by Susan King
The redheaded boy jumped up to pass the handwritten sheaves around the room. The students chatted as he did so, and Fiona raised her hand for silence.
“We will recite the verses. If you cannot read the English, just follow along, and place your finger on each word as we say it, to help you recognize the word again. First in Gaelic, then in English,” she said, and continued:
“Dear Lord, shield the house, the fire, the kine, and everyone who dwells here tonight,” she read, then went on in a soft sing-song.
Shield myself and my dear ones
Preserve us from harm
For the sake of the angels
Who watch over us this night. . .
Mairi MacDonald raised her hand. “Miss MacCarran, my grandmother says this verse every night. She calls it the prayer before resting.”
“My mother says it, too,” Lilias said. Others murmured agreement.
“I know this one,” Lucy said. “My Aunt Jean taught it to me, and now that she is gone, my Uncle Kinloch says it with me at night before I sleep.”
“Very good,” Fiona said, feeling a quick twinge of sympathy to learn that small Lucy had lost her mother and, apparently, an aunt who had cared for her. Fiona felt touched to know that the laird of Kinloch took time to recite a Gaelic prayer with his little niece. “Let us say it in Gaelic and then in English.”
Using a stick, she pointed to each phrase she had chalked on the large slate hung on the wall.
Air an oidhche nochd ’s gach aon oidhche,
On this night and every night
The students recited in Gaelic, then in halting English, the sound rich and soft in the air. Fiona felt the thrill that sometimes came over her when she spoke Gaelic and heard its soft resonance and rhythms, as if magic was woven all through it.
“Excellent,” she said. “Again, please, and follow the words with your finger. Sing if you know the melody.” As a shy harmony swelled in the room, one voice, silver clear, rose above the rest.
Fiona saw Annabel sitting straight, chin lifted as she sang in a voice with astonishing purity and strength despite her youth. As the other students finished, Annabel sang the last note truly.
“That was lovely, Annabel,” Fiona said.
The girl blushed, her silver-blond hair sliding down to hide her face. “Thank you, Miss MacCarran,” she said softly, shoulders hunched. Someone laughed and whispered. Peering through the slanting sunlight coming in the small windows, Fiona frowned in that direction, and the laughter subsided quickly.
She went on with the lesson, reciting in English, the students following. Annabel did not sing this time, though Fiona wanted to hear that clear and haunting voice again.
For the rest of the morning, the students focused on learning English words until Fiona excused them for the midday meal. They ran outside, glad to see that the rain had stopped. While the children sat under trees or on boulders, unwrapping cheese and oatcakes and other foods brought from home, Fiona filled wooden cups with clear water from a nearby burn and handed them around.
Opening the packet of food that Mrs. MacIan had given her, she found barley cakes and cold bacon. She took it inside, thinking to finish a little work, leaving the door open so that she could see the students as she ate and worked at lessons.
“Miss MacCarran,” a voice said. She looked up.
Ranald and Fergus MacGregor stood in the open doorway. Rising, she beckoned them inside and went to greet them. “Mr. MacGregor, and—Mr. MacGregor! How nice to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Please excuse us, Miss,” Ranald said, “but we came to check the roof. With the bairns outside, this might be a good time.”
“Of course. Is there a problem with the roof?”
“Och aye,” Ranald said. “Are you done with the school for the day?”
“Not yet. We will work for an hour or so after luncheon. Some of them have chores at home, so I give them afternoons free for those tasks.”
“And some only have tasks when the laird asks them to help him,” Fergus said, smiling politely, just as if he had not seen her only days ago facing smugglers and officers in the dark of night.
“Ah,” she said. “So the older lads help the laird—at night, in the hills?”
“Hills?” Ranald looked very innocent. Then she saw a twinkle in his eyes. “We sometimes bring casks and supplies around to others in need.”
“Of course. Though if the older lads will be occupied in the evenings, I would like to know about it.”
“Why?” Fergus asked, glancing at Ranald.
Oh, dear, she thought. They might worry that she would take that information to her brother. “Only so that I can understand why they are especially weary some mornings, or unable to finish their homework. That is all.”
“I see.” Ranald nodded. “My son Andrew, he is a good scholar?”
“Very bright and a fast learner,” she replied.
“And Jamie? He is my grandson,” Fergus said proudly. “A good lad.”
“He is a very smart lad, and quite willing to help others.”
“Andrew has his mother’s wit, not mine,” Ranald said. “I do not read English.”
“You speak it very well. And you are a clever man. Your son is like you.”
“That is true,” Ranald said, puffing proudly.
“Miss, you are a good teacher, I am thinking,” Fergus said. “What of Lucy? We are all her uncles, you know. And the laird will also want to know how she does.”
“She is extremely bright, though a bit spirited,” she said tactfully, while they chuckled. “I—I have not seen Kinloch for a while.”
“He has been busy with matters in the glen,” Fergus said.
“I am sure of it,” she answered, unable to keep the spice out of her tone.
Fergus huffed. “And wee Lucy, is she tormenting poor Jamie?”
“Sometimes, but I suspect it is a form of affection.”
“Huh. She does not want to be in school, that one. Jamie likes the lessons, though,” Ranald said.
“Sooner or later, they will all learn what they need to learn.”
“Miss MacCarran is a good dominie,” Fergus told Ranald. “Here, we must look at the roof.”
Fiona glanced up. “I noticed damp on the ceiling. I hope it is not a concern.”
“We will see,” Ranald said. “We have not always had a teacher here at the glen school, you know. Sometimes a traveling dominie came to the glen and stayed a season, going house to house so the bairns could learn letters and math at home. We learned that way, my brothers and I.”
Fergus shrugged. “We did not learn much. And John—he was our youngest brother, Miss, the father of the young laird—was more interested in learning than we three. He studied on his own, had a great interest in books and learning, wanting education for his tenants and his son, too. He wanted Dougal to go to university.”
“He attended for a bit,” Ranald said. “The needs of the glen brought him back.”
Fiona nodded, realizing why Kinloch seemed educated while claiming he was not. “A traveling dominie can be a good solution sometimes. If other children want to come to the Glen Kinloch school but are too far away, I will speak to Reverend MacIan about hiring a traveling dominie to tutor them at home.”
“He will refuse. We cannot afford two teachers. We are a poor glen,” Fergus said. “One teacher. You.”
“The roof is leaking,” Ranald affirmed, walking away to look up. “It is bad.”
“Can you fix it, Mr. MacGregor?” Fiona asked, as she and Fergus joined him.
“It will take time.”
“Can the roof wait until I return to Edinburgh in a few weeks?”
The two men looked at each other, then walked away again to examine the back wall for signs of dampness. There, exposed roof beams angled lower beneath thick and visible thatching. Fergus’s reached up to tap at the rafters within his reach and murmured to his brother. Fiona went toward them.
“I hope it is not
hing serious,” she said.
“It shows the damp,” Fergus said. “See there.” He indicated stains and cracks.
“Could you patch it for now?”
“A patch will not do. It needs a new slate roof or at least new thatch,” Ranald said. “And the rooftree needs replacing. There is some rot there, see.” He pointed.
She was not sure what to look for. “Could you replace it properly later?”
“We cannot wait for long,” Ranald said. “The roof could collapse.”
“Oh dear! Is it so dangerous as that?”
“Could be,” Ranald said.
“Could be,” Fergus said.
“Oh my.” Fiona glanced through the window. Most of the students had finished eating and had begun kicking a ball between them. She turned back. “The students are doing so well. It would be a shame to interrupt their studies now.”
“It would not do for the roof to fall on their heads,” Fergus pointed out.
“Perhaps you could come back to Glen Kinloch later to teach,” Ranald said.
With sudden suspicion, she crossed her arms, tilted her head. “Did the laird send you here to tell me this?”
“Och, no, everyone knows the school roof is old,” Ranald said.
“Then why were we permitted to hold school sessions here?”
Fergus shrugged. “You must ask the laird.”
“I will,” she said firmly. The shouts from the yard were growing louder. “It is time to call the children inside now. Thank you, sirs.”
She went to the door, the MacGregors behind her, and saw near pandemonium taking hold in the yard as the children kicked the ball around. They had lost their earlier manners and decorum; now they shoved and shouted as they jammed together in a group, boys and girls both tussling over the ball.
Fiona had felt just such excitement in her childhood when she had played similar games with her brothers and friends. But as a teacher, she could not condone it. “Time for class,” she called, stepping outside. “Time for this to end!”
Ranald and Fergus hurried past her, and she expected that they would quickly end the rough play. Instead, they joined in, laughing and calling out. “Here! Here to me!” Fergus shouted.
Just then, striding out from between the trees, the laird of Kinloch stepped into the group to huddle with the others, who cheered and welcomed him.
“Where is that ba’!” Ranald called. Dougal glanced toward his uncles, who were shouldering into the thick of the group.
“Watch the wee lasses,” he told Ranald, putting up an arm to protect one of the girls as the group jostled and enlarged. He knew well that his uncles took any game of football a bit too seriously. “Fergus, mind the wee ones. Jamie! Lucy! Out with you now. The game is growing too rough.” Ignoring him, the younger two scrambled on with the rest.
“Da, which side are you on?” Andrew called out. “We need more players!”
“What sides are we playing today?” Fergus asked.
“Kinnies and Glennies,” Pol said. “Those related to Kinloch, and those not.”
“We are all on the same side,” Ranald called, amid laughter. He swept at the ball with his booted toe. “Nearly had it—damn!”
“What is this?”
Hearing a woman’s voice, Dougal glanced up to see Fiona MacCarran at the outskirts of the circle. He had not seen her for several days, and so looked toward her longer than he should have, long enough for a child to stumble near him. He caught the lad easily.
“Watch out for the little ones, if you please!” she called.
He stretched out an arm to slow those nearest him. “Stop, now. Enough.”
“But we only started—” Pol began.
“Time for class to resume,” Fiona said. The children slowed but did not stop, still pushing the ball around. The teacher walked to the edge of the cluster. “Time for lessons,” she repeated sternly.
“A bit longer, Miss,” Fergus pleaded, while some of the students laughed. “Please,” Fergus added, to more laughter.
Her frown only grew, Dougal noticed, and pretty as it was, it was quite stern. “We must begin lessons again, or the day will be very long,” she said.
“Enough, lads, lasses.” Dougal stepped back, shooing the students away to break up the circle of players. “Listen to your dominie.” He looked at his uncles. “You big lads too.”
“Och, so it’s lessons for you lot,” Fergus said, ruffling Jamie’s red hair. “Good work at the football, laddie.”
Jamie grinned and ran to join the students trudging past their teacher, who stood watching, her mouth set in a prim line that, to Dougal, still looked rosy sweet no matter her temper. He nodded as he approached.
“Good day, Miss MacCarran.” He fisted a hand at his waist. “It is a fine day for a game of the football.”
“It is,” she agreed, “but better done after school. Lessons to be learned first, and play comes after.”
“In school as in life,” he drawled. “Until later, then, Miss MacCarran.”
“Kinloch.” A smile touched her lips, that luscious mouth he had tasted and wanted to again. The feeling tugged at him.
The ball was at his foot. He kicked it with his toe and sent it toward her.
Quickly she raised her skirt hems and punted it back to him with ease, scooping the ball with the top of her foot and sending it upward to land softly at his feet. Dougal halted the ball with his toe and chuckled.
“I am impressed, Miss Dominie,” he said.
“See, Kinloch, I can also play games here in the glen.”
“So I see.” He gave her a long look, and she returned an amused smile before turning toward the schoolhouse. Watching, Dougal smiled to himself. She was stern and lovely, and no doubt her scholars would have extra lessons today.
Picking up the ball, he bounced it in his hands and strolled away toward Kinloch House. In the yard there, Ranald and Fergus waited for him.
“That’s a good lass,” Ranald grunted, jabbing a thumb toward the schoolhouse.
Dougal threw the ball at his uncle. “Keep this, we will need it,” he told his uncles. “And spread the word. We are forming a game. A big one.”
“When? And who will play?” Fergus asked.
“Soon enough, and everyone,” Dougal called back as he went into the house.
“We have another verse to try,” Fiona told the class. “It is called a fith-fath.”
“Fith-faths! They are old charms,” Mairi said. “My grandmother and my mother recite them. Why should we learn those in English, if the Southrons do not have such charms?”
“Because they use words that are easy to learn. Listen,” she said, and began in Gaelic:
Fith-fath ni mi ort
Bho chire, bho ruta,
Bho mhise, bho bhuc…
“A fith-fath I make on you,” she translated in English, “from sheep, from ram, from goat, from stag…” She had chosen the ancient household blessing for its common form—lists of animal names and plain nouns simple enough to learn in English. She was counting on her students to find the old verses familiar and easily absorbed.
Glancing up at the ceiling uneasily while the children recited, she wished she knew a blessing charm for a roof. She was not entirely sure if the roof was indeed precarious, or if Ranald and Fergus MacGregor were leading her on in a scheme to scare her away from the old building.
Hearing the thunk of boots on the front step, thinking Ranald and Fergus had returned, she looked up. Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway, which was open to the fresh air. He folded his arms and leaned against the frame to listen.
Though her heart leaped in her chest to see him again, she calmly finished the verse. Then she reviewed the word list, keenly aware that he was watching.
While the students patiently copied words, she walked toward him. “Mr. MacGregor.”
“Pardon the interruption, Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head. “I would like a word with you if you have a moment.”
; Her heart gave a little flip of excitement and dread, but she merely nodded. “Can you wait until after class?”
“Another day, then,” he said, straightening. “I have some business to tend to.”
“Aye, then,” she murmured, disappointed, and wondering if his business involved more secret treks over the hills. “You can find me here tomorrow.”
“I can find you,” he murmured, “whenever I want. And when you want.”
“Tomorrow,” she suggested. “What do you wish to discuss? Do you need to look at the roof, too?”
“Not that. Another matter.”
She leaned forward. “An illicit one?”
“You,” he said, leaning and nearly whispering, “are far too eager for such.”
“I rather enjoyed myself the other night.” She blushed, smiled a bit.
“Did you now?” He pinched back an amused quirk of the lips. She yearned for more of that from him, wanting his wide, bright smile, his ready laugh. Wanting his strong arms to reach out, draw her close.
Enough. Her cheeks burned. “Did you? Enjoy the other night, I mean?”
“I did not. Watching you walk boldly between gaugers and smugglers? Indeed I did not.”
“I only meant to help. I worried that my brother would have to arrest you.”
“He would have had no choice if Tam had ordered it done. And there would have been a skirmish, with you in the middle. I know you meant to help, and you did. But I did not enjoy it,” he said low. “But I did enjoy the other.”
“The other? Oh!” She gasped, remembering the kiss.
“Aye,” he whispered. “A wee taste of heaven, that was. Did you think so?”
She glanced down, breath quickening, and nodded.
“You should not be standing here with a scoundrel and a smuggler who only wants to kiss you again.” He spoke low, leaned close, breath brushing her cheek. “He would bring no good to your life. Your brother and I agree you would be safer away from here.”
“Does he,” she said, a bit sourly.
“Aye. Until tomorrow, Miss Dominie,” he replied lightly, tilting his head. “A fith-fath on you and yours.”
“A blessing to you too, sir,” she murmured. She stood too close, felt too drawn to him, and so she reminded herself where they stood, who he was. The laird. But not a scoundrel. Not at all. His green eyes reflected the mossy tones in the plaid draped over the shoulder of his old jacket, and his gaze was striking and unreadable. She could not look away.