Catriona nodded. “The fishmonger had fine salmon last week. If the river runs kindly, we will have more. The miller, on the other hand, is short on good barley.”
Emma nodded, listening to the conversation. Back in MacFinn Castle, she was barely asked about the price of things. It was rather surprising, to say the least, that conversations like this could occur here between the ladies of the castle and their maids. She was even more surprised that Catriona, the mother of the Laird, was well aware of who sold what and where.
“There was a tinker at the outer gate,” a younger maid added, her eyes bright. “He had a box of pins and the prettiest tin brooches.”
“Pins are dear,” Catriona commented. “Brooches, too. Make sure that ye choose with care.”
“True,” Olivia added, her voice soft. “The last thing we need is more wardrobe disasters.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Emma smiled and reached for the jug. The talk helped. It kept the morning soft in her mind. The market, and tins, and needs of a castle. No one spoke of Stella, and that felt right. The child had filled the hours enough today. A quiet meal was a mercy.
A footman set trenchers before them. The meat was thin-cut and well-seasoned. Emma thanked him and took a small slice, her hands steady on the knife.
“Ye will come to the village with us tomorrow,” Catriona said.
“If it pleases ye,” Emma murmured.
“It pleases me.” Catriona beamed. “It pleases the women more.”
“We will bring back stories,” Ava piped up. “And I will bring back a brooch that costs less than bread.”
“Ye will bring back the brooch and a story about how it cost less than bread,” Olivia said. “Which will be a lie, and ye will tell it nicely.”
A door at the far end opened, and the conversation died down. Jack entered, clean-shaven and neat, his coat accentuating his broad shoulders. His face gave nothing away, and a dark line stained the cuff of his sleeve high near the wrist. Perhaps it was from riding for what must have been the better half of the morning.
Emma set down her knife and folded her hands under the table.
“Good day to ye, son,” Catriona said, as if nothing had changed. “Sit down with us and eat.”
Jack crossed the hall and took the chair beside Emma, then turned to her. Emma narrowed her eyes at him. Something about him felt different. Something she couldn’t exactly put her finger on.
“We missed ye at breakfast,” she began, her voice low enough for only him to hear.
“Aye. Some things needed me attention.”
Emma shrugged. “Ye are a laird, after all.”
“Aye. Well, ye seem well enough.”
“Aye.” Emma kept her eyes on her trencher. “And ye.”
“Aye,” he uttered.
Emma swallowed and returned to her food.
What in God’s name was that?
Why was the space between them so awkward? Was this still about what had happened last night? She thought they had parted ways on a good note.
The questions she couldn’t help thinking about flooded through her mind.
Her mother and her sister picked up the conversation, and a maid spoke about the price of vinegar for pickling beets. Another wondered if the harper from last winter would return before the ground froze. The chatter grew again, careful at first and then natural.
Just as the dining hall slowly eased into conversation, one of the maids crossed the hall with Stella in her arms. The child had woken from her nap and made her opinion known. The maid bowed her head to Catriona, then made for Emma.
“Shall I take her around the fire, me Lady?” she asked.
