“I am pleased to hear you were no’ forced into the profession, but why were you spared?”
“Madam Montgomery made those decisions. I didn’t question her.” She pressed her lips tightly together, obviously still hurt by whatever the woman had said about her, even though she has escaped the indignity of becoming one of the madam’s girls.
Was she not pretty enough? Missing an air of innocence? Madam Montgomery could go hang.
“When I was healthy again,” Mistress Gallagher said, “I cleaned the girls’ chambers, helped with laundry, mended what needed mending—I was a seamstress by trade and a blasted good one.” She held her head higher as she revealed her hidden skill.
“Where did you learn to sew?”
“My mother tried to teach all the girls in my family, but I was the only one to take to it. A modiste took me on for a while, but the arrangement didn’t work out.” She sighed, leaving the impression there was more to the story, but he didn’t press her. “I also assisted in the kitchen at the brothel. I was busy and happy to have a place to stay. It didn’t trouble me what went on in the house. I kept to the shadows, worked hard, and closed my eyes when needed.”
Miss Gracie had stopped wallowing in the snow and was trudging back up the hill. They didn’t have long to finish their conversation.
He hugged Mistress Gallagher against his side before releasing her. “For what it is worth, lass, the madam was wrong. You are of the best quality. She was just too blind to notice.”
Mistress Gallagher rolled her eyes. “I think you are doing it up brown, Mr. McTaggart, but thank you.” An endearing blush stained her cheeks.
“I am wet and cold,” the little lassie bemoaned as she topped the hill. Her cheeks and nose were bright red, and her teeth clacked together.
“Oh, dear.” Mistress Gallagher hurried to gather her charge in a hug. “We should return to the castle before you catch a chill. You need dry clothes and something warm in your stomach.”
“My cottage isna far,” Fergus said, “and it willna take long to have a fire roaring in the hearth. The embers should still be glowing from my morning fire.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem of wet clothes.”
He hadn’t planned a stop at his cottage, but he was warming to the idea. In his own domain, no McTaggarts would be eavesdropping. “The lass can wear one of my shirts and wrap a tartan around her shoulders. Her clothes will dry by the fire.” He ushered them toward the sleigh.
Mistress Gallagher surprised him when she didn’t argue and climbed up beside Miss Gracie, settling the blanket around the girl. Fergus joined them in the sleigh and signaled Molly to continue along the ridge. His cottage lay in the next valley, close to a stream and protected by a grove of silver birch. A thin line of smoke rose from the stone chimney jutting from the center of the pitched roof.
“Very nice,” Mistress Gallagher murmured as Fergus drew the horse and sleigh to a halt outside the rock wall.
“Aye. The cottage has served several generations of McTaggarts weel. It appears a bit barren now, but come summer, flowers of every kind grow in the gardens. My grandmother planted the garden before I was born.”
His home was simple and functional, and wouldn’t make a rich man jealous, but it was his. He’d saved enough to purchase the deed from his former employer five years ago, and he took pride in taking care of what was his.
He assisted his companions from the sleigh, retrieved the picnic hamper with his mother’s treats from the backseat, and handed it to Mistress Gallagher. “See Miss Gracie inside while I tend to the horse. I willna be long.”
He led Molly toward a small stable while the lasses went inside. Once he’d wiped down the horse, checked her hooves, and given her fresh water, he returned to the house to build a fire. Mistress Gallagher was already seeing to it, however. She was bent over in front of the kitchen hearth struggling with the bellows to ignite the coals. She had added kindling and probably would have a decent fire going in time, but Miss Gracie’s shivers were racking her small body and her lips had a blue tint.
“You can help Miss Gracie change in my chambers, and I’ll get the fire going,” he said.
“Oh!” Mistress Gallagher startled and spun around to face him.
He hitched his thumb toward his chambers off the kitchen. “Let me find her something dry to put on.”
Mistress Gallagher took the girl’s hand in hers and followed him to his room. He could feel her gaze on him as he retrieved a shirt and plaid from a rustic wardrobe and tossed them on the bed. “The shirt might swallow the lass, but it is better than standing ‘round in wet clothes.”
“Thank you,” Miss Gracie said as he closed the door behind him. While the womenfolk saw to their business, he built up the fire and swung the kettle over the flames in case Mistress Gallagher preferred tea to the lukewarm chocolate he’d pulled from the hamper.
When the door creaked open, Miss Gracie tromped from the room with a wide smile. His shirt hung all the way to her ankles and a pair of his woolen socks that were four times too big flopped against the floorboards as she crossed the kitchen.
Mistress Gallagher exited the room with the lass’s wet clothes and laid them out close to the fire. His plaid was draped over her arm. “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed a pair of socks for her.”
“You were rummaging in my drawers, eh?”
Her face flushed pink, and she held up the plaid to inspect it, successfully blocking his view of her. “What an interesting pattern.”
“It’s the McTaggart clan colors,” he said.
