Page 70 of Laird of Twilight
“The MacCarrans are a small clan,” Margaret said. “It may not be in the book.”
“Grandda has notebooks with all the patterns that Kilcrennan weavers have made over generations. It may be there.” Elspeth turned, relieved for the distraction, and took a black leather notebook from the shelf, very worn, with slips of paper stuck among its tattered pages. She opened it to page through, and stopped, spreading the book open. “Here it is!”
They leaned together to study two pages filled with ink sketches and charts of weaving patterns. “‘The MacCarrans are a sept of the MacDonalds of the Isles,’” Margaret read aloud. “Here, this one is the MacCarran plaid.”
“My great-great-grandfather wrote these notes,” Elspeth said.
“It says Kilcrennan weavers made that tartan pattern for a laird of the MacCarran clan in the years of peace,” Margaret said. “That would have been a long while ago, before the Jacobites. Not all the old clan tartans are included in Wilson’s pattern book, so it is a blessing to have these old notes. The ancient plaid designs were not specific to a clan, certainly not in the way the new pattern books would have us believe. Rather they varied from glen to glen, changing with local weavers and the setts they favored and the dyes they made from local plants.”
“So this tartan would be authentic to the local MacCarrans, made especially for them by my own ancestors,” Elspeth said. She studied the design and the color notes and numbered lines. “Twenty warp threads of deep blue, twenty warp of forest green, ten weft threads of red, five weft in white,” she read. When stretched crosswise on the loom in the warp and weft directions, the yarns would create one repeat, or sett, of the pattern, which would carry through the entire width and length of the plaid. “This would be a very handsome tartan.”
“I have heard of the MacCarrans,” Margaret said thoughtfully. “A small clan with an interesting history. Do you know their clan motto?”
Elspeth shook her head. “Lord Struan mentioned that family tradition claims a fairy ancestor, but he says many clans have similar legends. He thinks such things are just fancy, without truth to them.”
“He should spend more time in this glen, and with you lot at Kilcrennan,” Margaret said wryly. “He might change his mind. Next time you see him, ask your braw viscount about the MacCarran motto.”
“He is not my viscount.” Elspeth took a scrap of paper and a lead pencil from a box on the table and began to copy the sett instructions. “I may not see him before he leaves for Edinburgh. I may never see him again,” she added firmly. “But I will make a length of MacCarran tartan according to this sett, and send it on to the city as a gift from the Kilcrennan weavers. He can take it to a tailor and have it made up.”
“Perhaps he will take it to the tailor Uncle Donal knows,” Margaret said.
“I do not care what he does with it.” Elspeth focused on copying the pattern.
“It will be a fine gift. But you should deliver it yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no need to go to Edinburgh.”
Margaret sat in the nearest chair, arching and stretching her back. “Let me tell you what I have heard of the MacCarrans.”
“If you like.” Elspeth shrugged, pencil in hand, but waited, listening.
“The MacCarrans had a golden cup in their castle seat that was given to their clan long and long ago by a fairy ancestor. Around its base a motto was engraved.” Margaret paused. “‘Love makes its own magic,’ were the words.”
“That is beautiful.” She felt tears sting her eyes.
“I thought you might like that.”
“Oh, Margaret.” Elspeth sighed. “What have I done?”
“I am sure it can be sorted if both of you care, and I think you do,” Margaret answered. “If you love this man, I say marry him. Whatever the obstacle may be—and the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan have some secrets that even their close kin are wise not to ask about—just follow your heart, and all will be well.”
“This situation is all my doing, and I am not sure how to undo it. I want to stay here. Grandda needs me. And yet—I want to be with Struan, as well.”
“Things can often be sorted out more easily than we think, Elspeth.”
“I do feel that he cares for me. A little, at least.”
“Listen to me,” Margaret said gently. “If you love him and he loves you, do what you feel is best. All will be well.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“Sometimes it seems complicated, but love is a simple, beautiful thing.” Margaret smiled. “Tell him how you feel. Give the man, and his good intentions, a chance.”
Leaving the table, silent and thoughtful, Elspeth went to the shelves holding yarns. While she plucked colorful skeins for the MacCarran plaid, her thoughts tumbled. Suddenly she stopped, arms full—she wanted to weep, wanted to run out of the cottage and over the hills to Struan House, wanted to find him before he left the glen forever.
And find him, she realized, before she turned twenty-one by month’s end. Her grandfather had always said that on that day, according to the fairy bargain, she must return to the realm where she was born. She had never quite believed it. But what if it was true—what if she risked her dreams by dismissing Donal’s tale?
Margaret joined her, reaching out to choose other yarns. “Your grandfather told me that he needs more of this deep red, here, and some of this onion yellow, for his work.” She handed them to Elspeth, who cradled several skeins. “Take these to him. Go on—there are things that must be said between you and Donal. Start there. I am going up to the house to visit with Peggy.”
