One of these delicious biscuits Fiona had just sampled and approved. Now she was looking over Mrs. Allen’s menu suggestions for the week’s dinners. “Yes, Monday and Tuesday look fine, thank you. Cook, have you the ingredients for the vermicelli soup on Tuesday?”
“To be sure we do.”
“Excellent. But one of the entrees for Wednesday—I do not think the laird cares for beef tongue roast, and nor do I overmuch, so perhaps you might reserve that for staff. A roasted sirloin instead for the high table?”
“Aye, mistress, and we’ll enjoy the tongue, thank you.”
“Good. And a salad of potatoes and peas, if the peas are fresh?”
“Indeed they are.”
“Then I think we’re done.” Fiona smiled. “Now, do you need more salve for your arm?”
Cook rolled up her sleeve to display the inside of her forearm, where the skin was pink and healthy. “Nay, I thank you, mistress. Only see how well the burn has healed!”
“It has, and I’m so pleased,” said Fiona warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Allen, you may go. Cook, if you could have a nuncheon brought to my morning-room in an hour or so, I’ll take it in there, and—”
She broke off as she realized that Sheila was tugging at her skirt. Goodness, how that child crept up on one! But she smiled down at her and said, “Yes, hinny?”
“Lady, lady, have you a magic salve for my granny’s hands? They’re paining her greatly.”
Fiona looked inquiringly at Cook, who nodded and said, “It’s the rheumatism which plagues poor Dame Margery, mistress.”
“I’ll bring some salve for your granny,” Fiona promised, “and herbs for a tea. It will help, although it’s not magic, hinny.”
“When, lady, when?”
“I’ll come tomorrow, if you’ll tell me where you live.”
“You must go past the village to the heather meadow. We live on the very edge of it, just where the forest begins. I think there are boogeymen within it, but Granny says I’m wrong.”
“There’s no such thing as boogeymen, child!” interpolated Cook reprovingly, and Fiona only said:
“Tell your granny I will come in the afternoon.”
Sheila nodded, and picked up her biscuit which had fallen to the floor. With casual nonchalance she began to eat it, and Fiona smiled again and went off to the stillroom, where she began assembling the herbs she needed. As she worked her mind wandered, thinking for the hundredth time about the other night in which she and Alasdair had quarreled so fiercely.
She’d been feeling very low, for there was no babe within her womb, no little one to dream of, look forward to. Why couldn’t he have said, What if tonight I held you? Simply held you?
Why couldn’t she have said, Please will you hold me?
Because they couldn’t. Obviously.
But oh, she had wanted to be held, had wanted a little comfort. It might have been nice to be clasped in those strong arms, to feel her body brought close to his, to lay her head on that broad chest and listen, just listen, to his heartbeat. Who knew, maybe—what a wild, wild hope— maybe it would even have lulled her into sleep.
That wasn’t how it had gone, however. Oh well. The truth was, you couldn’t have everything in life. You didn’t want to be like that foolish farmer in the cautionary tale by Aesop—greedily killing the goose that laid the golden egg. Wasn’t that the key to, well, if not happiness, at least not being miserable? Accepting things the way they were?
That’s what people said, at any rate.
And so here it was, another day.
Time, as the saying goes, was marching on.
Whether you liked it or not.
Fiona reached for a fragrant sprig of lavender, and focused again on her work. Despite everything, she was looking forward to riding out to the heather meadow. Exceptionally lovely it was, surrounded by dense woodlands of pine, juniper, yew, and with the majestic Grampian mountains in the distance, rising up to meet the wide blue sky. Beautiful, calm, and peaceful.
She could, she thought wryly, aware of a faint, but unmistakably lonely ache within the far reaches of her heart, certainly use the peace of mind.
On the very next day, in the fullness of a glorious afternoon dappled with the light and shadow of drifting clouds, Alasdair, riding with his bailiff Shaw to visit some of the tenant farmers who lived on the remote northern border of the Penhallow lands, saw that one whole length of fence, a cattle enclosure, had been hacked away. Inquiries among the farmers elicited the information that it had just happened last night, and that half a dozen cattle had been stolen—a heavy toll.
“I’ll send some men to help you rebuild, and to stand watch during the next several nights,” Alasdair told them. “And we’ll try to find your cattle.”