Page 9 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“Are ye hungry?” Maisie looked at her face again and shook her head. “Never ye mind, I can see the answer tae tha’ with me own eyes. Stay here, an’ I’ll bring ye a tray o’ broth an’ bread an’ an some hot tea. Just taeday, mind ye, since ye’ve just arrived an’ Evelyn says yer injured.”
By the time the maid came back with the tray, Lydia was beginning to feel a little less shaken. The soup was good, the bread not quite fresh but far softer and more flavorful than the travel bread she’d eaten for the past few days, and the tea was a welcome change from cold water drawn from a stream.
Lydia ate and drank her fill, then gave the tray back. “Thank you.”
Maisie blinked. “Och, ye’ve a strange accent about ye… where are ye from?”
There was no point in hiding the truth, especially since Laird Ranald already knew. “England. Near the border.”
“England, aye? Ye’re a long way from home. Never met an English servin’ lass, but I suppose work’s the same everywhere. But nay wonder ye’re fair fatigued.” Maisie took the tray with brisk, efficient movements. “Sleep, then, an’ I’ll show ye how his lairdship likes things done in the morning.”
Lydia nodded and settled into the pillows with a sigh. She didn’t expect to sleep, not in an unfamiliar place with the thinner bedding, but her head had scarcely touched the thin cotton before slumber pulled her into darkness.
She woke the next morning, to a chill in the air that suggested the sun had not long been up, and Maisie shaking her shoulder. The maid tsked at her. “Och, ye’re a fair heavy sleeper, ye are! There’s work tae be done.”
Lydia stumbled from the bed, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and her body feeling heavy and weary. Her side throbbed, and she winced and put a hand to it.
“Are ye well?” Maisie frowned. “If ye’re ill, I can send ye back tae Evelyn…”
Lydia shook her head, unwilling to submit herself to the healer’s continued scrutiny. Besides, she wanted to learn the things she needed to know quickly, so she could continue with her plans. “No. I was injured, and I am sore, but… it is not serious.”
“Och, ye talk fair pretty. Dae all servants in England talk like ye?” Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Ye’re like tae find yerself in fer a bit o’ a shock then, fer we’re nae tha’ sort here. Laird Ranald likes his people as forthright as himself, ye ken.”
“I… ken.” Lydia rolled the unfamiliar word in her mouth, guessing at its meaning and trying to wrap her mind around it.
“Right then. Let me see how bad ye are, so I ken if there’s aught ye cannae be daein’.” Lydia lifted her shirt up, and Maisie undid the bandages. “That’s a fair bad bruise, right enough. Did ye crack a rib? Looks like ye might have.”
“No. I did not, but the healer said I was lucky not to have.”
“Evelyn would ken, if anyone daes.” Maisie nodded. “Right… ye’ll nae do well with carryin’ laundry or cleanin’ the floors like tha’, so ye can dae other things.”
“Of course.” Lydia stretched carefully.
Breakfast was porridge and more tea, with day-old hard bread, before Maisie led her up the stairs and toward what Lydia suspected was the laird’s wing of the keep. “We’ll dae Laird Ranald’s study first, afore he comes in tae tend tae whatever business he has.”
The room they entered was large, with windows to let in the light, surrounded by heavy curtains. The hearth was cold, and the desk was a mass of missives and documents.
Maisie pointed. “Start by clearin’ the hearth, so we can lay a new fire. Then we’ll bring the food, dust, an das some tidyin’ up - me laird daesnae like us tae dae tae much with his papers, but straightenin’ the pile so he can see the top o’ his desk an’ find his quills an’ ink is acceptable. An’ o’ course, we’re expected tae replace any broken quills an’ empty inkwells.”
Lydia nodded, then made her way to the hearth. She knew what to do, for she had seen the servants at home do it many a time, but had never done it herself. Her movements were tentative and rather clumsy, sending ash everywhere.
“Nae like that. Dae ye have nay sense? Ye always put a cloth down tae catch the ash afore ye sweep the hearth. ‘Twill be all over the floor otherwise, an’ the stones.”
Before she could do anything, Maisie was already there, laying out the worn piece of canvas with expert movements. A few brisk strokes of the broom, and the majority of the ash was in the bucket. She hefted the bucket off the cloth, then folded itpartially and shook the rest into the container. “There. That is how ye dae it. Now ye tak’ the ash tae the laundry.”
Lydia blinked.
“Tae store until ‘tis time tae be makin’ soaps an’ ink, o’ course.” Maisie frowned at her. “What sort o’ servant are ye, tha’ ye didnae even ken that?”
Lydia blushed. “Oh. I… I know that but it wasn’t part of my duties. And things were done… differently. There were different tasks… the steward never asked me to deal with the hearths.”
“Ye had a right strange steward, then. An’ what sort o’ duties did ye have, if ye never cleaned hearths or took ash an’ the like fer soaps an’ inks?”
“Oh, I…” Lydia swallowed hard, her mind racing as she tried to think of something, anything, she could say. “I… I did sewing, sometimes, and wiping dust off books and things, tidying a desk…”
The desk had been her own, and she had strictly forbidden Elswith to touch it, save to replace her broken quills or ink bottles. Clearing the dust off books had become commonplace only because her uncle cared nothing for reading, and saw no reason to pay any attention or care to the small library her father and mother had maintained.
Maise scoffed. “Nay one has such light duties as tha’ around here. Nae even me, an’ I’m the personal maid for Laird Ranald. Mending’s more fer the laundry maids, in any case. Were ye a laundry maid?”
