Finley knew before she opened her eyes the next morning that it was no longer dark in the bedchamber. It had taken hours for her to fall asleep the night before and now she had overslept, if the sunlight filtering through the sparkling air over her bed was any indication.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, sliding her feet into her slippers and pulling her shawl from the peg. The bed was tidied in only a moment, and she set to replaiting her hair, while her eyes scanned the skirts and blouses lining the wall.
Dark gray? Light gray? Grayish-brown? Hmm. Decisions, decisions. She ignored her fine wedding costume as if it wasn’t there.
Light gray, it was.
She dressed quickly and opened the door to the main room, expecting to see her mother and father—and perhaps Lachlan Blair—breaking their fast at the table after their morning chores. But although the fire in the hearth still smoldered, the room was empty.
How late had she slept?
Finley saw a towel-covered dish on the table—bannocks and butter and a cup of fresh milk. Obviously everyone else had already eaten, but where had they gone off to? She picked up a cold oatcake and took a bite, washing it down with the tepid milk. She left the cup on the table, but carried the oatcake with her out of the house.
The light outside was gray—the glowy sort of illumination where the sun is present but yet so hidden behind such a thick barrier of clouds that everything is soft and foggy. The flower heads hung low still with dew and sleep, and Finley stepped quietly on the path, her eyes searching the farm up along their stone wall, and then out over the tops of the mist-shrouded rooftops of the town. There wasn’t a sound to be heard beyond the wind and the sea. Not even the bleat of a single sheep.
It was then she realized the source of the morning’s odd quality: There were no animal sounds, no work sounds, echoing over the bay. It was as though everyone had vanished.
She remembered the whispered stories from the older children when she was young, about the years of silence in Town Carson after the great battle. Nearly all the men, many of the women and children, and most of the animals were dead. It had made for terrifying haunt stories when she was wee, and now the silence caused unsettling gooseflesh to rise on her arms beneath her shawl, the cool fog dampening the tendrils of hair near her temple.
What must it have been like for her young mother then, hearing the blackened town silent, her own husband gone in the fight? What terror had she felt, looking over the corpse of their town from the spared farm on the hill? What resentment, to be married straightaway to Rory Carson, a relative stranger to her, called back from Glasgow by his own mother?
Finley saw the rounded, shawl-covered head coming up the path toward her now, as if her macabre imaginings had caused Ina Carson to appear. But contrary to Finley’s melancholy musings, her mother’s expression was bright.
“Good morning, daughter,” she called up, holding her skirts slightly away from the tall, damp grass. “Your da said to let you lie in because he and Lachlan got at the chores right off.”
Finley wanted to frown at this bit of information; she had helped her father with the morning chores since she’d been a lass of eight. But she supposed that was the point of her marrying, wasn’t it? Besides, if Lachlan Blair had his way, he wouldn’t be here helping forever. She would be wise to enjoy what respite she had.
“Where is everyone?” Finley asked as her mother drew even with her on the path.
“Taken the animals up over the vale to graze,” she said, and her eyes were almost sparkling in the foggy gloom. Finley thought that if the sun had been out properly, she couldn’t have withstood her mother’s gaze.
“Our animals?”
“All the animals,” Ina said with a smile. “Lachlan is leading the men up to the Blair pastures we’ve a right to. He’s showing them where the boundaries lie.”
Lachlan is a harried man this morning, she thought to herself with unreasonable sourness. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t warned her yesterday that he would set out to gain the Carsons’ trust. Finley just hadn’t expected it so soon. He’d eaten supper with the family last night, and after he’d borrowed one of Mam’s lamps, Finley had walked him to the path.
There he had wished her a good night and set off toward the old house, alone.
Ina Carson looped her arm through Finley’s and turned them both back toward the house. “Doona worry so. I’d say it willna be too long before your husband asks the fine for permission to build a new longhouse.”
Finley turned her head sharply to look at her mother.
Ina continued. “The Blair is a proud man. Your father suspected he would be when he agreed to the betrothal, and he saw that it was doubly true on your wedding day. Lachlan was to be chief of Clan Blair.”
“But he’s chief of nothing,” Finley said sternly. “He’s been sent here in disgrace.”
“I suspect he belongs here just as much as he belongs at Town Blair. Sure, maybe he belongs here more,” Ina said, patting Finley’s arm before releasing her and disappearing through the doorway.
Finley felt confusion distort her face. “What?” she whispered to herself, and then followed her mother inside, where she appeared to be starting the stew pot.
“It’s part of why your da’s so out of sorts,” Ina continued, hanging the large kettle on the hook and bringing the water bucket near to send ladleful’s sloshing inside. “He knows he’s made a good match for his daughter. To a man who wouldn’t take kindly to sharing a hearth with the old folks. Lachlan was to be the chief, Fin.”
“You said that already,” Finley acknowledged.
“Aye, well, it’s the truth, and it’s now paining your da. The Blair needs his own house for him and his woman.”
“He’s nottheBlair. And I’m not just his woman.”
