And her days here in Ardnacross had transformed.
Eithne had managed to get her some work. Now that Diarmaid’s blanket was done, she had a few more to weave for other villagers.
Fiona had never been so content with her life.
She rose early each morning to help Ewan and Eithne in the kitchen and often went out to collect supplies for them on market day. Then she would arrive at Diarmaid’s bothy as early as she could manage, greet Broc the goat as she strode up the path, throw open the doors to her shed, light a lantern or two if the day was dark, and begin work.
And when she was at her loom, the time always flew.
A smile curved her lips—before a clearing throat drew her attention.
Turning, she saw Diarmaid standing in the wide-open doorway, his gaze fixed on the loom. “Oh!” she said, waving her hands in exasperation. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It’s bonnie, indeed,” he said, his voice unusually gravelly. “Is that for me?”
“Aye,” she said with a smile. “It’s my way of thanking ye for yer generosity.”
His gaze shadowed, and he swallowed.
She hadn’t expected her words to move him so much, but clearly they had. “Couldn’t resist a peek, could ye?” she teased.
He scratched his jaw. “Actually, that wasn’t my purpose in seeking ye out this morning.”
He jerked his chin toward the other end of the garden. “The miller is here. I believe he wants to commission some work from ye.”
Fiona grinned and leaped to her feet. More work would be a boon indeed.
Following him down the path into the overgrown garden, she spied a heavyset man with close-cropped red hair waiting.
Nervousness fluttered in her belly.
She’d thought about approaching the miller, yet had heard from Eithne that Beth wove all the sacking for the watermill just north of the village. She hadn’t wanted to offend the woman and so had left well enough alone.
But now, here was the miller.
He’d come to her.
“Good morning,” she greeted him with a smile.
“Good morn, lass,” he said, his tone a trifle impatient. Clearly not a man who liked to be kept waiting. “I’ve got a job for ye. It’s been a fine summer, and we’ll have more oats and barley than we know what to do with. Our grain stores are full, and I’ll need as many linen sacks as ye can manage.”
Fiona nodded, her mind already working. Linen sacks were straightforward to weave.
“I’ll need to order in some bolts of spun thread,” she told him. “But once I’ve got my loom warped, I’m fast. I can have at least twenty-five for ye within the next month.”
His eyes widened. “Well. Ye’ll be able to start sooner than ye think. I’ve got the bolts of spun linen ready to go.” He paused. “And of course, ye’ll give me a good price?”
“I will,” she assured him. “A copper for two sacks?”
He hesitated, doing his own sums. “Aye, lass. That’ll work for me.”
He stepped back. “I’ll see those bolts delivered tomorrow.”
And with that, he left.
Only when he was gone did Fiona turn to Diarmaid, a grin stretching across her face. “Did ye hear that?”
“I did, lass. Every word.”
