Page 51 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

“Flannel?” Ellen began, “Water? A hearthstone?”

The creases between the cook’s brows deepened. “Are the floors not clean enough for ye, milady?” she asked in a harried sort of way.

Ellen shook her head. “I want to help.”

“Don’t see as we need your help, begging your pardon, milady,” the cook said, though there was a grudging respect in her voice. “But if you’re bent on it, the child can show ye. My hands are full enough as it is. Do us a favor and take her with ye. If she gives you any lip, take a firm hand or a suitable stick to her backside.” To her granddaughter she called, “Go with milady and mind yourself. Maybe you’ll even learn something.”

The moment Mrs. Kynoch disappeared back into the kitchen, Dorrie popped out from behind Ellen, grinning broadly, took her hand, and led her to the larder.

The little girl put Ellen to shame, pumping water into a bucket almost as big as she was, and then hoisting it up to carry inside. Knowing she’d probably struggle more than the child, Ellen took it from her, and if half of it sloshed out, then she’d try to do better when she went back for more. In the end, she only spilled a little, and Dorrie promptly produced a rag to dry it.

Safely back in the chapel, Ellen got to work while the little girl climbed all over the pews like a rambunctious kitten. She wet the stone floor with her scrap of flannel and then scrubbed it clean with the hearthstone until it shone.

Her knees hurt badly and her back ached, but she breathed in the pain, and exhaled it back out again. Same as the sting of the nettles, she offered it up as penance for all her daily transgressions—assuming incorrectly who could and couldn’t read and shaming them for it, worrying old Gawyn over the silly horse, and most of all, the lustful yearning for Silas which plagued her thoughts night and day. Somehow, that lust kept a constant heat thrumming between her legs, whether she was thinking about him or not, which only made her think of him all the more.

Ellen scrubbed until sweat dripped down her back and between her breasts, making her rashy skin burn afresh, the shift clinging tightly to her form and pressing the prickly nettles deeper. She scrubbed until her knuckles cracked and bled, and little Dorrie, crying out upon seeing it, took the hearthstone from Ellen’s cramped, trembling fingers to finish the last corner by herself.

When it was finally done, Ellen noticed that one of the pew racks held an old Bible, and she took it out to study. Inside, in careful ink, someone had written the history of the MacKenzie line, ending with Silas Michael Wolfrick Alisdair MacKenzie born February 19, 1699, son of Alex and Iona Campbell Munro MacKenzie, died February 20, 1699.

A prickle of familiarity tugged at Ellen’s memory, but she couldn’t say why, and it was soon replaced by a rush of warmth and sadness for Si. Just like her cousin Jory, it seemed, her husband had never known his mother.

He is a man raised by men, the mysterious Mac had told her, and now those words held new meaning, as did his sadness over the state of the chapel, the room which he’d been told was his mother’s favorite.

Dorrie snuggled up next to her, tracing the writing with her index finger before sticking it in her mouth.

“Can you read?” Ellen asked one last time for the day.

The child giggled and shook her head.

“Then it’s time you learned,” Ellen whispered, resolving that when Greer arrived, the chapel would have two pupils learning their letters.

She should try to acquire a chalkboard. Perhaps there was one around Leod somewhere that Bram and Si might have used.

“Got everything,” Bram grunted, tracking mud onto the clean floor and heaving a crate onto the front pew. “Quicklime, embroidery thread, all the feathers I could get for now, and twenty-one yards of linen.”

Ellen’s eyes widened in shock before she had a chance to school her face, and Bram’s beaming confidence flattened.

“It was just about all they had. Did I get it wrong?”

“You got it just right.”

Bram eyed her skeptically, then cast his gaze at the floor where he noticed the bucket and his muddy boots, and his frown deepened.

“It’s fine, Bram. Thank you,” Ellen whispered, jumping up to squeeze his shoulder so he wouldn’t be too worried about the floor, though what she’d do with an extra nine yards of linen, she had no idea. Still, it wouldn’t go to waste. “Well done.”

“What did ye want it for? All that linen?”

“New cushions,” she said brightly.

“Seems like a lot.”

“It’s the perfect amount.”

He didn’t believe her, but for a moment he seemed to accept the contract that they would both pretend.

“I can help with the whitewash if ye like.”

“Grand,” she whispered.