Page 14 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Ah.” He felt bewildered, as if he had stepped into a foreign land. “You stay inside your homes because of fairies?”What on earth,he thought.
“We do. Our staff will return after the fairies go back to their world.”
“Remarkable,” James said. He would have to record that odd custom in his grandmother’s book. “My needs are simple, so a large staff is unnecessary. Whatever you have done in the past for your local holiday, please continue.”
“It is no holiday, sir. No one risks going out during a fairy riding, not with them sort about. We prefer to close the house for a few days. There is a good hotel in the next town. You would be comfortable there for a bit, as would your guests.”
The housekeeper seemed too sensible a woman for this nonsense, he thought. “If you and the others want to leave, I am perfectly content to stay here. I have a good deal of work to do and the solitude would be useful. My guests will not arrive for a while yet.”
“Lord Struan, you do not want solitude. ‘Tis best we all leave.”
“Nonsense. I’m a capable bachelor, so long as there is food in the larder and a few simple comforts. Please follow your usual custom. I will not disrupt local tradition.”
“Very well, sir, but be warned. You must always beware the fairy ilk when you walk about on Struan lands at any time of year, but especially now.” Her glance flickered to the cane he had set against a chair.
“I take long walks when I can,” he said quietly, “but I will heed your advice.”
When she left to prepare tea, James turned toward the window to gaze. The view was spectacular even in poor weather. Mist drifted over the hills and draped the treetops like veils. He thought again of Elspeth MacArthur, who lived somewhere inthis glen, and wondered if she remembered that Struan’s new laird would be arriving.
He left in search of the parlor and tea, half-expecting to hear the shriek again. Mr. MacKimmie must have found and silenced the squeaking door.
Elspeth stepped awayfrom 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 was thinking about the next pattern. Preoccupied, she left the weaving cottage and strolled across the yard past two cottages that also held looms. Another building was used to store yarns and finished plaids, its limewashed stone walls and flagstone floors protection against molds and moisture.
Entering that cottage, Elspeth perused the shelves, racks, and baskets filled with yarns and cloth, colorful skeins looped on pegs, clustered in baskets on the floor, and spilling in rainbows on a worktable. The single window was shuttered today to prevent too much sunlight from fading the yarns and fabrics. She pulled her plaid shawl closer about her shoulders, for the room was chilly as well as dim. A small brazier kept the cold and damp away; smoke from a hearth or candles could discolor the wool. Grandfather did not even smoke his tobacco pipe in here.
The table held a large book of patterns that she often consulted. But she had an original design in mind today, not a commissioned length like most of their weavings, but a tartan she wanted to weave for herself. Opening a writing box, she set out paper, quill, and an ink bottle and sketched a grid of crisscrossing lines. Then, counting out the warp and weft lines in dotted lines, she began to choose and label the colors she had in mind. While she looked through the yarns to see what dyes were on hand, she looked up as the cottage door opened and her grandfather entered.
“Supper, Elspeth! Did you not hear Mrs. Graham calling you?”
“I did not. I was planning a new thread pattern.”
“Aye then. Come ahead, there’s lamb pie and boiled potatoes, and Peggy Graham’s apple tart that she made just for you.”
Elspeth left her apron on a hook by the door and walked with her grandfather across the yard. The buildings outside the main house contained Kilcrennan’s four handlooms, the storage cottage, another where wool and yarns were prepared, and yet another building where finished tartan lengths were wrapped and prepared for sending to patrons and shops. The smallest building, where Elspeth preferred to do her weaving, was the original weaver’s cottage used by generations of MacArthurs, the weavers of Kilcrennan. She loved the old stone cottage and the ancient shuttle loom that her great-grandfather had used. It was as if that old loom knew how to do the work on its own, having produced tartan cloth for so long.
Kilcrennan House, alongside the cluster of cottages, was a large fieldstone manse of three floors, a simple facade with rows of windows and a lower wing that housed the kitchen and servant quarters. Clustered behind the larger house was a laundry house, smithy, and brewhouse.
“I mean to weave a lady’s arisaid shawl for my next sett on the loom,” Elspeth told her grandfather as they walked. “We have plenty of the cream-colored yarn for the ground color, and I will use some purple with pale brown and a bit of indigo. That last is expensive, but what we have left is just enough for this.”
“I several color batches from Margaret,” Donal said. “Orders have increased with customers wanting to show their Highland colors of late. Most of the yarns are ready now. Margaret’s eldest son brought some along earlier today.”
“I can fetch the rest in the next few days while you are away in Edinburgh.”
“Come with me to meet with the Edinburgh tailors.”
“To see your friend Mr. MacDowell? I know you want him to court me, but I will not marry him or any Lowland man, even though you want that. I told you so, Grandda.”
“But you would be happy. He’s a good man. You could learn to love him.”
She glanced up. Donal MacArthur was tall and spare, still a handsome man even approaching eighty, though he looked twenty years younger. His brown eyes sparkled, his dark hair was scarcely gray. Most never suspected his true age, and those who knew attributed it to healthy habits. Only Elspeth and Mrs. Graham knew his youthfulness included a touch of magic.
“I will not fall in love with a man just because you decide I should. I am happy here. And I am too busy to bother with that. I have a good bit of weaving to do since we have so many new orders,” she went on. “I’ll work on our tartan orders while you travel.”
“The royal visit was good for weavers of tartan.” Donal’s eyes twinkled. “We have had fine luck of late, but it is tiring for us. Come to Edinburgh for a little holiday.”
“Auld rascal,” she said affectionately. “You love having so much work. You love producing it faster and better than any other weaver could.”
“I’m grateful for our luck.” His mood turned sober. “Elspeth, if you go to Margaret’s, do not cross the glen alone. Take a cart and bring a maid and a draw-boy to help you. It is almost time for the fairy riding.”
