‘Father, this is Saraid MacPherson,’ he began to introduce her.
‘I thought it must be her,’ Father Diarmid said, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Lady Arabella spoke of you and your admirable desire to seek entry into a religious community.’ Diarmid paused then and looked directly at Alan.
Knowing he was not needed or desired here and now, Alan nodded to both of them and took his leave of them.
‘Come, mistress, let us pray first for God’s guidance along the path He has chosen for you.’
She walked with unexpected grace, like that of a lady, to the priest’s side. Diarmid led her towards the altar and, as Alan glanced back from the doorway, helped her to kneel before it.
As he closed the door quietly, he found himself praying words he suspected were the complete opposite of the ones both the priest and Clara’s cousin were offering.
Alan went about his tasks for the day and decided that it might be a good time to make a visit back to Achnacarry. Some distance from the fair widow might ease his growing desire for her and, with Brodie’s concerns over Gilbert’s possible treachery, matters needed his attention away from here. And it was time to re-establish some connections to his own family.
He would speak to Brodie about it later. Mayhap Brodie would come up with some message or other task that would give Alan a good enough reason to be there without suspicion. Alan shook his head over the fact that he, a Cameron, needed a reason other than kinship to return to his home.
* * *
Father Diarmid was much nicer than the priest who served the people of Castle Sween. He did not call down the damning power of God to smite her once during their prayers or discussion. Indeed, he should have considering how much lying she did when explaining her circumstances to the priest...without actually explaininghersituation and history. He was patient and answered her questions and even shared the story of his own time in the monastery learning to be a priest.
Father Laurence had no pity or mercy within him, God-given or otherwise, and Sorcha had feared confessing anything to him. The penance he required were as harsh as he was and did not inspire one to believe in a merciful God. Father Diarmid’s approach made her want to beg his forgiveness for lying to him. As in the example of marriage learned mostly from her parents, this stark difference between priests surprised her as well.
* * *
Sorcha left the chapel some time later with a lighter heart. The priest, having learned that she could both read and write in Latin and the native tongue, invited her to use his prayer book during her visits. Father Diarmid recommended daily prayers, in the chapel if possible, and contemplation of the path she wanted to follow. He even offered to contact her cousin at the convent on Skye to let her know she was coming, but she found a way to decline that kindness...with another lie. If she did not take heed, Sorcha would find herself facing a tall pile of penances if held accountable for every lie or omission she spoke here to these people.
Jamie had not finished his work in the stables, so she left the keep to go back to the village by herself. Although he laughed when she told him she could find her way, he nodded and went back to his task. Walking back around the training yard, she noticed that few watched the men practising there now. No spectators calling out cheers and jabs. No raucous yelling. Just Rob and another man, guiding those practising through their paces. Sorcha nodded when Rob waved at her as she passed on the way to the gates.
The weather had remained fair, so she carried her cloak rather than wearing it. The weight of it was noticeable and Sorcha decided she would remove most of the jewels and coins hidden within it and store them in Jamie’s strongbox when she arrived back at the cottage. Soon though, she ended up at the miller’s cottage next to the stream instead of Clara’s and realised she’d missed a turn or several along the way.
‘Good day, Mistress MacPherson,’ a voice said from within the millhouse. A man stepped into the daylight and nodded to her. ‘Are ye lost once more?’ It was the miller’s son, Dougal, and she nodded with a laugh.
‘Aye,’ she admitted. ‘I cannot seem to follow the same path twice.’
‘Come then,’ he offered, pointing off to the right of the building and across the stream. ‘Let me show you.’ They walked in silence along the stream until they came to a small bridge over the water.
‘I do not remember this bridge,’ she said, stopping before crossing it.
‘You may not because Clara and Jamie’s croft is over the other side of the village from here,’ he explained.
She met his dark-brown eyes and saw merriment in them. He could not be much older than she was, but had the height and strength common to the men here. He wore his hair cut shorter than most, shorter than Alan did. Sorcha looked away for a moment, aghast that she would compare Dougal, or anyone, to Alan.
‘Coming?’ he asked. When she nodded, he led her across the bridge to the third road they crossed. ‘If you follow this straight to its end, you will find Jamie’s smithy.’
‘My thanks, Dougal,’ she said. ‘I will try not to get lost again.’ He laughed at her promise and watched as she walked away from him.
‘To its end, Mistress MacPherson,’ he reminded her. ‘Look for me if you find yourself lost again.’
She smiled once again at his kindness and paid heed to the path before her. How she’d made it halfway across Scotland without getting lost, she did not ken. Somehow she could not go from one end of this village to the other without it happening. When she turned back, Dougal was standing there, watching her make her way. She waved once more and did as he bade her do, walking without making a turn or deviating from the pathway. Soon, he was out of sight as the path curved and ended before Jamie’s smithy.
She walked past the building, knowing Jamie had not yet returned, and found Clara in the cottage, the quiet cottage, mending some clothing while the bairns napped.
‘Come. Sit,’ Clara invited her. ‘You have been gone for a while.’
‘My apologies, Clara.’ She put her cloak over a stool and walked to her cousin’s side. ‘I should have returned sooner.’
Sorcha reached down and took some of the torn garments from the pile. Accepting a needle and a spool of thread, she sat and began working. Sewing and embroidery put her at ease. Embroidery of the kind at which she excelled had no place amongst the villagers, but sewing was always needed.
‘You helping with the bairns was part of our story, but I do appreciate your efforts with them,’ Clara said as Sorcha settled and began working. ‘Did you speak with Father?’
