She glanced up at Charles Sinclair watching her. "You must think I'm a little odd, but the thing is I've never seen the properly bound version. Da couldn't afford to have many done, and they all went to be sold. My only copy was bound with a simple cardboard cover." Handmade by Mam.
"Indeed?"
She nodded. "Mam and Da quarreled over this binding. Mam said we couldn't afford leather—poets don't make very much money, you see. But Da not only ignored her, he chose the blue leather, which was the most expensive. Mam was so cross with him—at first."
The elderly man raised a brow. "At first?"
"Yes. Da's explanation to my mother was, 'Of course it had to be blue. Blue to match my beloved's eyes.' Naturally Mam couldn't stay cross with him after that." She gave a misty smile, remembering. "Da was a romantic."
"Of course he was," Charles Sinclair declared. "He was an artist, a poet." There was a short silence, then he added, "You said your only copy was cardboard. Was?"
She nodded. "It was . . . destroyed." Grandad had lost his temper with her one day and had hurled it into the fire.
"Then you must keep this copy."
"Oh, but I couldn't—"
"No, no. I insist. Call it a bride gift."
She swallowed, deeply touched by his unexpected generosity. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. It's very kind of you. I will treasure it always, and not only because of my father."
He gave her an approving little nod. "Against all expectations, my nephew seems to have chosen well. Welcome to the family, my dear. I am delighted to be related by marriage to the daughter of Alexander McLeay. You must call me Uncle Charles."
He gave her a long considering look and added imperiously, "I will paint your portrait. I doubt my nephew will appreciate it—he cares only for such things as roofs and the needs of peasants—but you will admire it, I know, sensitive poet's daughter that you are."
Jeannie thanked him again. She didn't consider herself to be particularly sensitive—she'd had to be quite tough to survive life with Grandad—but she was grateful for the approval and acceptance of this gentle, eccentric old man.
"Thank you for coming to take tea with me, my dear. Come and visit me any time. Now I find myself fatigued." He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and to all appearances went instantly to sleep. His manservant edged forward, silently indicating to Jeannie that the interview was over.
Amused and a little bemused, she rose and tiptoed out, clutching the precious blue book to her bosom. The interview she'd dreaded had resulted in an entirely unexpected outcome. Instead of resentment and enmity she'd been given a warm welcome and a precious memento. Da's book. Imagine that.
Chapter Twelve
Mairie must have mentioned Jeannie's request for a seamstress to Mrs. Findlay, for shortly after she'd left Charles Sinclair's rooms, the housekeeper approached her. "Homespun is not at all suitable for the laird's lady," she said bluntly. "But we might find something we can use in the attic."
Jeannie spent the next hour in the attic with Mairie and Mrs. Findlay, going through the old dresses left by Cameron's mother, searching for suitable fabric to reuse.
Jeannie sat back on her heels, dismayed. "It's all very fine, but . . . " They'd gone through three large trunks and a number of smaller boxes. A wealth of old clothing, almost none of it usable.
The shoes were impossible. Cameron's mother had tiny feet.
They'd found plenty of dresses and other garments, including a fine tartan shawl that Jeannie shook out and draped around herself. It was moth-eaten in one corner, but she could hide that in the folds, she thought.
There were some fine linen petticoats that they decided could be made into underclothes. But none of the other fabrics were suitable for the kind of everyday dresses Jeannie was in need of.
Cameron's mother's gowns were all from another time, made of stiff brocades or heavily embroidered silks, satin, damask, and velvet. Jeannie put aside several to be made into dresses for wearing to church, and for when they might have visitors to entertain, though both Mairie and Mrs. Findlay seemed to think a village seamstress might not be up to working with such fabrics.
The local women were, they reminded her, more used to wool. And very plain styles at that.
"These won't do at all," Mrs. Findlay declared, replacing the old dresses in their yellowed tissue wrapping and shutting the trunk lid firmly. "The laird must take you down to Inverness, or better still, Edinburgh, where the fashionable dressmakers are to be found. His mother, after all, had everything of the best, and from Paris."
Like her brother, Charles, Jeannie thought. But she was no fancy French born aristocrat to be demanding the finest of everything. Cameron had been worried enough about his uncle's spending. Far be it for her to add to those worries.
As for a trip to Inverness or Edinburgh, Jeannie couldn't see that happening any time soon. Cameron was wholly concerned with estate matters. It would be petty of her to demand a shopping trip to Edinburgh, when he was racing against time to ensure his people were snug and secure and well sheltered from the winter cold.
"Homespun will suffice for the time being," Jeannie decided. "And some shoes from the village shoemaker." Anything was better than wearing the same dress day after day, and too-big shoes stuffed with wool.
Mrs. Findlay sniffed, but said nothing.
