Page 77 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Buck’s a good dog, Morag,” the housekeeper said. “There’s no harm in it.”
“I want him out of here when we start preparing for Lughnasadh. There’ll be plenty to do without tripping over that great, hairy beast. The laird’s invited the McCallums and the Chisholms this year, and he’ll be furious if there’s anything out of place.”
Clara’s stomach clenched with apprehension. “How many people are coming?”
“At least a hundred souls,” the housekeeper said. “And they’ll not be wanting to come down to the kitchen to see ye, lass. Yer place is above stairs. There’s no finer sight than the Lughnasadh ball, is there, Morag?”
“Aye,” the cook said. “To see the clans come together and dance a reel, with their plaids filling the place with color and music. Master Murdo loves a reel, he does. Nothing makes him happier.”
“Will you show me how to dance a reel?” Clara asked. “Then perhaps…”
Perhaps Murdo might not regret his choice of wife.
“I’d like to learn to dance,” she said, “if it’s a clan tradition—myclan tradition.”
“The festival’s less than a fortnight away,” the cook said. “Master Murdo won’t expect ye to have learned a reel so soon, what with ye being a Sassenach.”
“Och, Morag, that’s no way to speak to the lass,” Joan said. “I’ll get Elspeth to teach ye, Mrs. McTavish. She taught Master Murdo and Master James when they were wee.”
She patted Clara’s hand, then lowered her gaze to her calloused fingers.
“Ye’re a good lass,” she said. “The clan will accept ye in time, especially when ye give us a child or two. We Highlanders don’t always take kindly to strangers—we don’t trust easily.”
“Neither do I,” Clara said.
“Sensible lass. Now, what say ye to a pot of tea? I’ll have Marsaili take some to the west parlor. Ye’ll not be disturbed there. Callum can light a fire, then I can send Elspeth for yer first lesson.”
“I’d like that very much, thank you.”
“Good lass. Ah! There she is.”
Clara glanced up to see the ghillie enter the kitchen, together with Marsaili. The young maidservant seemed to be in a state of perpetual sorrow, though she turned hostile eyes on Clara.
“Marsaili, would ye put some water on to make tea?” the housekeeper said.
The girl frowned. “It’s not time for tea.”
“Less of yer lip, girl!” the cook snapped. “It’s for Mrs. McTavish.”
Marsaili shuffled toward the fireplace. She picked up a pan, then let out a cry and dropped it, cradling her arm.
“Marsaili!” Clara said, approaching her. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right! Leave me be!”
Marsaili’s eyes flashed with defiance, but Clara saw a flicker of pain in them, and when she lowered her gaze, she spotted a dark mark on the girl’s skin, peeking out from beneath her sleeve.
A mark in the shape of a handprint.
“That’s no way to speak to yer mistress, Marsaili,” the ghillie said.
“It’s all right, Duncan,” Clara said. “Marsaili, may I see your arm? I recognize a handprint when I see one.”
“What, from when ye were whoring?” the girl sneered.
“Marsaili!” the cook cried, raising her hand to strike the girl. “How dare ye…”
Biting back the pain at the Marsaili’s words, Clara caught the cook’s wrist as the girl dissolved into tears.
