Chapter 12
So Laird Dunnegin had a farm, did he? Edwina mused. What did he do? Run a tractor? Grow things? Raise sheep? What did Scots do on farms anyway? She’d ask Bertie—who amazingly appeared in the doorway right that very minute.
“What do Scots raise on farms?” she asked.
“Whatever do ye mean, lass?” Bertie’s dusting cloth never stopped dusting.
“You know... sheep, cows, horses, or maybe corn or wheat—stuff like that.”
“Stuff like that?” Bertie repeated, her nose in the air. “Such a way ye Americans have of speaking.”
“Okay, I’ll be straight with you.”
“Straight?” Bertie stopped her work and stared at her.
“You know... real.”
“Ah... real.”
“What does the Scot... laird, Mr. Dunnegin, whatever you call him do on his farm? Does he raise things?”
“He grows potatoes.”
“Potatoes?”
“Yes, potatoes. Have ye not heard of them in America?” Bertie shot back.
“Of course. We have French fries, you know.” Edwina started to laugh and saw Bertie was not in the mood. What had happened to the smile she’d been wearing during breakfast?
Since it seemed there was nothing else to say, Edwina clamped her mouth shut and cast her eyes on the book.
“Why would a lass like ye want to know what the laird does?” Bertie’s question was too nice.
“Oh, nothing, just asking. I’m thinking about a story line, and I just needed some information, that’s all.”
“Story line?” Bertie had her hands on her hips again. “Ye aren’t thinking of writing some fancy dandy story about the laird are ye?”
“Well . . .”
“Well, my socks. Ye just put that idea out o’ yer head this day, ye hear?”
“Why, Bertie?”
“Cause it’s none o’ yer affair how the laird lives and what he does. Besides . . .” She stopped for a minute. “Besides, things o’ such nature are not for ye to know aboot.”
“What nature?” Edwina knew the moment the words were out they were the wrong ones.
“See? See?” Bertie waved her dusting cloth, and Edwina saw dust mites twinkling in the sunlight.
“There ye are trying to find out things ye need not know aboot. Tis as I said.” Her dusting became frantic. “That man has been through enough,” she said tartly and then her hand went to her mouth. Bertie rushed from the room, her dust rag still on top of the shelf.
Now what had she done? Should she go after Bertie? No way. It would only make things worse. Perhaps Bertie was going through menopause or something. She’d read about such things in women’s magazines. Happy one minute, angry the next.
Snapping the book shut she decided to take a walk on the grounds since it was late afternoon, hopefully undisturbed by the dogs.
Slipping on her shoes, she found one of the servants and asked about the dogs. “Will they attack me even though their master has told them not to one other time?”
“Miss, the dogs are with the master. Ye need not worry.” And the girl was gone.
“You’re sure?” Edwina called out loudly, but the soft sounds of retreating footsteps announced she was already out of hearing range. These people sure did move fast.
This time Edwina chose the front door to exit. She had already seen most of the gardens in the back. The hills across the way were calling her name. Besides, she would do well to memorize the surroundings so the descriptive scenes in her book would be real and ring true. There was nothing she hated more than to find a falsehood in a book.
Suddenly she knew she needed paper and ran back for her pad and pencil.
The hills and dales were everything the books said they would be. Soft, lush green, low and gently rolling. She made note of each attribute and walked through fields of myriad shades of colored wildflowers, rocks dotting the hillsides. There were pathways where others had walked before her. No wonder the Scots were proud. Their land was hauntingly beautiful.
Caught up in the new spring flowers, honeysuckle and foxglove she recognized, she tried to memorize each nuance, even sketched some of the plants on her pad. The late after- noon skittered away. She could see the castle up on the hill. No matter how far one walked, she was sure they could see it like a beacon. Lights were beginning to come on in the miniature windows as she viewed the Scot’s home. It was, sadly, time to go back.
The walk took longer than she’d predicted. It was dark now, but a full moon gave enough light to make the ground appear frosty white. The evening was magical. The sky, after a sun-warmed day, gave way to the moon in all its glory; full, white, and low, it seemed to lull her home. Thank you, Lord, for such a fine day and for all the things you created. Edwina walked through the front doors and wondered if she should have rung the bell first.
“Ah, you have returned,” Reardon said, his manner gruff. “I was about to place a call to Laird Dunnegin.”
Edwina’s eyes widened. He sure was pomp and circumstance tonight.
“Oh, I’m glad you didn’t,” she gushed. “He would have been very unhappy.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it so late that you were worried?” She cringed at the question.
“I was just coming out to look for you. I have orders to assist you in loading your baggage and taking you to Edinburgh, this eve or on the morrow, as you desire,” he said gazing past her.
So he didn’t like her shenanigans either. Well, she would be gone soon.
“I’m very sorry. Would you prefer I leave tonight?”
“I... what have I to do with it?” he said sensibly. “I am at your service, lass.”
The reminder was quick and sure. “Yes, right. Then I will leave in the morning.
“What time shall I come for you?”
“Eight o’clock?” she questioned.
“Eight o’clock.” Reardon repeated and retreated, his flaps flying. Edwina ran up the stairs and found her bath was running.
Uh oh, Bertie is in my room.
“Lass, where have ye been? Reardon was just aboot to set out fer ye.”
“I know, Bertie. I spoke with him just now.”
“Then ye apologized sure and true? He is not aboot friendliness this eve.”
“I noticed. And yes, I apologized.”
“Good lass, now be aboot your bath. I shall return with a plate.”
“Thank you, Bertie, you’re a doll. I’m starving.”
“Doll?”
“You know, a sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” Bertie appeared the foolish one this time. “It’s a pet name.”
“Ye call me a pet name. Like a dog?” Her hands flew upwards.
“No, not that kind of pet.... Oh goodness, forget I said anything. It was an endearment, Bertie.”
“Well then.” Bertie settled down and hustled through the door.
Edwina Page 12