1
Andrew cleared his throat, steady as ever, and said, “Gracie, lass, yer maither and I have made a marriage arrangement for ye.”
Gracie stood near the hearth,twenty-two now, her childhood softness shaped into a gentle grace, though her heart remained tender and her figure still plump and round.
Andrew and Margaret faced her,their expressions careful, weighted with purpose.
Her breath caught,and she stared at him, eyes wide as the girl she once was.
“Ye have,”she said, voice thin with shock, “when did this come to pass, and to who?”
Margaret stepped forward,hands folded, and answered softly, “The weddin’ shall be held in two months’ time.” She reached to the table and lifted a small framed portrait, offering it to her daughter.
“This is Edmund Doyle,”Margaret said, placing it in Gracie’s hands.
Gracie studied the painted face,noting the neat hair, the mild eyes, the proper bearing of a man shaped by order. He was not handsome to her, nor did her heart stir at his likeness. Yet a quiet relief washed through her, for she was simply glad to be marrying, glad not to stand forever waiting.
She raisedher gaze and asked, “Who is he, truly?”
Andrew answered,“Edmund is the younger brother of Laird McMillan.” He folded his hands behind his back and continued, “We sought a family of wealth and standin’, yet one that would spare ye the burdens borne by a laird’s wife. Ye shall have comfort without command, peace without the weight of a clan,” he finished.
Gracie nodded slowly,turning the portrait once more in her fingers. She remembered the ceilidh, the laughter, the cruel words, and her mother’s vow that she was cherished. Marriage had always seemed a distant shore, hazy and unreal, yet now it stood before her with a name and a face. She felt no thrill, but neither did she feel dread.
“Will he be kind?”she asked at last, her voice soft.
Margaret stepped closer and said,“All reports say he is a gentle man, thoughtful and fair. We would never bind ye to cruelty,” she added, touching Gracie’s arm.
Andrew nodded and said,“Yer happiness is our chief concern, lass.”
Gracie drew a slow breath,the room steadying around her. She had always trusted her parents, and that trust had never failed her. A part of her longed for the certainty of belonging that marriage promised. If love did not bloom at once, she hoped it might grow in time, like ivy upon stone.
She placedthe portrait upon the table and folded her hands before her. “If ye believe this is right, then I shall do me best,” she said.
Margaret smiled,eyes bright, and Andrew’s shoulders eased. The fire popped, as though in quiet approval.
In that moment,Gracie felt herself step across an unseen threshold. She was no longer only the child of Castle McDougal, sheltered and safe. She was a woman bound for another life, another hearth. Though her heart did not leap, it steadied, ready to walk forward.
“Thank ye,Maither, Faither, for thinking so carefully of me.” She drew a steady breath and added, “It’s a shock to hear, yet I’m excited to begin a new life and get to ken me husband.”
Margaret smiledwith shining eyes and replied, “Then we must be off to the seamstress at once to see about weddin’ clothes.”
Gracie kissedher father's cheek, whispering, “I’ll make ye proud.”
She leftthe hall with her mother, the corridor echoing softly beneath their steps.
They tooka carriage into the village. Roofs gleamed with dew and smoke curling from chimneys. Gracie felt both light and heavy, as though joy and fear walked hand in hand. Margaret kept her arm linked through hers, guiding her forward with quiet certainty.
The seamstress’sshop stood near the square, a narrow stone building with bright ribbons in its window. Bolts of cloth were stacked within like rainbows, and the air smelled of linen and lavender. Sunlight fell across a wide table scattered with pins and spools of thread. The hum of careful work filled the room.
Margaret said warmly,“Me daughter is to be wed, and I’d have ye make her the finest weddin’ clothes in the glen.”
The seamstress beamed and replied,“Blessings upon her, then, and upon yer house, Lady McDougal.”
She curtsiedto Gracie and added, “It will be me honor to dress a bride.”
Gracie smiled shyly,her cheeks warm with hope.
Margaret drifted toward the shelves,lifting cloth and murmuring over silk and wool. The seamstress guided Gracie to the measuring stool, looping a piece or rope about her waist and shoulders. Her hands were skilled, swift, and impersonal, yet Gracie felt each touch keenly. She stood still, breathing shallowly, thinking of Edmund’s painted face.
