Chapter 6
Claire finished the scrubbing and polishing eventually, and even though she could see that it did not reach Agnes’s high standards, the housekeeper let it pass, content that Claire was not shirking her duties and was trying to do her best.
Indeed, Claire was trying very hard to fit in with the women she worked with, although she found it very hard going. For a start, many of them spoke Gaelic and had no English at all, but most of them could speak her language but chose not to.
She persevered, however, despite being constantly rebuffed and laughed at for her lack of knowledge about the most basic of household chores. She could always tell when the maids were talking about her because they all lapsed into Gaelic and began to giggle and give her sneaky sideways glances.
Agnes had become a little softer towards Claire, and would occasionally defend her if one of the others was abusing her. If she had been on her home soil, Claire would quite happily have stood up for herself by using her whiplash tongue to verbally batter someone into submission.
Here, however, she was outnumbered and outgunned. Nobody would stand up for her if she could not do it herself, so it was better to be stoic and walk away.
Claire was sitting at the dinner table with the others, pushing her food around her plate as she tried to screw up the courage to eat it.
She had managed sausages, liver, chicken, even a little venison, although that was mainly kept for those of higher rank.
That evening it had been left over from some important function.
Rose had loved a food called haggis, but she had warned Claire not to be put off by its strange appearance, saying that it looked as if it was still alive. However, she assured Claire that it was delicious. Despite this, Claire was too timid to take a bite of it.
“What’s the matter, madam?” one of the women asked, smirking. “Is our food no’ good enough for ye?”
Claire did not answer, merely took a spoonful of the haggis and put it in her mouth, then, despite its strange appearance, it dissolved into one of the most delicious tastes she had ever experienced. Her eyes widened in appreciation, and she said appreciatively, “It is delicious.”
There was a murmur of surprised approval around the table, and Claire finished her meal without any further comment being made.
When she put down her spoon, she licked her lips appreciatively and took a sip of ale, then looked around her.
The other occupants of the table were sitting back looking sated and content, and while Claire was full, she was by no means content.
She had not written to her sisters for weeks, and now her conscience was troubling her.
Yet how would she get parchment, pens, and ink to write a letter if none of the maids would share their supplies with her?
Agnes would no doubt have a small supply, but Claire was loath to ask her, since she probably needed all of it for her work.
Before she had a chance to stop herself, Claire asked aloud, “Does anyone have parchment or ink?”
There was silence for a moment before everyone burst out laughing. They carried on until some of them had tears running down their cheeks. This was obviously the funniest thing they had heard in ages, but eventually the mirth died down, and all eyes turned to Claire.
It was, of course, Lorna who answered. “Aye, we dae, madam,” she answered scornfully. “Because we a’ write tae the King every day.”
“An’ he writes back,” someone else said. “Every day, eh, lassies?”
There was a chorus of “aye” and another burst of laughter. Claire’s cheeks flared bright red as she suddenly realised that none of her fellow maids could read. She was not surprised, but she cursed herself for not having worked this out before.
The notion that none of them had ever read a book in their lives filled her with such horror that it was tragic. Her thoughts must have shown in her face because suddenly Lorna leaned across the table and slapped her hand on it just in front of Claire.
“We might no’ be able tae read, Sassenach,” she said, her voice filled with scorn. “But we arenae stupid. We a’ have good Scots tongues in our heids. A’ except ye, o’ course!”
This brought forth another hearty chorus of laughter, and Claire looked at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow her. The hostility around her was almost palpable, and she would have taken to her heels if given half a chance.
“Dinnae pity us, milady.” Lorna gave the last word so much venom that it almost made Claire tremble. “We have many good Scottish stories tae tell. Is that no’ right, lassies?” She looked around at her colleagues, who were nodding and smiling in agreement.
“I think we might tell Claire some o’ them.” Again Lorna swept a glance around the table, and again she was answered by a chorus of assent.
“Dae ye know the one about the Battle o’ Bannockburn?” Lorna asked.
A cheer went up, and Lorna stared straight at Claire with a spiteful smile.
“No,” Claire replied. “But I suppose you are going to tell me about it. As you said, you have good Scots tongues in your heads. I would like to hear some of your stories.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth, but Claire was not willing to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much their hostility bothered her.
“Are ye sure ye are ready for this one, hen?” Lorna asked, her eyes gleaming with spite.
Claire nodded. The story was very short, basically a summary of the facts: Scotland, led by King Robert the Bruce, with a much smaller force, had overcome a massive English army led by King Edward the Second.
When the story ended, a great cheer went up, and the women all looked at Claire to see her reaction, their faces triumphant. However, Claire kept her face as expressionless as that of a marble statue. Not a flicker of emotion crossed it as she listened to Lorna.
“So what dae ye say now, madam Sassenach?” Lorna asked, smirking.
“Battle of Culloden,” Claire said flatly.
This had been a battle in which the Scots had been thoroughly trounced, and everyone knew it. Immediately, the women’s faces became thunderous, and Claire felt so afraid she regretted opening her mouth.
“Careful, Sassenach,” one of the others warned.
Claire looked around the table; there were twenty-odd pairs of eyes staring at her. The woman’s words had been a threat, and not a very subtle one. She doubted that any of them would actually harm her, but some harboured extremely bad feelings against the English, so she could never be sure.
Most of the bad feeling stemmed from the fact that many Scots had lost friends and relatives to English swords and muskets in battles and raids, and the bitterness and hatred still ran deep.
However, Claire thought that she might feel the same given the same circumstances, so she tried to make allowances for them.
Yet now, listening to the tales Lorna was telling about the battles of the wars between the two countries, how the ground had been soaked with the blood of English soldiers, Claire went pale.
She was utterly appalled that Lorna and the others should glory over such dreadful loss of life, and when they began to speak about their Laird and his exploits, she felt quite sick.
“He’s killed a few Sassenachs tae keep us safe,” she said, with a scornful laugh.
“More than a few,” a young girl at the end of the table said with a grimace. “He nearly chopped the head off the swine that killed my wee brother. He is a fierce man, but a good one.” She glared at Claire.
Lorna gave Claire a sideways look that was so full of venom that she shrank backwards.
“He has been nice tae ye because he feels sorry for ye,” she said, “but he willnae always be like that. He is fierce inside, an’ ye will soon find that out. Anyway, he will soon wed a good Scottish woman o’ quality.” She raised her cup of ale. “Tae our Laird!” she said. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath!” Everyone else raised their cups and drank, except Claire, who pushed the rest of her food away, then turned and fled.
I have to leave this place, she thought desperately. It’s just as Rose said—they all hate me because I am English.
Yet look what had happened to Rose. She had found the man of her dreams and was living the kind of life she had only read about in romantic stories.
Yet, Claire had no such hopes; lightning did not strike in the same place twice, and the only man she had met who was worthy of her attention was the Laird.
She gave a short, cynical laugh. He was never likely to look twice at her, and beyond his handsome face, she knew nothing about him. She was wildly attracted to him, yes, but that was not love.
Claire sighed and went to her chamber, then threw herself on her bed and wept tears of sheer misery. She had to speak to Rose. She had to find a way out of this awful place.
Three days later, Claire was not further forward in her search for a way to get in touch with Rose. She had not seen the Laird, except from a distance, when she had swiftly ducked behind a pillar or into an alcove to avoid him.
She avoided speaking to the other maids except when it was absolutely necessary, and it seemed that they were quite happy to go along with this, since no-one attempted to engage her in conversation either. She was silent at suppertime, and only stayed long enough to eat her food before leaving.
This arrangement seemed to suit everyone, since Claire was content to go back to her chamber and enjoy the only company she really needed; her books.
On her way back to her room one evening, she was feeling particularly depressed, and quite literally bumped into Dougal McMahon, who collided with her as they approached the same corner from different directions.
“Claire!” he said, steadying her by gripping her upper arms. “Please excuse me. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, with an awkward smile. “It was my fault. I was not looking where I was going. Forgive me, sir.” She curtsied, avoiding his eyes. Then she looked up. “Do you perhaps have a pen and parchment, sir? I would like to write to my sister.”
“I do,” Dougal answered. “But it would be quicker for you to get it from the Laird’s study. It’s far closer, and I do not think he will mind if you ask him.”
“Indeed it is. Thank you, sir.”
Claire curtsied again and made herself walk sedately to the Laird’s study. She knocked softly and waited, but when there was no answer she knocked again, this time a little more loudly. When there was still no response, she tried the door handle, but she had little hope that it would be unlocked.
To her surprise, the handle turned without a sound, but she still opened it with the utmost caution, and stepped in noiselessly on her tiptoes.
The room was exactly as she had imagined it; a miniature version of the library.
The only difference was the large mahogany desk that was covered in neatly stacked parchments.
Everything else was the same: the smell of beeswax and leather, the bookshelves that lined every wall, the marble fireplace and armchairs. If she had not been on such an urgent errand, Claire would happily have made herself comfortable for the whole evening and read herself to sleep.
There was an inkwell, quill, and parchment on top of the desk, but no bottle with a lid, and Claire could not take the risk of spilling ink all over herself.
She took two sheets of parchment, a blotter, and the quill pen from the desktop then opened the top drawer, where thankfully she found what she was looking for at once.
She had just breathed a sigh of relief when suddenly she heard the door handle turning, and suddenly, she was looking into the ice-blue eyes of Iain Ross, who was glaring at her from across the room.
He took three deliberate steps towards her, then leaned his hands on the desk, bending over it so that their faces were only inches apart. Claire was terrified, reminded of the stories Lorna and the others had told her over the dinner table.
Here she was alone with a warrior, a very, very dangerous man who could end a life not only with a weapon, but with his bare hands. If he decided to attack her she would be utterly helpless, with absolutely no way to protect herself.
She quickly whipped the stolen goods she had in her grasp behind her back and waited, her eyes wide and terrified.