by Beth Camp
“It’s not that simple. You’d be working at Westness, for him,” said Mac, pacing in front of the cottage, the door open to the warm summer night. “You’d be serving him food and taking his leavings, but he’s not for us. Not in the way the old laird was. This one wants us to put decks on our boats, but we have to pay for the lumber and all. There’s to be fees for using the new pier. I don’t see the end of it. ‘Twill be worse if he raises the rents.”
“All the more reason for me to go to Westness,” said Moira.
“You may as well keep your breath to cool your porridge. There’s no point to worrying,” said Dougal.
“Somebody has to worry. Since Da died, it’s me.”
“We all worry, Mac.” Dougal watched his brother pace. “There's no good of worrying. What will happen, will happen.”
“I want to go.” Moira spoke up. “Lenore told me they were looking for help. The pay is good, and it’s steady. I’d be paid every quarter day.”
“I know, I know. But where’s all this taking us? Da wouldn’t have liked you going into service. It’s too many changes. Perkins wants us to ship our fish out fresh, not dried. How are we going to do all that if you’re up at Westness?”
“Colin can do more. Jamie’s older too. It doesn’t have to be me.”
Mac kicked the stone again. “Jamie’s no got fish blood running in his veins. Always his nose in a book. And Colin’s near a man. He’ll be out with us before long. And you, you’ll meet someone and go off and get married. Then what will we do?”
“Don’t be saying that. I just want to work up at Westness. I don’t want to marry anyone. If anyone should be marrying, it should be one of you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking, Moira. Ever since you came back from the harvesting, you’re different. I shouldn’t have let you go.”
"'Tis glad I am that I went. Everything’s the same here. Even the wind doesn’t change. Nothing changes.”
“We don’t see it,” said Dougal, his hands still for a moment. “But change happens all around us. It’s like the music. I play the same tunes, and they’re like old friends. But sometimes the music becomes something I never expected. Everyone still wants the old songs, but I can’t always play them.”
Moira looked out over the yard, past the stone wall to the headlands and the sea beyond. She could almost hear Dougal’s fiddle in the wind. “I like your playing, Dougal.”
“It doesn’t put food on the table,” he said softly.
“Eh, we can always eat fish,” said Mac. “I’m trying to think what’s coming. If we ship our fish fresh, we still have to pay for the barrels. Scott will make money on that,” Mac pulled out another stubby stool and grabbed one of the lines. His big hands untwisted the line in jerks and then stopped. “Aye, he’s got the ferry coming more often now, every week for sure, from here to Stromness. We can earn a bit from that, but only ‘till November, if the weather holds.”
“Moira has a point,” Dougal interjected. “We can pay at Lammas, but what about the next quarter day? If you’re right about him raising the rents, where will the money come from?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know.” Mac’s hands moved again. “And forget about getting a bigger boat. We just can’t. And I don’t know anyone who’s ready to rebuild his boat. Are you, Dougal?”
“Will it help us catch more fish?”
“They say yes, but I don't know.”
Dougal looked up. His hands stilled on the fishing line. “We’ll see come Lammas. He has to announce it then if he’s going to raise the rents.”
“So I can go up to Westness?” Moira looked at her brothers. She flicked a fish head off the line and onto the ground.
“It’s not up to me,” said Dougal.
“I don’t like you working up at Westness,” said Mac. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”
That was as close to a yes she would get. Moira looked down at the fishing line snarled in her lap. Her fingers automatically untwisted the line. Tomorrow morning, she would go to Westness.
Moira felt half asleep the next morning, wrapping oat cakes into a bundle. Even the stars were sleeping as Mac, Dougal and Colin left the cottage. The sky was so dark, all Moira wanted to do was to go back to bed, but today she would go to Westness.
Moira cut up potatoes for the day’s soup. While the pot simmered on the hearth, she pulled the tub out, washed the clothes, and hung them outside, next to a line of drying fish.
As the shirts flickered in the wind, she realized she should have gone to Westness yesterday eve. Mac hadn’t exactly given permission, but he hadn’t said no outright. She scrubbed her hands again and tucked her hair back into a respectable knot. She checked her reflection in a piece of mirror Dougal had hung by the window. “Jamie,” she called up to the loft. “You’re to look after the cattle up by Barr Auch this morning.”
“Dinna worry. I’m up already.”
Moira left two oat cakes out on the side table for him and latched the door behind her. She hiked past the village on the upward path to Westness, the sun warming her back, the smell of sweet heather around her. She stopped to look at the fine large house at the top of the hill.
The four-story mansion, embellished with towers and turrets, had been called Westness for as long as she could remember. A few men from the village carted stones from the front of the house around to the back.
Moira walked up the expansive drive, hoping to see someone she knew. She raised the knocker at the large oak front door and let it fall. Nothing happened.
“Go around the back, miss,” said the man who opened the door.
Moira nodded. She should have known better. She slipped around the side of the house. She could hear the workmen talking in low voices, their hammers chipping the rock into a well-shaped wall. She tapped on the back door.
“Ah, Moira. You’ve come about the job?” Mrs. MacNaught, heavy-set, with dark hair and darker eyebrows, nodded. “We’ve got one open in the kitchen, and maybe,” she paused, tilting her head and listening to the clatter in the kitchen, “maybe one more. Come in, come in.”
Moira stood just inside the door by a great scrolled sideboard, somewhat battered, covered with china and lace. It was her first time inside the great house. She peered down the carpeted connecting halls. Thin cables hung from the wooden walls at eye level, with high ceilings above her.
“Lord Gordon’s having gas lights installed,” Mrs. MacNaught explained. “You can sit in here,” she said, showing Moira into a small office. “I heard you went harvesting down by Dunbeath this summer and brought some chickens home with you. That was wise, now, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, mum.”
“You’ll have to meet with the factor, that’s Mr. Perkins. If he says yes, you’ll meet with Lady Alice. And if she says yes, then you’ll start.” Mrs. MacNaught winced at another burst of noise from the kitchen. “Wait here. I have to see to this.” Her skirts whirled as she returned to the kitchen.
Moira rubbed the tiny nicks and scars on her hands and waited.
After what seemed a long time, Mr. Perkins came into the little office. He had the largest nose she’d ever seen and wore a pair of eyeglasses perched on the end rather like a medal.
“I am Mr. Perkins,” he announced. “And you are?”
“Moira McDonnell, sir. I heard there was a job in the kitchen.”
“Hmmm,” he surveyed Moira. “Hands. Show me your hands.”
Mutely, Moira proffered her hands.
“A hard worker, I see,” he commented. “Can you read?”
“Yes, sir. And I can cook and garden.”
Perkins sniffed. “How much schooling have you had?”
“I finished the grammar school here on the island,” Moira replied.
“Did Mrs. MacNaught explain the duties to you?”
“A little, sir.”
“The job is simple enough. You do what you’re told. You can lift, can’t you? You’ll be making fires, carrying up meal
trays, bringing in water and peat, that sort of thing. You’ll sleep in the kitchen. Each day starts early and you’ll work until 9 or 10 pm. Usually.”
Mr. Perkins paused to examine her clothing. “You’ll have to wear a clean black dress.”
Moira flushed. She leaned forward so that her skirts covered her boots.
“You will be provided a white apron and a cap. You will have Sundays off, unless you are needed.” He peered at her over his glasses. “You do have references?”
Moira nodded.
“And they are?”
“Pastor McPherson and Granny Connor can speak for me.”
Perkins was silent.
Moira tried not to fidget. She wanted to know how much money she could earn. “About the money, sir, how much would it be?”
“Two pounds, 6 shillings per year, paid on quarter day. Room and board included. But if you are not interested.” He turned to leave the room.
Moira calculated quickly. “Mr. Perkins, please sir, I’d like the job.”
“Very well, McDonnell. You’ll do. I’ll find out if Lady Alice can see you now.”
Once again, Moira waited. She would be bringing money home. Another clatter came from the kitchen, and Moira heard raised voices. I’ve dealt with worse. After all, I have brothers.
CHAPTER 13: THE PIG’S HEAD
“I didn’t think you’d really go and do it.” Mac paced around the hearth. “Who’s going to look after things here at the house? And didn’t I say we need you when we bring our fish in?”
“But you didn’t say no, Mac. I’ll still be coming home on Sundays. I was gone over the summer. You all survived. Colin took on more. And Jamie’s a help as well.”
Mac swung his head around, as if he was trying to see the cottage without Moira. He sat on the stool by the hearth and then stood again. “Jamie’s not old enough to do much.”
“Mac, think of Jamie. He’ll need more school in a couple of years. So I finished the grammar school here. I can read and write, and so can you, but Jamie’s different. He’s reading whenever he can get a book. We need to set some money aside. And there’s Colin. How do you know he wants to go fishing with you and Dougal?”
“Never mind about Colin or Jamie. This is about you going to work for them up on the hill. Ah, I let you go off for the summer, and you come home all full of yourself. You’ll be too busy to take care of those fancy chickens you brought home.”
“Mac, we’ll manage. It’s not like I’m getting married and moving away.” Moira said.
“Don’t be spinning fancies. You’ll live here with all of us if and when you marry.” Mac grimaced. “I don’t like you working up there. What if something goes wrong? What will you do then? And you all alone there. I don’t like it. And what’s this about you getting married?”
”Don’t be sidetracking me, Mac. It’s near three pounds every quarter day. We need the money. I thought you’d be pleased.”
Mac slumped back in one of the chairs. “I know, lass. I know. I never thought you’d hire out, Moira.” He looked around the cottage again. “Jamie wants more schooling, you say.”
“Mac, he’s only ten. He doesn’t know what he wants. But he’s reading. Sure you see him reading, don’t you? Someone has to think ahead.”
“I'm thinking ahead. More than you know.” Mac pulled his jacket on and paused at the door. “I still don't have to like it.”
In the early evening, Mac walked down the hill to Selkirk, following the dirt path as it widened. Whatever was she thinking? He shook his head. And nothing I can do about it. He grimaced again and turned into the Pig’s Head, welcoming the comfortable dark smell of beer.
The Pig’s Head had been close to the shore as long as he could remember, a room set aside as a tiny pub in Mrs. MacLean’s corner stone house. A rough drawing of a pig’s head hung overhead on a shingle outside, with a lantern lit in the evening to show the way. Inside a counter had been built along one wall, with three tables near a stone fireplace where a peat fire burned only in winter. Here, beer or rum could be had in small dram-sized glasses for a half-penny or trade.
On rare occasions, Willie, a small, spare man with bushy eyebrows and fish-gnarled hands, brought out the whisky that burned all the way down. The taste lingered sweet, not like sailor’s grog, watered rum. When the old laird died, the men had come to the Pig’s Head to make solemn pronouncements.
“There you be, Mac,” said Willie as he poured a glass of ale, his three fingers holding the glass steady. “Just as you like it. Fresh from the keg and warm as mermaid’s milk.”
“Ah,” said Mac as he took the first sip. “Almost as good as what I make. Anything new from up the hill?”
“Who knows? They’re fixing everything, like the old laird lived in a cave. All new furniture coming up from London on a steamer. Workers building a wall for a fancy English garden. And they’re hiring more staff.”
“That I know. Moira took a job there this morning.”
“She didn’t.”
“She’s old enough I can’t say no. But that doesn’t stop me from getting gray hairs.” Mac turned and nodded a greeting.
“Willie, I’ll have me one.” Sean looked around. “Where’s Dougal?”
“He said he went for a walk. But he’s courting.”
“He’ll stop back later?”
“Maybe.”
“You got news?” Willie asked.
“Just more about the pier,” Sean said. “It’s to run straight out from Front Street. I heard Mr. Perkins and him talking when they came along the beach.” Sean frowned and hunched his lean body over his beer. “I guess it’s a good thing. I don't know how we'll bring the boats in and unload them. But I guess that’s what he wants, more men fishing and more fish.”
“And more money for him,” Mac said.
“That’s the way of things,” said Willie. “Not much any of us can do.” He turned away to roll another keg into the bar.
“And mayhap less money for us,” Sean said, his voice lowered. “I heard them saying there's a fee we’ll have to pay.”
“That bloody Perkins taking the food off our tables,” said Mac.
“Hush, man. We don’t know that yet. They’re going to take down a few fishermen’s shacks. Not as far up as my place, though," said Sean. "They’ll clear out some of the drying racks as well.”
“They talk to anyone?”
“Not a soul. They come down to the beach, and they talk to each other as if we’re invisible.”
“We are invisible, Sean. We’re nothing to them. Just the way it is.” Mac took a deep sip of his ale and thought about all the years he’d been fishing with his father and his father fishing with his father before him. Now Moira was up at Westness, and mayhap Jamie someday would go to the mainland, leaving just him, Dougal, and Colin to take the Star out. “There’s change coming,” he said, shaking his head. “The old laird dies. There's a new laird, and it just gets worse and worse. We might as well be drinking kelpie beer.”
Sean laughed, a short barking sound, his blue eyes keen. “Kelpie beer. Why not just eat seaweed and piss in the ocean?”
“Yeah,” Mac grimaced. “We got a right proper taste for it.”
Willie moved back down the bar. “You want another?”
“Nah,” said Sean.
“Perkins stopped in earlier.” Willie ran his rough fingers along the bar. “The pier should be done before Martinmas and to pass the word. Lord Gordon wants his taxes paid.”
Mac stood. “There’s no money for taxes, and there’s no money for something we don’t need.”
“If they require us to use a pier,” said Sean, “we have to pay them.”
Mac poked Sean’s shoulder. “There’s some who’d rather pull their boats on the other side of the island rather than pay a bloody tax.”
“Shush now,” said Willie. “I can’t be hearing what some might do. Perkins will call in the new constable and lord knows what else.” He nodded to the two men and moved down t
he bar, his back held straight for an old man.
“What a mess we got.” Mac said. “Never doubt this will get worse.”
“Shall I spread the word?”
“Be careful who you talk to.” Mac lowered his voice. “Might you pull in on the east side?”
“I might. Some of the time. And you?” said Sean.
“Maybe. Depends on how much they take. We’re all right for now, but the new laird, he wants to lick the butter off my bread.” Mac drained the last of his beer. “See you around.”
“Tomorrow at dawn then, you and Dougal?”
"Aye.” Mac felt as if he were in deep water and sinking to the very bottom of the sea. He looked at his hands in the dim light of the tavern. “Ah, give the beggar a bed, he’ll repay you with a louse,” he muttered.
BOOK 2: WESTNESS
Summer - Fall 1841
CHAPTER 14: STANDING STONES
The sky filled with high, fast-moving clouds as Alice picked her way up the hill to walk along the headlands. Her rucksack with drawing materials almost forgotten, she followed a narrow path east, the cool wind a welcome change. Her head down, she barely saw the heather mixed with moor grasses on the rolling hills.
She rounded a turn to find a massive stone circle on a flat hollow before her that faced the sea. Alice walked around the outside of the stone circle, measuring it with her steps. How many stories had been told of these stones – that giants heaved them here in some heroic battle when the earth was young or that druids used them in magical rites now long forgotten. The grass was smooth in the inner circle.
She leaned her ear against one of the stones, the one closest to the sea, as if she could hear why it had been made. The stone, its front scoured by wind, arched above her some ten feet. What a marker this would have made for early seafarers, she thought.
Alice sat with her back against the cold stone and gathered her long skirts around her legs. She quickly sketched in lines to mark the horizon and the expanse of grassy headlands around her. She then blocked in the seven standing stones, measuring the relationship of each with her thumb and the head of her drawing pencil.