Highland Storm

by Ranae Rose

  The gaggle of young boys that had recently stampeded the kitchen had already rushed back outside. It was a fine day, and only the lure of fresh scones had enticed them to remain indoors for a few brief moments.

  “They’re gone, but I’ll take the scraps out to the pigpens.” Isla dusted her hands on the front of her apron and plucked the slop bucket from the counter.

  Gavin, the fat white puppy Alexander had given her, danced on the floor boards, clearly hoping for a spill. She’d named him for his colour, though Gavin, or ‘white hawk’, seemed a rather fierce name for the tiny fluff-ball to live up to.

  “Ye dinnae have to, dear, I’ll take it.”

  “Ye needn’t do that. I could do with a bit of sunshine.”

  Golden light spilt through the windows, teasing. Through their glass panes, the treetops could clearly be seen, fluttering in a breeze that would no doubt be very refreshing after the stuffy heat of the kitchen. Isla slipped out of the kitchen before Mrs Mary could protest again. Gavin ran dizzy circles around her skirts, forcing her to tread carefully lest she trip over him and spill the slop bucket on herself.

  The sunshine was glorious, a perfect complement to the gentle wind that threaded through Isla’s hair like fingers. A shiver of delight raced down her spine, and she thought of Alexander combing her fiery locks with his hands. He liked to do that when they—

  “Mrs Gordon!” one of the children who’d raided her scones hooted, shooting from around the corner of the house like a bolt of lightning.

  Isla beamed at the boy as he skipped anxiously around her skirts. She had yet to become used to being called Mrs Gordon, and each time she heard it her heart sped up a little.

  “Do ye have any sweeties?” The boy peered hopefully into the bucket and wrinkled his nose at the putrid contents. “Blech!”

  Isla suppressed a giggle, remembering that she’d promised the tow-headed child toffee the day before. “Well, it’s as good as toffee to the swine,” she said and was rewarded with another exclamation of horror. “I havnae forgotten my promise, though.”

  Well, at least she hadn’t for long. They did say that being with child could dull even the sharpest memory. She wasn’t sure if she was far along enough to be suffering that particular effect yet, but it seemed a good excuse. “I’ll make the toffee as soon as I’m done feedin’ the pigs, aye?”

  The little boy beamed, proclaimed his thanks in a rare display of manners and disappeared behind the house again, announcing the good news to his companions. Gavin, who had dashed around the corner of the house after the boy, quickly returned. Clearly he wasn’t about to abandon his mistress—not while she had a bucket full of scraps, anyway.

  Isla trudged towards the pigpens, a wry smile curving her lips as she considered the similarities between the voracious swine and the children of Benstrath. Both seemed to possess bottomless stomachs and wicked penchants for anything tasty. Fortunately, the children were much comelier than the fat, pink beasts she was about to bequeath with scraps from the kitchen.

  Benstrath’s hogs were kept in sturdy enclosures of stone-and-mortar walls that were only a couple of feet high, but very thick. Someone was standing by the first pen, which was home to one large, extremely plump sow that had recently given birth to nearly a dozen piglets. Isla’s heart sank as she recognised the figure, with her dark skirts and tight, blonde bun. Alexander’s stepmother was very possibly the only person she’d met with a temper as nasty as the sow’s, and she didn’t relish an encounter with either of them. Isla hadn’t been noticed yet, and she purposely slowed her gait, hoping that the Lady of Benstrath would abandon the pigpens before she reached them. Much to her dismay, she did just the opposite. Isla watched, perplexed, as Lady Gordon climbed onto the sturdy stone wall and into the enclosure.

  A shrill squeal announced that she hadn’t entered unnoticed. Isla’s heart leapt at the sound, and Lady Gordon did the same where she stood, surely ankle deep in mud. Perhaps she hadn’t realised that particular enclosure was home to the sow from Hell, but what on earth was she doing in a pigpen anyway? If there was one person who Isla would have thought most unlikely to climb into the filthy mire of a pig’s wallowing territory, it was Lady Gordon, the consummately proud Lady of Benstrath. The next shriek that came from the pen was decidedly human, and nearly as undignified in its sheer sincerity as the pig’s.

  If not for that fact, Isla might have remained frozen in horror. But the utter terror she heard in the wordless cry sparked some primal response within her, and before she knew it she had hiked up her skirts and was sprinting towards the pigpen. She arrived at the wall breathless and just in time to see Alexander’s stepmother spinning in a near pirouette as the sow charged her, churning the mud as it rushed past the woman’s skirts in a pale blur. Lady Gordon collapsed in the filth, sputtering. Between her disarrayed skirts and the liberal coating of mud, it was impossible to tell if she’d been injured. Whether it had already happened or not, maiming appeared imminent—the sow was chomping at the air and gnashing her teeth, pawing the mire as she lowered her head in preparation to charge again. Isla nearly leapt the wall, but a sudden realisation stopped her.

  The child.

  She didn’t dare descend into the pig’s territory and risk her unborn baby’s life, but she had to do something. Frantic, she scanned her surroundings for something—anything—that might be used to distract or fend off the pig. The spilt slop bucket lay several yards away, too far to fetch in time for it to be any use. Her gaze fell instead on something that lay on the ground at the edge of the wall—a hoe, its long, polished wooden handle nearly camouflaged by the grass. Thanking God for sharp eyes and his mercy, she seized its end and hoisted herself onto the wall in one smooth, panic-fuelled motion. Gavin leapt against the rough stone surface, barking madly. Fortunately he was too small yet to clear the wall and get in the way.

  The hog rounded on Lady Gordon, letting out an indignant squeal.

  “Hurry!” Isla cried, without removing her gaze from the animal’s beady eyes. She brandished the hoe, dealing the sow what she hoped would prove a stunning blow across the top of her thick skull.

  Lady Gordon floundered in the mud, her mouth opening and closing silently as her eyes bulged. For once, all traces of cruelty had disappeared from her face, leaving her looking both younger and vulnerable. Gaping at Isla, she managed to stand, if unsteadily.

  The sow stumbled, too, grunting as Isla raised the hoe, prepared to strike again if necessary. Her arms trembled beneath the strain, and the steel piece at the end of the hoe felt as if it might weigh as much as the animal itself. She didn’t dare to shift her grip further down the handle, though—doing so would shorten her range so that she wouldn’t be able to reach the pig. Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to hold the makeshift weapon any longer, Lady Gordon reached the wall.

  Isla had barely finished breathing a sigh of relief when the sow made a vicious comeback. Suddenly recovered from the shock of being hit over the head, the beast rounded on its nearly-escaped victim and seized a mouthful of her skirts. The sound of tearing fabric rent the air as several feet of Lady Gordon’s skirt and petticoats were reduced to rags. Afraid that the pig would take a mouthful of flesh next, Isla dropped the hoe, seized her stepmother-in-law around the shoulders and pulled with all her might.

  Lady Gordon tumbled unceremoniously over the wall and onto the grass on the outside, while Isla clung to the edge of the wall, barely avoiding a similar fall. Shaken, she climbed slowly down, taking care not slip.

  “Are ye hurt?” she asked, kneeling beside Lady Gordon and peering down at her mud-smeared face. She still wore an expression of shock, though at such a close range, fine lines were visible where her usual frown had creased her skin. Gavin rushed to the scene and began industriously licking Lady Gordon’s face. Isla pulled him back by the fluffy scruff of his small neck.

  “I—I dinnae ken,” Lady Gordon replied, glancing around in bewilderment and using the back of her hand to wipe her
face where the puppy had licked. The hard edge was gone from her voice, just as the sourness was gone from her expression.

  “What were ye doin’ in the pen with that devil?” The words tumbled out of Isla’s mouth before she could think better of them.

  Surprisingly, Lady Gordon didn’t bristle at being questioned. “I didnae realise the beast was inside,” she said, raising a muddy fist for inspection. Something limp and dirty hung from it—a bedraggled length of dark green ribbon. “The breeze blew the ribbon from my hair, and I meant to retrieve it…”

  The danger seemed a high price to pay for such a grubby prize. It was shocking that Lady Gordon had even considered it worth dirtying her boots.

  “Come,” was all Isla said, “let’s get ye back to the house.” She wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders, eager to give her over to Mrs Mary’s care before the shock wore off and she regained her usual harshness.

  They made their way to the house together. Isla went slowly as Lady Gordon leaned on her, her pale legs wobbling and exposed beneath the shortened hem of her ruined skirts and Gavin leaping joyously up and down as he snapped at the tatters.

  * * * *

  Isla tried to pretend she was standing in an open field of heather instead of in the midst of a garlicky fog in the kitchen.

  It didn’t work. She took shallow breaths, resisting the urge to raise her apron to cover her nose lest she appear rude to Mrs Mary, who was using the offending ingredient liberally as she fried a pan full of sliced mushrooms. Neither did she wish to reveal the secret of her early pregnancy by confessing that the heady smell of garlic suddenly made her want to gag. Her stomach had been roiling dangerously ever since she’d woken that morn, and the harsh aroma had only intensified its malcontent. Fearing that she would finally actually vomit, she desperately sought escape.

  “Is that Lady Gordon’s meal?” She gestured at a tray that sat on the counter, steam escaping from beneath the corners of the cloth that covered it.

  Lady Gordon had remained in bed since she’d suffered the temperamental sow’s attack two days before, recovering from a cracked rib and a nasty shock. Her absence had put a spring in Isla’s step, though she was mildly ashamed of enjoying herself at the price of her mother-in-law’s injury. Of course, things weren’t going as pleasantly as they might have—even without her, there was still Alpin to contend with.

  On the day of the accident, he’d all but accused Isla of pushing his mother into the pigpen. He’d clearly already worked himself into a rage by the time he’d found Isla and cornered her in a hallway, where he’d shouted at her loudly enough for the entire house to hear. Fortunately, Alexander had been nearby. Unfortunately, he’d seemed furious enough to kill his brother with his own two hands. They’d exchanged harsh words and a few blows, which Alpin had received the worst of. Isla hadn’t seen him since, but she constantly feared turning a corner and encountering him.

  “Aye,” Mrs Mary said, turning from where she was churning the finely sliced mushrooms with a wooden spoon. “I intend to take it to her as soon as these are cooked through.”

  “Would ye like me to do it?” Isla asked, holding her breath as a particularly strong wave of scent wafted by.

  “That would be lovely, if ye dinnae mind. I dinnae want her soup to get cold.” She was already turning away from her pan of mushrooms, proffering the garlic-smeared spoon she’d been using.

  “Och, I didnae mean that,” Isla began, taking a hurried step backwards. “I meant would ye like me to take Lady Gordon her meal.”

  Mrs Mary shook her head. “You’re a saint, ye are, but I wouldnae ask ye to do that. It’s no secret that the two ye dinnae—”

  Isla’s stomach lurched alarmingly, and she reached for the covered tray, throwing courtesy and conversation to the wind. If she kept beating around the bush like this, the smell of her half-digested breakfast would soon join the stink of frying garlic and crimini. “It isnae a problem!” she cried as she whisked the tray out of the kitchen, finally taking a much-needed deep breath as she entered the odourless sanctuary of the hall. For once, Gavin stayed behind, content to chew on a ham bone that Mrs Mary had given him that morning. That was lucky—the last thing Isla needed was to trip over him and spill Lady Gordon’s lunch all over the hall.

  Finally escaped from the kitchen’s rank fog, her mind turned to other uncomfortable matters. Mainly, how her appearance in Lady Gordon’s bedchamber might be received. Her arrival would most likely be counted more as an intrusion than a mercy, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She knocked before entering, balancing the tray on a hip as she rapped against the oak door with her free hand. Lady Gordon’s voice sounded calm enough as she called for her to ‘come in’—probably because she thought Isla was Mrs Mary, who usually brought her meals. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself for a harsh welcome, she stepped into the bedroom.

  Lady Gordon was lying in bed, propped up by several pillows. Her face looked a little paler than usual, but it was still greatly improved since the last time Isla had seen it, when it had been smeared with mud from the pigpen. For once, the woman’s hair had been left down to cascade over her shoulders in pale waves. The effect was remarkable, transforming her normally severe visage into a vision of almost youthful comeliness.

  “I’ve brought ye your meal,” Isla said, resting the edge of the tray on her hip again as she whisked the cover off the surface, checking for the first time what lay beneath. “Cock-a-leekie soup and a meat pie.”

  Her stomach lurched as the steam rose from the bowl to tease her nostrils. Apparently, Mrs Mary had been just as generous with the garlic when she’d made the soup as she had been with the mushrooms.

  Lady Gordon nodded silently, smoothing the coverlet over her lap. Surprisingly, she didn’t leer, or even frown. Perhaps the fall had sapped more of her energy than Isla had originally realised. Eager to get the garlic-laden soup out from under her nose, she strode to Lady Gordon’s bedside and lowered the tray onto the carved oak nightstand. Something lay on the surface, and she recognised the object as she brushed it out of the way. It was the green ribbon Lady Gordon had ventured into the pigpen to retrieve the day before. It seemed to have been washed, though it appeared a little worse for wear. It slipped over the edge of the table and began to flutter to the floor. Isla reached for it, too late.

  She sensed Lady Gordon’s gaze on her back as she bent hurriedly to retrieve it from the floor. Grubby ribbon or no, the woman had thought it worth climbing into the mire of a pigpen for. Just as her fingers closed around the dark satin, an extremely disconcerting sensation assaulted her throat, causing it to tighten and her mouth to water.

  Oh God, no.

  Realisation gripped her as her stomach began to heave. It was finally happening, right here in her mother in law’s bedchamber, before her very eyes. She looked around in desperation and her gaze landed on a chamber pot tucked beneath the bed. She seized it by the handle and lifted the lid just in time to lose her breakfast to its porcelain depths.

  Her cheeks burning, Isla reached for the bedside table and seized the cloth that had covered the meal tray. She dabbed her lips clean with it, but there was nothing to be done to rid her mouth of the bitter taste of bile, or erase what had just happened from Lady Gordon’s memory. Slowly, she looked up to meet her mother-in-law’s eyes.

  A gleam passed through them, too understanding for Isla’s liking, but, “I hope ye dinnae have anything that’s catching,” was all she said.

  Isla forced herself to stand, shaky knees or no. “Nae, I dinnae think so.”

  “‘Twas the smell of garlic, was it not? I couldnae stand it myself when I was with child.”

  Isla’s stomach plummeted, but fortunately it was already thoroughly empty. She suppressed a dry heave that tried to sneak up on her and racked her mind for something to say. This was certainly not how or when she’d planned to inform the rest of the Gordons of her pregnancy, but there was no taking back what Lady Go
rdon had just seen. Eventually, she settled for nodding mutely.

  “When I was carrying my first child,” Lady Gordon continued, “I couldnae stand to even walk through the hall by the kitchen. Mrs Mary was here then, too, and just as fond of garlic, though I hadnae taken special notice until then.” The corners of her mouth curled into a rare, if wry smile.

  “Your first child?” Isla asked. Alexander had never mentioned any step-sibling besides Alpin. It occurred to her too late that it might be a subject better left unbroached.

  The smile faded from Lady Gordon’s face. “Aye, my wee daughter Maggie. She didnae live past her first year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Sorry and surprised. Not so much over the death of the infant—that was sadly common enough—but that Lady Gordon would speak of it to her. Between her unexpected confessions and loose moonbeam waves, the woman lying propped against the pillows hardly seemed like her mother-in-law at all.

  “Aye, well, losing my first bairn did cast a shadow over my life. I imagined I could see it sometimes, darkening the face of my wee son as he lay in his cradle. It must hae been naught but a fancy, though, for he’s grown into a man before my very eyes, and not a day passes that I amnae grateful for it.”

  Aye, Alpin had grown into a man—one who haunted Isla’s nightmares. And yet, his transgressions aside, there was something about his mother’s sentiment that stirred Isla’s heart. Perhaps it was because she was now carrying a child of her own. If she’d been a papist, she would have crossed herself as she’d seen Alexander do on several occasions. Instead, she sent up a silent prayer for her child’s safety. The thought of an empty cradle was too much to bear.

  At a loss for what to say, Isla suddenly remembered that she still clutched the green ribbon she’d stooped to pick up. “Shall I put this away?” she asked, eyeing the chest of drawers that stood against the wall.