Chapter Ten
Cameron straddled the ridge board of the roof as he hammered down battens. The rafters were already in—they were making good progress. The roof belonged to the cottage of Bridget Fraser, a young widow with three wee bairns. Bridget's man had been killed in an accident the previous spring.
Cameron had sent his cousins off to clear away the debris of the wrecked bridge, and had organized several other, more skilled men to work with him.
Bridget's roof was the worst damaged by the big storm.
And having originally been made generations before with bits and bobs of driftwood, it had shattered under the onslaught of the storm and now needed a whole new framework as well as new thatch.
"Thank you so much for this, Laird," Bridget said when he arrived. "My father-in-law has sheltered us since the storm, but it's no' a big cottage and with three lively bairns underfoot, well"—she grimaced—"he's a good man, but no' the most patient of beings."
Cameron laughed. Bridget's father-in-law was famously irascible. It was one of the things he'd taken into account in deciding whose roof would be repaired first.
He hammered briskly, enjoying the activity and the thin morning sunshine, and glad to be able to make the repairs that had gnawed at him while his uncle was in control.
And Bridget had called him Laird. It was still a new enough appellation to make him smile. He was laird at last, with a wife and all.
A wife. In name only at this stage. She wanted courting first. Courting! And poetry! He wasn't the kind of man who spouted poetry. He glanced at Robbie Ross, busily laying thatch at the other end of the roof.
"Robbie, when you were courting Jessie, what kind of things did you do?"
Robbie snorted. "No' enough, I can tell you. Jessie's da' kept his eye on us the whole time. And if it wasn't her da' with us, it was her ma, or her granny."
Cameron grinned. "Aye, but apart from no' doing what you itched to do, what did Jessie like about the courting?
Robbie didn't look up from his thatching.
"Och, she liked me to bring her little gifts.
I gave her a hair comb once that pleased her well, things like that.
Mostly we sat with the old folks looking on, trying to think of things to talk about.
But usually after a few minutes her da' would find me some wee job to do around the place, and after that Jessie or her mam would make me a cup of tea and that was it—off home for me.
A quick kiss if I was lucky, and most of the time I wasn't."
Robbie sat back, viewed his progress and reached for another bundle of thatch. He glanced at Cameron and added, "You made the right choice, man—skippin' the courtship and going straight to marriage."
Cameron gave him a half-smile. He hadn't skipped anything, he'd just done it the other way around.
Bridget brought them mugs of tea a short time later.
She must have overheard their conversation, for she said in a quiet voice, "My John and I used to take long walks when we were courting, along the beach, by the woods.
Mostly we just talked. And listened. By the time we were wed, we knew each other so well there was no question of bridal nerves for me. "
Cameron tried not to notice the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "John wasn't much of a talker, as I recall."
She smiled. "You learn about a person as much by what they don't say, as what they say.
More sometimes. And also by what they do.
She glanced up at Robbie Ross drinking his tea on the roof, and added softly, "Nobody ever had to ask my John to do anything.
He saw something that needed to be done, and did it. Quietly, without fuss or fanfare."
Cameron nodded. "Aye, he was a fine man, your John."
She swallowed. "He was. This roof would have been fixed long since if he hadn't been . . . " She looked away and after a moment said in a choked voice, "My thanks to you, Laird."
Cameron nodded. He put down his empty cup and climbed back up onto the roof with a renewed sense of purpose. This was why he'd married Jeannie McLeay—to do for people like Bridget what they could not do for themselves.
What he hadn't taken into account was how he would feel about his new bride.
The way Jeannie had looked when he left her this morning, curled up in the bed, all soft and warm, her hair spread across the pillow. It had taken all of his willpower to simply slide out of bed and pad quietly away. Leaving her serenely sleeping. Untouched.
He hammered down another strut. Unspoken in what Bridget had said was a clear sense that she and her John had enjoyed each other. In all ways. Especially in bed.
The sooner this blasted courtship of his was done with the better.
He thought about Robbie's wife, and how her watchful, protective family made sure that Robbie treated her right before the wedding. Jeannie had no-one to look after her interests, only that useless grandfather, who took better care of his sheep than his granddaughter.
And yet his Jeannie had stood up for herself. Not many brides would have the courage to deny a laird his marital rights and further, to demand a courtship. That took courage.
He liked that in her. A laird's wife needed courage.
Talking and listening and walks. He could do that. And little gifts. Anything, as long as he didn't have to spout poetry.
* * *
JEANNIE'S TOUR OF THE castle was enlightening—but also a little puzzling.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Findlay, seemed to be as efficient as she looked.
She answered all of Jeannie's questions crisply and in detail and, on the surface at least, Jeannie couldn't fault her organization.
Or her attitude, though she was a little intimidating.
Yet in quite a number of rooms there was a faint but definite air of neglect—furniture that was dusty, cobwebs in a few places, carpets that needed a good beating.
The dust showed all the more because Roskirk Castle was such a bare and barren-looking place.
It wasn't filthy, Jeannie thought. But it wasn't spotless, and it ought to be.
She decided to broach the matter with the housekeeper. "This morning I sent for the maids who were supposed to clean the laird's bedchamber. Kirsty and Aileen."
The tall housekeeper frowned. "Supposed to? They did clean it, I checked."
"Well, be that as it may, it wasn't cleaned to my satisfaction. I've asked them to clean it again."
Jeannie half expected Mrs. Findlay to argue, or give some excuse, but though her frown deepened, she didn't respond to the criticism in any way. She didn't even seem offended, just thoughtful. She continued the tour, but seemed a little abstracted.
The only part of the castle Jeannie could find no fault with was in the area ruled by the cook—the kitchens and scullery.
Everything was immaculate, from the well-scrubbed stone flags to the gleaming pots and pans hanging on the wall.
Mrs. Baird, the cook, had greeted Jeannie with friendly courtesy and cheerfully gave her a tour, ending with her suggestions for meals for the next few days. Jeannie approved them all.
Mrs. Findlay stood back, playing no part in the conversation, waiting in silence. Clearly the two women ruled separate domains, but Jeannie could detect no apparent animosity between them.
As they walked down the passage leading away from the kitchen, they passed a door. "Where does that lead?" Jeannie asked.
"The kitchen garden." Mrs. Findlay kept walking.
"I'd like to see it."
"There's not much growing at this season, but if you wish .
. . " The housekeeper opened the door and led the way into a large high-walled garden.
It was neatly arranged in beds, with narrow cinder pathways winding through it.
Fruit trees had been espaliered against the south wall and there was a substantial greenhouse in the corner. Jeannie was delighted.
"Can we see inside the greenhouse, please?"
With a faint, acquiescent shrug, Mrs. Findlay led the way. They turned a corner around some gooseberry bushes and Jeannie came to an abrupt halt. Stretched across the pathway a large cobweb hung, the strands glistening faintly in the sun. Mrs. Findlay didn't slacken her pace.
Clearly she had no fear of spiders. Jeannie hung back, waiting for her to deal with it. But to her horror, the housekeeper walked straight into the web—and recoiled with a loud exclamation and frantic gestures.
Jeannie rushed forward and helped her brush the sticky strands off her face and hair, assuring her that there was no spider on her. "I saw you walking toward it, but I thought you were going to knock it down with a stick or something," she said.
"No, I didn't— " The woman bit her tongue and looked away.
And suddenly Jeannie understood. "You didn't see it, did you?"
Mrs. Findlay said nothing.
"Your eyesight is going, isn't it?" Jeannie said softly. Of course. That was why the maids had been able to get away with slapdash work.
There was a short silence. "What makes you say that?"
"I've been wondering why, when you're such an efficient and well-organized person, the castle is in need of a good clean."
"A good clean?"Mrs. Findlay repeated stiffly.
"You can't see it, but there is a faint layer of dust on much of the furniture, and even some cobwebs in some rooms."
Mrs. Findlay sagged. "I suppose it's no use pretending any longer. The last year or so it's been getting worse. I've tried spectacles, but they do nae good. I can barely even read my own writing." She straightened and said with dignity, "You'll be wanting to dismiss me, then."
Jeannie thought for a minute. "I don't think that will be necessary."
Mrs. Findlay looked at her with a shocked expression. "But you said the castle was dirty! You cannot want—" She swallowed and said with quiet dignity. "I have always prided myself on the quality of my work. If I can no longer perform to the required standard—"
"As I said, your organization seems first rate to me. It is just your eyesight that is letting you down."
"Just my eyesight," Mrs. Findlay echoed bitterly. "The most important part. If I canna see whether the girls have done a good job—"
"No, but I can."
There was a short silence, then Jeannie said, "If you will continue to organize the castle, I will be your eyes—for the moment, at least—and I'll try to be discreet about it." Though it was clear the maids knew. "Have you had your eyes examined by a specialist?"
Mrs. Findlay snorted. "I don't need some doctor to tell me I'm going blind. I can see that for myself." She sighed and added in a defeated voice. "My mother's eyesight went the same way—she was blind before she was sixty."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Jeannie said. "Now, let us inspect the greenhouse."
Mrs. Findlay didn't move. "You'll have to tell the laird. I canna go on deceiving him."
"I'll tell him, but he did promise me that the household was mine to run, so there's no need to worry." Cameron might have thought it a grand joke when he'd told her she'd be 'the woman of the house' but she intended to hold him to it.
Mrs. Findlay still didn't move. Her eyes filled with tears. "Are you sure about this, lass?"
"Very sure," Jeannie assured her gently.
She knew what it was like to be alone and dependent on the good will of others.
Besides, this woman was almost fearsomely efficient, apart from her eyesight.
"Now then, let's look at that greenhouse.
I'll be having tea with my husband's uncle this afternoon, and I'll need to wash and tidy myself first. He seems to me to be a very elegant gentleman.
And possibly hard to please? My marriage won't exactly have endeared me to him.
" She ended on a questioning note, hoping the housekeeper might give her a hint or two about Charles Sinclair.
His extreme old-fashioned elegance and courtly manners were a little overwhelming, especially for a girl who everyone knew had been fished out of a bog. And was still wearing the same blue dress she'd been married in.
Worse still, her marriage had stripped him of all power and influence.
Mrs. Findlay opened the greenhouse door.
"Och, Mr. Charles is no' so bad. He's bored, that's all.
And mebbe a bit lonely. He's no' an outdoors sort of gentleman, so he gets no pleasure from hunting or fishing like the other men do.
He's all for society and art and things like that—he paints, you know, and plays music on his spinet. He was reared in the French court."
"Ah." That made sense.
They finished the tour of the greenhouse and the kitchen garden. At the base of the stairs, Jeannie paused when Mrs. Findlay laid a hand on her arm. "You truly mean it about being my eyes, m'lady? You'll not dismiss me?"
"Of course not," Jeannie said softly "I think we'll make a good team, don't you?" The older woman nodded, wordlessly.
Jeannie hurried upstairs. To her delight, the bedchamber was now spotless, with every surface burnished and fragrant with the scent of beeswax polish.
The carpets, now well beaten, glowed with color and the floor had been mopped and polished to a soft sheen.
Even the window panes were freshly washed and gleamed, crystal clear.
She turned slowly, noting every change for the better, and smiled. Not a speck of dust or shred of cobweb anywhere. It was a tiny victory. Her first step in becoming the wife of the laird. Next, to get the whole castle looking like this.
She washed her face and hands, and tidied her hair, then grimaced at her reflection, wishing she had another dress to change into.
On that thought, she sent for Mairie. "Is there a seamstress in the village, Mairie?"
Mairie gave her a doubtful look. "Why do you want to know?"
Jeannie gestured at her dress. "I can't go on in the same dress every day, can I?"
Mairie shook her head. "Most of the women in the village make their own dresses, but"—she hurried on before Jeannie could interrupt—"they're simple, hard-wearing garments, m'lady. No' at all all suitable for you. No' for the laird's lady."
"Having one dress to my name is just as unsuitable," Jeannie said briskly. "So I have no choice. Ask around for me, will you, Mairie, and see if you can find someone willing and capable."
"Aye m'lady." She didn't look at all happy.
Jeannie's next hurdle was tea with Cameron's uncle, the man he'd ousted by marrying her.
She wasn't looking forward to it.