A Witch of the Heart #2
Moll frowned, somewhat taken aback. She didn’t need to be a Witch of the Heart to see the woman stood in dire need of a restoring potion of the most potent kind—and right quickly. ‘Twas clear she was ill. Deathly so. She’d known she was ill, but not to this dramatic extent.
Moll’s heart contracted in sympathy, and curtseying again, she took her seat.
As the chair creaked beneath her, the golden spaniel rose stiffly to its feet, then after circling three times, settled back down for a nap.
“How I wish I could sleep so deeply,” Lady Haddon said with a rueful laugh, then she fixed Moll with a look and added, “But, I confess, I am more jealous of you, Moll. You are so full of life, so strong.”
Moll hesitated. With the fear of witchcraft second to only plague in the land, ‘twas too dangerous, of course, to reveal herself the daughter of the most powerful witch in Wales. And truly, how much of a witch was she? She only knew a smidgeon of her mother’s potions.
Yet, as a sworn Witch of the Heart, no matter how weak a one, she’d practiced from childhood the healing of those in need who crossed her path—and Lady Haddon’s heart was in a sore need of healing as she’d ever seen.
“I wish I had but a sliver of your strength.” Lady Haddon sighed. “Would that I knew your secret.”
A seed of an idea sparked in Moll’s mind.
“’Tis not much of a secret, my lady. The women of my family drink a daily, restoring tea made of lichen and mushrooms.” ‘Twas a fib, but the potion wasn’t.
A proper brewing would, no doubt, strengthen the woman until, hopefully, the root cause of her ills could be found.
“A restoring tea?” Lady Haddon’s eyes lit with interest.
Moll gave her pillowed stomach a pat. “’Tis always a help with the birthing.” She wasn’t one to lie, but now that she’d started, she might as well make it a grand one.
Lady Haddon straightened in her chair, intrigued. “The birthing,” she repeated, her fingers slipping to touch the locket hanging around her neck. “Then, this tea is the secret to your many healthy babes?”
“I’m sure of it. Healthy babes, every one of them.”
Naked hope swept over Lady Haddon’s face. “I must have this tea, Moll,” she whispered, excited. “With all the tonics and tinctures the physician brews for me, surely, one more cannot hurt.”
‘Twas far from the truth, and even more likely, ‘twas the physician’s brews that were leeching what health remained. “I shall begin, at once, my lady. I’ve seen plenty of lichen within these walls, and I’m sure, there are mushrooms here to spare.” She moved to rise.
“Wait.” Lady Haddon held up her hand, then raised her voice, “Bridgette, bring the gift, will you?”
Puzzled, Moll turned as the redheaded-maid entered, her arms overflowing with linen, satin, and velvet of various hues.
“These gowns will suit you well, Moll,” Lady Haddon whispered, clearly having spent what little strength she’d possessed. “One is quite small, small enough for your daughter, I’d imagine.”
Moll frowned, surprised, as Bridgette draped gowns, shifts, and even a cloak over the back of the red-cushioned chair.
‘Twas clear without even looking further that the fabric of the gowns alone was worth a small fortune, even before the cost of the fine needlework and trimmings of beads, fur, and lace.
“Gowns? There must be a misunderstanding, my lady.” Moll cleared her throat. “These are far too fine.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Haddon laughed, the effort lending her pale face a blush of momentary health. “As for the fineness of them, the MacKenzie heir would beg to differ, I’m sure. You know as well as I how much the man loves a fine cut of cloth.”
The MacKenzie heir? Taran? Moll glanced down at her worn gown. He’d mentioned its condition a few days past. Indeed, ‘twas an eyesore compared to the finery on display. Small wonder, the man had sought to protect his pride.
Lady Haddon yawned. “These are gifts you cannot refuse, Moll. Take them, for you and your daughter. As for your sons, I’ve tasked a servant to find them clothing in the storerooms, as well as shoes, for all.”
Warm clothing, shoes… Moll bowed her head. “I am grateful, my lady,” she whispered, never meaning the words more. “I would I could repay you.”
Lady Haddon laughed. “Oh, but you shall, my dear. Indeed, if your restoring tea works even a tenth as well for me as for you, I shall stand in your debt.” She fell back in her chair then, clearly having run the course of her strength. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I fear I must rest now.”
Moll eyed the woman, concerned that their brief exchange had so fully taxed her strength. “Then I shall be on my way, my lady. If fortune favors, I shall have your brew this very night.”
Summoning one last burst of strength, Lady Haddon whispered, “Bridgette, see Moll has all that she needs.”
“Yes, my lady.” The young maid nodded.
With a final, low curtsey of respect, Moll gathered the clothing and followed Bridgette out of the room.
“And what do you require?” the maid asked once they stood outside the chamber.
“A fire, a pot, water, and a peaceful, quiet place to brew,” Moll replied, at once. Aside from the ingredients which only she alone could harvest and at the proper time of day, she required nothing else.
Bridgette’s brows furrowed in thought, then, she grinned. “’Tisn’t washday until the next week. The laundry will be deserted—if you don’t mind the company of the tubs.”
Moll smiled. “’Twill only tempt me to take a bath,” she confessed with a laugh.
“There’s water aplenty in the castle well. You could take ten baths, if you wish.” Bridgette grinned even wider, then her mirth faded, and her young face grew serious. Dropping her voice, she asked, “Can you help her? Truly?”
Moll hesitated and then nodded.
“’Twill be a miracle.” Bridgette sighed in relief. “I’ll leave you to find your way back. ‘Tis straight down the stairs. I’m off to ready the laundry.” With one last smile, she was gone.
Adjusting the gowns, Moll set off for the stairs.
‘Twas easy enough. She headed straight down and out the door, hurrying across the frozen grass to the north tower that led to Taran’s bedchamber.
She was halfway up the stairs when a flash of a green plaid through the arrow-slit window caught her eye.
Her heart skipped a beat. She paused and peered through.
The broad shoulders and dark hair announced ‘twas truly Taran this time and not his clansmen. He crossed the courtyard with Charlotte, James, Jamie, and Wee Jack at his heels. Outside the great hall’s door, he came to a stop, turned, and planted his hands on his hips to survey them all.
“Athair,” Charlotte’s eager young voice travelled through the air to Moll’s ears. “Face and ears all washed. Aye, the lot of us, Athair.”
“Then off with ye,” the Highlander’s deep voice boomed. He stepped aside as he waved the children into the hall.
The boys bounded through the door, clearly anxious to eat, but Charlotte lingered on the steps. As Taran tilted his head her way, she suddenly threw her arms about his waist and squeezed tight.
Moll blinked, surprised.
The Highlander appeared somewhat astonished, as well. After several seconds, he gave Charlotte a clumsy pat on the head and pried himself free.
“Go, lassie,” he ordered, pointing to the door.
Happily, she skipped inside.
Moll lifted a puzzled brow. She’d been amiss in asking the meaning of Athair and just why the young girl, at times, sought to mimic his accent. ‘Twas an error she would correct, and right quickly.
A flurry of wind whistled through the arrow-slit window, blowing back the hair from her face, but even more, in the courtyard below, molding Taran’s kilt to his lean hips and muscled thighs.
How long she remained there, staring, she couldn’t say.
The next thing she knew, a woman’s low, musical voice echoed up the stairs from below.
“Taran is your father, then?”
Alarmed, Moll held her breath.
Two voices buzzed in response, but she couldn’t make out the words. Horrified, she fled down the stairs, her mind awhirl. The other children had just entered the hall, only George and Francis remained. Surely, they knew better than to drop any hint of the fact they came from London. Surely?
She rounded the last curve to find the twins lounging lazily against the tower door, as through the opening, Euphemia minced her way across the courtyard, heading toward the great hall.
Euphemia. She should have known. Her sense of alarm only grew. “What did she want?”
George shrugged. “I cannot fathom the woman. She asks the same question again and again, as if in the asking, the answer will change. It’s ever ‘is he truly your father?’”
“La mercy, George, what’s to fathom?” Francis rolled his eyes. “’Tis plain as day, the woman’s madly in love with him.”
The words stung, but Moll had greater worries on her mind. “Does she ask from where we harken?”
Francis appeared insulted. “You needn’t fret, Moll.”
“We’re no fools,” George added.
Then, Francis grinned and adopting an overly innocent tone, continued, “Why, Lady Euphemia, yes, Taran MacKenzie is our father. Why, yes, we’ve seen plenty of him over the years in the Borderlands, my lady. How else could our beloved Ma bless us with so many siblings?”
Moll shuffled the clothing to one arm and shooed the boys away. “Get you gone. ‘Tis time to eat.”
They snickered, but left easily enough, leaving her alone in the tower, and with a huff, she swept back up the stairs.