Scot On the Moors #5
That was the way the man’s voice had sounded to her. She wondered if he would hear more, or if he would see the carriage, as she had. And what did it mean if the lovers had found them? She sighed. The more prudent measure here was to rest. Fatigue was settling on her like a cloak.
“Are you staying somewhere away from the village?”
“Hm?” He looked up, distracted. “There’s a wee cottage not far from here. We can stay the night there.”
“Then, may we go now? You have what you were looking for, and it’s late.”
“It’s not all, but it’s enough for now. Aye, let’s find ye a place to sleep.
” Callum hoisted himself off the wall and they walked over to the carriage.
He put his shirt and coat back on, as well as his overcoat while she climbed inside the vehicle.
They drove a short way to an isolated cottage, nestled deep in a valley, surrounded by trees.
“Where is this place?” she asked when she got out. It looked nothing like where they’d just been. The moors were barren, windy, rocky. This was an enchanted grove in comparison.
“Better ye not know. Go on inside, and I’ll take care of the horses.”
She took her carpetbag with her, hoping he might be gallant enough to haul in her trunks.
Perhaps it was more than she could expect, but even the last ten years had not dampened her hope.
Indeed, she was still full of blind hope.
An expectation of a future that lay in front of her, wild and free and good.
The cottage was one large room, with a fireplace, a military-style cot, and two cupboards, a bucket, and a shelf. There was a broom hung by the door, and a small table with four short stools in the middle of the room. A drying line with a pair of trousers and a shirt hung on the far side.
The fireplace glowed with banked embers. While the temperature outside plummeted near to freezing, Virginia didn’t expect the embers to compete with the cold. There was a small stack of firewood next to the fireplace, inviting Virginia to do what needed to be done.
She stowed her carpetbag next to the cot and took off her coat, wishing for a hook, but not seeing one in the dark room. There was likely at least a nail in one of the walls, but it was not immediately apparent, so she draped her coat over the cot and pushed up her sleeves.
There was an iron firedog with two iron bars, the apparatus basic and rustic, but it kept the firewood from rolling out of the fire and a place for a cookpot to sit. She didn’t see the cookpot, so she wondered if Callum had eaten here, or perhaps it was outside from a recent wash.
Virginia was surprised by the firedogs, but it made sense, as the moorlands didn’t have the kind of peat for burning, and Callum was not going to want to go buy coal in the village, or wherever it might be available.
But it wasn’t her first time cooking over an open fire, and she was grateful that her artistic father had dragged her all over the world’s countrysides, painting local wildflowers for the Audubon society.
It had been a privilege to see all that she had—to experience the people in so many places.
By the time Callum had stowed the carriage and tended to the horses, the cottage was warm and well lit.
She’d found tallow candles stashed in a cupboard, along with a few roughly whittled holders.
All that she needed was a pot and the directions to the well, so she might fetch water.
Callum entered the small cottage and gazed around the room, taking in the warmth and candlelight.
“I would’ve started cooking, but I didn’t know where to find the well. Or a cookpot.” Virginia suddenly had the urge to wring her hands. She should have done more. If only she hadn’t dallied, snooping in every cupboard. But she had to figure out what was available to her, didn’t she?
Callum nodded, focusing back on her. “I’ll show ye.” He grabbed the bucket while Virginia tucked herself back into the warm overcoat. He opened the door for her, which seemed oddly gallant here, in the middle of the night. He gestured to the right of the cottage.
“Give yer eyes a moment to adjust,” he said. “The moon is still high enough for us to see plenty.”
She tucked her hands into her pockets, the cold air a shock after the warmth near the fire.
The moon hung lower in the sky, as if it could no longer compete with the later hour and wanted to go to bed, too.
Gradually, the limbs of trees became clearer, and the dark greens and browns of the grasses and leaves more apparent.
The night was hushed and close, cold and sleepy.
Something had changed between them. She was no longer a victim, no longer here against her will.
They’d somehow become partners, working together to make a comfortable home for one night.
“Come,” he whispered, as one must in the night.
There was something sacred about an hour so late that, even when no one was about, she still felt compelled to stay quiet.
There were scrabbling noises in the copse of trees.
Creatures that were no doubt as startled by her presence as she was surprised to be there.
The well was nearby, and there, upended on the grass, was a worn cast-iron cooking pot.
She let Callum haul the water, and she hoisted up the pot, neither of them speaking.
The night felt sacred, and their unlikely partnership heaven ordained.
It was a heathen thought, but somehow, Virginia couldn’t help but imagine them as acolytes performing together in some kind of druidic rite.
They returned to the cottage, Callum leaving the full bucket of water on the doorstep, telling her in a whisper that he’d return straightaway.
Puzzled, she went inside, her fingers burning with cold.
She settled the heavy pot next to the fire, turning it this way and that to inspect the insides for cleanliness.
But Callum had done a fine job with his prior scrubbing, and she was satisfied she could figure out something to do with it.
Callum returned with the dirt-encrusted box, setting it on the table and gathering candles about to help his inspection.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, startling him. Speaking at a normal volume felt as if she were shouting, but whispering inside the cottage made her feel silly. “But do you happen to have any food?”
He nodded, pointing to a bag hung in the corner, the rope thrown over a beam. “I didn’t want the mice to get at it.”
“Would you mind?” she asked, not wanting to look a fool trying to undo whatever knots he had tied in his rigging system.
Absently, he nodded, still preoccupied with his treasure.
He let the bag drop to the floor with a thump.
When she opened it up, she saw there wasn’t much to work with.
Some oats, some cornmeal. If she had a pan, she could have made up some decent cornbread, but as it was, the bit of honey left in a jar, the scrapings of jam, and a meagre amount of lard curtailed her options.
He must have seen her face, because he said, “I wasn’t expecting to have more than a bit of breakfast in the morning before I set off.”
“If the box were so small, why did you need a carriage? It seems risky, and—”
“—I thought I would be taking a body back. A coffin. I thought—” Callum sighed and visibly took control of himself as he raked his hand through his hair. “I thought a lot of things.”
“A body?” Virginia didn’t want to show alarm, given that a body snatcher was not a person one generally wanted to upset. “Whose body?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Ginny. It would have been a very old body. Verra old indeed. But it looks like the bastard didn’t even afford him that.”
Virginia’s eyebrows raised so high it hurt. “Whose body?”
“An ancestor. A member of my clan. The man who, if the story were to be trusted, was beheaded by his sweetheart’s father. But I never believed the beheading part. Nor did I think—well. Like I said. I thought a lot of things.”
Virigina swallowed hard. “What do you believe is in this box?” Please, not his head, was all she could think.
Callum sighed. “At this point? I’m not sure.”
It was the sound of his defeat that spurred her.
She’d heard that sound from her father as his body failed him.
The sound of giving up and giving in to the world that forever tried to beat him into a shape he could never fit.
Same with this man, Callum, who was only trying to find answers for a clan that was already dismantled by modernity.
Her heart clenched. Even if she harbored an injury for his years of silence, or even if that spark of childhood love might still burn, Virginia would never willingly let another person suffer the indignity of defeatism.
It was so much worse than mere loss. The act of defeatism meant lying down where one stood and letting anything trample over roughshod.
Anything at all. And Callum didn’t deserve that.
So she screwed up her courage, despite whatever might be in the box—desiccated remains and all.
“Nothing left than to just find out, right?” She went searching for any kind of implement that might aid her in prying open the lid. Or a corner. Or just bashing a hole into it. Whatever worked. Her gaze fell on the iron fire dogs, the heavy cooking pot, the wooden spoon, and then Callum’s face.
His whiskered, square, haggard face with a most charming grin on it. “I forgot that American lasses are full of vinegar.” He pulled a dirk from his belt, sharp and polished, fairly gleaming in the low light.
“Nothing gets done if we stand around and wring our hands. America moves very fast, and one cannot be left behind.” Virginia had no idea what she was saying, only that she was staring into his beautiful blue eyes, feeling as if the time had melted away, that they were young and impetuous and free once again.