Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

L aura crept downstairs, her mind busy with the miraculous event she had just witnessed. Her life had always been so mundane before—an endless cycle of etiquette, obedience, and chores—which made what was happening now so fascinating.

Back at home, Nurse Mildred would always wake her at dawn for matins. They would join the servants and villagers at the chapel, where the local girls would whisper behind their hands about Laura's dress robe or the color of the ribbons in her hair. Then back to the manor house, Nurse Mildred and Laura would trek, ready to spend the rest of the morning making lace or embroidering another altar cloth for the priest.

Her nurse would listen out for the bells, ordering Laura down to the kitchen when she heard the tenth bell after midnight. "Your dear Father must have his mutton boiled the way he likes it, child," Mildred would remind her. "And only you hold the key to the spice cupboard."

In the kitchen, it was Laura's job to grate the sugar loaf and measure out the precious spices for their dinner. She kept a log of how much of each spice was used. She would weigh the sugar loaf before locking it all away again. The afternoons were devoted to playing the lute and copying Bible text out in her finest handwriting, or perhaps a sedate walk in the garden if the weather allowed it. The evenings involved reading poetry out loud to her father by the fireside.

It got to be so boring that after half a year of doing the same thing over and over again, Laura would look forward to the winter months so she could pretend to have caught a chill and lie in bed.

Those long, leisurely days in bed were the most self-indulgent activity she ever got to do. Sometimes, she would trace her fingers lightly over her skin and imagine what it might be like if someone else—a man—was doing it to her. Slowly, she would tickle her cheeks, running a fingertip across her lips, shuddering with pleasure at the strange sensation. And if her hand dropped down to her neck, moving on to her breasts, belly, and thighs, well, who could blame her?

Nothing changed the fact that the only way the lovely sensation would ever come from another's hand was after she was married…

But when she reached out and touched the Laird as they watched the cauldron water steam, that lovely sensation returned to shake her to the core. Making contact with his skin was the most sublimely sensual feeling of Laura's boring, sheltered life. It was galvanizing. She would watch lightning storms from her bedchamber windows at night and imagine what it must be like to have one of those bright bolts strike her deep inside, and now she knew.

Laura tingled and shivered, so alive and excited he made her. Had he felt it too? Is that why he forgot about the heat of the cauldron? Because he was too absorbed by their own heat?

Mistress Berenson bustled into the kitchen and found Laura musing in silence while sitting on the stool by the fire. "Lackaday, Maid! Here's yer water getting cold. Make haste and use it, lest ye incur the master's wrath. After all his hard work, ye loll aboot an' waste it."

Laura hoped that the housekeeper would think the tight puckering of her excited nipples was due to the change of temperature as she removed her robe. The thin lawn linen of her chemise undergown did not leave much to the imagination. It was customary for all young ladies to wear a shift dress when they bathed.

Her mind was all a-dither, but not enough for her to neglect washing in the tub. For some reason, it was important to Laura for her to smell as sweet as meadow flowers the next time Altair was close by, but maybe it was wise to pretend otherwise.

"I have good reason to be wool-gathering instead of bathing, Mistress Berenson—Laird Sterling injured his hand in the flames."

The housekeeper froze as she slathered Laura's wash cloth with soap and handed it to her. "The laird had a wee accident? Were there…blisters?"

"I think we can dispense with fibs, Mistress," Laura lathered the cloth over her arms and shoulders in a business-like fashion. "I saw the laird's magical healing abilities with my own two eyes."

Mistress Berenson held her hand out for the washcloth. After Laura gave it back to her, the housekeeper seemed at a loss for words. "Would ye like me to wash yer back for ye, Maid? If ye stand up in the tub, I can help ye."

Like Venus rising out of the waves, Laura stood up. Bubbles of soap clung to her pale skin under the lawn shift like transparent beads. The water had turned milky from the lather, hiding her feet. The housekeeper saw the cuts and bruises on Laura's body from when she climbed the mountain, and was horrified. "Ye poor wee lamb. How brave ye were to climb so high up the beinn on yer own."

"I think it was braver of me to have helped the laird to his bedchamber after seeing his scalded hand get better faster than the cat can lick its tail." Laura was ruthless in her interrogation. "I want to know what is going on in this scary shambles of a castle."

The housekeeper looked downcast as she rinsed the soap off Laura's body. "Och, lass, ye're bonnier than a blossom in spring. Hop on oot and I'll try to explain the laird's curse to ye."

Ever practical, Laura stood on the old sheet Mistress Berenson laid out on the floor for her and wrapped another sheet over her shoulders. "I would hardly consider it a curse, Mistress. If you only knew how many times I have burnt my fingertips on the stove and prayed to heaven for such a miracle to happen to me."

Mistress Berenson smiled wistfully. "Ye have brought a spark of life into this bleak place with yer happy face and merry jests. But if ye kent the truth o' the matter, dearie, ye would nae say such a thing."

Holding her arms up for the housekeeper to throw the shift and gown over her, Laura had to admit she had an inkling of the truth. "Would I be right in guessing the story you read to me last night is based in fact? About the knight and the witch? And the magic tablet and broken promise?"

Mistress Berenson asked Laura to stand by the fire so that she could rub salve on the young maiden's cuts before replying. The thin lawn undergarment dried quickly in front of the flames.

The housekeeper seemed to be musing aloud. "Aye. Ye have hit the nail on the head. The story was written nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, before poor Altair was born. ‘Twas Laird Arik, the One-Handed, who set this sorrowful tale in motion. And it was he who lived here for a large part of his accursed life."

Laura was fascinated. She sat still and listened as the housekeeper untangled the wet mass of her long, black hair.

"Laird Arik was the first of the Immortal Highlanders. He had the misfortune to fall in love with a powerful witch who was obsessed with maintaining her beauty and youth. Ye might sit in yer polite Sassenach manor houses and scoff at oor legends and superstitions, but those stories are here for a reason.

And, aye, he married a gentlewoman he did not love to appease the Kirk thinking it would reverse his unnatural powers. The good woman, Lady Sterling, was unaffected by the curse because of this. Thus, she was able to bear Laird Arik five healthy sons."

This caught Laura's attention. "Are you telling me that if a woman has the misfortune to be loved by an Immortal Highlander that she would not be able to have children?"

Mistress Berenson shrugged. "I only tell the story as I have heard it, Maiden. And dinnae forget that the story is still being told!"

The housekeeper pointed to the ceiling. Her meaning was clear. Laura gasped. "Altair is one of those sons."

Nodding, the old woman continued her tale. "The five boys grew up to be the Eternal Brethren, doomed to never die or age—preordained to live their weary years in wretched loneliness. It was their fate to leave this place as young lads and go oot into the world alone. But when it was Altair's turn to leave, Laird Arik stopped him. ‘Good son,' said he, ‘I will make ye laird and give ye all o' me lands if ye allow me to take yer place oot there.'

Altair felt pity for his father, and so he agreed. As the youngest born, he never wanted nor sought to inherit the title, but he believed in his heart that his kindness would be repaid some day."

Mistress Berenson sat back and watched Laura's damp hair fall from the comb. "Ye have wonderful black tresses, Maiden," she complimented the young woman. "Could ye imagine what it might be like to never see a hint o' gray in the color for hundreds o' years?"

"Never mind my black hair, Mistress." Laura gripped the old woman's sleeve. "Please finish the story!"

The housekeeper sighed. "Och, as ye can see for yerself, Maiden, the master is still waiting."

Laura was thunderstruck. "Are you saying that Altair is still waiting for his father to return? But-but that's horrible! How long has it been?"

"That is what I have been tryin' to tell ye," Mistress Berenson stood up slowly, clutching the small of her back as if it hurt her. "The poor man is trapped here. He can only go oot every seventy or eighty years or so. Only then do the Iolaire villagers forget how the auld laird looked and are ready to accept a new face. But all too soon, the ten years of freedom pass by. Folks begin to whisper aboot his fatally good looks and unchanging youth. So then it is back to the castle for another eighty years, only for the whole ruddy cycle to start over again."

Clutching her chest, Laura tried to imagine how Altair's frustration and boredom must align with the same emotions she felt at Humberside Manor—with every day being the same and no end in sight. "Can he not break the curse?"

The housekeeper scoffed. "Not when every villager aroond insists on calling him a demon and a wizard. No maiden will look at him, never mind give him the time o' day. Altair Sterling has nothing and no one until his faither, Laird Arik, returns. Only then can he venture forth to find a solution or a cure."

"What about servants?" Laura suggested. "How come Stephen and Andrew are happy to work here?"

"Ha!" the old woman made a bitter sound. "What use would a hundred men servants make? Oor laird is a man, dearie. A man! He craves a woman by his side—and not one o' the women in the Highlands would dare look twice at him. As for my children, they all left the castle as young ‘uns; went to marry and set up hoose in town. Stephen and Andrew returned because their wives and children died in childbirth."

Laura found it impossible to believe that the females in the village were too afraid to look at the laird. In her opinion, Altair Sterling soared above every other man in the same way an eagle soars above all the other birds in the sky.

"Well, then, he must do what my father did and send out letters. Ask for all the pretty maidens to come to the castle so that he can select one of them. He can search for a bride in England, where no one would think to judge him harshly for his misfortune."

"Och, that'll be jolly-like," the old woman replied in a sarcastic tone. "The master can select a bonny lass to be his bride for five and ten years or so—until she decides to plooter doon the beinn , off to denounce him to the Kirk as the very devil himself for nae aging!"

Laura smacked her forehead. "Oh dear. I forgot about the ‘not aging' part. And I suppose the ‘undying' part would also be a problem. Altair has got himself into a pickle, hasn't he?"

"Speaking of pickles, dearie," Mistress Berenson wiped her hands on her pinafore, "let's set the kettle boiling for dinner."

While Laura was glad to have something to do that would take her mind off the misfortunes of the man slumbering in the tower, she could not forget his sad story entirely. She wanted to prepare a hearty meal for Altair when he woke, guessing correctly that he would be famished.

But when she came back to the kitchen after tying canvas rags around her feet with string to use as shoes, a fetid stench hit her nose. Not wanting to be rude, but too honest to pretend her taste buds were tickled by the aroma, Laura tiptoed to the pot and lifted the lid. "Aaargh!" she screamed and jumped back.

Mistress Berenson popped her head around from the scullery. "Did ye burn yer hand, dearie? Rub some o' the salve on it."

Good manners forgotten, Laura babbled. "There is a goat's head boiling over the fire. Saints alive! An entire head!"

The housekeeper's voice was calm when she replied, "Aye, we keep a herd o' mountain goats for oor own meat. We cull the weak rams, or else the silly billies butt themselves doon the beinn during mating season."

Laura knew she was blithering, but she could not hold back. "How vile! It looks like all the butcher did was sever the head off at the neck and chuck it into the cauldron."

Again, the housekeeper seemed unconcerned. "Me husband is nae the most thorough meat dresser, I'll agree with ye there. But it's likely he bled the animal at the neck first—so we can mix the blood with oats and make sausages."

By this stage, Laura was ignoring Mistress Berenson's chatter for the sake of her own sanity. "I need to find the rest of this poor animal. The carcass must be dressed properly. Can you tell me where the spice chest is, please?" She said the last part loud enough for the housekeeper to hear, but again she was shocked by the reply.

"Ye can add a wee bit o' salt to the broth. We have nae spices at Beinn na h'Iolaire ."

Muttering under her breath, Laura set about making a suet pastry and lining a bowl with it. Then she took the best cuts of goat meat, liberally sprinkled it with salt and herbs she managed to find in the overgrown kitchen garden, and layered it inside the pastry with slices of peeled turnips that the Berensons produced from the cellar. Then she wrapped the bowl in waxed parchment and put it in a pot of water to set it simmering over the fire.

A good while later, the pudding was ready. Laura lifted the bowl carefully; it was steaming hot. A delicious smell filled the air. Mistress Berenson watched the process with interest.

"I used to make steamed puddings when me bairns were young, but one gets complacent when there are nay hungry mouths to feed."

"There's the laird to feed," Laura reminded her. "It's no wonder Altair is always in such a black mood when all he has to dine on is a stinking goat's head."

Laura put the pudding on a tray and stomped up to the tower, shouting over her shoulder. "That head can be thrown for the dogs."

Only for Mistress Berenson to shout back. "We have nay dogs at the castle either."