servants.
“Yes. My mother brought Mrs. Baird here when she came to Castle Abermaise as a bride,” Lord Murray said. “My mother was a Lowlander. Lowlanders speak a stronger dialect than Highlanders, although you will sometimes hear Highlanders speak Gaelic, which you will not understand at all.
“You may have noticed that Balneaves and Mrs. Baird do not appear to get along,” Lord Murray continued with a smile. “Should you hear them arguing, do not let it trouble you. Their feud is of longstanding, and mostly for show. The Highlanders preyed upon the Lowlanders for generations, and some resentment is still felt.”
“Like in Lady of the Lake” Celeste commented. “The Highlanders in the poem called the Lowlanders ‘Saxons.’ ”
The sparkle reappeared in Celeste’s eyes. With the resilience of youth she had bounced back from her initial disappointment and was covering the whole with romanticism.
Phoebe and Lord Murray exchanged a look that suggested they were in agreement that Celeste had much to learn, and then Phoebe averted her eyes. Such wordless communication shared with Lord Murray was not wise. Under the circumstances encouraging even a silent bond could only lead to pain.
“I think it is time Miss Laurence and Miss Hart-well were shown their rooms,” Lady Melville proclaimed, ringing for a maid. “They will wish to rest before supper.”
Phoebe and Celeste had been given adjoining chambers with a connecting door. Phoebe’s room was tastefully decorated in gold and grey, and Celeste’s in shades of rose. Both had the Chippendale furniture Lord Murray’s mother had evidently admired.
“I am glad the rooms on this floor have been redone,” Celeste confessed to her friend. “The Great Hall is so dreary.”
“Yes, but I liked it,” Phoebe said. “It spoke to me of history.”
“You are welcome to it. I prefer modern times,” Celeste said, and sank onto a graceful bench at the foot of Phoebe’s bed. “I am beginning to feel tired. Perhaps we could have our suppers on trays in here tonight.”
“That is an excellent idea. I shall ask,” Phoebe agreed. It had been a very tiring journey, and now they had arrived, she was beginning to succumb to fatigue. Phoebe felt she could sleep for two days, at least.
* * * *
When Phoebe awoke the next morning she lay a moment in that confused state sometimes caused by waking in a new place. There was an odd noise, too, impinging on her consciousness. The din grew louder and she came fully awake, recognizing the sound as bagpipes and remembering that she was now in Scotland. She glanced at the small ormolu clock—it was early, barely nine of the clock.
A tap sounded at their connecting door, and Celeste came in, clad in a dressing gown.
“Whatever do they mean, making such a noise so early in the morning?” she complained, covering her ears.
“I believe it is bagpipes.”
“Yes, of course, it is bagpipes,” Celeste said impatiently, “but where is it coming from?”
Phoebe was also curious about the source of the early morning music. She pulled on a dressing gown and slid her feet into some slippers, and the two ventured out of the room into the hallway.
“I think it is coming up the stairs,” Phoebe said as they paused a moment outside the door.
Seeing no one about, they made their way to the stairway and peeped over the railing into the Great Hall below. The sight that met their eyes was both diverting and impressive. The piper, Dinsmore, in full Highland dress, was striding back and forth across the hall, playing his pipes. Brightly coloured ribbons tied to his chanters flowed down to trail along the floor, and various of the kinsmen followed in his wake, seemingly entranced by the sound of the pipes. Phoebe watched intently, fascinated by the manner in which Dinsmore manipulated the bag with his arm and coaxed such beautiful music from the instrument. She found the stirring music appealed to something deep inside her.
Celeste,
“Yes. My mother brought Mrs. Baird here when she came to Castle Abermaise as a bride,” Lord Murray said. “My mother was a Lowlander. Lowlanders speak a stronger dialect than Highlanders, although you will sometimes hear Highlanders speak Gaelic, which you will not understand at all.
“You may have noticed that Balneaves and Mrs. Baird do not appear to get along,” Lord Murray continued with a smile. “Should you hear them arguing, do not let it trouble you. Their feud is of longstanding, and mostly for show. The Highlanders preyed upon the Lowlanders for generations, and some resentment is still felt.”
“Like in Lady of the Lake” Celeste commented. “The Highlanders in the poem called the Lowlanders ‘Saxons.’ ”
The sparkle reappeared in Celeste’s eyes. With the resilience of youth she had bounced back from her initial disappointment and was covering the whole with romanticism.
Phoebe and Lord Murray exchanged a look that suggested they were in agreement that Celeste had much to learn, and then Phoebe averted her eyes. Such wordless communication shared with Lord Murray was not wise. Under the circumstances encouraging even a silent bond could only lead to pain.
“I think it is time Miss Laurence and Miss Hart-well were shown their rooms,” Lady Melville proclaimed, ringing for a maid. “They will wish to rest before supper.”
Phoebe and Celeste had been given adjoining chambers with a connecting door. Phoebe’s room was tastefully decorated in gold and grey, and Celeste’s in shades of rose. Both had the Chippendale furniture Lord Murray’s mother had evidently admired.
“I am glad the rooms on this floor have been redone,” Celeste confessed to her friend. “The Great Hall is so dreary.”
“Yes, but I liked it,” Phoebe said. “It spoke to me of history.”
“You are welcome to it. I prefer modern times,” Celeste said, and sank onto a graceful bench at the foot of Phoebe’s bed. “I am beginning to feel tired. Perhaps we could have our suppers on trays in here tonight.”
“That is an excellent idea. I shall ask,” Phoebe agreed. It had been a very tiring journey, and now they had arrived, she was beginning to succumb to fatigue. Phoebe felt she could sleep for two days, at least.
* * * *
When Phoebe awoke the next morning she lay a moment in that confused state sometimes caused by waking in a new place. There was an odd noise, too, impinging on her consciousness. The din grew louder and she came fully awake, recognizing the sound as bagpipes and remembering that she was now in Scotland. She glanced at the small ormolu clock—it was early, barely nine of the clock.
A tap sounded at their connecting door, and Celeste came in, clad in a dressing gown.
“Whatever do they mean, making such a noise so early in the morning?” she complained, covering her ears.
“I believe it is bagpipes.”
“Yes, of course, it is bagpipes,” Celeste said impatiently, “but where is it coming from?”
Phoebe was also curious about the source of the early morning music. She pulled on a dressing gown and slid her feet into some slippers, and the two ventured out of the room into the hallway.
“I think it is coming up the stairs,” Phoebe said as they paused a moment outside the door.
Seeing no one about, they made their way to the stairway and peeped over the railing into the Great Hall below. The sight that met their eyes was both diverting and impressive. The piper, Dinsmore, in full Highland dress, was striding back and forth across the hall, playing his pipes. Brightly coloured ribbons tied to his chanters flowed down to trail along the floor, and various of the kinsmen followed in his wake, seemingly entranced by the sound of the pipes. Phoebe watched intently, fascinated by the manner in which Dinsmore manipulated the bag with his arm and coaxed such beautiful music from the instrument. She found the stirring music appealed to something deep inside her.
Celeste,
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