Page 17 of Unforgotten
Ella was opening her mouth to say that she’d likely be taking all her meals in private, when Gavin spoke once more. “Aye … Sister Ella is a guest here. Of course she will join us in the Great Hall this eve.”
Ella’s belly tightened at this news, and she drew in a slow breath. Already she felt far too conspicuous here. The last thing she needed was to take a place at the MacNichol clan’s table in the Great Hall with kin and retainers all ogling her.
However, as she meekly left Monadh with the stable lad and followed Gavin toward the archway leading through to the inner bailey and the keep, she kept her thoughts to herself.
Gavin walked ahead, ascending a row of granite steps and entering the keep through great oaken doors. Two servants were in the midst of mopping the floor to the entrance hall beyond.
At seeing their clan-chief enter, the lasses straightened up, before curtsying.
“Welcome home, MacNichol,” the younger of the two called out.
Gavin cast the lass an easy smile. “Thank ye, Fiona. Don’t mind me … carry on with yer tasks.”
Both servants nodded, although they didn’t resume their mopping immediately. Instead, their gazes shifted to Ella, curiosity lighting their faces.
Seeing their reactions to her, Ella loosed an inward sigh. She’d have to get used to the stares while she was here it seemed.
Gavin went ahead, leading the way up a spiral stairwell. Picking up her skirts, Ella followed. He didn’t try to converse with her, which she was grateful for. She hadn’t failed to notice that upon arriving back at Scorrybreac, his manner had altered slightly toward her. A formality had settled, a distant air that she wished he’d adopted during the journey here.
Leaving the stairwell, Gavin strode down a narrow corridor. Despite that it was a bright day out, there were no windows to let in the sunlight in these hallways. Instead, flickering cressets illuminated the damp stone.
Eventually, Gavin drew to a halt outside a large oaken door. He then turned to face Ella, giving her his full attention for the first time since they’d entered the keep. “Yer mother awaits ye within,” he said softly. “I will see ye later … at supper.”
8
Blame
CAIT FRASER’S SICKROOM was dark and overly warm. The air smelt musty and slightly sour, as if no one ever opened the shutters to let fresh air in.
Ella fought the urge to do just that as she crossed the flagstone floor and took a seat beside the bed. Sister Coira believed that fresh air chased away the dark humors that perpetuated illness. Even so, it wasn’t Ella’s place to come barging in here and open the window so her mother could watch the rose-hued sunset.
Cait appeared to be asleep, propped up against a mountain of pillows.
Lowering herself onto the stool, Ella took in her mother’s frail form. She had never been a big woman, yet the illness that now wracked her body had melted the flesh from her bones, withered her arms to sticks, and caused her cheeks to sink in.
Ella’s throat constricted as she watched her mother’s face. She barely recognized the woman who had once caused her so much anguish. Cait Fraser didn’t look capable of causing anyone trouble these days.
Drawing in a deep breath, Ella reached out, her hand covering her mother’s. The skin was cool and papery. “Ma?”
Cait Fraser’s eyes flickered open, and for the first time, Ella fully knew the woman before her. Those eyes were a deep blue, the same shade as Ella’s.
“Ella?” Her mother’s voice held a rasp, yet Ella recognized it.
Her vision blurred as she gently squeezed the frail hand beneath hers. “Aye … it’s me. MacNichol came to fetch me himself from Kilbride.”
“Ye look so different in that habit,” her mother whispered. Ella could hear the weakness in her voice, the whistle in her lungs with each exhale. Gavin was right, Cait Fraser didn’t have much time left. “I barely know ye.”
“It’s still me,” Ella murmured, attempting to raise a smile and failing.
“Aye,” her mother croaked. “I see that … and I am so proud that ye are a Bride of Christ.”
Ella didn’t reply. Her mother had always been pious. Even now, she wore a small iron crucifix around her neck. The cross lay against the snowy white linen of her night-rail. And as Ella watched, her mother’s frail hand reached up to clasp the crucifix. It seemed her faith hadn’t lessened with the years. Still, her gaze never left her daughter. Cait’s blue eyes gleamed.
“I am glad ye came,” her mother said finally, breaking the silence.
The genuine emotion in Cait’s voice made Ella’s chest start to hurt. Her mother had never before used such a tone with her.
Ella leaned forward, cupping her mother’s free hand with both of her own now. “So am I.”
