Finished with washing him, she began to dress him in the plain shirt and tartan. When he was clean and dressed, Cat took her place, sitting at his side, and the door was open for those who wished to pay a call—though with the recent accusations against her, she doubted anyone would want to enter the cottage while she was there.
The earl and lady visited first, greeting Munro, who remained outside, and then entering to speak about Gowan with her. They were brief, but their presence honoured his memory. Though she heard many people speak to Munro, only some of the men entered and said a word or two to her.
* * *
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Muireall handed her food and drink, she thought. A few people even spoke directly to her, she thought. Nothing else sank through the wall of grief that surrounded her. Though Muireall saw her to bed before leaving, Cat could not sleep. For the first time since...since... She could not think on that now, but Munro slept elsewhere and only appeared at dawn.
* * *
Men from the earl’s warriors, the keep and the village carried Gowan to the cemetery. The thick fog that morning swirled around them, their steps leaving eddies in the mist. Cat knew the priest prayed for his immortal soul, she knew the earl said some words of praise and knew that Munro tossed the first handful of dirt into the grave on his father.
But her thoughts were as opaque as the fog that morning, so she drifted along, doing what she was told to do until she found herself walking the road back into the village. She had almost reached the path leading to her door, Gowan’s door, when it happened.
An older man, someone who’d fought with Gowan and drank with him, too, spat in the dirt at her feet as he passed her by. Only when another and then another repeated the insult did she realise it was aimed at her. Then the whispered words and curses followed. Loud enough for her to hear, but not so that they could be heard by others walking ahead of her.
But the stone that struck her in the back frightened her into crying out. Standing there, seeing the frank disgust in the gazes of those around her. Those who did not stare, turned away, not willing to intervene or be for her.
As she hurried back to the cottage, Cat understood that they had waited only for Gowan’s burial to treat her the way they thought she deserved. Out of breath, she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it and only one thought filled her mind.
Gowan had returned to Lairig Dubh and he could not save her again.
Chapter Eight
Catriona curled her body up and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. With little between her and the packed dirt floor beneath her, she shivered there, just waiting for dawn to arrive so she could rise without disturbing the others sleeping in the small cottage. As the coldness seeped deeper into her bones and in spite of it, she offered up a prayer of thanks that she, at least, was sleeping inside and not out in the relentless storms that blew through Lairig Dubh as the seasons changed here in the Highlands.
The small pallet in the corner held four small bodies, all lying askew, arms and legs in a jumbled mass, in the way of children. They slept with no regard for yesterday nor the morrows that yet waited for them. If only she had that luxury. From the sound of the echoing snores that filled the chamber, they would be asleep for a while. If only she could fall into the sleep of the innocents.
Turning once more, smoothing the blankets beneath her and tugging the one above back into place, Cat knew she actually should be able to slumber like an innocent. But everyone in the village, and most regrettably Gowan before his death, believed she served the earl’s son as his leman and that woman would never be innocent again.
Munro had left the funeral and did not return to the cottage for three days. Coming back from the keep with Muireall, she’d found him and all of her meagre belongings and clothing in front of his father’s house. Strewn across the path in the dirt, it was everything she called hers and he’d flung it all out of what was now his.
The worst—after tossing a few coins he had called her widow’s portion at her, he’d told her not to return.
Standing mute as the meaning of his words struck her, Catriona searched her thoughts for a plan, a thing to do in reaction, and could find nothing. Munro had every right to do this and she doubted even the earl would force him to do otherwise if she appealed to him. As others began to gather, pointing and whispering at her and the humiliating debacle they witnessed, she gathered up what dignity she had left, picked up her clothing and things and walked away.
The first few minutes of complete confusion and disbelief faded as the reality of it hit her. She was an outcast, not only an outsider, now. With no home, no family, she turned around searching for a place to go. Muireall’s was not a choice, not now that Munro had taken such a public stance on her. So, she hugged everything she had to her chest and dragged herself over to the only place of respite she knew—the church.
Though Father Micheil seemed more accepting and forgiving than the younger priest who’d begun his duties here, she did not expect a welcoming from either of them. Cat just wanted to sit in the quiet of the church and think on what to do. Placing her things on the narrow wooden bench in the back of the small chapel, she sat there and waited for some idea to happen.
Instead it was a some one who happened.
Though she should have known, she would not have expected Muireall to come to her aid in this now. Her husband had made his feelings known and Cat understood his reasons—he did not want his wife in the middle of such a matter as this, which could not end well.
‘You must go,’ she whispered to her friend. ‘You cannot be involved.’ And yet Muireall walked up to her, gathered Cat’s belongings in her arms and nodded with her head at the doorway.
‘Come now, Catriona,’ she whispered back. ‘Hugh’s mother sits with wee Donald and she is not happy about it. Come now.’
Cat began to take back her things, shaking her head. ‘You must not do this. Hugh would not allow you to...help me now.’ Muireall dropped her arms to her side and glared at her then.
‘Hugh was convinced to offer a bit of simple Christian charity,’ her friend whispered with a glimmer inappropriate for a house of God there in her eye. ‘Come. I will tell you the rest when we are home.’
So, she’d followed Muireall and that had been a fortnight ago. Since then, she’d done whatever her friend needed while fending off all sorts of disgusting proposals from various men in the village. And some honourable ones, too. Now, laying on the cold, hard floor and grappling with the facts in her life that would not change, Cat thought she might have to accept one offer or another.
Two men, widower friends of Muireall’s husband and at his urging no doubt, needed wives to manage their motherless children. Another man needed help with his bedridden wife and offered her a place to live in exchange for caring for her. It seemed a fair offer, at least until the leering wink and the pinching grab of her breast as he left told her that much more was expected of her than washing and feeding a sick woman. Her stomach churned now thinking about it. She lay on her back and threw her arm across her forehead with a sigh.
This time there would be no hero to stride in and save her from the dire straits in which she found herself. Not like the last time when Gowan saved her.
This morning continued its sluggish march forward with the storms of last night moving on, leaving the ground wet and the trees dripping reminders of the heavy rains on all who walked the paths and lanes of Lairig Dubh. The wee inhabitants of the cottage woke as slowly as the day had and broke their fast in dozing silence, which suited Cat more than their usual childish enthusiasm. Hugh and Muireall came in from their chamber and sat down to eat the porridge she’d made, kissing each of the small faces as they passed them. Just as everyone settled at the table, a soft knock broke into the silence.
