Page 56 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Stubborn as yon lass is, we must interfere. Eh, Struan?”
“I like her stubbornness, sir. And she has her reasons to refuse.” James stood. “I will do my best, I promise. But she cannot be forced. I think you know that. Mrs. Graham, thank you for tea.” He nodded and went to the door.
“Hoo hoo!” Donal crowed as James left. “A wedding for sure, Peggy dear!”
The loom clickedand the heddle bars shifted as Elspeth pressed the foot pedals. She threw the small threaded shuttle from right to left, then another left to right, through the gap between the threads. All the while she swayed her body side to side, back and forth with the steady rhythm of loom and shuttle. Her hands moved quickly, the repetition soothing, erasing all but the moment. That respite was what she needed.
She pressed the treadle again to shift the wooden heddle bar that brought one set of warp threads down, creating a tunnel between the layered yarns. Tossing another threaded shuttle through the gap, she caught it with her left hand as it sailed through. The next push of the treadle dropped the warp threads to snug the weft thread in another color into the weave. Tossingthe shuttle through again, she dropped it and picked up another color.
Quick and nimble she went, warp threads clicking, yellow and black, the weft threads sailing through, red and black. The woolen cloth grew in length by inches, the span only as wide as the reach of her arms as the cloth turned on the wooden roller that pressed against her taut belly as she leaned to the work.
The rhythms spoke to her.Go to him; stay here; go to him; stay here. Go to Struan, leave Kilcrennan,said the loom. She tossed another shuttle, pressed the treadle.Love him, keep him, love him, keep him,said the loom.
She took up the shuttle and flung it, right to left. Catch the shuttle, press the treadle; catch the shuttle; press the treadle. She did not want to think, she only wanted to lose herself in the warp and the weft and the rolling of the cloth.
A decision must be made. Yet someone waited for this fine tartan and would treasure it. That would do for now.
But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.
Catch the shuttle, press the treadle. Yellow goes over, black comes back; red flies through, black follows. Love him, keep him, go to him.
James paused inthe open doorway of the weaving cottage, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb as he watched the weaver so absorbed in her work that she did not look up.
He had never seen tartan cloth produced on a loom. He had always taken the woolen fabric for granted, not thinking how it came into existence, only what it cost, or how it looked, or how it kept a man dry and warm, free and comfortable.
After a few moments watching the loom and the weaver, he saw how the parts worked together, how the colored yarns flew and interwove into the plaid pattern as the cloth formed, spooling taut and handsome over the roller.
But the weaver held his greater attention.
He was fascinated by the girl and her skill, how she sat on a chair leaning into the loom, back straight, arms out, hands swift, as if she held a harp sideways in her lap to play a rhythm of clicks and shushes and swoops, every motion deft and efficient. The loom shuddered gently, the roller turned, the cloth grew under her steady hands.
She was focused, calm and entranced, a soft light on her face. She did not see him watching her. He appreciated her swan-like grace, her supple curves, her beauty. What she did was dance-like and almost seductive, so that his body stirred, and he wanted her fiercely, deeply, body and sweet soul. And he saw more than a beautiful weaver at work.
He saw her gift, and her love, for the weaving, and he understood why she did not want to leave Kilcrennan or go to the Lowlands. She was part of this place, this devotion. In Edinburgh, she would feel smaller, lesser, her weaving not respected for an ancient and honorable craft, but merely an industry and an activity unsuitable to a viscountess. This was more than a pastime for her. This was her art, and she was devoted to it.
He would never ask her to leave this behind. In silence, he turned away.
Chapter Fourteen
“The rain willclear overnight,” Donal MacArthur remarked. “Whisky, sir?”
James turned as the older man entered the parlor and went to a shelf containing a round ceramic bottle and glasses.
“Thank you,” he agreed. “And thank you for your hospitality, Mr. MacArthur.”
“We are glad of your company and your help for my granddaughter. She mentioned you intend to complete Lady Struan’s unfinished book.”
“I am working on her pages for now, though I must return to Edinburgh and the university in a few weeks.” He wondered if he would go alone, as it seemed he might never convince Elspeth to marry him.
“I see.” MacArthur poured the drams and handed one to James.
James sipped. “Excellent stuff,” he said, as the warmth spread through him. “Is it from a local distiller? Mellow, yet with subtle power. Extraordinarily pleasant.” He sipped again. “I’ve never tasted the like for quality.”
“‘Gie us the drink, to make us wink,’” MacArthur recited Robert Burns, and James chuckled. “A MacGregor cousin makes this in his small distillery up in the hills. So long as he makes enough family and friends, ‘tis legal.” He grinned.
“Ah, good.” James was aware that the manufacture of illicit whisky and its export via smugglers was rampant in theHighlands despite legal strictures. “I wish your cousin well in his enterprise. This is fine stuff.”
“He always sends some to Kilcrennan. He calls this fairy brew.”
