“Bring the cup with ye,” Catriona told Emma. “Nay rule against a proper walk with a warm hand.”
Emma settled Stella more snugly and picked up her cup. She felt the earlier tilt inside her, the one Catriona’s remark had caused. It was small, not a threat. Still, it moved, but she kept her expression open.
Now, she couldn’t stop thinking about what their children would look like.
Catriona’s gaze flicked to Emma’s free hand. “Ye’ll manage well here.”
Emma looked up at her. “Ye think so?”
Catriona nodded. “The halls can feel large to a new lass, but believe me, the feeling fades.”
Olivia watched them both, a mix of relief and caution contorting her face. “Daenae take long,” she urged. “Ye need food.”
“I will eat when I return,” Emma said. She looked at Stella and softened. “If she allows it.”
“She will,” Catriona assured her. “She rules less than she looks.”
Emma smiled. “We shall see.”
Olivia lifted her cup in a small salute. “Go on, then.”
Emma nodded. “We will.”
She turned toward the arch that led to the corridor, the baby warm and quiet against her shoulder, and Catriona fell into step beside her. They walked past the Great Hall first, and then a few more guest rooms. Eventually, they found their way to the gallery.
Catriona spoke as they went, listing off names and dates. Emma was certain she had tuned her out at some point. Catriona talked about everything. Which uncle held the north pasture, and which aunt set up the first school at the village.
“Jack’s grandfaither added this wing,” she had said one time. “It took him half a year and a winter storm to finish it. The poor old bugger lost nearly three fingers to the cold, too.”
Emma glanced at the next frame. A man with the same eyes as Jack’s, only set in a softer face. He was sitting with a woman in a dark green gown with a pearl necklace around her throat. Emmamade no comment, and Catriona didn’t ask for her thoughts, thank God.
They reached a newer portrait near the end. Jack stood with the child in his arms. He was in a linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
The painter had caught the set of his jaw and the way he used his intimidating demeanor to make a room fall quiet. Stella looked no more than a few months old in the portrait. Her fist caught a fold of his shirt, and her mouth opened in a laugh that the paint had fixed in place.
Catriona chuckled. “I remember that morning well. He hated sitting for it. Wouldnae even do it until I brought the bairn in.”
“Really?” Emma asked, still studying the painting.
“Aye. Poor Stella wouldnae stop crying from the first bell as well. Then he took her, and she shut her wee mouth and fell to cooing like a dove. We finished in an hour.”
Emma smiled before she knew it. “That sounds like her.”
“Aye.” Catriona’s eyes softened. “She makes easy work of hard men.”
Emma let her smile fade as she studied the portrait. Her eyes studied the look on Jack’s face, the sinews of his forearms, and the gleam in his eyes. She felt heat touch the tips of her ears, buttried her best to ignore it. Instead, she shifted Stella higher and turned a little toward the next wall.
“What about her maither?” she asked eventually, the silence daunting. “Was her portrait nae taken?”
Catriona stopped walking. Emma felt it before she saw it. She looked up and found the older woman still as a statue.
She glanced around the gallery. She noticed an empty space on the wall. “Shouldnae there be a portrait of the baby’s maither as well?”
Silence.
For a minute, Emma wondered if Catriona was going to speak at all.
“Did ye hear what I?—”
