When Bridget told him his frown deepened. "I don't believe it." He turned to Jeannie and added in a voice quite audible to the women, "I know that establishment. It's elegant and exclusive and would never stock village crafts."
His comment caused a ripple of muttering among the women.
"Perhaps you're a little out of touch, Uncle Charles," Jeannie said diplomatically. "Fashions change, as you know"—she avoided glancing at his attire, which had been fashionable last century—"and Cameron told me these ladies are among the finest weavers in Scotland."
She turned to the women with a smile. "Why not show Mr. Sinclair and me some of the beautiful pieces that Edinburgh ladies flock to buy?"
Suddenly the women were eager to show off their wares. All in a spirit of defiance. Uncle Charles's skepticism and snobbery had fired them up.
Out they tumbled from baskets and bags; shawls, scarves, blankets, cushions, hangings, all in gorgeous jewel colors, some with simple, elegant designs, some a bold riot of intricate patterns. They took Jeannie's breath away.
Uncle Charles stiffened, then, unable to help himself he came forward and examined some of the pieces, fingering the fine weave, turning them over to examine the back, draping the fabric this way and that. His interest visibly grew; he couldn't hide it.
He separated out half a dozen weavings. "These might be acceptable for the hall," he told Jeannie.
"Acceptable? I'll have you know—"one of the women began.
"I think these are destined for Edinburgh, Uncle Charles," Jeannie interjected hastily. "We'll discuss the hangings later, if any of these ladies are interested."
The women folded up their pieces, packed them back into baskets and bundles, and returned to their seats. Jeannie served a fresh round of tea. When they'd finished, she said, "So, would any of you be willing to work with Mr. Sinclair and me to bring some warmth and color to these cold stone walls. At a price to be agreed, of course."
The women exchanged glances. There was a long silence.
Uncle Charles was the sticking point, Jeannie knew, but she was determined to give him a project to work on, and to coax him out of his isolation. And to give the village women a chance to earn money. And to make her home a warmer, more welcoming place.
She waited.
Finally Bridget spoke. "With his own hands the laird worked to give me back my home again. I'll not deny his bride her wish. I'll make two hangings for you, my lady—one to whatever pattern Mr. Sinclair there comes up with. The second will be a piece to my own design. I will accept payment for the first, but the second will be my gift to the laird's bride."
A lump rose in Jeannie's throat. "Thank you, Mrs. Fraser," she managed. "I am most grateful for your generosity."
Bridget Fraser smiled back at her. "I remember what it was like to be a new bride, wanting to make a house into a home," she said softly. The sentiment, coming from a black clad, still-grieving widow, seemed to prompt the others.
Another woman spoke up gruffly. "Aye, I'll do the same — one of my ain pieces as a gift, and another to Mr. Sinclair's design. For cash."
One by one each of the others joined in, offering one weaving, unique and personal, for a bride gift, and a second to be made in conjunction with Uncle Charles, for cash.
By the end, Jeannie's eyes were blurry with tears. The castle was going to be drowning in woven hangings, and it would be all the warmer and more beautiful for it.
For Jeannie, it was already a warmer and more beautiful place. After so many lonely years with only Grandad, Rab the dog, and the sheep to talk to, these women had just offered her acceptance. And the beginning of friendship.
Chapter Seventeen
The sky was leaden, and bruised-looking clouds were building as Cameron arrived home. It would rain soon. So much for his planned evening walk with his bride.
The expectant looks of his servants when he stepped inside each day had prompted Cameron to notice the changes in his home, the rearranged furniture, the well beaten rugs. And if he didn't notice, someone always managed to tell him, discreetly, so he could comment. He appreciated it. His wife had been working hard, he knew.
But though the place seemed fresher and brighter, that wasn't what drew him. Knowing Jeannie was here, waiting for him at the end of each day, it gave him a feeling in his heart, made him feel more welcome, somehow, as if the castle was more of a home, even though he'd lived here all his life.
"My wife?" he asked a servant as he handed over his coat.
"Up away yonder." The man indicated the direction with his chin.
Cameron took the stairs two at a time. He was glad now he'd stopped to gather a bunch of heather. He'd felt a bit silly riding home with the flowers clutched in his hand. His cousins Jimmy and Donald had split their sides laughing when they'd seen him.
They'd learn. A man changed when he took a wife.
He opened the door to their bedchamber quietly, hoping to surprise her, but it was Cameron who got the surprise.
