by Aileen Adams
What no one had told him, likely because they hadn’t imagined he needed to be told—or they hadn’t thought of him at all in the excitement—was the fact that Bridget would be leaving home. For good.
The truth had only occurred to him when she was saying goodbye to the others, to their mam, to her friends. He’d begun to understand that she was not coming back. That he might never see her again.
And he never had.
The memory of that heartbreak, the first true heartbreak of his seven years, haunted him as he watched Anne and Liam bid each other goodbye. He saw himself in that small, brave lad, who tried valiantly to hold back the tears.
More than twenty years had passed. From what he’d heard, Bridget had suffered loss after loss when the time came for her to bear children. Only Moira and Owen had lived through labor, while three other bairns had been born sleeping and others had been lost early on.
Why had he never been to visit her? He might have ridden out, no matter how long the journey would have taken. For some selfish reason, he’d always found a way to talk himself out of seeing her again. She would be too busy for him, or he had too many things to do, or she would have forgotten him after so many years.
Perhaps it was a matter of knowing she would have aged. She would not have been the Bridget he remembered.
Perhaps he’d merely been selfish and instead of cherishing the sister who’d been left him—when the rest of the family had passed on—he’d only thought of himself and had all but forgotten her when she might have needed him most.
Anne held back the tears until the cart rolled out of sight. Once Liam was nothing more than a shadow rolling further away, tears began coursing down her cheeks.
Yet she remained silent, fists clenched at her sides, trembling. As if she were accustomed to hiding her emotions.
He pretended not to notice. It was easier that way.
“The bairns will be awake in a moment, if they aren’t already. I can show ye what ye need for now and tonight can show ye the rest.” He started for the house, assuming she would follow and not do anything foolish such as attempting to follow her brother.
After only a moment’s hesitation, she did follow. “How old are Moira and Owen?” There was no longer emotion in her voice. Nothing but a crisp sort of determination he could not help but admire.
“They just reached four years.”
“When?”
“What does it matter?”
They stepped into the house, where she went to the fire to warm her hands. “Because it does. Would ye not want someone to know the date of your birth, that they might wish ye a happy day when it comes around?”
“I… dinna know who to ask,” he admitted, going to the larder which consisted of a small chest in a cool corner of the room. “You’ll find our supplies here. I shall bring fresh meat later today for stew. Ye know how to make a stew, I suppose.”
“Aye. Why do ye not know who to ask? Ye do not know when they were born? Why not?”
“Must ye ask so many questions?” he grumbled. “The bairns normally eat porridge to break their fast, and ye shall find a barrel of it there, near the hearth.”
“One moment, please.” She placed a hand over the barrel’s lid before he could lift it. “I know what porridge looks like, thank ye very much, and I’m certain I can find whatever I happen to need. Yet if ye expect me to spend time here and tend the bairns, I wish to have my questions answered.”
“Why?” he nearly exploded, barely keeping himself from shouting. “What does it matter? Your being here does not give ye any rights or privileges. Ye are a thief, and this is how ye shall pay for what ye stole.”
Her throat worked. Her brows knitted together, then lowered. After a silent moment, she growled, “I would not want to ask the wrong question or say anything that would upset them. ‘Tis a simple thing, upsetting a bairn.”
He wished he could swallow his own tongue. The lass asked innocent questions, and all he could do was shout at her.
“Their mam and da died of some illness. It was all unclear,” he explained in a steadier tone. “I had not seen my sister in many years, since she was married. I did not meet the bairns until the day they arrived here at the farm. That was the day I found out my sister died.”
Her face fell, and some of the fire left her eyes. “Och, ’tis a pity. I had not imagined.”
“I would not expect ye to imagine. I would scarcely have imagined it myself. I didna know the children existed—everything I learned, I learned from the man and woman who brought them here. Neighbors of my sister. Bridget, her name was. They were kind enough to take them in for a short time after the deaths, then bring them to me after sending word before them. How they knew where to find me, I couldna say. But I’m glad they did.”
He sat in one of the chairs beside the table, suddenly ashamed. “I didna think to ask when they were born. The day, ye ken. There was so much to learn. I wish I had thought of it.”
An uneasy silence hovered between them, and for Drew, it was one filled with questions. What would she think of this? Had he revealed too much? Or was she correct; should he be more forthcoming?
He’d not thought this through, and look where it had gotten him. Sitting in a room with a stranger who he had no choice but to trust with two people who’d come to mean the world to him.
She took a short breath as if preparing to speak, but was too late. The door to the second bedchamber opened and out tumbled a pair of curly-headed bairns eager to greet the new day.
To his relief, she smiled at the sight of them, and it seemed as though the entire house brightened.
14
Anne stared at the bairns.
The bairns stared at Anne.
None of the three of them said a word for what seemed an endless amount of time, seated around the table. They had only just finished their porridge, the twins, and now waited for her to do something.
What that something would be, she had not the first idea.
“What do ye do during the day?” she dared ask. Why was she nervous? They were children. Nothing to fear.
Moira folded her hands in her lap. A perfect wee lady. Anne forced herself not to smile. “We go to visit Davina.”
“And who is Davina?”
They looked at her as if they’d began speaking in a different tongue. “Davina is Davina,” Owen replied.
Lord, grant me strength, though I might not deserve it. “Who is she, I mean. An aunt? A sister?”
“She is our cousin,” Moira explained.
Anne made a note of this in her head. “Ah. I see. Cousin Davina. And does she have a husband? Or bairns?”
Moira giggled. “She is going to! We will have a new cousin!”
Owen took a decidedly different opinion, judging by the lift of his shoulders. “Och, she will be too busy for us then.” He appeared sullen, perhaps a bit sad.
Anne nodded, thoughtful. “Aye, I expect she shall be quite busy with the bairn. Bairns need quite a lot of time and care.”
“They cry.”
“Aye, that they do. Do ye have other brothers or sisters?”
“Nay. Davina told us. The bairn will cry and when we visit, we ought to be quiet so we dinna wake it.” Owen swung his feet back and forth, arms folded. He was more than sad.
“She will still love ye,” Anne offered in a soft voice.
“Och, I dinna mind.”
“She will still love ye,” she maintained. “Both of ye. A new bairn brings more love, not less.”
“Do ye have bairns?” Moira asked.
“Nay, but I remember when my brother was on his way. I felt the way Owen does.” She was quite a bit older than Owen at the time, already past her tenth winter, but if it made him feel better, she would lie a bit.
“Ye did?” he asked, suddenly interested.
“Och, aye. I fretted my mam and da would no longer love me. All of their love would go to the bairn, and I would have to take care of myself.”
“What happened?” Mo
ira asked, wide-eyed and breathless. So this had brought her worry as well.
Anne smiled at the pair of them. “Liam only brought more love to our family. I loved him just as much as my mam and da did. It was a grand time.” And it was, and the memory of it brought tears to her eyes. She would never know that feeling again. A family. Love.
Moira reached over, patting her arm. “Do ye miss them?”
“Very much.” It was difficult speaking over the lump in her throat, as the look on her brother’s face would never leave her memory. His dismay, his fear. Uncertainty.
He would be at Malcolm’s by then, or soon. He would be so frightened. And vulnerable without her to protect him.
What was she thinking? Sitting here at this table with these bairns while she ought to have been with him. He needed her!
She had to get away. There would be a moment when he would not be looking. She was certain of it. And she would get to Liam, and she would take him away, and the pair of them would… go somewhere.
There had to be somewhere for them to go where they could both be safe and live honest lives. There simply had to be.
She kept watch over the twins throughout the day—Drew did not return for the midday meal, and the twins informed her than he normally ate with Rufus and the farm hands. She examined the larder and found it lacking, though Drew had mentioned more meat. How was she to prepare meals? She assumed this was one of her responsibilities.
If only they’d had more time to discuss these things.
“Is there a garden near the house? Behind the kitchen, perhaps?” Anne peered out the window, standing before the work table. The twins played a game beneath it, something to do with imagining they were hunters in the woods.
“I dinna believe so,” Moira replied. Anne grimaced, but held her tongue until the urge to curse her lot in life passed.
Then, she got an idea. “Do ye wish to play a new game?”
Minutes later, two giggling bairns who did everything they could not to giggle loudly ran from the house in the direction of the main house where Davina and Rufus lived. Anne followed at a short distance, wearing her cloak, leaving the hood raised. She darted from birch to birch, peering from around the trunks to watch their progress.
Soon they were just outside the kitchen, and she stood behind a gnarled, ancient tree with thick roots and a thicker trunk. She waited while the bairns disappeared inside, then dashed over to the garden.
Moments later, potatoes and carrots tucked beneath her cloak, she ducked behind the tree again and hoped it would take the twins no more than another minute to fetch a loaf of bread while no one watched.
She happened to look down, where her feet rested beside a pair of large stones. They had been purposely placed, it was clear. Two such similar stones would not naturally be together. Were they meant to mark something?
There was not enough time to think on it further, for the light, joyful giggling of Moira and Owen filled her ears. She glanced up to find them running from the kitchen, a loaf of fresh bread beneath Owen’s wee arm.
“I’ve taught them to steal,” she whispered. “Forgive me, Lord.”
“It would not have been so if I felt as if I might announce myself to the others on the farm,” Anne hissed to Drew, who sat across from her while eating a second bowlful of the soup she’d put together with the vegetables from the garden and the meat left in the larder.
“Ye told them to steal the bread.”
“I did not know whether I could show myself, or even allow them to speak my name.”
“And what if someone had seen ye sneaking about, then? Ducking behind trees, behaving like a thief?”
She blinked. “How did ye know of that?”
“Owen told me of it when he confessed to stealing. He thought it was all very exciting. Bairns miss nothing, and ye never know what they shall tell ye.”
“Aye,” she muttered, cursing herself. “But we needed food, and there was none, and I didna know what else to do. Have ye told MacIntosh of me or have ye not?”
He glanced up from his bowl, one brow quirked up in a jesting manner. “Why would I speak of ye at all?”
“Ye must have said something.” She lowered her voice further that the bairns might not take notice. “Someone is bound to see me.”
“Ye might be surprised at just how few people venture to the far end of the land.” A bit of broth dribbled down his chin, which he caught on his sleeve before raising the spoon to his lips once again.
“Just the same,” she whispered, glancing to the corner where the twins played. “It seems one or both of them might mention me to one of the others, does it not? Would it not then raise suspicion if someone were to hear of me without having first heard from ye? What if they had discovered me earlier today?”
This brought him pause. The time for jesting with her had ended. “Aye. I shall speak to Rufus about ye first thing in the morning.”
“Rufus. He is your cousin, is he not?”
There was suspicion in his gaze. “Aye. What matter does it make?”
“None, of course,” she was quick to reply. “Moira mentioned him as a cousin, is all. Davina’s husband. Nothing more.”
“I see.” He looked to the lassie, who giggled at something her brother had just said or done. The two of them seemed quite happy to keep each other company, which was a relief at the moment. It had been a long time since Anne had kept up with a bairn of that age, and there were two of them, which doubled her fatigue.
Yet they were happy and well-fed and had enjoyed the day, which she supposed spoke in her favor.
“Now that I’ve given it thought, I recall the tale of him reclaiming land stolen from him by another clan. MacFarland, was it?” she asked.
He grunted. “Quite observant, ye are.”
“I heard the men speaking,” she shrugged, toying with her spoon. “They were always returning home with tales from their travels.”
“The men?” It was his turn to eye her with curiosity. “And what men would they be?”
Her cheeks colored, which she knew would only serve to make her appear guilty. There was no guilt to be had, none at all—rather, she wished she had not spoken so freely. She was tired, after all, but this arrangement of theirs did not mean the freedom to speak of what she did not wish to reveal. “Aye. Men. Men of… my clan.”
“I suppose it would be a waste to ask ye which clan that was.”
“Aye. It would.”
“They traveled quite a bit.”
“Many men do. I suspect ye did.” She could not suppress a slight smile. “While ye brawled with men in every tavern from here to Aberdeen. Even I have heard tale of Drew MacIntosh. I did not put ye together with the name in question until just today.”
He grimaced, causing her to wonder whether he was proud of his reputation or ashamed of it. Had she misspoken? The man’s pride hardly mattered to her, but it mattered very much whether he decided to lash out if he’d been pushed too far.
“I suppose ‘twas quite a surprise to ye.” He pushed back from the table, taking his bowl in hand.
“A surprise?”
“Aye.” He tossed what little remained in the bowl out the door, where she supposed some animal or other would make use of it. “Ye would not think to look at me that I was this man who brawled his way from here to Aberdeen.”
She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “I had not thought of it that way at all.”
He snorted, shaking his head with his back turned while he rinsed his bowl in the wash bucket. Tension ran throughout his body, from the set of his shoulders to the line of his back. He seemed angry with the bowl itself, the way he splashed it about.
“I did not,” she insisted, joining him at the bucket. “And I can wash up after meals.”
He did not look at her. “I didna bring ye on here to do the washing up.”
“But I prepared the soup, and ye did not bring me on to do the cooking.”
He was so angry, and she was
not entirely certain of the cause. She wanted to understand, if only to avoid angering him to the point of his reneging on their agreement.
“Ye dinna have to cook.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know what ye meant.” He slammed the bowl to the worktable with a resounding clang which make her jump.
It made the children jump, as well.
“Uncle Drew?” Moira asked, hesitation in her small voice.
He whirled on her, and Anne held her breath. How he did remind her of Malcolm just then. Prepared to strike, like an angry snake. What would it be? Would he shout at the wee thing? Remind her to keep quiet? Tell her she had no place speaking to him unless spoken to? Would he deliver a thrashing?
All of this appeared possible judging by the look on his face, twisted as it was in a snarl.
And at that moment, Anne knew she would throw herself between him and the twins if need be. Let him take up arms against someone nearer his own size. He might be strong, but she had learned to fight long since, and when fighting in the defense of another, she was unstoppable.
She poised, prepared to spring.
Yet there was no need, for the anger melted from Drew’s countenance in an instant. His shoulders sank, his face relaxed. “Aye, lassie. Forgive me for startling ye. There are still times when I forget I no longer live alone.”
Owen all but collapsed in gales of laughter. “There are people here with ye, Uncle! Or can ye not see us?”
Drew’s eyes flew open wide. “Who spoke so? I canna see the laddie who spoke just now!”
Anne bit back a giggle when Owen’s mouth fell open.
“Uncle Drew? Here I am!” He waved his arms.
Drew turned to her. “Anne? Can ye see him? I dinna know who is speaking!”
“Uncle Drew!” Owen ran to him, arms still waving until he threw them around his uncle’s knees. “Here I am!”
“Och, of course! There ye are!” Drew lifted the squealing lad and settled him over one arm. “I tend to see wee laddies who nearly knock me to the floor.”
Moira ran to him next, arms uplifted, and he caught her with his free arm. She linked her hands about his neck and visibly snuggled against him, head on his shoulder.