Porridge, good porridge, was harder to make than it seemed it should be. There were still burned bits on the bottom of the iron pot that she’d used to make it! Just as the children took advantage of a moment’s hesitation or inattention, so did the porridge for it burned, thick and black, when she’d turned away from stirring it.
‘Nay,’ she lied. ‘I have let the disaster of the porridge go now, Clara. On to other tasks!’
‘Worry not,’ Clara said, holding out Robbie to her so she could see to her personal needs. ‘We will find something for you today.’
Sorcha held the bairn close, rubbing his head as he grabbed as much of her hair as he could and shoved it in his ever-open mouth. Until the fire in the hearth was lit, the chill would remain so she lifted one end of the blanket and wrapped it around him. He leaned against her and she closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of him.
This was another thing she would give up by entering the convent.
The blessing of children.
Sorcha would not think on that right now. For the next weeks or month, she would allow Clara to teach her some basic tasks and help her cousin as she could. There was no way to adequately repay all that she’d done already, but Sorcha knew that some of the gold coins would help them.
Clara returned then, hair covered and dressed for the day, and held out her arms for her bairn. But her cousin studied Sorcha as she lifted Robbie away.
‘I have seen this expression in your eyes many times now,’ Clara said. Reaching up, she touched Sorcha’s cheek. ‘You have lost so much in such a short time. And you have faced some impossible choices. Worry not, Sorcha, it will all be for the best.’
‘Sorcha?’ James said, walking into the common room. He rubbed his face and pushed his hair back. He glanced at them, one at a time, then back to Sorcha. ‘Is her name not Saraid?’
Silence met his words and Sorcha wondered if it was time to tell him the truth. Clara had other ideas.
‘Her mother’s name is Sorcha, Jamie. She looks so much like her, may her soul rest in peace, that I called her it by mistake.’
‘Ah,’ he said, kissing Clara as he did each morning. ‘Just as I call the bairns by most any name I can think of when they jump on me.’ His acquiescence seemed too easy a thing given.
As though it was an invitation, Wee Jamie and Clara ran out of their bedchamber and jumped on their father. It would seem to be their morning ritual, for he would stumble around the cottage, with one grabbing each leg, until he fell to the floor and they climbed on top of him.
Such innocent fun. Somehow the tears had gathered without her realising it. Only when Clara used the corner of her apron to dab at them did Sorcha feel them. Clara mouthed some words to James, who nodded and met Sorcha’s stare with a sympathetic expression.
‘I will get water,’ she declared. Clearing her throat and wiping away the tears, she knew she must get out of here before the self-pity overwhelmed her. ‘And, aye, I know the way.’
She grabbed an empty bucket and left, even while trying to ignore the whispering behind her. Why the scene had bothered her, she knew not. She suspected that having seen the warmth that could be between father and bairns, it reminded her of the gaping lack of it in her own upbringing.
Sorcha’s upbringing had been like that of many noble women and based on the value she held. For her father, she was linked to the castle that they held for the MacDonalds. Her mother’s family were castellans and controlled the headlands, or had until her marriage to Hugh MacMillan. Now, an heir was the only way for him to retain control. So, either she had to marry someone strong enough to fight the Lord of the Isles or her father needed to get another heir.
Her mother’s death had given him an opportunity to seek another legitimate heir, the son he did not have yet. Her value as a female was tentative and only based on what it would bring him. Whether or not her father would have affection for a male heir, she knew not. Yet, watching these people, she knew it would never be like this for anyone born to Hugh MacMillan.
Sorcha reached the well and nodded to the others already there. Located in the centre of the village, it was a meeting place during the day. Even now, just past sunrise, there were villagers filling their buckets for their daily tasks. She nodded to the baker’s lad and the cooper and his helpers. A few of Clara’s neighbours stood whispering, as was their custom, sharing the latest bits of news and gossip. She knew from her time here that those bits of gossip would make their way all around the village and back by nightfall, enhanced and changed by each person who shared it.
With the help of a tall, strong young man, she’d just filled the bucket and turned towards the path when she saw James standing there studying her with a dark expression. Sorcha tried to smile but could not. From that gaze, she suspected he knew the truth...her truth.
‘Here,’ he said, approaching with an outstretched hand. ‘Let me take that.’ With his height and strength, his hands were double the size of hers and he took the full bucket as though it weighed nothing more than a bird’s feather. ‘Clara worried over you so I said I would fetch you back.’
‘I did not mean to worry her, James,’ she said, following him down the path. It was not the one she would have chosen if left on her own. ‘I just...I...’
He stopped then and motioned for her to come off the path and into the shadows there. When she saw the fierceness in his expression as he put the bucket down at his feet, she feared his words. James lifted a hand and ran it through his reddish-brown hair, pushing it out of his face. Then, stepping closer, she saw not ferocity but compassion in his forest-coloured gaze.
‘First, my name is Jamie,’ he said. ‘My father was James and so was my granda. So, call me Jamie as everyone does.’
He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to agree. Although familiarity such as this had always been discouraged by her father, it warmed her that her cousin’s husband attempted to put her at ease. Sorcha nodded. ‘Jamie it is, then.’
‘I know who you are.’ He said it in a calm voice but it struck terror into the deepest part of her. ‘Clara and I have no secrets from each other, so I have known since you arrived on my door that there was more to you than you let on.’
‘But she said...’ Clara had promised her. She’d promised not to share her truth.
‘She did not want you to worry,’ he said, shrugging. ‘She did not break any confidence or word given to you.’ He stepped closer and lowered his voice though they seemed alone. ‘I did not press her for the details that would have done that. I trust her and her judgement. She said you are her cousin and you need a refuge while you sort out things. That was and is enough for me to ken.’
His kindness overwhelmed her and the trust he placed in his wife awed her. Sorcha did not know whether to smile or cry or fall to her knees and thank him. So she offered him the only thing she had.
