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Her heart pounded harder. Panic made her jittery.
Cousin Mary approached to offer her the swath of green-and-blue tartan used in the wedding. “Ye’re fashin’ for naught, lassie. The match was made years past. ’Twas fated.”
Euphemia clutched the soft wool and winced. “Fated? Don’t be silly. He never wanted this.”
“Wouldnae be too certain of that.”
“I’m not his sort at all.”
“How can that be? Ye’re a fine lass.” Mary’s good eye squinted as she focused upon Euphemia’s white-blonde paleness and ludicrous dishevelment. “Nae lashes to speak of, and yer bosom’s a bit wee. But wait ’til ye have a bairn or two. Ye’ll plump right up.”
Fighting the urge to grumble that there would never be bairns, and her bosom wasn’t the subject for open discussion, Euphemia knuckled her spectacles back into place. “He prefers women with black hair. Beautiful, ethereal sorts.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Mary shrugged. “Mayhap a man in his youth is enchanted by dark skies and starlight. And mayhap when the moon first rises, he only kens her differences, nae her worth. But given time, those stars lose their shine by comparison. And soon, he’s wonderin’ how he ever managed without his moon to light his way.”
Euphemia frowned at the stream of pure rubbish. Her cousin claimed to have the “sight”, a gift passed down through generations on her mother’s side. But mistaking the innkeeper for the goldsmith and the blacksmith’s apprentice for his son hardly inspired confidence.
“Mary.”
An uneven blink and a daft smile. “Aye, lass?”
She opened her mouth to explain that forcing a man to wed a woman who was precisely the opposite of what he wanted would end poorly for everyone—especially her. But she didn’t have the energy for futile arguments. “I think you’re confused.”
“Am I?” The old woman scratched her head. “Wouldnae be the first time.”
Near the hearth, Mrs. MacGillivray brandished her dirk at Mr. Farrington. “I’ll give it to Euphemia, lad. Nobody else.”
Euphemia approached the pair. “I shall take the swan chest, now, Mrs. MacGillivray. With thanks.”
The old woman sheathed her dirk. “Aye, then.” She lifted the small wooden chest and placed it into Euphemia’s arms. “’Tis now yers, Euphemia of Clan Sinclair. May ye add to the treasures herein.”
Euphemia’s arms, weakened by cold and lack of sleep, began to quake. Mr. Farrington plucked the chest from her, tucked it beneath one arm and her beneath the other, then murmured something about needing to find shelter for the night.
Distantly, she heard her two cousins mention another cottage near the sea. Mrs. MacGillivray had been tasked with caring for the place through winter and offered to let them stay there until the blizzard passed. “For a wee, middlin’ fee, of course.”
Her thoughts receded and swam in circles. Mr. Farrington reached inside the coat she was wearing again to toss a coin to the sisters. He collected the key and a basket of food. Then, he guided Euphemia out into the snow. Flakes landed willy-nilly on her face. Wind blasted through woolen folds.
The post-chaise she’d hired for herself and Mr. Gibbs sat a few yards away. Mr. Farrington stowed the basket and chest inside. While she waited to climb inside, the innkeeper and the Ross boy caught her eye. They were readying their horses, standing side by side, their motions mirroring one another. Both walked with their arms slightly bowed. Both had the same lanky build. And from this angle, through the snow, she would have sworn she was looking at a father and son.
She blinked. Glanced over her shoulder. There, in the doorway of the cottage stood Mrs. MacBean. Who slowly smiled, nodded, and gave her a wink.
