With the last of her clothes stripped from her shivering body, Jeannie had no alternative but to climb into the tin bathtub. She'd been prepared to scrub the worst of it off with a bucket of cold water, but Mrs. Potts wouldn't hear of it. "Cold water? Nonsense. A bride deserves the best we can give her, isn't that right, Morag?"
So Jeannie luxuriated in a tub of warm water and scrubbed the dirt from her body. The bath water was soon black and the minister's wife ordered a second bath, with hotter water. This time, instead of the strong-smelling soap Jeannie had used the first time, she gave her a small oval cake that smelled of roses.
"It's beautiful," Jeannie said, inhaling the rich scent as she lathered her body for the second time.
"It's French," the older lady admitted. "A terrible indulgence for a minister's wife, but I confess, I cannot resist it. Now, close your eyes and Morag will shampoo your hair with the egg."
It seemed a waste of good food, but Jeannie sat in the deep tin bath with her eyes closed while Mrs. Potts and Morag fussed over her. The hot water was blissful. For the last six years she'd bathed in water that was barely luke-warm: Grandad's kettle only held a small amount of hot water and he didn't approve of wasting fuel to heat water for baths.
She felt herself relaxing as Morag's strong fingers massaged her scalp. It was so long since anyone had seemed to care if she lived or died, let alone felt clean and smelled good. Six years since Mam had died but now, with her eyes closed, she could almost believe Mam was here, helping prepare her for her wedding.
She stood while Morag rinsed her down like a child, wrapped her in a large towel and then rinsed her hair carefully, several times, with water, then vinegar, then with a mixture that also smelled of roses.
"There you go, lassie, sit ye down by the fire now and drink this." Morag pushed a cup of hot, sweet tea into her hand. Jeannie drank it gratefully.
She dried her hair by the fire, using her fingers to untangle it. The pile of muddy clothes lay on the stone floor where she'd discarded them and her heart sank. Not much use in being clean and sweet-smelling when the only clothes she had were muddy cast-offs. The dresses she'd brought to Grandad's six years ago were long outgrown or worn out. The skirt she'd worn today was a patched together creation of what remained of them. But she had no choice. She'd have to dry her clothes by the fire and brush off as much mud as she could.
"Here you are," Mrs. Potts swept into the room with an armful of clothes. "We'll find something pretty for you here."
"But—"
"Hush now, I can see you've lost your own clothes, and I'll not let a bride be wed in those." She flapped disdainful fingers toward the muddy pile. "Now, let's see." She pulled out a couple of dresses, held them up, shook her head and tossed them on a chair. "Ah, this one, I think. Matches your bonny blue eyes." She held up a dress in soft blue fabric, glanced at Morag for confirmation, and nodded. "Now, let's get you dressed."
She handed Jeannie a bundle of underclothes: a chemise and petticoat in fine, soft lawn, edged with lace, finer than anything Jeannie had worn in her life.
"But I canna accept—" Jeannie began, pride warring with longing for the pretty things.
"Pish tush, they're old things I have no more use for. They don't even fit me now, see?" Mrs. Potts patted her rounded shape comfortably. She added in a softer voice, "And it would give me great pleasure, Jeannie McLeay, to know that you go to your wedding dressed as a bride should be, from the skin out. You've a handsome young man there who'll appreciate them later." She winked. "Come now, indulge an old woman."
Blushing and wordless at the unexpected kindness, Jeannie donned the chemise and petticoat. She picked up the stockings and looked up in shock. "These are silk."
Mrs. Potts flapped her fingers at her. "Well of course—silk for a bridal. Besides, what use are silk stockings for an old woman like me? Now, no argument. And try these slippers on." She handed Jeannie a pair of soft brown leather slippers.
They were a bit big for Jeannie, but once Morag had stuffed the toes with wool, they fitted well enough.
"Now for your hair."
Jeannie began to twist it in a rope around her hand.
"No, no, no! Leave it out. 'Tis your glory, child, and as a married woman you'll be covering it up soon enough. In the meantime leave it out to dazzle that man of yours."
Jeannie wasn't sure she had it in her to dazzle anyone—she was no beauty, she knew — but if Mrs. Potts said her hair could dazzle, Jeannie would leave it out.
She had no idea what marriage to Cameron Fraser would be like, but she would do her best to make it work. And kind Mrs. Potts was giving her a head start.
Producing a brush, Mrs. Potts brushed out Jeannie's long hair till it shone, then produced a veil of creamy, precious lace, which she placed carefully over Jeannie's head. "'Twas my own bridal veil, and both my daughters wore it at their weddings, too."
She stood back and smiled. "There, a bonny bride you are indeed, is she not Morag? Right now, I'll just—" She broke off, hesitated, then said, "Child, do you have no kith or kin to stand up with you?"
Jeannie shook her head. "There's only Grandad Leith, and he wouldna come. He doesna like people."
Mrs. Potts and Morag exchanged glances. "Would that be Ewen Leith, the one they call 'the hermit'?"
Jeannie nodded. "My mother's father."
"I never realized he had a young girl living with him. I'm sorry lass, if I'd known you were alone up there in the hills, I would have visited."
Jeannie shrugged awkwardly. "It doesna matter."
