Chapter Nine #2
The door was flung open. “Och, ’tis himself, come to see auld Effie!
Dora, here’s our laird!” An older woman grinned at him and waved him inside.
Tall and buxom, her iron-gray hair knotted at her neck, she wore a simple striped dress and a clean apron.
Gold earrings glinted as warm as the dusky rose tones in her skin. She waved in the doorway.
Aedan dismounted and led Pog into the shelter of a thatched-roof byre that protruded from one end of the house. A goat looked up, blinking its strange yellow eyes, while the shaggy black cow occupying most of the space hardly moved.
“Pardon, Flora. Hello, Hamish, you wee devil,” Aedan said as he lifted a burlap sack to spill oats into a manger. He headed for the house where Effie MacDonald waited.
“Come in, lad,” she said, welcoming him into the dim, smoky interior. A young woman stood silently beside the fire. “Bide a wee. I’ve just made tea, and Dora baked scones with currants and cinnamon.”
“Dora!” he called. “I’m here, lass.” He walked toward her.
The dark-haired girl held out her hands, smiling.
Her brown dress complemented the pretty bronzed tones in her cheeks that were a share of her grandmother’s Gypsy heritage.
Aedan took Dora’s hands, her slender fingers calloused.
Her lovely dark eyes were unfocused and slightly clouded.
“Aedan!” She accepted his gentle kiss on her cheek. “Sit by me.” He settled beside her on a long wooden bench.
“What brings ye, Aedan?” Effie said while she served steaming, fragrant tea in two delicate china cups for them and poured her own serving into a plain mug.
“I could smell those cinnamon scones across the moor. It’s gone four o’clock, and Effie MacDonald’s making tea, I told myself, and leaped up on Pog.”
“You did not!” Dora laughed. “I’ll get the scones. They’ve just come out of the oven,” She rose, trailing her hand along the edge of the table until she reached a cupboard. She fetched a covered plate, which she laid on the table near Aedan.
“I just wanted to visit,” he confessed. “It’s been more than a fortnight since I was here.” He accepted a plate containing hot buttered scones, and Dora sat beside him.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I have news. Mrs. Farquharson wants to take more of my crochet work in her ladies’ shop in Milngavie.
She said they’ll sell for a good price. The shawls and dainties I made sold well, and she had requests for more.
I must work quickly to finish the new things.
” She indicated a big basket beside the bench, filled with lacy crochet work and a ball of creamy wool.
“Excellent! Mrs. Farquharson’s shop in Milngavie does a brisk business.”
“Now that Grannie Effie does laundering and starching for the new English families that live on the other side of the glen, we’ll soon be feeling rich as the queen.” Dora smiled.
Aedan sipped his tea. “Effie MacDonald, there’s no need for you to work so hard,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. I promised your husband to see to your welfare when he went off to war, and I mean to keep that up.”
Effie shook her head. “I’ve done the laundering hereabouts since I was a lass, and now that I’m a widow, it is good work.
What would I do wi’ my time and my hands otherwise?
” She held them up. They were strong and a bit gnarled, the kindest hands powered by the kindest heart Aedan had ever known from his boyhood.
“You and Dora can live at Dundrennan whenever you want. Put your feet up, rest your hands, and tell Gunnie and the maids what to do.”
“Huh! I’d ne’er do that and I’ll ne’er leave this house. I was born here. Dora will leave one day to wed some braw lad, and I’ll be alone wi’ me washing and me visitors. I do like visitors.” She gave Aedan a reproving look.
“I will try to come by more often,” he promised. “Perhaps even bring new friends. We have an antiquarian and an artist staying at Dundrennan House.”
“Auntie Queerie? Who’s that?” Effie demanded.
“Antiquarian. A historian, Grannie,” Dora said. “A scholar. A lady, too. Rob Campbell told me when he was here.”
“Aye, they sat wi’ their heads together by the fire,” Effie said, while Dora’s pale cheeks turned pink. “And an artist there as well? Huh! Miss Amy is scheming to fix that great hoose the way she wants before she snags ye for her groom, sir.”
“She is just doing what my father asked. The museum sent the antiquarian lady to look at the stones in the hill, and her brother came with her. He is the artist. I hope he will agree to complete some of the murals my father wanted done.”
“Ah.” Effie leaned forward. “Aedan, do ye find King Arthur’s treasure in that hill, ye canna let Dundrennan’s gold go to a mooseum.” She sniffed. “And ye shouldna wed Miss Amy. A guid lass but daft as yer auntie, wha keeps that scunnersome wee beastie!”
“Thistle is practically a family member,” Aedan said, chuckling. “And someday Amy will be a fine wife for a fine man.”
“But not you,” Effie said soberly as Dora refilled Aedan’s cup with steaming brew from the teapot. He watched as she carefully poured. “If ye ever want to break the Dundrennan curse, yer bride must be yer true love. Ye’ll know her when ye see her.”
He buttered a scone. “A bit of a risk,” he said lightly. “I’m done with true love. I flew in the face of the Dundrennan curse once, and she—passed away.”
Effie leaned close. “I have a feeling ye’ll find a love for all time. A love like in yer da’s poems. I feel that ye, lad, could break that ill-made curse. True love will land on yer doorstep like a wee birdie. It will! I dreamed it once, when ye were younger.”
Aedan stared at her. The image of Christina Blackburn on the landing outside his study, looking like a wee wounded bird, came to him. Stop it, he told himself. Love must not come too close to the laird of Dundrennan.
“You are as much a dreamer as my father, Effie.” He ate some of the scone while he gathered his wits. “Dora, I was in Edinburgh last week, and I saw my sister Mary and her husband. They asked me to send their greetings to you both. You remember Connor MacBain.”
“Doctor MacBain is a bonny braw man,” Effie said. “Does he still have his medical office in Edinburgh? Aye good.”
“He has been studying the diseases and conditions of the eye in particular. He told me he would be happy to examine your eyes, if you want.”
Dora tipped her head, eyes unfocused, brow puckered. “Thank you. But no one can help me. Mr. Johnstone said so after he tried spectacles with me, and eye potions, too. Nothing made a difference.”
“Mr. Johnstone is an itinerant merchant who sells eyeglasses out of pasteboard boxes. And Lord knows what is in those potions of his.”
Dora wrinkled her small nose. “Doctors are very costly.” She lifted her chin. “If God deems that I should be completely blind one day, it will happen. There are worse things.”
“True. But please talk to Doctor MacBain.” He took her hands, felt her initial resistance. “Please. I told him I would pay the fee, but he insists on charging you nothing for his services.” He glanced at Effie, who watched them silently and seriously. “Nothing at all.”
“So generous! But—I fear it’s no use,” Dora said.
“You must try everything before deciding that. We can take the train to Edinburgh. Effie, you must come, too.” The old woman nodded.
Dora smiled. “I do like the train, and so does Grannie.”
“We can stop in Milngavie and bring your baskets to Mrs. Farquharson’s shop.”
“Thank you. But what if—Doctor MacBain canna help me?”
“Either way, he will be honest about it, and give you the best medical attention you can find. I think you and dear Effie would both enjoy a couple of days in Edinburgh. I bet Effie would like to try some fruit ice creams there.” He grinned.
“Ice creams? I’ll go, even if Dora doesna.” Effie gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Dora laughed. “Ice creams! I will think about it!”