Page 68 of Laird of Twilight
“Treasure?” Patrick looked intrigued. “A bit of gold would solve problems for all—well, it would be nice if it was ever found.”
“Certainly others are looking for it,” Eldin said. “Temptation is strong where legends of gold and treasure exist.”
“Have you met my cousins hereabouts by any chance, Struan?” John Graham asked then. James turned, grateful for a new subject. “We are to meet the Glasgow architects in the morning, so I cannot stay long enough for me to arrange a visit.”
“I have met Mrs. Peggy Graham,” James said carefully. “She is quite well.”
“Excellent! I have not seen her since I was a child, but please give her my best regards. And my other cousins too, should you see them. Miss Elspeth MacArthur and her grandfather.”
“Ah,” James said. “Yes.”
“You must invite them to dinner while we are here,” Patrick said. “Miss MacArthur attended the Ladies’ Assembly in Edinburgh, did she not?”
James took a sip of coffee, then nodded. “I have met the MacArthurs here.”
“That very pretty Highland lass? She seemed quite taken with you in Edinburgh.” Philip grinned. “The kisses flowed that afternoon, as I recall! You and Miss MacArthur seemed in good agreement with one another.”
“Met a Highland lass, did you?” Eldin asked. “Very good.”
Sensing the edge in the tone, James smiled flatly. He would be glad to see Eldin’s fancy black barouche roll away from here at last, along the same rough and rutted glen road the man complained about.
And may the very de’il bounce him back to hell, he thought.
Chapter 17
Taking a full roller of tartan off the loom, the result of several days’ work, Elspeth set down the heavy bolt, set an unused roller on the loom. Then she took a little time to remove the last yarn sett from the loom, winding the spare yarns into bundles as she thought ahead to the next design. She had planned to make another arisaid pattern after completing the last commissioned tartan. Instead, she decided to make a gift plaid for Struan.
She was not sure when—or if—she would see him again, but she wanted to give him a length of yarn that she had made herself—then some part of her would be with him.
In the past fortnight, she had let her work possess her as she sat at the loom for hours night and day. Her grandfather’s work was otherworldly, but she could keep a fast enough pace and lose herself in the creation of the cloth without hint of the glamourie.
A few other weavers in the glen worked hand-looms for Kilcrennan too, and Elspeth regularly visited their cottages to collect goods and pay them for their work. She had learned the art from her grandfather, and some from these folk, including her cousin Margaret. Donal had tutored Margaret and her husband Robbie, in the weaving arts, but they did not know the secret that allowed Donal MacArthur to work so quickly. Only Elspeth, Peggy Graham, and now Struan himself knew that.
Lately, busy with her weaving tasks, Elspeth had neatly avoided her grandfather’s attempts to talk about Struan, and marriage, and her future. She also tried not to think about it much, though the matter burdened her heart and soul. Even stepping inside her cottage brought back memories of being there alone with the man she knew she had come to love.
Now, she stepped outside, took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, and headed to the storage house where yarns and supplies were kept. Inside, soft sunbeams poured through cracks in the shutters, and motes floated on the light. From a shelf, she took a copy of Wilson’sKey Pattern Bookand sat at the worktable turning the pages.
Published by an Edinburgh tailor years earlier, the book contained hundreds of tartan designs, each assigned to particular clans. Some were based on old, accepted clan traditions, while many, she knew, had been invented more recently. The tartan patterns and clan associations were part of the current craze for Highland culture. The desire for plaid cloth had greatly benefitted the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan and other weavers too.
Studying the meticulous hand-colored tartans in the book, she hardly noticed a knock. As the door opened and sunlight poured over the table, she glanced up to see a young woman enter.
“Margaret!” Elspeth slid from her stool to embrace her cousin. “I did not expect to see you today!”
Margaret Lamont smiled, round face beaming, brown eyes sparkling. Her red hair was tucked in a thick braid wrapped and pinned over the crown of her head, making her seem even taller, her full figure due to her fourth babe on the way. A brawny lass, Donal MacArthur fondly called his niece, who worked with raw wools and dye baths as well as weaving. “Reverend Buchanan kindly brought me here on his way elsewhere,” Margaret answered.
“Dear Margaret! You look so healthy,” Elspeth said. “I hope you are feeling well, and not working the dye baths too often. It is not good for your back now, and the smell of it could make you ill.”
“Rob has others doing the dyeing now, while I do the spinning and combing. Today I had some free time, with my mother watching the children, so I came out to get some fresh air and visit you. And I would love to see what bonny cloths you and Uncle Donal have been weaving with my yarns.”
“Your yarns make the best weavings,” Elspeth said. “I have finished several tartans lately—I will show you. Just now I am here searching for a new pattern.”
Margaret peered at the pages spread open on the table. “What a great book it is,” she said, speaking in Gaelic, as she and Elspeth often did. “Tartan is in such demand now that even the king is interested in wearing it. And Kilcrennan weavers are doing well because of it. The demand will keep us all busy for a while to come, so I hope.”
“It is good,” Elspeth said. “Grandda is most content when he is busy at the weaving.”
“What sett will you choose?” Margaret turned a page or two.
“I was looking for MacCarran.”
