Chapter Fifteen
The following day, Jeannie was working with a couple of maids, cleaning out one of the upstairs chambers when she glanced out of the window and noticed something of a procession coming from the direction of the harbor.
Men, and horses pulling carts, laden with lumber and boxes and mysterious bundles in various shapes and sizes.
One of the housemaids peeped over her shoulder. "Och, that'll be the boat."
"The boat?" Jeannie queried.
"Aye, bringin' all the supplies the laird sent for when he got back from—er, when he returned with you, m'lady, married. He sent off a great long order that very night." She added with satisfaction. "He'll be able to get all the repairs done now, and start on the new bridge."
"Oh, good." Building supplies. That would make him happy. Jeannie turned back to her work.
A short time later the housekeeper appeared in the doorway. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her. "Would you please step up to your bedchamber, m'lady?"
"My bedchamber? Why? What's the problem?"
"You'll see when you get there," the housekeeper said austerely. "Now come awa' wi' ye—and take off that apron. And there's a smut on your nose."
Mystified, Jeannie removed the apron and wiped her face, then hurried off to her bedchamber, followed by the housekeeper.
She entered the bedchamber and stopped dead. A small, dark, quietly elegant woman—a complete stranger—stood there with Mairie, her maid, and the neat, bare room Jeannie had left that morning was now a riot of color and texture.
Every available surface was draped with clothing; dresses in blues, greens, lilac, crimson, creamy yellow and more, patterned and plain, in silk, satin, linen and wool.
On the bed lay mounds of what looked like underclothes; petticoats in fine lawn, bodices, camisoles—even drawers—all trimmed with lace and finer than anything Jeannie had ever worn.
"Wh—what is all this?" she stammered. And who was the strange lady who stood so quietly watching?
"It's the laird," Mairie said excitedly. "He ordered all this for you. It came in the boat with the other supplies—"
"From Madame Fouchet's, the finest dressmaker in Edinburgh," Mrs. Findlay added. She gestured to the small lady standing quietly by. "And this is one of her seamstresses, Mme—"
"Dubois," the lady said, and curtseyed. "How do you do, my lady. Madame Fouchet sent me to attend to the correct fitting of all the garments. They are not quite finished and will need some personal adjustments, non?"
Jeannie didn't know what to say. He'd ordered her all these beautiful dresses? Considering her needs when she'd thought he only had building supplies on his mind?
Dazed, she picked up one of the dresses at the top of the pile and held it against her.
It was a simple day dress in a soft blue fabric patterned with tiny yellow flowers.
A scooped neck, three quarter length sleeves and flaring out from a 'waistline' that sat high under the bosom—was this the fashion in Edinburgh, then?
She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass. "It's so pretty," she breathed.
The little seamstress bustled forward. "Try it on, my lady, and we shall make the adjustments necessary. You wish to wear it at once?"
Jeannie did. For the next hour she tried on dress after dress, with Mm. Dubois tweaking and muttering in French and making notes, all with a dozen or more pins in her mouth.
The dresses fitted almost perfectly. "How did you know to get such a good fit?" she asked.
Mairie laughed. "The laird asked me to tak' the measurements of that dress you wore that first night—remember, I took it awa' for cleaning? And Mrs. Findlay and I made a list of everything we thought you might need. There's a shoemaker as well, waiting downstairs."
Jeannie was dazzled by the forethought and consideration her husband had shown, all without a word to her.
And then she realized something. "So is this why the village seamstress was unable to help me out?
And why there was such a shortage of ready-made homespun available?
Because you knew this"—she gestured to the sumptuous pile—"would be coming in a few days. "
Mairie giggled, and Mrs. Findlay nodded. "The laird's wife doesn'a wear homespun," she said simply.
And that was that.
For the rest of the afternoon Jeannie stood, slowly circling while the lovely new dresses were tweaked and pinned and tacked. Mme. Dubois was adamant that everything must fit 'just so.'
Then while the Frenchwoman was sewing, a neat little man was shown up. He, too had some half-finished slippers ready to be fitted on her and a pair of brown half boots that, amazingly, were a perfect fit.
By the end of the day Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass, breathless.
The first new dress she'd had in years, and oh, it was so soft and pretty.
Mairie and Mme. Dubois had dressed her hair in a sophisticated style, and from somewhere, the Frenchwoman had produced a handful of tiny yellow silk flowers that they'd woven into her hair.
She looked like a proper lady.
She couldn't wait for Cameron to see her. "He's coming, m'lady." Mairie had been keeping watch for him. "He'll be inside in two minutes."
Jeannie hurried to the head of the stairs and waited. She felt it the moment he saw her. He stopped dead, staring up at her, and the expression in his eyes set her heart a'thumping.
She swallowed and took a deep breath. She'd planned a dignified glide down the stairs in her new shoes and her new dress, acting every inch the lady.
But she couldn't restrain herself. "Thank you, oh, thank you Cameron.
I didn't think you'd realize—I never imagined you'd—but you did—and oh, have you ever seen anything so pretty—and there's more upstairs—you must have spent a fortune, and oh, you shouldn't have, but I'm so happy you did—so many beautiful dresses—and the shoes—so dainty and yet a perfect fit—how did you know?
" The words tumbled out of her, and the faster she spoke, the faster she moved until by the time she reached the bottom of the steps she was running.
She flew across the floor and flung herself into his open arms.
Laughing, he swung her around in a circle and when he finally stopped, he cupped her face in both hands and gave her a kiss that practically dissolved her knees.
"I'm glad you like your new clothes, wife," he said, and she blushed, realizing that half the castle had witnessed her mad rush down the stairs, babbling like a loon and hurling herself at their laird. They were all clapping and laughing.
She clung to him dizzily. So much for a dignified ladylike entrance. And as for that kiss . . . Her cheeks were on fire.
"I think we'll walk through the village tonight," he said quietly. "Show off my bonny bride in her bonny new dress. What say you? Are you ready to meet my people?"
* * *
IT WAS DUSK BY THE time they returned. Cameron, to honor the occasion—and to underline his message to his people—had changed into the kilt he'd worn at his wedding. He fancied they made a fine sight, the laird and his lady, strolling through the village.
At his side, Jeannie was very quiet. "They're all very friendly, aren't they?" she said. "So kind and welcoming."
"Of course. Why wouldn't they be?" His people's welcome of his bride was on his behalf at this stage, but once they got to know her, they'd love her, he was sure.
She grimaced. "I'll never remember all their names."
"You will, in time."
She squeezed his arm. "Thank you for waiting until I was fit to be seen."
He frowned. He wasn't ashamed of how she looked when he first brought her home—Lord, did she not know how bonny she was? "You'd be bonny wearing nothing but a wheat bag," he told her and was rewarded with a blush and a glowing look.
As they neared the castle entrance, they heard the sound of someone roaring and bellowing in the courtyard. "Oh no!" Jeannie exclaimed, and sped toward the noise, fleet as a young doe.
Cameron raced after her. What the hell was she doing, running toward trouble?
He entered the courtyard a few steps behind her, and saw the source of the commotion, a tall rangy man of about sixty, with wild gray hair.
It was clear the man had been drinking. He was reeling and staggering and bellowing at the top of his voice, "Gi' me back ma granddaughter!
Stolen awa' from me, she was! Where is she? Where's the bastard that took her?"
Folk stood in small clumps, watching warily from a distance.
Before Cameron could stop her, Jeannie marched up and confronted the man. "Hush your shouting, Grandad. I was not stolen! I left of my own free will, as you very well know."
He swung unsteadily around to face her and scanned her up and down, taking in her fashionable dress, the yellow flowers, her blue shawl.
The look on his face darkened. "Look at you in your fancy clothes, flaunting your bosom before the world, ye shameless wee hoor!
Ye're coming hame wi' me, where ye belong.
" He reached out to grab her but Jeannie, anticipating the move, skipped out of reach.
She glanced at Cameron, and made a gesture for him to stay back, saying in a low voice, "He's my grandfather. I'll handle him."
Cameron gave her a curt nod and stepped back, glowering.
It went against the grain to leave this drunken bastard to her.
Ewan Leith was a dour, bitter, bad-tempered man who'd taken the poorest of care of his young orphaned granddaughter—out on the hills with the sheep in all weather, clothed in rags and keeping her half starved with his miserly ways.
He itched for an excuse to give Leith the hiding he deserved. But he was an older man, and Jeannie's only living relative. If she wanted to deal with him, he would respect that. To a point.
"Calm down, Grandad, I'm perfectly well, as you can see. But I'm no' coming home wi' ye." She spoke calmly, reasonably—trying to put a good face on it for the sake of their audience, Cameron realized. Acting as though her grandfather had come out of concern for her. He doubted anyone was fooled.
The old man scowled. "Who's goin' to cook for me, then? Who'll mind the sheep?"
"You can cook for yourself. You can mind the sheep," she said evenly. "You did it before I came to live with you, and you can do it now."
"Ye shameless wee besom — ye owe it to me. You have a, a duty to me. I'm your grandfather!"
"I know. But I'm a married woman now, Grandad, and I have a duty to my husband."
Cameron watched, ready to jump in if necessary, but proud of the cool way Jeannie was handling the man, not entering into his argument, but firmly restating her position.
Aye, she was going to make a grand laird's lady.
He could see from the expressions on his people's faces that they thought the same.
Ewen Leith snorted. He peered past Jeannie, to where Cameron stood by, arms folded. "Ye're the one who stole her away, are ye?"
"I'm the man who married her. Cameron Fraser, laird of this castle."
"Ye had nae right. She's mine, my only grandchild. She belongs tae me!" He gestured dramatically at his chest and staggered a few steps backwards.
"Nonsense! I'm of an age to make my own decisions," Jeannie said briskly.
"Now, I'm married and I'm no' going back, so stop this fuss and come along inside and have a nice cup of tea and something to eat.
" She went to take his arm and lead him inside, but he flung her off violently, almost knocking her to the ground.
Cameron caught her before she fell. He set her carefully aside, then turned and poked her grandfather hard in the chest. "Lay a finger on my wife again, old man, and I'll not be answerable for the consequences."
"Your wife," Leith sneered. "She's nothing but a hoor, you'll see. Running after any man she finds. She'll lie down with any man who asks her. I know, I've seen what she got up to in the hills when she thought I wasna watching."
Jeannie gasped with indignation. A murmur ran through the watching castle folk.
Cameron's fist flew out and hit Leith on the jaw with a crack that sent the old man staggering.
"That's a filthy lie and you know it, you evil-minded old miser.
My wife came to her marriage bed a virgin.
" He reached out and drew Jeannie to his side in a quick one-armed hug.
He glanced at the listening crowd and added, "As the sheets testified. "
He let that sink in, then added, "One more word, Leith, and I'll beat you to a pulp. Grandfather or not, no-one disrespects my wife." He stepped back, breathing heavily.
Jeannie clutched his arm. Cameron glanced down at her worried face and leashed his anger.
The man might be a miserable cur, but he was her only living relative.
"If you care to return in a more respectful frame of mind, Leith—and when you're no' the worse for drink—you'll be welcome to visit.
But for now, you're no' welcome in my—in our home. "
Leith made a rude sound "You couldna pay me to come here again." He turned and marched unsteadily away.
"Grandad," Jeannie called.
He hesitated, then stopped and looked back.
"If you're ever in need, you will always have a place here," she told him. "Family is family."
His face twisted in scorn. "Family? Ye're no part of me! Ye're as useless and lazy and wicked as your mother was!" He stumped away.
Jeannie said softly, "Everybody loved Mam. But who loves you, Grandad?"