Oliver giggled and hurried to fetch his mythology book in the foyer.
Benedict walked over to Isla, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close for a brief, fierce squeeze and not caring who saw.
“Ready to go home, Duchess?” he asked, his eyes conveying a wealth of feeling that transcended the simple question.
“Aye,” Isla replied, leaning into his strength, her heart full. “It is time to go home.”
They stepped out into the crisp, late-autumn air, the sunlight bright and thin. Their new coachman, a stout man named AngusBailey who had been with another reputable family for decades, stood holding the door open to the large, comfortable traveling carriage.
“Ready when you are, Your Graces,” Angus said, his breath misting in the cold. “Gonna be a right chilly one!”
Benedict helped Isla up the steps, then followed her into the plush interior of their exquisite coach, recently reupholstered while in London.
Oliver, clutching a small book, scrambled in last, settling eagerly onto the seat opposite them. The door shut with a thud, and with a sharp crack of the whip and a jingle of harness, the carriage lurched forward, beginning its long haul to Ealdwick.
They had been on the road for some time when the movement of the coach made Benedict drowsy. Isla watched him lean against the back cushion, his eyes half-closed.
Oliver, however, was wide awake, his chin propped on the window ledge, watching the landscape fly by until the sun began to sink behind fluffy clouds and the interior of the coach grew dimmer.
“Isla?”
“Aye, Oliver. What is it, laddie?” she replied, turning from the window.
“The story,” he prompted. “Could you please tell it to me now?”
Isla smiled, reaching over to gently take the book from him. “Ah, yes! It is in this small book too, but I can embellish a bit for us because I ken it so well.The Tale of the Farmer and the Stars.”
She caught Benedict’s sleepy eyes opening, a challenge in her gaze as she looked at him. He simply lifted one dark brow, closed his eyes again, and settled deeper into his seat.
“Oh, tell me, Isla!” Oliver pleaded.
“Very well,” she began, her voice dropping into a low, musical cadence perfectly suited for storytelling. “You must understand, Oliver, that deep in the Scottish Highlands, the nights are blacker than any ye have ever seen. No big buildings with lights, no smoke from a hundred chimneys. Just the earth, and the sky. And so, the people who live there, the true Highlanders, look up for true guidance.”
She paused for effect, then continued as she flipped through some pages. “Long ago, there was a farmer named Alistair MacDougal. Alistair was a strong lad, good with his hands, but he was terrible at telling time.”
“How terrible? Was he always late to church like me?”
“Oh, not like that. I think sometimes you dawdle to be late to church! But he could never get the timin’ right. He would plant his barley too early or harvest his oats too late. Every year,his crops failed again and again. Aye, even his neighbors would shake their heads, saying, ‘His head is in the clouds.’”
“Then, one dark winter night, Alistair was sitting by his hearth and feelin’ quite sorry for himself.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Oliver said as he leaned closer to Isla.
“But suddenly, a light filled his small cottage. It wasnae the moon, and it wasnae a candle. It was light, pure and silvery, like frost on a windowpane,” she said as she tapped the glass of the coach, causing Benedict to stir. “And standin’ in the light was a beautiful woman, cloaked in midnight-blue velvet that seemed to hold a thousand tiny, shimmering jewels.”
Oliver was rapt, his knees drawn up to his chest. Even Benedict had shifted his position, now openly watching Isla.
“She was a Starlight Seer, Oliver. A guide, ye see. She told Alistair, ‘Ye look only at the ground, Alistair MacLeod, and so ye miss the timin’ of the world. Look up, instead. For I have woven a celestial calendar just for you.’
“She pointed to the window. When he looked, he saw the sky was alive with brilliant patterns. ‘The Plowman’s Blade will tell ye when to turn the soil,’ she said, pointing to a familiar group of stars.”
“The constellation we call Orion!” Oliver yelled!
“Yes,” Isla said with a small clap as she set the book down. “Very good deduction! Then she said, ‘When the Shepherd’s Crook hangs low, that will be the time for the shearin’ of the sheep.’ And she taught him, season by season, to read his life in the vast, constant clock of the sky. He had to learn the names of the stars, their shapes, and their movements. He had to trust that the patterns above reflected the rhythms of the earth below.”
“Did he get it right?” Oliver asked, his voice hushed. “Was he able to take care of the land with her help?”
“Oh, he did,” Isla affirmed. “The next year, his fields were the finest in all of Scotland. He became the wisest farmer in all the Highlands, sharin’ his knowledge with all the other farmers and writin’ this book.”
