Chapter Ten
Clara had neverenjoyed herself more than she did that afternoon. After putting her knee to Lord Loughton, men and women alike praised her for her fire. Never in her life had so many people grinned at her while raising their glass or lifted their knee and laughed with good cheer. Women praised her, men saluted her, and everyone tried to press a drink into her hand.
So she drank. It would be impolite not to. And when her head began to get dizzy, she pretended to swallow, then made a big show of licking the liquid from her lips. That always drew gales of laughter and several winks from the men. Sweet heaven, these Scots were a raucous bunch. The English enjoyed their drink, too, but as a gently bred woman, she was kept apart from those people. Here, she was not only allowed to participate, but she was the center of the spectacle, celebrated for kissing a man in public and then nearly crippling him.
It was a heady sensation. She’d never been popular, much less celebrated. And everyone here seemed to love her.
“Mistress!” A girl rushed to her side. “Mistress!”
Clara turned, careful not to wobble as she did so. “Yes?”
“Mistress, this way.” A girl of about fourteen years tugged on her sleeve and tried to lead her out of the crowd.
Clara dug in her heels. She was not a woman to go anywhere with anyone without an explanation. It had nothing to do with the fact that she really needed to stand still at that moment. She did not want to get sick in front of everyone. Fortunately, before she could frame her question, an older woman with a low-cut red gown sauntered forward. She had a warm smile and an easy manner that Clara appreciated, and she spoke slowly enough that Clara could easily understand her despite her thick accent.
“Lady Clara, I’m so pleased to see you. We haven’t been properly introduced, but I’m the MacCleal’s lady. You may call me Lady Beitidh.”
Clara dipped into a curtsey. It sank a little lower than was appropriate, but that’s what came of drinking too much in the afternoon heat. Fortunately, the young woman was beside her to help her recover her feet. “Lovely to meet you, Lady Beitidh,” she said.
“If you would come with us. I understand you have no costume for the masquerade tonight. I have a gown that will serve you.”
“A masquerade?”
“Yes. A gown that is favored throughout Scotland.” She leaned forward as to confide a secret. “You are to be dressed as the Bride of the MacDhubhthaich.”
“The what?”
“Aye, it’s a sad tale of a lass who wanders this very castle in search of her laird.”
“This castle?”
“Aye. Come wi’ me—”
“I cannot change into a fine gown as I am.” Thanks to the heat and spillage from several drinks, she was a mess. “Where is your bath house?”
The lady shook her head. “In a sad state, for sure. But we can help with a bath, isn’t that right, Deirdre?”
The young woman’s eyes widened. “But—”
“Your cottage is near the stream, yes? We can use your ma’s dress and have a right fun presentation. Fetch you a lamp, and you’ll be the bride come in from the storm to find her laird and all her people dead.”
“Tell me more about this ghost lady,” Clara said. She already guessed that it was one of a thousand ghost stories about a tragic female figure, but it was always interesting to learn the details. And if it were tied specifically to this castle, then she would enjoy discovering if there were any truth to the tale.
“I will,” Lady Beitidh promised, “but you have to come now. If we’re to wash and dress you in time.”
Clara agreed, thinking it would be best to get her away from all the people pressing drinks on her. And if she could manage some bread to settle her stomach, all the better. With Beitidh and Deirdre leading the way, they moved quickly through the crowd. Lady Beitidh shooed her onto a donkey cart, commandeered from one of the vendors, and off they rushed as fast as the beast could take them.
Clara perched as steadily as she could manage on the bench while her entire body shook from the sad state of the road. It made her grit her teeth against the nausea. Fortunately, she was able to distract herself by watching her surroundings. She noted the increasingly sad state of the homes around the castle. Many were little more than hovels. Most of the men were at the castle, but she saw women and their young children working or playing as was their wont. They wore threadbare clothing on their thin bodies. And they watched Clara go by with empty expressions.
Clara had seen poverty before. London had desperate people, too. But this was a need that startled her. With all the food and drink at the castle, she had not expected the kind of poverty she saw now. Certainly not this close to the castle.
“Is this how most people live?” If she were less drunk, she would have phrased the question more clearly. As it was, Beitidh laughed in a way that sounded cruel.
“Och, no! Are you thinking that we all sit in our own shite? The village is the other way, and they all be fat and happy there. Big sheep, thick woolens. But this side here is the other part. It’s a hard life for some, and they do what they can with little help out here, right, Deidre?”
Deirdre immediately responded with, “Yes, mum.”
And then a whole slew of ridiculousness followed. Beitidh began telling tales of the goats that gave gallons upon gallons of milk every day. On how the ladies at the castle often bathed in it. And that the trees nearby gave off the most amazing fruits—as big as your head—and then popped out nuts in the evening. But none of that happened on this side, of course. This was the poor side, and a shame it was. She was not to judge Scotland by this side of the castle. And that soon enough, she would visit the streets lined in silver and gold at the village on the other side.
