“It’s a sad tale, you know, but we all love it, especially since we change the ending at our festival.”
Clara took a deep breath and kept her tone stern. “Lady Beitidh, I cannot wear this dress. It’s immodest.” Besides, it was too precious to Deirdre.
“It’s a masquerade, Lady Clara, and this is what the favored lady always wears.” She arched a brow at her. “You wouldn’t want to embarrass the MacCleal, would you? It’s expected. I was to do it this year, but Liam would have none of it. You’re the ranking guest, he said. It was to be your honor and him to be the groom.”
Clara frowned. “Liam—Lord Loughton wants me to do this?”
“Of course, he does!” the lady snapped, clearly impatient. “You wouldn’t think I’d give this up easily, would you? It’s usually my part!” The outrage in her face was clear, but then she abruptly softened. “It’s tradition, you see. The ghost lady comes in, she spies her groom dead on the floor and collapses from her grief.”
“It’s a play, then? I thought it was a masquerade.”
“Och, it’s both, don’t you see? He’ll come rescue you, tell you it was all a mistake and then take you to bed. Bride and groom, happy as it should’a been. And we all celebrate as if it were a wedding feast!”
Clara wasn’t so sure she wanted this. “If it was to be your part—”
“Stop it! I won’t be disobeying my laird, and neither should you.”
She had run out of objections, especially as Deirdre began to weave leaves and branches into her hair, her fingers deft. Clara tried to stop her, but the girl whispered into her ear.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s supposed to be this way.”
Clara turned. “But this is your dress.”
Deirdre shook her head. “If it gets damaged, I’m sure the laird will repay me.”
“You can be sure of it!” Lady Beitidh declared.
That was enough to convince Clara, especially since she meant to give the girl some coins herself.
Before long, it was time to go back. By that time, Deirdre’s little brother and sister had joined them. The two children stood naked from behind a tree to watch the commotion. They said nothing, and Clara wanted to give them something. A toy, maybe. Food and clothes at a minimum. But she had none of that with her now and pointing them out might embarrass Deirdre. So she said nothing while Lady Beitidh hustled them back to the donkey cart. It would be dark by the time they returned to the castle, but Lady Beitidh assured her that was the plan.
She was to make a grand entrance at the masquerade. Everyone was waiting for it. She couldn’t disappoint them now, could she?
And since the lady kept talking with barely a breath between sentences, Clara agreed to the plan. She sat on the cart bench and studied everything that went past. She’d known that Lord Loughton’s clan was poor, but here indeed was proof that his people were hurting. One bad harvest would be devastating. No wonder he wanted his whisky to become the drink of kings. It would go a long way to filling his coffers, though not quickly enough by the look of things.
By the time they made it back to the castle, the games were all done. She guessed from the noise that the food had been consumed and the dancing was well underway. People were sprawled everywhere on the grounds with a center area filled with merrymakers. Clara didn’t know the folk dance they performed, but there was a great deal of jumping and clapping. She smiled at the sight of some young men trying, with mixed results, to perform an acrobatic leap-kick maneuver.
“But no one else is in costume,” she said as she realized most were still in whatever they’d worn throughout the day.
“You don’t think the regular folks would put money into fancy dress, now did you? But look ahead there. That’s the laird, and he’s wearing his clan tartan, isn’t he?”
Of course, he was, but that wasn’t the same as dressing up as a ghost and wandering through the party. Meanwhile, Lady Beitidh pulled the cart to the side and grabbed a lantern from where it was hanging off a nearby stall and shoved it into her hand.
“Now wave this about and cry, ‘Where’s me husband? Where’s me husband?’”
“But no one else is dressed—”
Deirdre caught her arm and pulled her close enough to whisper. “It’s for the best, mum. You’ll see. Everybody will like it.”
She wanted to argue. She felt extremely uncomfortable, especially since the drink from the afternoon had worn off, but she wasn’t given the chance to object. The moment she descended from the cart, Lady Beitidh started bellowing.
“Look! Look! It’s the MacDhubhthaich bride, come to find her husband.” Then she pushed Clara forward.
“Och, it’s the bride!” bellowed one of the nearby men.
“The MacDhubhthaich bride!” cried another.
“Drink, lass. We’ll find him for ye.”
