Page 27 of Taming the Highland Misfits
Isla stepped back with a gasp.
“For self-defence,” he told her. “I dinnae think I will need it, Isla, but ye never know. There are plenty o’ sharp carvin’ knives in the drawer that will dae just as well in this wee room, but I think ye will be safe enough if ye lock up tight at night.”
Isla nodded slowly as he sheathed the sword. The sight of the weapon had brought home to her just how alone she was, and as she watched Finley ride away, she wrapped her arms around herself as if for protection.
She should be angry with him, she knew, but somehow it was impossible. He was leaving her alone because he had responsibilities; he needed to see to his business so that they could eat, and she should be grateful to him for that. Without him she would be either dead, violated, married to a loathsome man, or begging in the streets.
She forced the thoughts out of her mind and settled to the task of making her morning porridge. She was pleasantly surprised, however, to discover that Finley had already eaten and had left some for her, no doubt remembering her first disastrous attempt at cookery! She would have to eat it cold, but at least it was food.
* * *
Isla stood up and stretched her back, shoulders and arms after an hour of planting turnips in the vegetable garden. Her poor body was not accustomed to being tested in this way, but she told herself that it was good for her, and as long as she kept reminding herself of that, she could persevere. Finley had told her the vegetables would be fully grown before winter, and he had much more experience in these matters than she did. Isla looked with satisfaction at her handiwork. In the previous days she had spent with Finley her world had expanded enormously, and she had grown in spirit and had experienced so many new activities that she could hardly believe it.
She had also begun to keep a diary using the paper and ink that Finley’s Aunt Bettie had left, so that she could remember everything she could about her time with him. It might not be a long stay; she had reconciled herself to that fact, since you could never know what the future held. However, she was determined to squeeze every memory she could out of her mind and onto paper so that when they parted, she could read them over and over again. After all, she had no idea what her circumstances would be in a few months’ time.
Isla thought wryly that she would run out of paper before too long, since she could not seem to stop writing, and the strange thing was that she had never kept a diary or written a story in her life. It occurred to her that this was another fruitful new experience that had grown out of her friendship with Finley.
‘What is he doing to me?’she thought delightedly, and laughed out loud.‘I know. He is making me a better person.’She thought about the little mushroom she had carved. Perhaps she could make something else and surprise Finley when he came back.
Then she felt a sense of apprehension. When was he coming back? It had been two days now and although there had been no sign of danger from any quarter, the evenings without him had become long and lonely. There was only so much washing and dusting and gardening she could do, and feeding the animals and milking the goat took very little time.
Isla sighed, then pushed her gloomy thoughts to the back of her mind; she could not spend her entire time worrying about Finley; it did no good at all. She went into the cottage and poured herself a glass of goat’s milk, then smiled again. If anyone had told her ten days ago that she would be milking goats, she would have laughed in their face!
When she had drunk her milk, Isla went outside and finished the planting, then fed the animals again, after which she realised that she was ravenously hungry. There had been no bread for two days. since Finley had not been there, so she cooked herself some eggs with a few vegetables. She reflected that she would run out of everything but eggs and carrots in a few days, since most of the other vegetables were not yet ready to be harvested.
Isla bathed herself in Finley’s pride and joy, a wooden bathtub that he had carved himself. The first time she had seen it, Isla had been amazed at how much work had gone into it. It must have taken him months, she thought.
Now she filled it by dragging the water from the burn in two buckets. She had to make two trips and stop twice along the way, and not for the first time she envied Finley and his impressive muscles. As she lay in the water she thought about both their mothers, and what great friends they had been, and suddenly a thought occurred to her.
She rose from the water and dried herself, then made her way through to the bedroom, where she gazed for a few moments at a cupboard she had never opened. She knew that it was full of Finley’s clothes, and she had no business opening it, but as she stood in front of it she felt as though something was compelling her to do so.
Stepping forward, she opened the door, not knowing quite what it was she was hoping to find. There were three shelves inside; one contained a pair of shoes, and two leather belts, and the one above that had some neatly folded tunics and breeches on it. He had not taken much with him, she noted, and took it as a good sign. Hopefully he would be back before he ran out of clothes to wear.
The top shelf had only two items on it: his clan plaid and a wooden box with an intricately carved lid that was obviously his own work. The delicate flowers and leaves were absolutely exquisite.
Isla took a deep breath, then lifted the lid of the box. She gasped in shock, and put her hand over her mouth as tears began to leak from her eyes. The first thing she saw was a red woollen shawl embroidered with tiny white daisies and pink roses. Isla looked again at the lid of the box; the flowers were identical. Rhad worn often, and it had been a gift from Isla’s own mother, Edina, to her friend Agnes. Isla was sure that she had made and embroidered it herself, since she had been a skilled needlewoman. Finley had obviously kept it in memory of her, and the fact that he had done so touched Isla deeply.
She lifted the cloth to her face, and was able to discern faintly the earthy scent of Agnes’s skin, which had clung to the fabric, probably because it had been locked away.
Isla could imagine Finley cradling the shawl in his arms, sniffing its fragrance when he missed her most and needed to feel close to her. How she envied him! As soon as her own mother had died her father had cleared all her possessions from the house and either sold them or gave them away to his cronies. She had been too small to stop him. On the one occasion when she had asked for one of Edina’s bracelets as a keepsake, Robert Thomson had curtly told her that he was selling it in order to pay for the funeral.
“I am not made of money, Isla,” he had said angrily. “Things like tombstones and wakes cost a fortune—a fortune which I do not have. You are too small now, but when you are older you will understand these things.” Then he had strode away, leaving Isla to stand, bereft; she was only nine years old, but that was the moment she began to hate him.
She put the shawl back where she had found it and closed the lid of the box, then checked to make sure that everything was as she had found it. Isla should have felt guilty, but strangely, she did not. She had wanted to find out more about Finley, and what she had unearthed confirmed what she knew already; he was a thoroughly decent man, and she was proud to know him.
That evening did not seem so lonely; Isla wrote in her diary about the shawl, then began to carve again, and this time she decided she would try to fashion the wood into a rose.
Sleep came easily that night, and with it the most delightful dreams of Finley.
* * *
Another day passed, and Isla was beginning to be seriously worried. She could not help thinking about Finley; he was on her mind every minute of every day, and the longer he was gone, the more sure she became that something bad had happened to him.
She was managing to sustain herself with fish from the burn, eggs, and vegetables from the garden, but she was still too afraid to venture far from the cottage so that she could set rabbit traps. She felt lonely and hemmed in—if only Finley would come back and set her mind at rest!
The summer evenings were becoming longer and longer as the days wore on towards the solstice, so Isla had plenty of time to sit and watch the road from Inverleith. Often she would write in her diary or work on her carving, although she had to admit that it would never look like one of Finley’s masterpieces. She had to keep her mind busy or she would go mad, she thought.
Had Finley been kidnapped, injured, or perhaps even murdered? Was he being held captive somewhere? She could not bear to think of him tied up somewhere, perhaps in the darkness, being denied food and care. Perhaps he had injured himself and was unable to help himself. So many possibilities ran through her mind, each one more awful than the last, that her head began to ache, and eventually she stood up and screamed with frustration and fear.
