“I trust yer journey from Craignure was pleasant?” another woman asked. She was of a similar age to Lady Kylie, her vivid red hair streaked with fine strands of silver at the temples. A beauty indeed. “My husband didn’t talk yer ear off?”
This must be Jack Maclean’s wife.
The two bonnie lasses perched on the window seat, embroidery in hand, had the same vivid red hair. Daughters, most likely. Such looks made it impossible to doubt their parentage.
“It was a fine journey, thank ye,” Fiona said, flashing a nervous smile. She realized then that she was sweating.
All four women were scrutinizing her. Though none of their expressions were unfriendly, she felt like a fat piglet at market; she was being sized up. Curse it. She should have tidied up her hair before entering the solar, should have brushed the dust off her skirts and hitched up the neckline of her kirtle. Her paps had a way of entering a room before she did.
Goose,she chided herself.It doesn’t matter what ye look like … it’s yer work that matters.
And it was. Her curves and wayward blonde curls often made people underestimate her, as if she were all bosom and no brains. But she’d prove them wrong. She always did.
“It’s an honor, Lady Kylie.” Facing her patron squarely, she gave a clumsy curtsy as her cheeks burned. “Thank ye for putting yer trust in me.”
Lady Kylie’s smile widened. “I can’t wait to see yer work … and the Battle of Dounarwyse brought to life on a tapestry.”
Fiona smiled back. “And I look forward to getting started.”
She glanced at the tapestry lining the wall.Her eyes roamed over it, taking in the crisp white of the snow, the shimmer of candlelight, and the dancers caught mid-revel. The stitches were flawless, each one pulling the scene to life. She could feel the skill behind it—precision, patience, and an artist’s eye for movement and joy. “This is fine work. Did ye weave it?”
“No,” Lady Kylie replied wistfully. “The laird’s first wife, Donalda, was talented in such things. In my family, only myyoungest sister, Makenna, was blessed with that ability. I weave clumsily.”
“That makes two of us,” the red-haired woman added.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” Lady Kylie said. “This is my sister-by-marriage, Tara, and her daughters, Grace and Arabella.”
All three smiled, warmth in their eyes.
“I enjoy weaving and would like to improve my skill,” Arabella said, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “I’ve never worked upon a treadle loom.”
“Of course,” Fiona replied, even as anxiety tightened her chest. She had to learn how to work on a new loom as well before she could give lessons. “Yer assistance would be welcome indeed.” She glanced at Tara, who nodded approvingly.
“Right then,” Lady Kylie said, moving toward the door. “Now that introductions are done, I’d like to show ye to yer workroom. Not far to go … it’s next door.”
She led the way, Fiona following with the others behind.
The chamber was square and slightly smaller than the solar, but brighter. Sunlight streamed through the south-facing window and spilled across the loom waiting in the center of the room.
Fiona halted on the threshold, her breath catching as her gaze settled upon the large wooden frame. Its beams were smooth and pale with fresh sanding. Warp threads were already stretched tight from beam to beam, gleaming faintly in the light. Beneath the frame hung two treadles, and above them, the heddles and shafts rested in quiet readiness, as if the loom itself were sleeping and only waiting for her to wake it.
Her heart began to pound, anticipation mingling with nerves. She itched to get started.
A hearth sat at one end of the chamber, unlit in the warmth of the day, though its heat would soften fibers and tame stubbornthreads when winter came. Lanterns and tallow candles stood ready for darker hours. Baskets of dyed wool lined the wall beside the loom, rich colors glowing—deep indigo, madder red, and moss green. Spindles and bobbins lay neatly sorted.
Two wooden chairs sat near the window for resting between long stretches of work. A low stool and sturdy table waited for drawing patterns, measuring rods, and parchment marked with designs. It was a space built entirely for craft. For patience and creation.
“I hope everything is to yer liking?” Lady Kylie said.
Fiona realized she was gripping her skirts. Relaxing her fingers, she flashed her employer a smile. “It’s … perfect.”
And it was. More than perfect. It was overwhelming.
She stepped closer to the loom, fingers hovering before she dared touch it. The wood felt warm beneath her palm. Solid and steady. This was no small upright frame she could lift and carry. This was a loom meant for great works. For tapestries that would outlive her.
A tremor of excitement shot through her, chased by a ripple of apprehension. Could she truly master something like this? The treadles alone promised a rhythm she had never learned. It would demand more of her—more skill, patience, and discipline.
Good.She wanted the challenge.
