Chapter Ten #2
Helene stepped across the threshold into an abode lit only by the light of day.
The air carried a pungent scent from the dwindling peat fire in the centre of the room, and a cast iron cauldron slung over the fire wafted remnants of a previous meal.
Two rabbits lay lifeless on a rustic table, along with bunches of herbs and garden-grown vegetables.
Ingredients destined for the cooking pot, no doubt.
‘Helene.’
Helene turned towards the gentle voice of Aila, who pointed to two wooden stools. The old lady led by example and sat down on one. Helene removed the leather satchel from her shoulder and settled it beside her feet on the straw-strewn earth floor.
Ross busied himself at a wooden chest and promptly produced four small drinking receptacles. Grey eyes sparkled as he spoke in Gaelic over raised cups.
Lachlan responded with words now familiar to Helene’s ears. ‘Slàinte mhath!’
She repeated the spoken Scottish toast but hesitated in downing the liquid in the same customary fashion as the others. Hers was a cautionary approach to the potent drop, regardless of her somewhat amused audience.
Helene brought the amber liquid to her nose and took a whiff. ‘It smells like the peat fire, with woody hints of cedar and pine.’
‘Aye. So it does,’ said Lachlan, lifting a quizzical brow. ‘Ye didnae tell me ye’re a connoisseur of whisky.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not. Although my father did teach me a thing or two about wines.’
Fumes from the whisky caused the roof of Helene’s mouth to tingle. She let the liquid touch the tip of her tongue before drinking it in one swallow. A burning sensation followed in its wake, and with the intake of her next breath she coughed, eyes smarting.
Helene glanced up at Lachlan and at the cottars, each one of them awaiting her verdict. The mirth in their expressions did not go unnoticed. She used her hand to wave air into her throat and said, in a hoarse voice, ‘It felt like I swallowed fire.’
Lachlan translated her words through his broad grin, which sent Aila and Ross into fits of laughter.
Aila rose slowly from her stool and busied herself at the wooden chest. By the time Ross retrieved the whisky jar, insisting they drink another dram, Aila had returned with a plate of coarse bread and chunks of cheese.
Helene took a bite of cheese and savoured its taste and texture. ‘Did you make this, Aila? It’s delicious.’
Lachlan translated the question and compliment and answered on Aila’s behalf. ‘The womenfolk at the shielings make cheese and butter to see them through the winter. This cheese was delivered early this morning by one of the herd boys.’
‘And the bread?’ asked Helene.
‘That’s Aila’s doing. She bakes it here.’ Lachlan pointed to the hearth around which they sat. ‘If ye dinnae mind, Helene, I’d like to spend a moment talking with Aila and Ross on several matters. I dinnae mean to exclude ye from the conversation, but it willnae take long.’
‘Of course. Go ahead. I understand.’
Helene sipped the whisky as if it were wine. She had no wish to endure another heart-stopping sensation of liquid fire. Nor did she want to offend Ross by refusing the refill.
She fell into her own comfortable silence while Lachlan conversed with the cottars in Gaelic.
Her gaze wandered around the room, taking in the stone-walled house and the timber beams supporting a turf-and-heather thatched roof.
A small vent in the roof above the fire was the only means by which smoke could escape, unless, of course, the door was left open.
Even with lit tapers, the cottage would be dark and smoky during winter nights.
A neatly folded blanket lay in a heather-filled box-bed situated in one corner of the room. Beside that sat a chamber pot. A spinning wheel and a well-used dresser with four drawers occupied the opposite corner. Various trinkets rested on its scarred, unpolished surface.
It occurred to Helene that the sum total of the couple’s worldly possessions were likely contained within the walls of this sparsely furnished dwelling.
Even the goats and chickens seemed to have been assigned a space to bed down at the other end of the dwelling.
What struck Helene most about the cottars was that they appeared happy and content.
All this was a far cry from the lap of luxury in which Helene had been raised.
Something she’d taken for granted, until now.
It was a most humbling experience sitting with this couple, sharing a meagre meal, and drinking whisky from origins of what could well-be an illicit distilling enterprise.
If that were the case, then it was Lachlan’s concern, perhaps one he turned a blind eye to.
Either way, it was none of her business and a subject she’d not broach with him.
Whether or not he’d explained her breeding and background to Aila and Ross, they showed no sign of resentment or prejudice towards her. Shamefully, no English person of her ilk would reciprocate the same manner of kindness and hospitality towards these gentle Highland folk.
With her next sip of whisky, Helene sensed a shift in the air. She had no understanding of Gaelic, so why had Lachlan and the cottars lowered their conversation to a reverent hush? Helene bent her head and saw through lowered lashes their solemn expressions.
Something else was said between them, with Aila and Ross giving Lachlan a gentle nod accompanied by a smile. They both glanced at Helene, and then back at Lachlan. Conversation paused.
Concern had Helene ask, ‘Is something wrong?’
It was a few moments before Lachlan would look at her. When he did, she saw sorrow in his eyes.
‘Nae, lass.’ Another pause.
Unconvinced, she handed him what was left of her whisky. ‘You look like you could do with this.’
‘Are ye sure ye dinnae want it?’
‘Finish it off. You’d be doing me a favour.’
His lips twitched before downing it. ‘’Tis time we leave.’
Ross collected the drinking cups and placed them on the table. Helene retrieved the satchel and took her cue from Aila, rising to her feet.
The old lady smiled and set about rearranging the plaid around Helene’s shoulders. Next, she unpinned the large silver brooch from her own timeworn shawl.
Helene stared at Aila’s hands. Hands with thin, wrinkly skin stretched over bony fingers and enlarged knuckles.
Hands that told a story of a hard-working life, requiring strength when challenged and being tender when needed.
With the dexterity of youth, she fastened the intricately patterned brooch to Helene’s plaid, displaying it beneath her throat.
Aila spoke as gently as the gnarled hands she’d placed either side of Helene’s shoulders.
The old lady had gifted Helene a personal treasure.
When Aila had said her piece, she took two ends of her own shawl, and in lieu of her brooch, she tied them in a knot.
The humbling gesture of giving away the prized Highland ornament brought tears to Helene’s eyes.
‘Lachlan, tell Aila I can’t accept this.’
‘Nae.’
‘You must. Why would she give it to a stranger? She doesn’t know me. I’m nothing to her.’
‘Ye didnae know Donnie, and yet look what ye did for him.’
Helene looked down at the brooch. ‘So that’s what all this is about? News travels fast.’
‘Aye. To Aila and Ross, ye’re the Sassenach lass who showed great courage in standing up for one of their clan.’
The smithy immediately came to mind. ‘Are Aila and Ross also related to Donnie?’
‘They ken young Donnie. He’s not a blood relative, but any member of the clan is considered family. The brooch is a token of their appreciation and in honouring what ye did for a bairn that isnae yers.’
‘But the brooch looks to be an heirloom, something to be bequeathed to her own daughter or relative.’
A momentary shadow flickered in Lachlan’s eyes. ‘Their last living relative, a granddaughter, is . . . nae longer alive.’
‘Oh!’ Helene looked from Aila to Ross. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She touched the brooch with the greatest respect and took Aila’s aged hands in hers. ‘Thank you, Aila. I’m grateful. Truly grateful, and I’ll wear it with pride.’
Lachlan’s translation put a smile on the old woman’s lined face. She said something to Lachlan, glancing between him and Helene. He bore the look of someone who’d just been told the impossible.
‘What did she say?’ asked Helene, curious to know what Aila had said to put colour in Lachlan’s cheeks. He would not meet her eyes.
‘Nothing that would interest ye.’
He couldn’t have been more wrong, especially when Aila gave them both the biggest grin and Lachlan’s colour deepened.
So, the laird was prone to blush? An enlightening discovery, and one that led Helene to believe Aila might have implied or referenced a connection between Helene and Lachlan.
All the signs were there to explain his self-conscious reactions, his hasty farewell, and his long strides exiting the cottage into the afternoon sunshine.
Helene thanked Aila and Ross for their hospitality and followed Lachlan outside. She turned to wave the cottars a final farewell before the woods hid them from view.
The ensuing silence between herself and Lachlan gave Helene time to formulate the beginnings of a plan. A plan that just might elicit from the laird another endearing blush.