Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The council chamber smelled of tallow and old wood smoke, same as it always did, and Alpin took his seat at the head of the table already knowing what the meeting would be about before Eachann had opened his mouth to say it.
"Me Laird." Eachann folded his hands atop the ledger in front of him, spectacles catching the light. "We understand a date has been promised. The council would be grateful for the particulars, so that preparations can proceed with proper order rather than guesswork."
"Three weeks," Alpin said. "Give or take."
"Give or take." Ranald leaned forward, both forearms braced on the table, his voice already carrying the particular edge it got whenever he considered himself the only man in the room being reasonable. "Me Laird, with respect, 'give or take' is nae a date. It's a shrug wearing a fancier coat."
"It's what I've settled on for now."
"The clan wants a day they can mark on a calendar, Me Laird, nae a season they can vaguely anticipate.
Me own wife's been asked three times this week by women in the village, and three times I've had nothing to tell her but 'soon,' which is starting to make me look either foolish or forgetful, and I'm neither. "
"Ye're patient, Ranald. That's what ye are."
"I've run clean out of patience, me Laird, same as everyone else at this table."
Eachann raised one hand, mild and practiced, the gesture of a man who had spent decades keeping this particular table from tipping over into shouting.
"What Ranald means to say, with considerably less heat than he's currently using, is that certainty serves the clan better than optimism.
A firm date lets Greer plan the feast properly, lets the village prepare their own contributions, lets the whole glen feel settled rather than waiting on word from the castle.
Uncertainty breeds talk, me Laird, and talk is rarely kind. "
"The talk's already started," Ranald put in. "Half the village has some theory or another for why it's taking so long. I heard one woman swear at the well that the lass has gone cold on the whole arrangement."
Alpin's jaw set. "She hasnae gone cold on anything."
"I ken that. Ye ken that. The woman at the well doesnae ken that, and neither does anyone else who hasnae seen the two of ye since the wedding was first announced."
Ranald spread his hands, not unkindly, though the point landed all the same. "Give them something solid, me Laird, and the talk stops on its own. Give them nothing, and they'll invent whatever suits them best."
Alpin’s jaw set hard as he stared down at the polished wood of the table. He wasn't stalling out of weakness or indecision. Settling a wedding date meant turning a political bargain into an absolute, inescapable reality.
It meant bringing a woman from London—a woman who had arrived with a forged letter and sharp English wit—permanently into the heart of a keep still heavy with his family's grief and the shadow of the sea.
Until he knew whether he was ready, committing to a date felt like stepping blind onto a rotting plank.
Dougal, at the far end of the table, said nothing at all, though his eyes moved between the two men like he was waiting to see whether he'd need to speak before the conversation resolved itself without him.
"The date will come when it comes," Alpin said, "and it'll come soon enough that none of ye need trouble yerselves further over it.
In the meantime, I'd remind this council that the lady in question has spent the last fortnight setting this keep to rights better than it's run in years.
The linens are sorted for the first time since me mother's days.
The kitchen's better stocked and better organized than Senga's managed on her own in a decade.
Greer herself has said as much, and Greer doesnae say such things lightly. "
"Nobody's disputing the lass's competence, me Laird," Eachann said carefully. "That's nae the concern raised here."
"It ought to be part of the concern. Ye asked this council for a Laird with a lady at his table and a future secured for this clan. Ye have that now, whatever day the actual vows happen to fall on. The keep is better managed today than it was the day she arrived, and it'll only improve from here."
"A well-managed linen cupboard doesnae produce an heir, me Laird," Ranald said, though there was less heat in it now, more weary observation than argument.
"That's the whole point of this council's concern, if we're speaking plainly.
A date matters because bairns matter, and bairns daenae arrive any faster for a keep with tidy shelves. "
"They'll arrive when they arrive, same as the date."
"That's nae the reassurance ye think it is."
"It's the only reassurance I've got to give ye today, so ye'll take it or ye'll continue being disappointed by me at yer leisure. Either suits me fine."
A short silence followed that, Ranald sitting back in his chair with a scowl, and Eachann glancing down at his ledger as though it might offer him a more diplomatic sentence than the one currently available.
It was Dougal who finally spoke, his voice low and unhurried.
"I've watched three generations of Herston men sit in this chair, me Laird, yer grandfather included, and I'll say this plain — I havenae seen this hall run this well, nor this castle feel this settled, since before yer grandfather went into that water.
Whatever the lass has done, she's done it without complaint and without being asked twice, and that counts for a great deal more than a date on a calendar, to me thinking. "
"Thank ye, Dougal."
"I'm nae finished." Dougal's eyes settled on Alpin directly, steady and unbothered by rank.
"The council wants a date because a date is a thing they can hold onto, something solid in a season that's felt anything but solid these past ten years.
Give them one soon, Alpin, nae because they've hounded ye into it, but because it's the right thing to do by the lass herself.
She's earned better than 'give or take.'"
Alpin held the old man's gaze a moment, and found, uncomfortably, that he had no argument ready for that particular point, since it wasn't the council's patience he'd been avoiding testing so much as his own certainty about what exactly he was walking toward when the date finally came.
"I'll have it settled within the week," he said finally, which was more than he'd offered Greer, and considerably more than he'd meant to offer anyone when he'd walked into the chamber.
"Within the week," Eachann repeated, writing it down as though the ink alone might hold Alpin to it. "The council thanks ye, me Laird."
"The council can thank me once there's an actual date on that page and nae before." Alpin stood, signaling the meeting's end before Ranald could find some fresh angle to press from. "Is there anything else requiring me attention, or have we settled everyone's nerves for the day?"
"There's the matter of the MacCarron border fence," Eachann said, "though it can wait for another day."
Alpin stopped near the doorway, turning his head slowly to look back at the council. He didn't brush it aside.
"It willnae wait," Alpin said, his low voice cutting instantly through the murmur in the room.
"If the MacCarrons move those timber posts another three feet west into our pasture, our herds will be grazing on stone by autumn.
Tell Eachann's boys to meet Greer at the stream at dawn.
We build the stone wall on the high ridge where the old boundary stands, and we mark it with the clan iron before sunset tomorrow. No arguments, no endless talk."
Eachann blinked, surprised by the swift, decisive judgment, before giving a single, approving nod. "Aye, Laird. It will be done."
Alpin held his gaze for a second longer, ensuring the order was settled without question, before turning toward the heavy oak doors. "Now I've had enough matters requiring patience for one afternoon."
Alpin walked out into the passage feeling considerably less settled than he'd managed to sound in that chamber, turning over the old man's words the whole way back toward his study.
She's earned better than 'give or take'.
He found he agreed with entirely more of it than he was comfortable admitting to a council that would only take the admission as leverage for the next demand.
He found her in the solar, Greer's endless lists spread across her lap, a pot of ink balanced precariously on the chair’s arm.
"There's a horse saddled in the yard," Alpin said from the doorway.
Grisselle looked up. "Am I being sent somewhere?"
"The village. I'm taking ye down to it."
"Now?" She glanced at the lists still balanced on her knee, as though weighing them against whatever this was.
"Now's as good a time as any." He stepped further into the room, arms folded.
"It's practical. The clan should ken yer face before there's a wedding for half of them to stare at instead of listening to the vows.
And ye should ken theirs, so ye're nae standing at the altar surrounded by strangers who already feel entitled to an opinion on ye. "
"That sounds remarkably like an excuse dressed up as logic."
"It's nae an excuse. It's logic."
"Every excuse sounds like logic to the person making it." Grisselle set the lists aside regardless, rising and reaching for her cloak from the back of the chair. "You could simply say you wanted to show me the village, Alpin. It wouldn't kill you to admit to wanting something plainly, for once."
"I want ye to ken the village. That's the whole of it."
"Mm." She fastened the cloak at her throat, unconvinced but clearly amused by his refusal to be anything other than stubborn about it. "You're a very practical man."
"I am."
"I'm certain that's exactly what you told yourself before you kissed me on a beach as well."