Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [121]
ROBERT BURNS
ack stared at the small Highland cottage with its thatched roof, crooked chimney, and unglazed windows. The battered wooden shutters, meant to keep out the elements, sagged on their hinges. A few hens pecked their way across the garden, and a pot of dead violets sat by the door. “You are certain this was Elisabeth Kerr’s home?”
Rose MacKindlay looked up at him with eyes as green as the grass on the hillocks. “She was a Ferguson then, but, aye, this was whaur Bess lived and whaur her mither lives noo.” An elderly woman, Mrs. MacKindlay shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing as she did. “Her man is oot just noo, but I ken for a fact Fiona is at hame. She’ll be glad to have a letter from Bess.”
Jack had come to Braemar parish solely to shoot grouse, or so he’d told himself. But from the hour he’d reached the Mar estate, his thoughts had circled round nearby Castleton, the hamlet where Bess had spent her first eighteen years. Consisting of a ruinous castle and a knot of stone cottages nestled amid a remote mountain fastness, Castleton of Braemar was as far from Edinburgh’s high society as Persia was from Paris. Why had Bess left, and how? And who was this woman who’d raised her?
He was curious, no denying it. The letter in his pocket would open a door he very much wished to walk through.
The fine, springlike weather had kept him on the heather moorlands with Sir John for a full week—enough hunting to last Jack many a season. “Male grouse are a randy sort,” the gamekeeper had informed them, “with many partners. And they play nae part in raising their young.” That alone was sufficient motive for Jack to take deadly aim with his fowling piece.
But on this cool, rainy Saturday, Sir John was content to sip whisky by the fire while Jack explored the parish. He’d come straight to Castleton, sought out a friendly face, and found himself in the company of Mrs. MacKindlay, the parish midwife.
“If you’ll not mind an introduction,” he told her, “I would be honored to meet Mrs. Cromar.” He tethered Janvier to a trough, where the horse might drink his fill, then joined Mrs. MacKindlay on the muddy slate by the door.
“Fiona!” she sang out. “Ye’ve a visitor. And a braw lad he is.”
Jack had heard the phrase before, a favorite among his maidservants, though usually directed at far younger men.
The door was pulled open. A dark-haired woman of forty-odd years stood before him. Not so tall as Bess, nor so bonny, but unmistakably her mother. She eyed him closely. “Wha is this ye’ve brought to my door, Rose?”
“Lord Jack Buchanan,” Mrs. MacKindlay answered, emphasizing his title. “He’s acquainted with yer Bess. Even brought ye a letter from the lass.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a fact?”
“Indeed, madam.” He doffed his hat and bowed, then presented her with the sealed missive. “Your daughter is employed as a dressmaker at my estate in the Borderland.”
“Ye must come in, then,” she said, stepping back, holding the letter to her heart.
As the midwife took her leave, Fiona Cromar hurried to the inglenook, where a peat fire burned with a pungent aroma. “Ye’ll be wanting tea, I ken.”
While she was busy with her preparations, Jack surveyed the candlelit interior. Bare stone walls with clay and straw for mortar. Thick wooden beams, not far above his head. And a dirt floor, hard packed yet newly swept. However humble, the cottage was tidy, with a fine woolen plaid across the bed. A handful of books were given pride of place on a shelf above the hearth. No doubt Bess had read every one a dozen times.
Fiona seated him at a square pine table, unfinished but well scrubbed. Tea was served in a pottery cup, accompanied by a plate of round sugar biscuits. Fiona joined him, lifting her teacup almost as gracefully as Bess did. She had her daughter’s full lips as well as her striking dark brows. But Fiona’s eyes did not sparkle, and the skin beneath them looked bruised, as if she’d not slept in a long time.
“I owe you an apology, Mrs. Cromar, for my unexpected visit.”
“Not at a’,” she insisted.