Page 56 of Laird of Twilight
The loom clicked and its heddle bars shifted as Elspeth pressed the foot pedals. She threw a small threaded shuttle right to left, and another left to right, through the gap between the threads. All the while, her body swayed side to side and back and forth with the steady rhythms created by loom and shuttle. Her hands moved quickly, the repetition soothing, erasing all but the moment.
This was what she most needed, this letting go of thought and worry. She felt herself begin to release fears and relax.Click, clack. Red, black, green, black, yellow.
She pressed the treadle quickly, the motion shifting the wooden heddle bar, bringing one set of warp threads down, and creating a new tunnel between the layered warp threads. Taking up another shuttle for the weft, threaded with yellow, she tossed that deftly through the gap, and as it sailed through, caught it in her left hand. Treadle, drop the warp, snug the yellow into the weave, toss the yellow through, drop it, pick up the black—quick and nimble she went, clicking on and on, weaving the weft, yellow and green, through the warp, red and black.
The length of the new woolen cloth grew steadily, its span as wide as the reach of her arms. The cloth turned on the wooden roller, pressing against her taut waist as she leaned into the work.
The rhythms went on, and seemed to speak to her.Go to him, stay here, go to him, stay here.The colors reflected her feelings: red for passion and temper, black for fear, yellow for hope. Green for growth, for a new start.
Go with James, leave Kilcrennan, said the loom. She tossed the shuttle, pressed the treadle.All will be well, all will be well.
Press the treadle, fling the shuttle, right to left; catch the shuttle, press the treadle; fling and catch and press. Just keep a watchful eye on warp and weft, heddle and roller, keep watch over the sett pattern as the tartan grew like a living thing.
She would need to decide. She knew that. For now, there was respite in the rhythm, satisfaction in the work. Someone would treasure this cloth. For now, that would do. But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.
Catch and fling, catch and press. Yellow goes over, black comes back; hope flies through, and shadows follow.
* * *
James stood in the open doorway, shoulder leaned against the jamb as he watched the weaver absorbed in her work. He had never seen tartan cloth produced on a loom. He had taken the woolen fabric for granted, not thinking much about how it came into existence; only what it cost per ell, how it looked and felt, how neatly the tailor cut it for kilt or waistcoat, how nicely warm and dry it kept one.
A few minutes of watching loom and weaver showed how the colored threads interwove as stripes and blocks to form the plaid pattern. The cloth spooled, taut and handsome, over the roller.
But the weaver held most of his attention.
He was fascinated as much by the girl as her skill. She sat on a wooden chair and leaned into the loom, arms out, hands moving as if she played upon a great harp held sideways in her lap, an instrument that created a rhythmic melody of clicks and shushing sounds. She was practiced and efficient, leaning and tossing, pressing and catching, while the loom posts shuddered gently and the roller turned.
He watched her deftly snatch the shuttle with its long tail of color and send it flying through the gap in the threads; saw her catch it on the other side and send it back. Every movement was perfectly timed as the loom moved sweetly, steadily under her guidance.
Compelled, James watched, appreciating her focus, her trancelike calm. He saw the focus on her face, a soft light within. She was enchanting. And he appreciated, too, the swan-like grace of her body as she moved, her supple, slender curves, the whole action more like a dance than work. His body stirred, surged inwardly. He knew the feel of her body against his. He wanted that again with her, fiercely so.
Yet he saw more than a beautiful young woman weaving color on a loom. He saw her gift, and her love, for the work. And he understood why she did not want to leave Kilcrennan. She was part of this place. This was more than a pastime for her. It was art and devotion. And he could not ask her to leave it.
In silence, he turned away.
Chapter 14
“The sky is clearing,” Donal MacArthur remarked as he entered the parlor. “The roads will be better by morning. You are welcome to stay the night.”
James turned, standing by the window. “Thank you,” he said. “I will do that. I am grateful for your hospitality, Mr. MacArthur.”
“We are glad of your company, Struan, and the help you gave my granddaughter. Elspeth mentioned that you are here to complete Lady Struan’s last book?”
“I am editing the pages. It was her request. I plan to return to Edinburgh in two or three weeks.” He could not stay much longer, with university duties. And he would have to accept that he might never convince Elspeth to join him in Edinburgh.
“I see. Whisky, sir?” MacArthur opened a cupboard and withdrew a brown glass bottle and two glasses. He poured and returned, handing James a glass.
James thanked him and sipped. “Excellent stuff,” he said, as the heat of it spread like smooth fire down his throat and throughout his body. “Is it made by a local distiller?”
“It is,” MacArthur said, and swallowed.
“Mellow, yet with a subtle spiciness and—a bit of power. Extraordinarily pleasant.” He sipped again. “I’ve never tasted its like.”
“‘Gie us the drink, to make us wink,’” MacArthur recited. James laughed to hear the Burns quote. “My cousin makes it. A MacGregor. He has a small distillery far up in the hills. So long as he makes just the legal amount for family and friends, no one bothers about his whisky-making.” Donal grinned, blue eyes gleaming.
“Ah.” James was well aware that the manufacture of illicit whisky, and its smuggling for export, was rampant in the Highlands despite legal strictures imposed by the government. And he knew that the laws benefitted the government far more than the Scots involved in brewing the whisky that had been made in the Highlands, especially, for centuries. “I wish your cousin well of his enterprises. This is a fine product.”
“This is a special brew, not his usual make, that he produces each year from a family recipe. He always sends some to Kilcrennan. They call it fairy brew.”
