Page 14 of Laird of Twilight
When the housekeeper left to prepare tea, James turned toward the window again, with its spectacular view, even in poor weather. Mist drifted over the hills and draped the treetops like veils. He thought again of Elspeth MacArthur, living somewhere in this glen—he wondered if she locked her doors during the Fairy Riding too. He wondered if she thought often, or at all, of Struan’s new laird.
Leaving the room to go find tea, he half-expected to hear the shriek again. But Mr. MacKimmie must have found and silenced the squeaking door.
* * *
Elspeth stepped away from the shuttle loom, pausing to stretch, arching her back a little to ease the strain collected there. With one length of weaving nearly done on the loom, she wanted to think a little about the next pattern, and so left the weaving cottage to stroll across the yard, past two cottages that held other looms, to enter yet another building. This one was used to store yarn and finished lengths of plaids, its thick stone walls heavily limewashed against molds and moisture.
Inside, she browsed the racks, shelves, and baskets where skeins of yarn and the thinner woolen threads were tucked, some hanging in colorful loops on pegs, other clustered in baskets on the floor, still more spilling in rainbows on a worktable. The single window was shuttered to prevent sunlight from fading the yarns and threads. She pulled her plaid shawl closer about her shoulders, for the yarn room was chilly as well as dim. Only a small brazier kept the cold and damp away; the smoke of hearth or from candles could discolor the wool and give it an odor. Grandfather did not even smoke his tobacco pipe in here.
A large book of patterns sat on the table, but the pattern forming in her mind was an original design. She wanted to weave this one for herself, rather than as a commissioned length like most of the Kilcrennan cloth. Opening a writing box to remove paper, quill, and ink bottle, she sketched a grid of crisscrossing lines, counting the warp and weft lines in dot patterns, and carefully choosing and labeling the colors she wanted to use.
As she turned to look through the yarns again, the cottage door opened and her grandfather stepped inside.
“Supper, Elspeth,” he said. “Did you not hear Mrs. Graham calling you?”
“I did not. I was thinking about the thread pattern for the next weaving.”
“Well, come ahead, there’s lamb pie and boiled potatoes, and Peggy Graham’s apple tart, just for you.”
Elspeth untied her apron, leaving it on a hook by the door, and walked with her grandfather across the yard between the weaving house. Several buildings contained Kilcrennan’s four handlooms, as well as the storage cottage, a building where wools and yarns were prepared, and a small cottage where completed tartan lengths were stored in rolls before being transported to patrons and shops. The little cottage where Elspeth did her own weaving was the original building used by generations of MacArthurs, the earlier weavers of Kilcrennan. She preferred that oldest cottage, and the old shuttle loom there, which had belonged to her great-grandfather and others before him. The old loom seemed to know the work itself, having produced tartan cloth for so long.
Kilcrennan House, alongside the cluster of cottages, was a large fieldstone manse of three floors, with a simple design of a central entrance flanked by rows of windows. A one-story wing housed kitchen and servants’ quarters, while outer buildings included laundry house, smithy, and brewhouse.
“I mean to weave a lady’sarisaidshawl for my next sett on the loom,” Elspeth told her grandfather as they walked. “We have plenty of the creamy yarn for the ground color, and I’ll use some purple with brown and a bit of indigo. There is only a little of that last left, not enough for a longer length, but good for this purpose.”
“We’ve ordered some new color batches from Margaret,” Donal said. “Our orders for red tartans, especially the Stuart patterns, have increased, with customers wanting to show their Highland colors of late. The dyed yarns are ready. Margaret’s eldest son brought some of them the other day.”
“I can fetch the rest while you are gone to Edinburgh over the next few days.”
“Come with me there, to meet with the Edinburgh tailors,” he said.
“And to meet your friend Mr. MacDowell? I know you want him to court me, but I will not marry him, or any Lowland man. Even if you think I should.”
“You would be happy, lass. He’s a good man. You could learn to love him.”
She glanced up at him, sighing. She loved her grandfather so, but he could be exasperating in his insistence on what was best for her.
He did look a charmer, though, she had to admit, and it made her smile to herself. Donal MacArthur, approaching eighty now, was still tall and spare, still handsome, and looked twenty years younger than his true age. His brown eyes twinkled, his dark hair was scarcely gray. Most who knew him simply attributed his health to good habits, spare eating, clean Highland air. Only Elspeth and Mrs. Graham knew that his youthfulness also included a touch of magic.
“I will not fall in love with a man simply because my Grandda thinks I should,” she said. “I am happy here. And I have a good bit of weaving to do for so many new orders,” she went on briskly. “I will work on our tartan orders while you travel.”
“The king’s visit was good for us, as weavers of tartan.” Donal smiled. “It’s fine luck we’re having of late, but tiring. Come to Edinburgh for a wee holiday.”
“You auld rascal,” she said affectionately. “You love having so much work to do. And you love weaving it faster and better than any other could do.”
“I’m grateful for our luck.” His mood turned sober as they walked on. “Elspeth, if you go over to Margaret’s, do not cross the glen alone. Take a cart, and promise me you will bring a maid and a draw-lad for company and to help you fetch the yarn. It’s nearly time for the fairy riding.”
“I will be fine. Let them ride their cavalcade over the glen. I will not see them, and they will not see me. And I will never be stolen away,” she reassured him, tucking her arm in his. “I intend to stay with you for a long time to come.”
“Lass, you must marry soon, and may that man, whoever he is, watch out for you as well as I have. And may he take you south and away from this glen. That is what I pray.”
“I need no watching over.”
“Mr. MacDowell is a good man, and successful.”
“And keen on inheriting Kilcrennan’s weaving business through me. He would not be so interested in marrying me if he knew the truth about us,” she added.
“Then we will not tell him.”
