Page 90 of The Scottish Bride
“Oh, it is beautiful.” Tamsin caught her breath as she reached out. The book was not large, its cover, a soft leather, was perhaps the span of her hand across. It was tooled with a design—laurel, she noticed, for Keith—at the corners, and the center was simply a tall initial “T,” as elaborate as a scrolled initial in a manuscript, that was painted red and blue and engraved in the leather.
“The pages you copied, madam, were excellently done,” Bisset explained. “We folded and pressed them into quires and stitched them together. Here—you can see them inside the spine of the book.” He tipped the volume to show her. “The boards are wood, covered in leather, with parchment glued inside. The covers will hold for a very, very long time, if not forever. And here, you see,” he said, opening the back board, “I have added a wee pocket where you can tuck free pages, if you have them. And a small brass latch, should you store it flat or chained.”
She nodded, speechless as she turned the pages. The work she had done for two years was here, the margins straight, therulings perfectly aligned. The parchment, verso and recto, was good vellum; she felt the soft smoothness of one side and the slightly rough texture of the other. The pages crackled a bit as she turned them carefully.
Each page was so familiar to her that she hardly needed to look closely. Her eyes blurred with tears. No one knew how much work she had put into this over the past few years, copying Thomas’s notes and scribbles painstakingly, making his often untidy, blotted writings neat and legible. She had begun copying the pages at Kincraig, before she was married, continuing it through the years she was Dalrinnie, doing some of the work in Holyoak’s little scriptorium. She had made more than one copy, adding greatly to the work. Now she noticed, as if she had not seen it before, how neat and beautiful her script was, how meticulous and masterful. Pride ran warm and lovely through her. She had made this. Her great-grandfather would be pleased, if only he knew. Perhaps on some level, in some more beautiful place than this, he did know.
Closing the book reverently, tucking the wrapping around it, she turned to the bookseller. “Master Bisset, it is truly beautiful. I cannot thank you enough.”
“A pleasure and a privilege to work on it, my lady,” he said. “But do you not want to show your husband before we wrap the parcel again? Sir,” he said, stepping back.
With a cautious glance at Tamsin, Liam came forward.
She pulled back the parchment. “See,” she said.
Liam reached out to smooth his fingers over the tooled leather cover. He opened the front board and began to turn the pages, reading a little here, there. He nodded, read more, nodded and smiled.
“I see,” he murmured, with a knowing glance toward her. “Master Bisset, it is truly a fine volume. My lady’s kinfolk will treasure it. Let me pay your fee, sir.”
Tamsin gasped softly. “Nay, let me.” But Liam held up a hand.
Bisset went to a shelf, then came back with a scrap of parchment with a number scribbled on it and handed it to Liam. “A book like that wee one, if we paid the scribe for the work as well as the binder, could cost a king’s ransom, especially with illuminated decoration. But the lady herself did the work. I cannot tell you how much I admire that, sir. Your lady is worth her weight in gold, in that sense. All I did was fold, trim, stitch, make the covers and put it together. So the fee is not nearly as much, you see.”
“I understand. And I too appreciate and admire my lady’s work. I did not realize until now how capable and talented she is. I would pay a king’s ransom for this book.”
“But you are glad to not pay that,” Bisset said with a laugh.
Liam chuckled. “Three pound Scots, seven shillings. Very reasonable,” he murmured, and took a small leather purse from his belt, counting out silver coins. “Four pound Scots, ten shillings, will that do?”
“That is the greater sum, sir.”
“The bargain is mine, Master Bisset. My lady is pleased, therefore, so am I.”
Tamsin looked at him, wide-eyed, though she said little as Bisset wrapped the book, tied it with a green silk ribbon, and handed it to her.
“My lady, an honor.”
“Thank you, sir. If I have more pages for another volume, would you be here to do the work? I believe you are sometimes in Edinburgh.”
“I am here most of the year, though I spend winters in Edinburgh. My mother is there, you see. I would be happy to create another book for you, my lady.”
She smiled and turned to leave, though Liam stepped outside first, putting out an arm in warning, so that Tamsin stayed in the shadows. “Clear,” he said. “Come ahead.”
She walked beside him, holding the package close to her heart like a precious thing. “Back to the inn?” she asked.
“I want you to go to the inn.” He took her arm, glancing about as they walked. “I need to have a look around. This way—we can cross from this street to the alley beside the inn that leads to the stable. Hurry.”
“Are they looking for us?”
“We do not want to be seen, either way. Come.” He drew her along, leaving the market street to walk between a few vegetable gardens toward the inn.
“Hurry. Give me the package.” He lifted the book from her hands even as he rushed her along. “Run, lass!”
Reaching the alley, she reached for the book, but he kept it, drawing her along with a hand on her arm. When they reached the stable yard, Tamsin could hear horse hooves clattering over cobblestones out on the road.
“Take the back entrance into the inn. Go to the room and lock the door. Do not open it until you hear my voice. Take this.” He took the key from his belt pouch. “Go!”
“The book. Give me the book!”
