At first Clara thought the lady drunk as she poured out one ridiculous tale after another. Then she believed perhaps she was the one drunk, because she must not be hearing the words correctly given how silly the tales were. In the end, she ignored all of the woman’s talk in favor of looking about herself. And as she stared, she became sober, both in drink and in affect. There was need here, and she was saddened to see it.
Eventually they made it to Deirdre’s home. A single dwelling with little more than a dirt floor and a pile of rags in the corner that served as a bed. There were sheep nearby. Five heads, according to Deirdre, that her father tended while she worked at the castle. The main benefit of the property was the stream that ran through the back. It was shallow and muddy, except for a stretch about three feet long where the water ran deep enough for her to wash with the aid of a cloth.
“But I cannot bathe outside—” she began, but Beitidh snapped at her.
“We’ve got no time to fill a fine bath for you,” she said. Then she grabbed hold of Clara’s gown and yanked the front apart. Buttons scattered as she stripped it off her. The woman was a great deal stronger than she looked. Clara ceased fighting. In truth it made her dizzy to struggle. So she closed her eyes and stepped into the bracing water if only to get away from Beitidh.
“Oh my!” She gasped at the temperature, but it helped to clear her head.
Meanwhile, Deirdre collected her gown and what buttons she could find. “I’ll wash it for you as soon as you’re done.”
“You’ll wash it? Where?” She saw no large kettle to hold the water, no way to boil it when it came to that, and no lines to dry what had been cleaned.
“In the stream,” she said, and then she pointed to the far side where a boy’s shirt and pants were draped to dry.
“Whose clothing is that?” Clara asked.
“My brother and sister share it. They’re watching the sheep now.” Deirdre looked around. “No sense dirtying the clothes when they’re out in the fields.”
Clara said nothing. What was she to say when she had several spare dresses, plus underthings, a coat, and well-shod shoes?
“Where’s your mother?” Clara asked.
“Died of sickness several winters back.” Deidre’s voice broke on that. “She were never as strong after the twins were born.”
Pregnancies were hard on a woman, even more so if she carried twins. Likely she hadn’t enough food or rest to recover her strength.
“Right sad it was,” interrupted Lady Beitidh. “I brought Deirdre to help me at the castle given that she’s my cousin. She gets good coin for her service, and I get my family help for their pains.”
Not as much help as she might, given the richness of Beitidh’s dress and the thinness of Deirdre’s entire body. The stark contrast between the two souls was all too obvious.
“Go on, girl,” Lady Beitidh said as she pushed Deirdre back into the house. “Get the costume for Lady Clara.”
Deirdre looked none too pleased with this order, but she complied nonetheless. Meanwhile, Clara climbed out of the stream and dried off as best she could with no towel. Then pulled on her shift and stays. By then, Deirdre had returned with a gown so diaphanous as to have no color at all. In truth, it was the perfect gown for arriving at a masquerade pretending to be a ghost, but it still looked too cherished to wear.
“Where did you get this?” Clara asked.
“It was my mum’s,” Deirdre answered. “She married my father in it, as did her mother with grandpa.”
A wedding gown passed down from mother to daughter, likely worn for every nice occasion in the intervening years. This family didn’t have enough to save gowns.
“I cannot wear something so precious.”
“It’s just for the night,” Lady Beitidh said.
Deirdre nodded, though her eyes were sad. “It won’t last until my day. And it’s too big anyway.”
That was true. Deirdre was not built along the sturdy lines that Clara sported. “I can’t—”
Beitidh didn’t let her continue as she abruptly cast the gown over Clara’s head. She had no choice but to allow it, because any fight would rip the dress into pieces. And when it settled around her, she felt as if she wore nothing but her shift and stays, and yet it fell in pretty waves around her ankles.
“Now remember,” Beitidh continued, “you’re a poor girl come to wed at the castle. A storm kept you late, and you arrive to find them all dead. You expire on the spot from grief, but then your spirit wanders the halls looking, always looking for your laird husband.”
“But—”
“Deidre, fetch some leaves and the like to make a crown on her head.”
“Stop—”
