Chapter Thirteen
Next morning, Catriona woke too late and dressed hurriedly in a gray walking skirt and jacket over a linen blouse, sturdy boots, and a plaid shawl.
She remembered that she had promised to meet Morag MacLeod that day, agreed before the snow, the shieling, the wedding, and the whirligig that had spun her life around.
Heading for the dining room in the central tower, she followed a long windowed hallway to a medieval stone stair and descended to a rough stone corridor to the kitchen area.
There she encountered Mrs. Baird, who led her up another set of steps to the entrance hall, then upstairs again to a breakfast room rather than the larger dining room she had seen the evening before.
That room, the housekeeper told her, was in the other wing.
“You will know your way around soon, my lady,” Mrs. Baird reassured her.
The breakfast room was cozy, with walls of paneled wood, a large dark table with green brocade chairs, and warm sunlight filtered through curtains of ivory satin.
Dishes gleamed on a large sideboard, and four people sat at the table.
As she entered, they looked up—Evan, his sister Jean, her husband, and Arthur Fitzgibbon.
The men stood and Jean hastened forward.
“Come in! We’re on our own for breakfast here.” She drew Catriona to the table.
“Good morning, my dear.” Evan pulled out the chair beside his.
He looked very handsome in a kilt and tweed jacket, and smelled so good, soap and starch and a hint of sweet coffee. She smiled up at him, suddenly shy, and blushed as she saw the others watching them.
Jean brought her a cup of steaming coffee, and though she generally drank tea in the mornings, she found that a few sips of the stronger brew were fortifying.
As the others chatted, she went to the sideboard to serve herself from an array of fruits, porridge, eggs, bacon, sausage, rolls, and more.
She took a little time adding foods to her plate, feeling a bit anxious, unsure she fit here, or ever would.
So much had happened in a few days. So much had changed. She felt changed, a little off kilter with it, needing to find some confidence in this new realm.
She had always thought of herself as strong yet unremarkable, dedicated to serving her family and devoted to her heart’s work of learning the old Gaelic songs. She had not thought to marry, certainly not so soon, so hastily, or to such a man.
She scooped porridge into a bowl, added butter and cream.
A whirlwind had blown through her life, and she needed to understand where it had tossed her.
Should she take the risk of life with a man she did not yet know, or return to her familiar life?
But that old door might be closed, for her father and aunt seemed disappointed in her.
Finlay would stay himself, always her ally, and their siblings would likely share that.
But her older brothers and sisters were far away, and likely had not even heard the news yet.
Evan seemed committed to the marriage, which both surprised and touched her. The Earl of Kildonan could claim anyone to wife, she was sure. She had been prepared for him to suggest that they go their own ways, and she felt astonished—and confused—that he hadn’t.
Fate and obligation had brought him a plain, gawky, fire-haired Highland girl for a countess, yet he was stalwart. And still, she did not know if she could trust him, or have faith in her welcome in the glen as countess.
Grant had said Evan meant to sell off more of the estate. If so, she might soon discover that Evan was like his father after all. She could not bear to go south and live away from Glen Shee. And she could not bear to doom their marriage to a split later. She would have to decide, and soon.
She returned to the table, took up her napkin, and noticed the chatter quiet down.
“I trust you slept well, Lady Kildonan,” Sir Harry said. Jean must have kicked her husband under the table, for he winced and glanced at his wife.
“Quite well, thank you,” she answered.
“Lady Kildonan, do you plan to go out walking today?” Arthur asked.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
“But today is your Walking Day!” Jean looked at Catriona, then Evan.
“Surely you know of the Highland tradition, when the bride and groom walk out on the day after their wedding to greet the people of the glen. It was a quick wedding, and our Catriona should have a lovely wedding tradition to remember.”
Our Catriona. She smiled a little, hearing that. “I know the tradition. It’s a cheerful outing, for the glen folk love to greet the bride and groom. But the nearest village is a few miles away. But if Kildonan would like to do that, I would be happy to go.” She looked at Evan, feeling suddenly shy.
He nodded. “We should, I think. You will know the best routes to take through the glen, my dear.”
“Has your family always lived in Glen Shee, Catriona?” Jean asked.
“MacConns have lived here for three hundred years, before the Mackenzies became earls here.”
Evan cleared his throat. “No doubt we were here. Before my great-great-grandfather was named Earl of Kildonan by the king in the last century, we were lairds in this glen and elsewhere.”
“King George the Third, was it not?” Jean asked.
“It was, and likely an unpopular move to begin with. My dear, would you like to go walking out after breakfast?” he asked Catriona.
His voice held a hint of tension that the others did not seem to notice as they chatted away, blithe and happy. Catriona frowned slightly, knowing the newlyweds were not so blithe the morning after their wedding. Last night’s mix of passion and conflict lingered.
“I would,” she said. “Though I have an obligation to meet a friend later this morning. It is a regular visit and she will expect me. We supervise a knitting scheme.”
Evan looked blank. “A what?”
“A knitting scheme, Evan,” Jean answered. “It is a charity project.”
Arthur chuckled. “A scheme of knitters sounds like a female conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy to knit things,” Catriona said, making the effort to smile.
“I am part of a ladies’ Highland association, and we have organized a knitting scheme to help soldiers in Highland regiments, and also to help people in remote areas who have suffered from the changes over the years.
” She tried not to glance at Evan, who scowled at the inference.
“They supply yarn to croft wives who make some beautiful things,” Jean explained, “such as warm socks, mittens, caps, scarves, blankets for wee ones. I have seen some of the things and bought a few items myself to contribute.”
“We collect the things, sell a few of them to raise money, and distribute the rest,” Catriona said. “Last winter, we delivered several boxes of items around this glen, and some to the wife of the chief of Clan Mackenzie to help folk there. You may know her.”
“A cousin, aye,” Evan said.
“She helped us send some items to Highland regiments in India and Canada. What money we raised was given to the knitters.”
“Very commendable,” Evan said.
“Excellent charity,” Arthur approved. “Perfect work for a countess.”
Blushing, Catriona reached for her porcelain cup. “I only collect the items. My knitting is not skilled enough for what is needed.”
“What if we combine our walking day with your knitting day?” Evan said. “Shall I go with you to meet your friend?”
Her heart thumped. Walking about as the earl and countess would not be easy, but people would likely be polite. Morag MacLeod, though, might not hold back her opinion. “If you like. She may have already heard about the wedding. Word travels quickly in the glen.”
*
He did not expect Catriona’s close friend to be an old woman, and a wizened grandmother at that.
Morag waited near an old stone bridge that led over a stream toward a forested hillside.
As Evan and Catriona came closer, the woman shaded her eyes with her hand and frowned.
Short and stocky in a red plaid shawl that trailed over her dark skirt, she looked weathered, gray, and fearsome.
For an instant, Evan thought of an elf or a bogart, and was almost surprised when she smiled and spoke in a low and melodic voice.
“Catriona Mhòr,” she said, continued in rapid Gaelic, and laughed.
Hearing his name, Evan glanced at his bride, bemused. “What?”
“She asked if you are my new husband. She says you look a fine man for an evil earl.”
“Oh,” he said, blinking.
“He is,” Catriona answered. “I mean, he is my new husband! We will speak English now, Morag, if you please. Lord Kildonan, this is Morag MacLeod, wife of John MacLeod, a crofter. They live up in the hills not far from the old bridge.”
Morag studied Evan with a sour, doubting expression. He offered his hand. “It’s Evan Mackenzie of Kildonan, Mrs. MacLeod. Pleased to meet you.”
“Why?” she said suspiciously.
“Morag,” Catriona warned.
“Pleased, sir,” Morag said, giving him a bold stare. She looked at Catriona. “Countess of Kildonan now, eh? I congratulate you on your marriage, for I wanted you to marry. But it is a wonder why you chose this one.”
“It was a quick decision,” Catriona said. “But it was—it is good.”
“Is it? If you were a crofter’s wife, I’d put the mutch on your head today, with a new plaidie for your shoulders, all in celebration.
But you are Lady of Kildonan instead, so you will lose your own plaid and wear silly wee bonnets and stiff corsets and lace, and prance about on horses instead of on our good hills. ”
Evan cleared his throat, not sure what to say, though silence seemed wisest.
Catriona lifted a hand to her bare head, her red-gold hair caught in black net and partly covered by the drape of a long, lightweight plaid shawl of cream, blue, and brown. “I prefer to look like a Highland wife, which is what I am.”
“You married an earl,” Morag said, almost accusing. “So,” she said, looking up at Evan. “Mr. Mackenzie—I do not call you ‘lord,’ for we are not fond of titles here.”
“So I gather. And I prefer Mr. Mackenzie. It will do nicely, Mrs. MacLeod.”
“He is tall enough for you, girl, which that is good,” Morag observed, looking him up and down. “And a brawny handsome lad.” She continued to peruse him.
“Uh, thank you,” Evan said.
“And what a tale I heard from my John, who heard it from the groomsman at the manse, who heard it from the cook, who heard it in the hallway there! Fell from the mountain right at your feet, the very day you and I were out in the mists. And he would have died had you not taken him to safety in that old shieling that my John and others use, and kept him alive through the night! You are his angel, and I hope he knows it.”
“I do,” Evan said.
She peered at him again. “Looks bonny enough now. That was some fine nursing, eh?” She winked.
“He was badly hurt,” Catriona said. “He is better.”
“Not badly, but Catriona did save my life,” Evan said. “I asked her to be my wife in gratitude.”
“Just that? They say the wicked auntie would not have the lass in the manse otherwise. One night with a beautiful lad like this will change a life quick, hey?”
“Morag!” Catriona sound horrified. “Where did you hear that?”
“From my daughter this morning. Mairi MacAuley, who runs the inn,” she told Evan. Her English was surprisingly good, he noted, though accented lightly. “I heard it from Mr. Finlay too, when I saw him today.”
“Finlay was here?” Catriona glanced around.
“He came up to see my wee man John. Then Finlay rode off to Inverness, said he would be there a day or two. New is traveling fast about your wedding,” Morag went on.
“Both my daughters are buzzing with it, my wee man too, he does love a bit of chatter. When you two went walking this morning, word began running house to house through the glen, lads and lasses and adults too carrying it. That is, what’s left of us who are still here, Mr. Mackenzie, if you know what I am saying. ”
“I know exactly what you are saying, madam. Aye, the wedding did come as something of a surprise.” He chose to overlook what else she inferred.
“A surprise!” Morag repeated. “Catriona Mhòr, I told you not to stay out in the bad weather that day. I had a strange feeling then, and see what happened?”
“Perhaps it was a good feeling,” Evan said. “It has turned out well.”
“We shall see. I have feelings that are something foul or something fair, and we wait to see. But I can tell you that Catriona as Countess of Kildonan may not sit well with all here. What are your plans, sir?” she asked Evan abruptly.
He blinked. “Plans?”
“Will you stay or leave the glen? They say you do not want to be here. Which is it?”
“I, ah, have to make some decisions.”
“Make them. Inherited a year ago, and only now he comes back with some plans he is not sure of,” Morag muttered.
Unsurprised at the old woman’s obvious doubt, Evan had expected it from some glen tenants. “Well, you both have plans today,” he told Catriona. “I’ll leave you to them.”
“Oh!” Catriona looked up at him. “I thought you wanted to come with us.”
“It is a privilege to meet your friend. I will leave you to your knitting scheme.”
For an awkward moment, he looked at her and sensed she felt unsure, as he did, about how to say farewell. He bent and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Bah,” said Morag. “He can do better than that.”
Catriona took Morag’s arm almost abruptly to walk toward the nearby bridge.
Watching them go, Evan studied the old bridge, a single stone arch constructed ages ago, weathered and in obvious need of repair. It crossed a gorge that contained in its hollow a deep, fast stream.
The surrounding hills soared high with forested slopes and rocky inclines, dotted with tenacious sheep and goats.
Higher and distant, the Torridon peaks were ringed with clouds.
This part of the glen mysterious strength, raw and rugged beauty.
And much of it, nearly all he could see from this vantage point, belonged to him.
And he needed to take care of it. He approached the bridge to look closer, and saw it was partly in ruins at the center. The keystone was missing, and a gash of empty air divided the two curves of the span.
The two women walked up the incline, talking, not looking at the danger. Another few steps and they could plummet to their deaths.
“Stop!” he called, running, pounding onto the bridge to grab Catriona’s arm and Morag’s too. He drew them back from the brink, off the bridge to the safety of solid earth.
“Ach!” Morag said to Catriona. “Did you not tell the wee man about the bridge?”