entirely to my liking, but I mean to enjoy my wedding all the same.”
“Aye, lassie, ’tis a happy day. Ye mun forgive an auld woman.” She hugged Mary Kate again, then said she would see if Sir Adam and the others were ready to depart, adding that she would kindle a wee fire under Mistress Douglas, too. She was gone on the words, returning moments later with Duncan in tow.
He wore no mere plaid but his finest black velvet mantle over an emerald-green-and-black tuft-taffeta doublet and embroidered canions and netherstocks, and he sported a heavy gold chain across his chest in honor of the occasion. He did not wear a sword, however, for not even a Campbell or a MacGregor would dare profane a wedding celebration by starting a fracas. Smiling at his daughter, he took hold of her shoulders and kissed her soundly. Then he stepped back, the better to admire her.
“By my faith, daughter, you’ve the look of your mother all over again,” he said in an unconscious echo of the housekeeper’s words. He spoke with great tenderness and then was silent for a long moment. Recollecting himself with visible effort, he reached into a pocket cunningly concealed among the folds of his mantle and extracted a slim carved box, which he held out to her with uncharacteristic diffidence. “These were hers, lass. I’ve kept them by me for this day of days.”
Taking the box, she opened it with trembling fingers. A long strand of shimmering, perfectly matched pearls lay revealed against a soft black velvet cushion. She drew in a deep breath but could find no words to express her emotion. She could not remember her mother, but gazing down at the pearls, she missed her. A girl’s mother ought to be with her on her wedding day, she thought. That hers was not seemed suddenly most unfair.
Duncan gently took the pearls from her. “Here, lassie, let me put them on ye.”
She held up her hair while he wrapped the string twice round her throat and fastened the gold clasp; then she turned.
“Oh, Father, I cannot…I don’t—oh, thank you!”
He grinned at the disjointed speech. “Nay, lass, calm yourself. She wanted ye tae have them.” He became serious again. “I will miss ye, daughter.”
“I, too.” Blinking back tears, she cast herself into his arms as love for home and everything familiar washed over her, underscored with fear of the unknown life ahead.
“There, there, lassie,” Duncan growled huskily, holding her close. “Ye’ll muss your dress gin ye greet so. It will be well. Ye’ll see.” He paused, holding her away to look anxiously into her eyes. “Ye’re no still fashed wi’ me, lass, are ye?”
She smiled. “No, sir, it will be well.” She owed him that much, and his unmistakable relief touched her. He sighed deeply, clapped her on the shoulder, and called her a good lass.
“Well, this is a touching scene!” exclaimed Margaret from the threshold. She entered, yellow silk skirts arustle over her wide French farthingale, grinning at the pair of them. Then she winked at Morag, who stood forgotten near the bed. “I am certain my own father will send me off into wedded bliss with just such a boisterous farewell.” When, with an audible sniff, Mary Kate dabbed her lacy handkerchief at a tear rolling down her cheek, Margaret cried, “What’s this, then? Have you been crying, Mary Kate? Not that I wouldn’t weep floods of tears if I had to marry Adam, but yours is surely a different case. Wipe your eyes, goose. ’Tis not the end but merely a new beginning. And if the thought of Adam saddens you,” she added impishly, “just remember you are also getting a new sister. Me! There, that is much better. I knew I could make you laugh.”
Indeed, Mary Kate was chuckling. “How ridiculous you are, Margaret. I shall be glad to have you for my sister.”
“And a good thing, since you will be stuck with the kinship. But the parson awaits, not to mention my no doubt impatient brother, so pull on your gloves.” She
“Aye, lassie, ’tis a happy day. Ye mun forgive an auld woman.” She hugged Mary Kate again, then said she would see if Sir Adam and the others were ready to depart, adding that she would kindle a wee fire under Mistress Douglas, too. She was gone on the words, returning moments later with Duncan in tow.
He wore no mere plaid but his finest black velvet mantle over an emerald-green-and-black tuft-taffeta doublet and embroidered canions and netherstocks, and he sported a heavy gold chain across his chest in honor of the occasion. He did not wear a sword, however, for not even a Campbell or a MacGregor would dare profane a wedding celebration by starting a fracas. Smiling at his daughter, he took hold of her shoulders and kissed her soundly. Then he stepped back, the better to admire her.
“By my faith, daughter, you’ve the look of your mother all over again,” he said in an unconscious echo of the housekeeper’s words. He spoke with great tenderness and then was silent for a long moment. Recollecting himself with visible effort, he reached into a pocket cunningly concealed among the folds of his mantle and extracted a slim carved box, which he held out to her with uncharacteristic diffidence. “These were hers, lass. I’ve kept them by me for this day of days.”
Taking the box, she opened it with trembling fingers. A long strand of shimmering, perfectly matched pearls lay revealed against a soft black velvet cushion. She drew in a deep breath but could find no words to express her emotion. She could not remember her mother, but gazing down at the pearls, she missed her. A girl’s mother ought to be with her on her wedding day, she thought. That hers was not seemed suddenly most unfair.
Duncan gently took the pearls from her. “Here, lassie, let me put them on ye.”
She held up her hair while he wrapped the string twice round her throat and fastened the gold clasp; then she turned.
“Oh, Father, I cannot…I don’t—oh, thank you!”
He grinned at the disjointed speech. “Nay, lass, calm yourself. She wanted ye tae have them.” He became serious again. “I will miss ye, daughter.”
“I, too.” Blinking back tears, she cast herself into his arms as love for home and everything familiar washed over her, underscored with fear of the unknown life ahead.
“There, there, lassie,” Duncan growled huskily, holding her close. “Ye’ll muss your dress gin ye greet so. It will be well. Ye’ll see.” He paused, holding her away to look anxiously into her eyes. “Ye’re no still fashed wi’ me, lass, are ye?”
She smiled. “No, sir, it will be well.” She owed him that much, and his unmistakable relief touched her. He sighed deeply, clapped her on the shoulder, and called her a good lass.
“Well, this is a touching scene!” exclaimed Margaret from the threshold. She entered, yellow silk skirts arustle over her wide French farthingale, grinning at the pair of them. Then she winked at Morag, who stood forgotten near the bed. “I am certain my own father will send me off into wedded bliss with just such a boisterous farewell.” When, with an audible sniff, Mary Kate dabbed her lacy handkerchief at a tear rolling down her cheek, Margaret cried, “What’s this, then? Have you been crying, Mary Kate? Not that I wouldn’t weep floods of tears if I had to marry Adam, but yours is surely a different case. Wipe your eyes, goose. ’Tis not the end but merely a new beginning. And if the thought of Adam saddens you,” she added impishly, “just remember you are also getting a new sister. Me! There, that is much better. I knew I could make you laugh.”
Indeed, Mary Kate was chuckling. “How ridiculous you are, Margaret. I shall be glad to have you for my sister.”
“And a good thing, since you will be stuck with the kinship. But the parson awaits, not to mention my no doubt impatient brother, so pull on your gloves.” She
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