She moved her hands as she spoke, as if weaving the air.
"Then there is Iseabail, the healer. She lost her own man at Culloden and stayed in the hills for three years before findin' her way to our gates. She is the reason half the bairns in the glen are walkin' today. She's fierce, me Lady, but she has a mother's touch for those who suffer in silence."
Margaret listened, her needle pausing. "And the smith? I saw Fergus speakin' with him in the square."
"Ah, that's Hamish." Mrs. O'Halloran smiled, a rare, genuine thing.
"He's a man of few words and a heavy hammer. He lost his forge in the fires and rebuilt it with stone he carried from the riverbed with his own two hands. He doesnae trust easily, but he respects the Laird because Fergus spent a full day helpin' him set the main anvil when nay one else would lend a back to a ‘traitor's' son."
Margaret leaned forward, her interest deepening.
"And Maisie? She seemed more than just a maid with the way she held Lilly."
"Maisie is a wonder," the housekeeper agreed softly. "She's the daughter of a crofter who lost everythin'. She came here lookin' for work to feed her younger brothers, and she's stayed because she has a heart that doesnae ken how to close. She sees the ghost in the Laird, I think. She's the first one who daenae shrink when he barks an order."
The conversation stretched long into the morning, the shadows of the Highland ridges lengthening outside the window.
By mid-morning, Margaret had spoken to the cook about the winter stores. A brisk exchange that ended with the cook offering her a heel of warm bread and a look of cautious approval. She helped Maisie settle Lilly into the nursery, ensuring the light fell exactly where it should. She made the acquaintance of two stablelads, a weaver's wife, and Donal. He sat in the sun near the gate, observing the world with the authority of forty years of watching.
"Ye are the Laird's wife," Donal said. He looked her over without apology.
"I am."
"Took him long enough to fetch ye, lass."
Margaret managed a small, tight smile. "It did."
"He's a good man," Donal said. He issued the verdict with the weight of a judge. "Doesnae ken it yet."
Margaret looked at the old man. She thought of Fergus's broad shoulders and his cold, guarded eyes. "Nay," she said softly. "He doesnae."
She left him in the sun and went to find her husband.
He was working alongside three of his men. His plaid was cast aside in the warmth of the morning. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
He was driving a post into the ground with deliberate economy of motion. He had done this work long before he became a laird, and he had clearly never stopped finding it useful. The frame ofa new grain store was taking shape, the raw timber pale against the dark castle stone.
He had not seen her.
She watched him for a moment, knowing she should not linger. She observed the straightness of his back and how his men worked alongside him without the self-consciousness typical of commoners near a lord. To them, he was simply another pair of hands. They had accepted him.
Doesnae ken he's a good man.
She turned away before he could look up and catch her staring at the sweat on his brow.
* * *
She found him again at midday. He came through the hall to wash his hands at the basin near the kitchen door. Margaret was at the large table with Lilly in her lap. She was coaxing the bairn through a meal of mashed oats that was currently decorating most of Lilly's face and Margaret's sleeve.
"Lilly has opinions about oats," Margaret said. She didn't look up.
Fergus dried his hands on a rough cloth. "Is that normal?"
"The opinions or the oats?"
"Either."
"Both, aye." She wiped the bairn's chin. Lilly grabbed the cloth with a determined shriek. "She'll eat it eventually. She needs to learn the texture."
