by Beth Camp
“Where’s the girl,” Mrs. Britton shouted. “Where are my greens?”
“I’ve got to go.”
Moira waited at the door to watch Dylan walk down through the garden, out the gate and past the barn. She could hear Mrs. Britton calling her.
“’Tis a pretty bird you are,” whispered Perkins behind her, nearly at her ear. “I could have you fired for this. Already shirking and this your first week.”
Moira almost dropped her basket of greens. “Just a friend happened by.”
“I know him. He’s the boatwright. Tight with Lord Gordon for now. He looked to be more than a friend.” Perkins pinched his nose just below his glasses. “You’re hired to work and not be a slut, so get back to the kitchen. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, don’t be thanking me. I’ll think of a way for you to thank me.” Perkins turned back into his office and closed the door.
Moira’s hands shook as she tightened her grip on her basket and turned back to the kitchen.
On Saturday, Moira's first week at Westness was over. She had the rest of the day and Sunday at home, then she'd be back to Westness until the next Saturday. Moira felt fortunate to have found a job, despite what Mac said. They needed the money. That added income was assured as long as she could stay away from Mr. Perkins and please Mrs. Britton.
Her best strategy was to be invisible, she thought. That should be easy with her new uniform. Mrs. MacNaught had told her the cost would be deducted from her wages, but Moira didn’t care. The dress was cut from heavy black cloth, made simply with a high neck and long sleeves. She was given a clean white apron and collar to wear each day. She pinned a tiny lace cap to the top of her head, whenever she went upstairs.
In the afternoon, she went to Mr. Perkin’s office and stood in line for their weekly accounting with everyone else, even Mrs. Britton.
“Don’t take that in with you.” Maggie pointed to the small bundle of food Moira carried. “You can get it on your way out. Don’t worry. He just doesn’t have to see everything.”
“Why is he taking so long?”
“He just wants to account for the week. He may make a suggestion or two. Just get through it.” Maggie’s cheeks were flushed.
Moira waited her turn without further talking. Maybe she wouldn’t be working at Westness after today. Each person went into Perkins’ office alone and closed the door. After a few minutes, he or she came out. No one smiled.
Finally, Moira entered the office where she had met Perkins that first day. He was seated behind his desk, his account book open. His pen hovered over the ledger as he looked up. He sniffed.
“Ah, yes, the new kitchen girl.”
Moira nodded.
Perkins looked at her a long moment and then wrote in his ledger. “Deduction for the uniform. Deduction for new shoes. A fine for shirking work.”
“But I’ve worked full days, every day.”
“And that day in the garden?” His glasses slipped down further on his nose. “You’re three schillings down. You’ll have your full pay next week, won’t you? That is, if you do your job without mooning over some man. Go along, then.”
Moira didn’t move. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ah, a troublemaker. McDonnell, isn’t it?”
“Aye. I have four brothers, sir.”
“Would they come up to Westness? That would be amusing. All of them?” He grabbed her hand and ground the bones of her fingers together. “Don’t threaten me. Now get out of here.”
No one would meet her eyes as she came out of Perkins’ office. Moira picked up her bundle of food and left Westness.
Moira walked along the headlands, at first just grateful to be alone. She rubbed her hand. I hate Perkins, but I can avoid him. I don’t like cook’s rages, but they’re spats over nothing. She nearly tripped on the path, thinking about all the food she’d carried upstairs for so few people. I’d rather be following the harvest and sleeping out under the stars.
There ahead of her, at the place where the path branched down to Selkirk, Mac waited. “Did it go well?”
“Well enough. But 'tis glad I am to be coming home.”
Mac took the bundle from her and together they walked home. At supper, her brothers argued over whether they should eat charity food from the new laird, but their hunger won out. The bits of meat and bread were a welcome addition to oatcakes and fish soup. Her brothers said nothing about Dylan, and neither did she.
Later, Mac and Dougal left the cottage for a meeting. Moira knew they were stopping at the Pig’s Head. She didn’t begrudge them. It was enough to sit by the hearth with Colin and Jamie before they went up to bed. It was enough to not be waiting for the bell to ring or Mrs. Britton to yell at her once more. She was too tired to worry about Dylan and when or if she might see him. He seemed like something from a dream she had long ago.
Moira stepped outside of their stone cottage for a moment. She stared at the moon. The whole world seemed to tilt and move toward the stars. She could hear the noise of the waves far below.
Even as the wind picked up, Moira walked along the heather-lined cliff path that led to the sea. She felt tears on her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was crying. The wind pulled at her dress, making it sail out behind her, and the moon shone through the clouds.
Sunday came too soon for Moira. They honored the Sabbath, even with work left undone, though Mac said this afternoon he and Dougal would take the boys walking to the far side of the island, something about meeting the other fishermen. Her fish stew already warmed on a banked fire for the meal after services. Moira hoped the rain would hold off.
Moira settled onto the bench next to Jamie and Colin, as the congregation waited for Pastor McPherson. Lady Alice again sat in the front pew, alone. Moira looked behind her once to see if Dylan had come, but Mac scowled at her. The old church was somewhat warmer. A new door and tighter sidings on the windows meant less of a draft, but Moira’s feet were still cold from the wet along the path. Her feet were forgotten as Pastor McPherson came in. He doesn’t look well, thought Moira.
“Good morning, my children.” Pastor McPherson paused, and the congregation settled to quiet. “Soon we come to the end of the harvest. With one breath, we worry about winter storms, and with another, we prepare to celebrate the birth of our Lord and His gift of redemption. We are challenged by trials on sea and land, yet keep this in your heart: We are protected by the love of Christ who will never abandon us. Let us pray.”
Moira flexed her fingers and thought of clearing away the breakfast table at Westness. Mac doesn’t need to know everything.
After church, Dylan followed the McDonnells out into the sunlight. “Have a word with me?” he called. Mac kept on walking, not turning back. Dougal stopped with Moira.
“Good Sabbath, Mr. McDonnell, Miss McDonnell.”
Moira smiled a welcome and looked at her brother.
“Good Sabbath.” Dougal looked uncomfortable.
“I know about the meeting,” said Dylan in a low voice. “And I think it's . . . ”
“Don't talk here,” Dougal interrupted. “Come to the house. You need to see Mac.”
Moira looked from one man to the other, their faces tense. She turned and began the walk home, just ahead of Dougal and Dylan.
When they reached the cottage, Mac was waiting for them. “Moira, go inside. This is men's business.”
Moira flushed. She flounced into the cottage and slammed the door shut.
“Who can blame her?” Dougal motioned to Dylan to sit down on one of the round stools at the side of the cottage. “She thought you were coming to see her.”
“And I would, if you but give me permission.”
“That's not going to happen.” Mac leaned back on the cottage wall, his eyes narrowed to cracks. “Tell me how you know about the meeting.”
Dylan paced in front of the two brothers. “None of the fishermen will talk to me. They tell me to come to you. Then I hear there's to be
a meeting tomorrow. I can't say who told me. I know it. And I know this. You're asking for trouble.”
“We know how to deal with trouble.”
“That may be. But Lord Gordon is serious about these improvements. He's ready to fine those who don't rework their boats.” Dylan stopped and looked around the small yard in front of the cottage and the stone walls between the yard and the sea. “You risk losing all this if you don't do what he wants. And you risk more if you lead the fishermen against him.”
Mac looked at Dylan and grunted. “So, you’re only here for a while, then.”
“That doesn't change my feelings about Moira. She's not part of this, not for me. If she'll have me, I'll stay. It's as simple as that. But if there’s trouble, I'll go, and I'll take her with me.”
“That won't happen. Not unless I'm dead.” Mac stood, the black rage swimming up in him. “She's me only sister.”
“Then maybe you'll be dead,” Dylan said, not backing down. “I want to marry her.”
“A hell of a time to be saying it,” said Dougal.
“Aye, but that doesn't change it.”
“All right, all right. This isn't about Moira anyway. It's about Lord Gordon and his damned demands. You being here makes it worse. You speak for him. But this is about us." Mac thumped his chest. "We have to decide what we should do. Yes, we're meeting tomorrow. You're right. Down on the beach, after the fishing's done. You can talk to them direct, and then we'll see.”
“Tell her I would have come to see her if it hadn't been for this.”
“I'll tell her,” said Dougal.
CHAPTER 19: FISHERMEN MEET
The boats had landed, and the women had long finished their work of gutting and salting the day’s catch. The men stayed behind. Dylan walked down along the beach, gathering the fishermen as if he pulled a net around them.
“You know why I’m here.” Dylan looked at each man. “Lord Gordon wants you – all of you – to top off your open boats and add a deck. From stem to stern. This will strengthen your hulls and give you good storage for your fish. You can improve your boats and your catch.”
The men stood close around Dylan. “Aye, we heard of this. We knew it was coming.”
“Scott Mercantile has the wood,” Dylan continued, “and I will help you with the rebuilding of decks, until you see how 'tis done.”
“I told you he wouldn't stay long,” whispered Mac to Dougal, as they watched Dylan.
Dougal nodded.
“An' who will be paying for the wood up at the Mercantile?” asked Sean.
“Lord Gordon's having it brought in. He'll cover the shipping. You'll pay cost. I'm told the increased yields should cover your expenses in a season,” replied Dylan.
“If it's a good season,” someone muttered.
A few of the men laughed.
“But if I change me boat, how will she handle in a storm?” called Robert from the back of the group.
“Aye,” the men around him agreed.
“From what I've seen,” said Dylan, “when you cap over the deck, the boat is less prone to tip.”
“Aye, but how do we know what you've seen?” asked Sean.
Mac stepped forward. “And where will we be in the middle of a storm with no place to drop down to?”
The men around Mac laughed uneasily.
Mac leaned close to Dylan. “This is not personal.” He raised his voice. “Who wants to take a chance on being blown off their boat in a storm, like me Da?”
Dylan glared at Mac. “This is personal. And you know why.” He turned to the rest of the men. “If you want help in carrying out the retrofitting, that's what I'm here for. Lord Gordon is paying me to help you now. You know where I'm staying. Come to me when you're ready to work.”
Dylan walked back up the beach to Selkirk, alone.
“We could do it,” said Dougal. “We could be first to try.”
Mac shrugged him off. “He doesn't own us.” He turned to the small crowd of men. “Who's for retrofitting our boats when the bastard has raised our rents? And who knows when he'll raise them again?”
The men milled around Mac.
“We'll no change,” cried Sean.
“None of us will. He can't make us,” said Robert. “What can he do to us, anyway? Raise the rents again?”
The men shifted on their feet as the sky darkened.
“Aye, that's the burr that pricks me,” said Mac. “You know he can. But where will it end? Do we want to change our boats or no? Go home and think on this. Come prepared tomorrow to make a decision. An' then we'll see.”
Mac walked up from the beach, stopping with Sean and Dougal underneath the sign at the Pig's Head.
“We should have talked more to him,” said Dougal.
“We talked enough,” said Mac.
“Aye,” Sean added. “I'll bet Lord Gordon hasn't been out in a storm. He doesn't know.”
Dougal shrugged. “I mean we should have talked to Dylan. We promised Moira.”
“What's this about Moira?” Sean's face narrowed.
“Ah, Dougal, sometimes you don't talk enough, and then you talk too much.” Mac turned away. He wanted to be outside this night, under the stars with Deidre. “You might as well know, Sean. Moira's met Lord Gordon’s man, this Dylan MacInerney. He's from Ireland. He's probably close to being a papist for all I know.”
“But we told Moira we'd talk to him.” Dougal, a head shorter than Mac, stood light on his feet, ready for a fight.
“And so we have this day.”
“Moira will want more than what we've done. You know it, Mac.”
Sean circled around the two brothers in front of the Pig's Head. “So she's not going with the MacTavish?”
“Pah! Don't be silly, Sean. She never went with MacTavish or any of the rest of them I brought home. Ah, you're right, Dougal. What's meant to happen will happen. I'll go see him. You can even come. But I'm no going this night.”
Dougal nodded. “All right. That's good enough for me. When?”
“Tomorrow.” Mac stared at his brother and at Sean. “I don't like them coming around, telling us what to do. We know how to fish.”
“Will we change our boat?” asked Dougal.
“Maybe. Don’t be asking me now.”
“Shall we go in then?” Sean asked.
“Not tonight.” Mac shrugged. “It all comes back to the rents. We dinna have the coin, Sean. Not even for a ha’penny dram.”
“Well then. You don't want to stand around here all night.” Sean lifted his hand in a mock salute.
“Tomorrow, we settle this, for I want an end to this wrangling. I'd rather be out walking with Deidre.”
“Go along then, you old cod. Give her my regards.”
The two men looked at each other, and Mac grinned. “I’ll give her my regards. You going home, Dougal?”
“Aye. 'Tis too late for anything else.”
“Talk to Moira. Maybe she'll come to her senses.”
“I doubt that. She's a McDonnell too. Some would call us stubborn.”
Mac turned away and shook off thoughts of Moira and Dylan and the meeting tomorrow. He'd probably have to apologize to Dylan and refit their boat as well. There was no hope for a skaffie this year. Mac could almost hear his father saying, ‘What cannot be helped must be put up with.’
Mac walked up Front Street toward Scott's Mercantile, the street ahead of him empty in the early summer evening. Inside the closely-built stone houses, lamps were lit, and families gathered for supper. Maybe one day, he and Deidre would live in one of these stone houses. He couldn't imagine them living in his cottage. He'd have to add something on, maybe another room. But it was that serious he knew. What was he to do? He couldn’t live with Deidre’s parents and her sisters over the store. However large it was, it wasn’t large enough for a fisherman they didn’t want their daughter to marry.
Mac lifted his hand to knock on the door, but Deidre opened it before he could.
“Let’s go
out,” she said.
“Everyone’s home, then?”
“Yes. Let’s just walk,” she replied, already bundled up in a shawl, for the sun had dropped behind the horizon, turning the clouds red, and the evening air was chill. They walked along Front Street, down to the beach where the boats had been pulled up. Not even the wind blew away the smell of drying fish.
“All's well with you?” she asked.
“Well enough.”
“Everyone's excited tonight,” she explained. “Da was called up to Westness to see Mr. Perkins. They want the store to carry more provisions. Mac, we’re to have a weekly ferry once the pier’s in.”
“A weekly ferry?” Mac said, trying to take it in. “Every week for sure?”
“Yes. Father said he’s going to order from Wick and Inverness. Even newspapers. He’ll have newspapers from Edinburgh.”
“Mayhap we’ll be able to take our fish to the mainland easier, some dried and some fresh.”
They both were quiet for a time.
“Mac, I'm sorry about the rent increase. Mr. Perkins said it was for the good. That Lord Gordon felt this was the only way to get the fishermen to change their boats.”
“The bully. How’s someone who’s not fishing at all supposed to pay higher rents? He didn’t just increase the rents on us fishermen, you know. It’s on everyone.”
“Will you rebuild the Star?”
“I don’t know.” Mac kicked at a stone. “If we cover her deck over like they want, she might not handle the same way. You know these waters. Sometimes storms come up without a warning.”
“But you’re a good sailor, Mac.”
“Maybe. But out there, if a storm comes roaring in, there’s no good sailor or bad sailor. The waves pick up. The wind starts blasting. There’s only you and the storm. And a boat you’d better know exactly how to sail.”
Deidre tucked her hand under Mac’s arm. “Mr. Perkins said Lord Gordon was angry the fishermen hadn’t rebuilt their boats. Especially after he brought a man over from the shipyard in Inverness.”
“I met him. This Dylan MacInerney. He’s dancing attendance on Moira, and I don’t like it. Enough. Enough of this stranger. Enough of Mr. Perkins and Lord Gordon. I don’t care he’s angry. I’m angry too whenever I think on it.”