only four clans? That didn’t seem nearly enough to her.
“Lass, the best way to go about this is to start small,” he explained. “We must keep the clan’s safety at the forefront of everythin’.”
It dawned on her then, the mistake she had made. She had penned at least a dozen letters, to complete strangers. The potential that one or more of those clans would have used the invitation as an opportunity to attack sent a shiver of dread tracing up and down her spine. “Aiden, I am sorry.”
“As am I, lass,” he admitted. “I should nae have been so angry.”
“Nay,” she said with a shake of her head. “I should have come to ye first.”
Smiling at her, he said, “It seems we each should have taken different paths to get to where we are, aye?”
She couldn’t agree with him more.
“Please, lass, in the future, if ye have ideas to help our people, come to me first.”
Margaret promised him that she would.
His lips curved into a warm, albeit slightly mischievous, smile. “I think ye and I will work well together, lass.”
Silently, she prayed that he was right.
Rain turned to snow and back to rain again during the gloomy afternoon. Margaret sat in the gathering room, near the hearth, surrounded by all of her sisters-by-law. Some were sewing clothes for their weans, whilst others were stitching pretty linens for beds.
Hope and Faith sat in the corner nearby, at the spinning wheel, forming a beautiful deep-green wool yarn.
The little children played at their mothers' feet with wooden horses and soldiers or with little dolls. For a change, the children were quiet. Far more quiet than Margaret had ever seen them.
Margaret was mending one of the chemises, a simple task she could have finished in no time at all. But she took her time, not wanting the precious moment to end.
The quietness in the gathering room seemed to match the weather out of doors. Not necessarily gloomy, but simply still, calm, and quiet.
Margaret felt happy. Happy and content. Her letters were on their way to their prospective recipients, and here she sat, in a cozy gathering room, with her new family.
Family.
A simple-sounding word that meant many different things. ’Twas something she hadn’t had, ever. Not even when her father was alive.
This family was hers. She discovered such a sense of peace that blended with what she could only describe as strength, that for a moment, she felt like weeping. Happy tears, of course.
As the overwhelming sense of joy enveloped her, she was quite convinced nothing could spoil this moment.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
A man’s voice interrupted Margaret’s reverie. “Lady Margaret?”
She turned to see who was speaking to her. He was a young man, barely old enough to shave, with dark-blue eyes that sparkled in the candlelight and long, wavy blond hair that fell past his shoulders.
He wore a dark brown cloak that was covered in rain and sleet. “This just arrived for ye, m’lady.”
Retrieving a small folded letter from somewhere under his cloak, he handed the parchment to her.
Believing ’twas a letter from Onnleigh, she happily took it and thanked him. He bent slightly at the waist before turning on his heels and quitting the room.
Her smile faded the moment she saw the long, flourished handwriting on the outside of the folded packet.
Fear tore through her like a jagged, rusty blade. At once, she felt nauseas and could feel the color draining from her face.
“Margaret?” Lizabet called out to her. She had to repeat her name twice again.
“What is the matter, lass?” Lizabet asked as she placed the piece of fabric she was working on at her feet. “Ye look as though ye have seen a ghost.”
There were a hundred different ways she could respond. Aye, she was seeing a ghost, all right. One that she had prayed she would never hear from again.
Her voice felt scratchy when she said, “All is well. Dinnae fash over me.”
Lizabet came to stand beside her. The letter was sitting in Margaret’s lap as she stared at it with much aversion.
“Who is it from?” Lizabet asked in a soft whisper.
“No one of any import,” Margaret replied.
She didn’t see Lizabet and Annabella exchange worried glances at one another. Her eyes were all but glued to the parchment. Afraid to touch it, let alone open it, Margaret sat in stunned silence for quite some time.
“Are ye sure, lass?” Annabella asked as she struggled to remove herself from her chair. Her belly was growing with each passing day. Discomfort was a constant companion.
“Aye, I am certain,” Margaret replied. Gaining some composure she added, “Please, ’tis naught to worry over. Sit, and enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Quickly, she grabbed the letter and got to her feet. The chemise she had been working on fell to the floor without her notice. “Please, excuse me for a moment,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips.
Without saying another word, she left the gathering room as quickly as she could. Up the stairs she raced and headed straight to her bedchamber.
By the time she reached her chamber, Margaret’s stomach was churning like angry waves at sea. Fear blended wickedly with repulsion, and ’twas all she could do to keep from retching.
Slamming the door behind her, she raced to the little writing table under the window. The parchment felt hot in her hand, and for a moment, she wondered if it wouldn’t combust and burn her alive.
Without thinking, she flung open the lid to one of her trunks and tossed the parchment inside. She slammed the door hard before taking a few steps back.
She stared at the trunk, afraid that somehow, the parchment would magically find a way to open the lid and come crawling after her.
How? How was she able to write to me?
It didn’t take long to find the answer. Helen Randall had a way of manipulating people to bend to her will. As vile and cruel as the woman was, she could get ordinary people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.
Tears welled in her eyes and raced down her cheeks. All the years of abuse from her mother, the memories of those dark and ugly times, draped over her like a wet, woolen cloak. Her shoulders sagged, her legs grew weak, and her hands shook uncontrollably.
She still has a hold of me, she mused bitterly. Locked in a prison far away and she still has a hold of ye.
“Nay!” she shouted at the wall, and she balled her hands into fists. Cursing in a furious whisper, she flung insults at the letter inside the trunk.
“Nay! I will nae allow ye to do this to me!” She stomped her foot for good measure before she began to pace about the room.
That unadulterated fear she had felt when she’d first seen her mother’s handwriting began to fade rapidly. In its place, sheer, unadulterated anger. Her nausea subsided as well.
“I will nae allow ye to get yer claws into me again, mother .”
“Ye were ne’er a mother to me,” she said to the hidden letter. “Ye were nae more than an evil, vile woman!”
Pacing about the room, clenching and unclenching her fists, she allowed her mind to race and for her soul to actually feel everything it was feeling. She refused to run away, refused to deny what she was actually feeling.
It took some time, but finally, her anger began to wane. That’s when the deluge of grief came crashing in.
She grieved for so many things. Her father, her sweet sister, and the person she could have been were it not for her mother’s interference. The woman she could have been. All the good she could have done, had her mother simply been an altogether different person.
Suddenly, it began to dawn on her heart that while she may not have been allowed the carefree childhood many children had, her life wasn’t over. She could still do much good in the world.
There was time.
Each new morn would bring another chance to be a better person than she had been the day before. And each sunset that she spent out of her mother’s abhorrent grasp, she could consider a successful and brilliant day.
Hope began to grow once again.
If I dinnae read the letter, I cannae ken what she says or wants.
Her mother could write as many letters as she wanted. Margaret wasn’t going to open any of them. And she certainly wasn’t about to send any replies.
Eventually, her mother would realize what Margaret’s silence meant: that she wanted nothing more to do with her.
Helen Randall could rot.