Tender Feud

“Morag is the old woman who lives in the glen.”

She gave the housekeeper an exasperated look. “That much I gathered. But why will no one talk about her? Is there some secret that I’m not supposed to know?”

“‘Tis no’ a secret,” Flora replied thoughtfully, as she sipped her tea. “Morag is a rare good midwife. But the laird canna bear even to hear her name.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because Morag is the one he holds to blame for Ellen’s death—and his son’s, as well.”

Katrine stared at her. “Morag killed Ellen? But I thought she died in childbirth.”

“Aye, she did.” Flora sighed. “And it wasna Morag’s fault. She couldna save the laird’s bairn, though she tried. The poor wee mite was dead before the birthing. I know, for I was there. I held my poor Ellen’s hand till the last. The fever claimed her.”

Katrine didn’t speak for a long moment. “But the laird holds Morag responsible anyway?” she said then.

“It doesna make sense.” Slowly, sadly, Flora shook her head. “’Tis a woman’s lot to bear a man’s bairns, and the Lord’s decision whether to let them live. But try telling that to a man.”

Both women fell silent. Katrine found herself wondering what had caused Raith to lose his good judgment. From what she had seen in the past few weeks, he was fair and just in his dealings with others—except where the Campbells were concerned. And even then he had valid reasons for his prejudice. But there was no justification for blaming the attending midwife for failing to save his wife and son from an unpreventable tragedy.

“He must have loved Ellen very much,” she whispered, the pain that thought caused resonating in her voice.

But Flora must have recollected to whom she was speaking, for she gave Katrine a quelling look that clearly said whether or not the laird had loved his late wife was none of a Campbell’s business. “Well,” the housekeeper said briskly as she poured them another cup of tea, “he doesna want Meggie to go near Morag, and he’s the laird.”

And the laird must be obeyed, of course. But at least that now made sense, Katrine thought, remembering Raith’s fury when she had taken Meggie to the glen. It hadn’t only been because he didn’t trust a Sassenach Campbell. “Very well, I’ll be sure to keep Meggie away. Thank you for telling me.”

When Flora didn’t reply, Katrine changed the subject. “I thought I might give Meggie a lesson on the harpsichord tomorrow, if you’ve no objections.”

The housekeeper frowned into her cup. “All this drawing and playing. What can ye be thinking of? Ye’ll give the lassie notions above her station.”

“What do you mean, above her station? Is Meggie not the laird’s ward?”

“Aye, but there’s no need to be making her into a fine lady. She’ll no’ go the way of a usual lass of the gentry with marriage and bairns.”

“Marriage? For Meggie? Surely not.” The very thought alarmed Katrine. Ordinarily, a laird would marry his ward to one of his clansmen. But after Meggie’s experience, it would be cruel

to force her to wed. Only a man of great sensitivity could be trusted to care for her, or to take her for his wife, especially since she might never even speak again. Surely Raith would see that.

“No, not marriage for Meggie,” Flora replied sourly. “Isna that what I just said? No,” she expounded, “‘twould be better if Meggie learned the means to earn her bread.”

“I’m teaching her to sew as well to draw. A seamstress is an honorable profession.”

“Aye.” Flora gave Katrine a long look. “But we’ve a saying in the Highlands—raise nae more devils than ye’re able to lay.”

“I’m not raising any devils that I’m aware of.”

“No? And what do ye call what ye’re doing with the lassie, spending so much time with her? I wouldna get too attached to her if I were ye. It canna be good for either of ye.”

“Never fear,” Katrine said with conviction. “I’ll be gone before that happens…I hope.”

But that night when she put Meggie to bed and caught herself feeling the kind of tenderness a mother feels for her children, Katrine realized the wisdom of Flora’s warning. She was growing inordinately attached to the child. Just as she foolishly had allowed herself to become attached to the master of the house. What was more, she was no longer quite so anxious to escape captivity. No longer anxious at all.

Raith returned the following afternoon. Katrine knew it because she was in the stables with Meggie and Hector and the lamb when he rode in. Before she could prevent it, Meggie had gathered the startled animal into her arms and run out into the yard to show her guardian her new pet.

Raith was appropriately admiring; Katrine could hear him eulogizing the lamb in glowing terms, then asking practical questions of Hector, who had followed the child.

Despite her reluctance to face Raith, Katrine was drawn by the sound of his voice. Slowly she brushed the straw from her skirts, then made her way out of the stables, into the sunlight.

He had bent down beside Meggie, and was sitting on his heels, oblivious of his fine clothes, holding the reins of his horse in one hand, his tricorne hat in the other. A tender smile was on his lips as he gently teased his young ward about her pet.