Chapter 7
"Are you Lady Emma?" Paisley asked nervously, eyeing the woman uncertainly. Dominic was hovering at her side, watching her closely. His scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable. Why was he looking at her like that? Was he waiting for her to make a mistake, somehow?
She could feel his eyes on her, and it made her shiver.
She turned her attention to Lady Emma again. The woman certainly didn't look like a lady of any description. While Thomas dressed plainly, there was a sort of graceful, regal air about him. This woman would not have looked out of place crawling through the undergrowth.
Judging by the grass stains on her skirts and a stray leaf caught up in her dark hair, she might have been crawling through the undergrowth.
"Just Emma will be fine," the woman said briskly. "Let's see that hand, eh?"
Paisley offered her injured palm dumbly. The woman – Emma – took it gingerly, turning her hand this way and that, inspecting the injury.
Dominic gestured to Thomas, who seemingly interpreted the movement and went to serve the customers gathering at the counter.
Paisley found herself mesmerized by Emma's green-tinged fingers. The discoloration started at the second knuckle, faint and almost imperceptible, and darkened to a noticeable, vivid green around the fingertip. All ten fingers were discolored this way.
"What..." Paisley coughed awkwardly. "What happened to your fingers? Why... why are they green?"
Emma glanced briefly up at her. "Ah, they said ye were new in these parts. If yer accent hadn't given it away, that question certainly would."
"Wait, who said I was new here?"
Emma ignored that question. "Healer's fingers," she said briskly, withdrawing a clean, square piece of linen cloth and cleaning away the blood from Paisley's palm. "After about five or ten years of diligent healing, it's considered a mark of honor to have green hands."
"But... but why? We have physicians back home, and they don't have green fingers." Paisley bit her lip, hoping that she didn't sound too disrespectful.
Emma seemed unperturbed. "We collect and make our own medicines.
Herbs, roots, flowers, leaves, ye name it.
I have pastes to stop infection setting into an open wound, powders that can be mixed with boiling water to settle a fever, herbs to bring on a baby or scare it off.
I have to pick them and mix them meself, and that involves putting me hands in a lot of green things.
All day, every day. Some herbs and leaves need to be crushed between the fingers to make them work.
Don't ask me why, but there it is. So, green fingers. "
"Oh," Paisley managed. "And... and you still do this, even now that you're married? Now that you're a lady?"
Emma flashed her an amused smile. "Oh, aye.
Healin' is a callin'. A vocation. Getting married, on the other hand, is nae.
I love Thomas with all me heart, and I'm settled in me position.
I can use it to do a lot of good, but I can do far more good out here in the wilds, makin' up me potions and healin' the sick.
I'd nae swap healin' for all the world."
A lump rose to Paisley's throat. What must it be like, to have a calling like that?
Marriage is not a vocation? Paisley could hear her mother's voice in her head, shocked and angry. Why, becoming a wife and a mother is the finest calling in the world for a woman! Is there any other vocation?
Her voice came again through Paisley's memory, angry this time.
What, Paisley, do you think you can while away your life playing cards with your Papa? You are all but an old maid! Tell her, William! She always listens to you.
Paisley swallowed hard, pushing away the memory. She could see the scene now, her papa and herself still hunched over their card table, her mother uncharacteristically angry. Alex and Eliza, the twins, peered around the doorway, summoned by the sound of angry voices, wide-eyed.
She gave her head a little shake, bringing herself back down to the here and now.
"That sounds marvelous," she managed. "It must be wonderful to have such a noble calling."
Emma flashed her a mischievous smile. "Ye wouldnae call it noble if ye had seen me trudgin' through mud and rain after sunset, to explain to an old man he's not bleedin' when he passes water, he's just eaten too many beets."
Paisley smothered a giggle. "Is... is that possible? Eat too many beets?"
"I'm afraid to say that it is, aye."
Emma whipped out a thin pair of tweezers, and nimbly plucked out a few shining pieces of glass from Paisley's wound. It hurt, little pinpricks of pain exploding all across her palm, but she was quick and effective, and the process was over in a blink.
She produced a tiny tin and opened it to reveal something which looked like crushed green peas. Using a finger, Emma scooped out a small amount and smeared it around Paisley's wound. The paste tingled, but in a good way.
Then it was over, and Emma was binding up the wound again with a clean square of white linen, tying the ends tightly.
"Ye will be fine," she said lightly. "I'll check it the day after tomorrow for signs of infection, but it should have started to heal by then. Dominic, she's nae to wash any dishes or put her hand in dirty water. She needs to keep that wound clean."
Flinching, Paisley glanced over her shoulder and found Dominic hovering there, his expression unreadable. Had he heard her whole conversation with Emma?
He must have. For some reason, Paisley wasn't happy to think that he'd been standing so close to her when she was remembering that argument with her parents, when Martha Burton had decided once and for all that her daughter must get married.
Normally, that wouldn't have bothered Paisley too much. After all, her Mama always wanted her to get married.
What bothered her was when her father agreed.
Clearing her throat, Paisley drew her hand back her to her chest, poking at the linen bandage.
"But won't I have to do that sort of thing?" she asked in a hushed tone, glancing nervously up at Dominic. "I've just started my job here."
Emma levelled a stare at Dominic, who pursed his lips unhappily.
"Ye can wait until yer wound is healed before ye worry about that," he said lightly. "Do as Emma says, she knows what she's talking about. Now, ye stand behind the counter and pour the drinks I tell ye to, and I'll carry them to the tables, aye?"
The next few hours passed by in a flurry of ale tankards and whiskey.
Paisley learned very quickly how to pull a good pint, and also learned how to do it without putting pressure on her injured palm.
Dominic darted to and from across the crowded floor, and nobody was foolish enough to knock him, either accidentally or deliberately.
Thomas joined his wife at the bar, and the two stood side by side, alternatively whispering to each other and taking turns to ask Paisley questions.
"That was a fine curtsy ye made back there," Thomas said at one point.
"Curtsy?" Emma chipped in.
Thomas grinned. "Aye, our wee Paisley here dropped the finest, smoothest curtsy I've ever seen. None of those awkward, lopsided bobs the lassies do when they're trying to impress someone. Nay, our Paisley was graceful."
"Show me." Emma said suddenly, grinning. "I could never manage a curtsy meself. I bet ye must have practiced for ages. I bet ye look like a proper lady, something I couldn't say for meself, even if I had years of practice, too. Or are ye too shy to show me?"
Paisley did not want to display her curtsy. Curtsying was, of course, a staple of polite London Society. Elegant bows and graceful curtsys were one of the hallmarks of a proper lady or gentleman, and there were countless rules on how deep or how long one should bow, and to whom.
Ever since she was small, Paisley could recite the rules and demonstrate the depth of a proper curtsy to everyone from a common knight or squire to the King and Queen themselves.
It didn't seem like the Scottish Highlanders went in for a great deal of bowing, though.
Still, Emma was watching expectantly, and she had already challenged Paisley twice to do it. Never been one to turn down a challenge, Paisley dropped into a standard curtsy and grinned. Maybe now they'd stop asking questions for a while.
The couple laughed between themselves, giving her a light round of applause.
"Ye must have practiced that," Thomas said, leaning forward. His face was flushed with drink and amusement. He was trying to be friendly, she could tell – trying to draw her into conversation, to make her feel at home.
It wasn't working, though, despite his best efforts.
"Come on, lassie, where did ye learn to curtsy like that?"
So much for taking a break from their questions.
Paisley bit her lip. She'd been taught to curtsy – as well as a myriad of other pointless accomplishments a lady had to have – when she was still in the nursery. But a good curtsy seemed to fade in comparison with Emma and her green fingers. Paisley felt almost ashamed.
"I don't remember," she said lightly, shrugging.
Thomas would not be dissuaded. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
"Where are ye from, lassie? Ye never did say."
Paisley flashed him a smile. "From England."
Emma snorted, and Thomas rolled his eyes.
"Aye, we know that. But there's something ye arenae telling us, lassie. I know me English accents, and that's a fine one ye have there. Ye dinnae grow up around washerwomen and farmers, that's for sure."
"She's got fine hands, too," Emma chimed in. "I noticed that when I was bandaging them. Very fine indeed."
"Ooh, intriguing. So come on, Paisley, solve this mystery for us," Thomas leaned forward further still, his eyes intent. "Tell us where ye came from."
Panic started to claw her way up Paisley's throat. She was not a good liar. It had never been required of her. At home, honesty was prized above all things. No matter how naughty they'd been, they would still tell their mama and papa the truth.