For once in his life, without a single argument.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Three weeks later, Caitlin appeared in Ava’s doorway with her cap slightly crooked and an expression that could only mean one thing.
“I have news,” she announced.
Ava looked up from the list she was making, herbs for the kitchen garden, a project she’d proposed to the head cook and been granted with somewhat startled enthusiasm. “Is it urgent news or gossip news?”
“It’s both.” Caitlin came inside and sat down on the edge of the bed without being invited, which was how Ava knew it was genuinely important to her.
“Margaret from the kitchens says she overheard the Laird telling Elliot that there’s to be a handfastin’.” Caitlin watched Ava’s face with the careful attention of someone who had been waitingto have this particular conversation for some time. “Aspecifichandfastin’. In the near future. Possibly with a feast.”
Ava looked back at her list. “Margaret has excellent hearin’.”
“She does. She says she wasnae even in the corridor, she was in the scullery.” A pause. “Ava.”
“Caitlin.”
“Ye’re gettin’ married.”
“I am.”
Caitlin made a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a gasp, threw herself across the bed, and hugged Ava so tightly the sheet crumpled.
Ava threw back her head and laughed, holding her just as tightly back.
“I’m so happy for ye,” Caitlin said, muffled against Ava’s shoulder. “I kent it. I kent it from the moment I saw the way he looked at ye that first week. I said to Morag, I said, that man is done for, and Morag said I was seein’ things.”
“Ye were seein’ things.”
“I was seein’ the future.” She pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright. “Have ye told Esther yet?”
“Noah told her.” Ava smoothed the crumpled list. “She didnae say anything. She just looked at him very seriously, and then she looked at me, and then she came and sat in me lap.” She paused. “She’s eight. She doesnae entirely understand what a handfastin’ means yet. But she understood the part where I said I was stayin’.”
Caitlin pressed her lips together. “That bairn.”
“Aye,” Ava said quietly. “That bairn.”
There was a small, comfortable silence.
“Right,” Caitlin said, straightening up and pulling from somewhere in her apron a small folded piece of paper. “I’ve been thinkin’ about the dress. I ken ye havenae asked me to, but I’ve been thinkin’ about it anyway.”
Ava took the paper with the resigned affection of someone who has long since accepted that Caitlin’s help was going to arrive whether requested or not.
She unfolded it. There was a surprisingly detailed drawing, considering Caitlin’s usual approach to tasks, of a dress with a fitted bodice and what looked like a plaid sash.
“The MacGregor tartan,” Caitlin said, pointing. “Over the shoulder. It’s traditional for a handfastin’. And the blue of the dress would suit yer colouring.”
Ava looked at the drawing for a moment. At the sash. At the implication of it—the clan colors worn deliberately, a statement of belonging made visible.
She had spent most of her life feeling like she belonged nowhere.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Caitlin beamed. “I’ll speak to the seamstress.”
The kitchen lesson had been Esther’s idea, or close enough to it.
