She washed her face and hands, and tidied her hair, then grimaced at her reflection, wishing she had another dress to change into.
On that thought, she sent for Mairie. "Is there a seamstress in the village, Mairie?"
Mairie gave her a doubtful look. "Why do you want to know?"
Jeannie gestured at her dress. "I can't go on in the same dress every day, can I?"
Mairie shook her head. "Most of the women in the village make their own dresses, but"—she hurried on before Jeannie could interrupt—"they're simple, hard-wearing garments, m'lady. No' at all all suitable for you. No' for the laird's lady."
"Having one dress to my name is just as unsuitable," Jeannie said briskly. "So I have no choice. Ask around for me, will you, Mairie, and see if you can find someone willing and capable."
"Aye m'lady." She didn't look at all happy.
Jeannie's next hurdle was tea with Cameron's uncle, the man he'd ousted by marrying her.
She wasn't looking forward to it.
Chapter Eleven
Cameron sat back on the roof beam and looked about him with some satisfaction. His work here was done; the rest was up to the thatchers. Two houses over, another roof was being repaired, and the village was busy with purposeful activity. His marriage, and his consequent ability to take control as the laird, had given the place new life. New hope.
He sent a lad to fetch his horse. Next he would ride out to the site of the ruined bridge and see how his cousins were getting on.
He'd sent them out first thing in the morning, with orders to clear away the wreckage and sort it into wood that could still be used, and firewood. He had long ago compiled a list of the necessary supplies, and had sent them off by sea the first night of his marriage, while he was waiting for her to be ready for him.
How was his bride getting on? If the repairs needed hadn't been so urgent, he might have stayed and broken his fast with her, discussed possibilities for the day, and eased her more gently into her new life.
But the state of some of the ruined roofs and the wrecked bridge—and the imminence of winter—were the very reasons he'd married her in the first place.
He hoped she was managing. He'd begin his courtship this very evening, and take her for a walk by the sea. And talk, though about what he had no idea.
"You're off then, Laird?" Bridget said as he stepped off the ladder.
"Aye, out to the ruined bridge." A brisk breeze had sprung up, though there was, luckily, no sign of rain.
"Once we move back into the cottage I'll be able to get back to my weaving. There's scant room for it in my father-in-law's."
"Weaving?" Cameron echoed vaguely. He'd been thinking about the bridge. There was no time to build a stone bridge, not before winter, but next summer he promised himself he'd make a start on it. In the meantime, a wooden bridge would allow a resumption of contact with the outside world.
"Aye, Laird, and these days it's no' simply a pastime. The money I earn makes a real difference."
With an effort, Cameron recalled she'd been talking about her weaving. "You sell it?"
Bridget nodded. "There's a shop down in Edinburgh that buys my pieces—mine and some of the other women's. It seems city folk have lost the art of weaving. The man in Edinburgh sends us the money when each piece is sold. It's no' a lot, but it makes a difference, especially with three growing bairns."
"That's grand," he murmured. He was anxious to get on out to the bridge.
"Would you like to see some of my work, Laird? It's but a short step to my father-in-law's house." She was clearly proud of her weaving, and Cameron hesitated but a moment before he nodded. As laird, it behooved him to show an interest.
"I use the finest lambswool I can get," Bridget explained as they walked. "And sometimes, if I get a rabbit or two, I spin in some of the fur. It's very soft and adds a lovely texture. And of course, I spin and dye and weave it all myself."
She laid several of her shawls out on the table at her father-in-law's cottage. The old man sat by, smoking his pipe, watching with a dour expression. The two older children had been playing knucklebones in the corner, while the baby gnawed on a crust. They'd all fallen silent when Cameron entered.
Cameron had never taken much notice of what women wore—not shawls, anyway—but he could see why the shop in Edinburgh bought Bridget's weavings. They were so soft and fine, not like homespun at all, and the colors glowed like jewels against the drab setting of the cottage.
His fingers hovered over a soft shawl in a deep, rich blue with a hint of lavender. "How much would you sell this for?"
"To the man in Edinburgh?" He nodded, and she named a price he thought shockingly small.
