TOO MANY QUESTIONS
Mrs. Grainger took command the moment the conspirators re-entered the tiny cottage. Her husband might be the minister but it was evident the house was her demesne. She guided the weary soul to sit on a stool by the hearth where she had left water to warm by the fire.
“Hie to yon bedroom and take off that shift,” she instructed Hannah. “I’ll tend to ye after I’ve seen to my mon.”
Too tired to argue, Hannah shuffled over to the sleeping alcove and perched on the edge of the bed. As her uncle’s ward, she’d had her own chamber in his castle at Kilmer since childhood. Living as a spy among common folk, she’d quickly learned they had no choice but to share confined spaces without regard for the niceties the nobility observed. She wasn’t surprised therefore when Mrs. Grainger quickly stripped off every stitch of her husband’s clothing and began to wash him.
Grainger’s bulging eyes and thin lips indicated he had never been a handsome man. Nakedness revealed he’d shrivelled to a wizened twig, all bone and no flesh. It was a wonder he’d managed to lift the shovel. But his wife tended and fussed over him as if he were a god descended from Olympus. It brought tears to her eyes. They’d been married longer than she’d been alive, yet their abiding love for each other was plain to see. A longing for such a love blossomed in her lonely heart. She closed her eyes and conjured a vision of the English soldier sitting by the humble hearth, enjoying her administrations as she washed his broad shoulders, the water dripping…
“Ready, lass?” Mrs. Grainger boomed, jolting her from her lunacy.
She blinked. Wrapped in a blanket, the minister lay in front of the fire, snoring softly. His wife stood over him, beckoning. “Dinna fash about him. The house could fall down and he wouldna waken.”
Pain arrowed through every part of Hannah’s body when she stood to peel off her clay-caked clothing.
“Drop yon garments here,” the woman commanded, pointing to a spot on the floor near the hearth.
Vaguely wondering what she would wear if the woman burned her clothes, she obeyed and sat on the stool by the fire. The burning peat’s warmth seeped into her body as Mrs. Grainger cleansed her from head to toe with a soft cloth, then achieved a miracle by scrubbing the muck from her finger and toenails.
Half asleep, Hannah drifted into a blurry memory of her mother bathing her as a child, but that was long ago, before her parents drowned in Loch Tay. Mrs. Grainger was obviously a kindly woman with a big heart full of love. Her husband was a lucky man.
“I’m a lucky man,” the English soldier whispered in her imagination as he trailed the wet washcloth over her breasts…
“Ye’re a bonnie lass,” Mrs. Grainger declared, steadying her when she nearly fell off the stool. She shoved a nightrail over her head and pulled her arms through the sleeves. The garment was too small, but Mrs. Grainger briskly escorted her to the bed and tucked her in.
“What about you?” Hannah asked, guilty she was taking a bed away from a woman who must be as desperately tired as she was.
“I’ll just see to yon shift,” came the reply. “And ’tis a bonnie chemise ye hae.”
Hannah tried to explain the costly undergarment but her thoughts became jumbled and sleep claimed her.
~~~
Gradually aware it was fully light, Hannah awoke and rubbed her eyes in disbelief when Mrs. Grainger appeared at her bedside with her shift, shawl and chemise. Gone were all traces of the muck. “Too thin,” her guardian angel announced. “Dried in no time by the fire. Ye’ll need summat warmer come winter.”
She dressed in the alcove, then joined the minister at the small wooden table for a hearty bowl of porridge, though it was well past dawn. She told the couple of her intention to return to Dùn Fhoithear.
“But if ye’re caught,” Mr. Grainger began with a cautious glance at his wife.
Guilt assailed her. Returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, might put their lives in jeopardy too. Yet she knew her mission wasn’t complete. Lady Ogilvy had sacrificed much for King Charles. Hannah was confident her uncle would want her to try to aid the Ogilvys.
After finally receiving the Graingers’ blessing, she set off before noon to retrace her journey.
Her limbs were still stiff and sore from the misadventures on the rocks and the previous night’s interminable walk, but at least the rain puddles provided some cooling relief to her beleaguered feet. The neatly wrapped parcel of food from the minister’s generous wife was easier to carry than the burden of the basket. She shivered at the memory. There was a danger of encountering English troops on the main roads, the principal reason the coastal path to Kinneff had been deemed a safer route. Nevertheless, if she’d been apprehended…
The rain eased to a drizzle and she found shelter in the shade of an oak tree where she munched on the bread and crumbly cheese. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the damp bark.
What if the soldier atop the cliff had challenged her? Would she have dropped her precious burden and fled? She planned to offer her services to help tend the wounded and do what she could to help Lady Ogilvy. Would the soldier recognize her? Had he been curious about what she was doing on the beach? Mayhap it had dawned on him she’d smuggled the Honors away. Even now they might be hunting her. Was she walking into a trap?
Too many questions.
Indecision tied her belly in knots throughout the afternoon’s walk. Nearing Dùn Fhoithear, she became aware of the acrid smell of something burning that shouldn’t be. Heart pounding, lungs bursting, she crested the rise and fell to her knees in the wet grass, wailing her disbelief. A grey pall hung over the fortress. The godless English had set the place alight.