Page 42 of Laird of Twilight
“Thank you, sir, but nay,” the old smith said. “We’d best be going. We are walking about to ask after others in the big storm, and off to see that me auld mum is well too. We canna take the pony cart, must go on foot. The river and stream are floody, too, and the auld stone bridge is washed out again. Not collapsed, but not safe for now.”
“Oh!” Elspeth glanced at Struan. “That is the way back to Kilcrennan.”
“You can walk the long way over the hills,” the reverend said. “No cart or gig can take the road or the bridge until things dry up again.”
“Is Mrs. MacKimmie home, then?” Willie Buchanan asked Struan. “I have greetings for her from my wife, who is her good friend.”
“Not at present, Mr. Buchanan, but I will tell her you called,” Struan replied.
“Not home? Perhaps Mr. MacKimmie, then.”
“He is not here at the moment. The weather, you understand.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Buchanan, glancing at his son. “Not home.”
Listening, Elspeth shivered and drew her plaid higher over her head. The gentlemen adjusted hat brims and jacket collars as they all stood in the drizzle and the wind, with a stone fence and iron gate between them. The two Highlanders did not seem in a hurry to leave. Shifting her weight to her uninjured foot, Elspeth felt Struan’s hand briefly at her elbow. A fast look exchanged between the Buchanans.
“All yer Southron housemaids ran off, I heard,” Mr. Buchanan said. “We saw yer groom driving the lasses along the road yesterday morning.”
“Apparently they dislike ghosts and fairies. I have not had much trouble from them myself.”
“Och, Lowlanders,” old Buchanan said. “Though I canna blame them for leaving. It is a custom in this glen to avoid Struan lands when the fairy riding comes about, whether or not one believes it, aye. My son does not, being a man of God. But I say you are a brave man to stay here at this time. Did no one warn you?”
“Mrs. MacKimmie mentioned the tradition. It does not bother me to stay.”
The elder Buchanan twisted his hat in his hand and glanced at Elspeth. “Are you sure he understands the whole of it, Elspeth?”
“He does, sir,” she answered, holding her chin high.
“You will find Highlanders a superstitious lot, Lord Struan,” the reverend said. “The people of this glen have their legends, of course. Many find the stories entertaining, but some put real trust in them.” He glanced at Elspeth. “It is not a matter of religious faith, nor paganism or Godlessness, as some suggest. Rather it is part of the unique Celtic character. As a pastor, I let it be and do not concern myself overmuch with it.”
“Very wise, sir,” Struan said. “The legends are fanciful and harmless.”
“The stories,” Elspeth said, “are not just amusement. I have always felt that as part of the culture of the Scottish Highlands, they should be given their due.”
“Of course,” Reverend Buchanan agreed. “The late Lady Struan was quite interested in the tales of the glen, as I recall. She often drove her pony cart about to interview people about local customs.”
“My grandmother loved her work,” Struan said affably. “The skies do look rather dreadful. Will you come in for tea or something stronger, though it is early?”
“No, thank you. We will be on our way. Miss MacArthur, may we see you home?” The reverend smiled. “We would be glad to walk you back to Kilcrennan.”
“Thank you, it is not necessary,” she said, smiling, standing on one foot, hidden by her skirts and the stone wall. Beside her, Struan was silent. She felt his alertness.
“No need to impose on the good laird,” the elder Buchanan said. “Yer grandfather would want ye home. He’s expected back this evening from the city if the roads permit.”
“I was about to see Miss MacArthur home,” Struan said.
“Nonsense, you are busy, surely. We can do it,” the reverend insisted. “I am sure you will agree, Lord Struan, that the situation is not particularly seemly.”
“There is nothing amiss here,” Elspeth said. “We are not strangers. Lord Struan and I are acquaintances. We met in Edinburgh,” she blurted.
“Just so,” Struan agreed. Elspeth was grateful for the support and security she felt as he stood beside her.
“Ah.” The smith glanced at his son and back again. “Well then, sir, we will move on before the weather worsens.” Then he turned to Elspeth and spoke in Gaelic. “A thousand good wishes to you in your future, Elspeth, daughter of Donal.”
“And to you, sir,” she replied in that language.
The men moved on. Then Elspeth picked up her skirt and hurried toward the house, limping with uneven steps. Catching up to her, Struan opened the door and waited for her to enter first.
