Page 66 of A Highland Bride Disciplined
The road into the village was as familiar as the lines of her own palm, but her thoughts had a way of filling the silence.
I need to make me decision about the nursemaid… before the festival, as it’ll be the first time we’ll need one. It’ll be good for Elise to ken the woman ‘fore the care is needed…
“Well then,” she said aloud, the horse’s ears flicking back at the sound, “five interviews in, and I’ve still nae settled the matter.”
Scarlett guided the horse along the trail for a few more heart beats before her thoughts boiled over into actual conversation with the mare.
“First was Màiri Ferguson, who, on paper, is the perfect choice. Capable, sweet with the bairn, keeps her rooms tidy enough to eat off the floor. But Lord save me, she’s so agreeable it’s unnatural.”
The mare flicked her tail, and Scarlett shifted in the saddle.Aye, I ken that’s me only reservation wi’ her still…
“Then Mrs. Lennox. Aye, the one with hands like warm bread dough. Bairns love her. The moment she held Elise, the child melted like butter. But she talks more than Effie with a mouthfulof sugar. Elise will be chattering like a magpie before she can walk, and I’ll never get a moment’s peace.Imagine…”
She scoffed and frowned at the track ahead.Pass.
“Then Isla. Polished as a silver spoon, worked a noble nursery for years. She’ll keep Elise spotless, proper… and as solemn as a kirk sermon. I swear the woman’s never told a joke in her life. If she has, it likely involved correct Latin grammar.”
A jay squawked overhead.Right? I ken!
“And then Bridget. She was such a sweet lass, sings like a lark, knows every lullaby under the sun. But the first time she overheard Morag barked an order, the girl nearly dropped her knitting. She’d have to hide behind the pantry door every time the housekeeper walked by. Nay spine at all. Cannae have herandTam afeared of Morag. What kind of influence would that have on Elise. Nay. One isenough.”
She paused, drawing a breath before tackling the last candidate.
“And then —” She broke off, her mare’s ears pricking sharply toward the right. There’d been a sound that was made by something more deliberate than the usual woodland rustle.
Scarlett reined in, peering into the trees. The wind shifted, carrying only the damp, earthy scent of leaves and moss. Nothing moved now, but the hair at her nape prickled.
Kian’s voice slid into her head.Ye shouldnae be out here alone.
Her lips pressed tight, scanning the shadows one more time before clucking softly to the mare. The hooves resumed their steady crunch on gravel.
“Where was I…?” She tapped her lip. “Ah, yes, Agnes. Older, sturdy, worked in the millhouse until her knees gave out. She’s got a tongue sharp enough to be a dirk, which I like. She would keep the rest of the staff in line... Might be an issue for Morag. But the woman kept lookin’ at Elise like she was a stray pup she’d have to train out of bad habits. Bairns arenae dogs. She’d probably try to teach her to ‘heel.’”
Scarlett’s mouth twisted in a wry smile.And if there are ruffians lurkin’ in the trees, they’ll hear me mutterin’ away and reckon the laird’s wife is a bit touched in the head. ‘Nay threat at all,’ they’ll say. ‘Just a daft wee hen talkin’ to herself.’”
She snorted, then laughed outright at her own absurdity. “Well, if it works, then I’ll keep prattlin’.”
She started from the top, and repeated her notes to the mare as the road curved. But her mind was on loop —Choose Màiri. She’s the best choice. Choose Màiri…
Finally, the trees thinned, and the ruckus of the village creeping into earshot. Hammer blows on wood, the lowing of cattle, the clatter of carts over cobbles filling the silence.
A few children spotted her from the lane ahead, one darting off to announce her arrival as if she were royalty instead of a woman with mud on her hem and twigs in her hair.
She passed the first thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys into the pale sky. The air smelled of peat fires and the faint tang of fish from the river market.
Scarlett slowed her mare to a walk, eyes sweeping over the green where stalls were taking shape for the Michaelmas Festival. Some of the timber frames were half-finished, some draped in rough cloth awnings and stood like sentries awaiting inspection.
Scarlett guided her mare deeper into the village square, the low thud of hooves gave way to the clamor of voices, hammering, and the musical clink of bottles being unloaded.
The festival green was a patchwork of color with bright awnings and homespun banners stretched between poles, baskets of apples and late pears spilling onto tables, and every other villager it seemed was either carrying something or shouting instructions at someone who was. It was three days until the festival, and there was much to assess.
“Lady Crawford!” a voice called, and Scarlett turned to see Mrs. Fenwick stomping toward her, flour up to her elbows and two loaves of bread cradled like infants.
“Mrs. Fenwick.” Scarlett smiled down from the saddle. “I trust the ovens havenae burned down yet? Tall order for the festival, and all.”
The baker huffed. “They’ll burn down if Malcolm gets me way. Wants me to shift me stall nearer the fiddlers. Says the music will draw the crowd. I say it’ll draw pipe smoke into me crusts.”
Scarlett leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial. “Bread should smell of bread, nae an overcooked haggis. Keep yer stall where it is. I’ll bring the matter to the laird personally.”
