bonny Scotland.” He bowed. His long
black coat swung at his booted ankles as he exited, leaving the
room bereft at his absence.
“Jeesh.” She was falling below the line of
common sense and letting her silly heart rush away with her
thoughts.
Chapter 12
S o
Laird Dunnegin had a farm, did he? Edwina
mused. What did he do? Run a tractor? Grow
things? Raise sheep? What did Scots do on farms anyway? She’d ask Bertie—who amazingly appeared in the
doorway right that very minute.
“What do Scots raise on farms?” she
asked.
“Whatever do ye mean, lass?” Bertie’s dusting
cloth never stopped dusting.
“You know... sheep, cows, horses, or maybe
corn or wheat—stuff like that.”
“Stuff like that?” Bertie repeated, her nose
in the air. “Such a way ye Americans have of speaking.”
“Okay, I’ll be straight with you.”
“Straight?” Bertie stopped her work and
stared at her.
“You know... real.”
“Ah... real.”
“What does the Scot... laird, Mr. Dunnegin,
whatever you call him do on his farm? Does he raise things?”
“He grows potatoes.”
“Potatoes?”
“ Yes, potatoes. Have ye not
heard of them in America?” Bertie shot back.
“Of course. We have French fries, you know.”
Edwina started to laugh and saw Bertie was not in the mood. What
had happened to the smile she’d been wearing during breakfast?
Since it seemed there was nothing else to
say, Edwina clamped her mouth shut and cast her eyes on the
book.
“Why would a lass like ye want to know what
the laird does?” Bertie’s question was too nice.
“Oh, nothing, just asking. I’m thinking about
a story line, and I just needed some information, that’s all.”
“Story line?” Bertie had her hands on her
hips again. “Ye aren’t thinking of writing some fancy dandy story
about the laird are ye?”
“Well . . .”
“Well, my socks. Ye just put that idea out o’
yer head this day, ye hear?”
“Why, Bertie?”
“Cause it’s none o’ yer affair how the laird
lives and what he does. Besides . . .” She stopped for a minute.
“Besides, things o’ such nature are not for ye to know aboot.”
“What nature?” Edwina knew the moment the
words were out they were the wrong ones.
“See? See?” Bertie waved her dusting cloth,
and Edwina saw dust mites twinkling in the sunlight.
“There ye are trying to find out things ye
need not know aboot. Tis as I said.” Her dusting became frantic.
“That man has been through enough,” she said tartly and then her
hand went to her mouth. Bertie rushed from the room, her dust rag
still on top of the shelf.
Now what had she done? Should she go after
Bertie? No way. It would only make things worse. Perhaps Bertie was
going through menopause or something. She’d read about such things
in women’s magazines. Happy one minute, angry the next.
Snapping the book shut she decided to take a
walk on the grounds since it was late afternoon, hopefully
undisturbed by the dogs.
Slipping on her shoes, she found one of the
servants and asked about the dogs. “Will they attack me even though
their master has told them not to one other time?”
“Miss, the dogs are with the master. Ye need
not worry.” And the girl was gone.
“You’re sure?” Edwina called out loudly, but
the soft sounds of retreating footsteps announced she was already
out of hearing range. These people sure did move fast.
This time Edwina chose the front door to
exit. She had already seen most of the gardens in the back. The
hills across the way were calling her name. Besides, she would do
well to memorize the surroundings so the descriptive scenes in her
book would be real and ring true. There was nothing she hated more
than to find a falsehood in a book.
Suddenly she knew she needed paper and ran
back for her pad and pencil.
The hills and dales were everything the books
said they would be. Soft, lush green, low and gently rolling. She
made note of each attribute and walked through fields of
black coat swung at his booted ankles as he exited, leaving the
room bereft at his absence.
“Jeesh.” She was falling below the line of
common sense and letting her silly heart rush away with her
thoughts.
Chapter 12
S o
Laird Dunnegin had a farm, did he? Edwina
mused. What did he do? Run a tractor? Grow
things? Raise sheep? What did Scots do on farms anyway? She’d ask Bertie—who amazingly appeared in the
doorway right that very minute.
“What do Scots raise on farms?” she
asked.
“Whatever do ye mean, lass?” Bertie’s dusting
cloth never stopped dusting.
“You know... sheep, cows, horses, or maybe
corn or wheat—stuff like that.”
“Stuff like that?” Bertie repeated, her nose
in the air. “Such a way ye Americans have of speaking.”
“Okay, I’ll be straight with you.”
“Straight?” Bertie stopped her work and
stared at her.
“You know... real.”
“Ah... real.”
“What does the Scot... laird, Mr. Dunnegin,
whatever you call him do on his farm? Does he raise things?”
“He grows potatoes.”
“Potatoes?”
“ Yes, potatoes. Have ye not
heard of them in America?” Bertie shot back.
“Of course. We have French fries, you know.”
Edwina started to laugh and saw Bertie was not in the mood. What
had happened to the smile she’d been wearing during breakfast?
Since it seemed there was nothing else to
say, Edwina clamped her mouth shut and cast her eyes on the
book.
“Why would a lass like ye want to know what
the laird does?” Bertie’s question was too nice.
“Oh, nothing, just asking. I’m thinking about
a story line, and I just needed some information, that’s all.”
“Story line?” Bertie had her hands on her
hips again. “Ye aren’t thinking of writing some fancy dandy story
about the laird are ye?”
“Well . . .”
“Well, my socks. Ye just put that idea out o’
yer head this day, ye hear?”
“Why, Bertie?”
“Cause it’s none o’ yer affair how the laird
lives and what he does. Besides . . .” She stopped for a minute.
“Besides, things o’ such nature are not for ye to know aboot.”
“What nature?” Edwina knew the moment the
words were out they were the wrong ones.
“See? See?” Bertie waved her dusting cloth,
and Edwina saw dust mites twinkling in the sunlight.
“There ye are trying to find out things ye
need not know aboot. Tis as I said.” Her dusting became frantic.
“That man has been through enough,” she said tartly and then her
hand went to her mouth. Bertie rushed from the room, her dust rag
still on top of the shelf.
Now what had she done? Should she go after
Bertie? No way. It would only make things worse. Perhaps Bertie was
going through menopause or something. She’d read about such things
in women’s magazines. Happy one minute, angry the next.
Snapping the book shut she decided to take a
walk on the grounds since it was late afternoon, hopefully
undisturbed by the dogs.
Slipping on her shoes, she found one of the
servants and asked about the dogs. “Will they attack me even though
their master has told them not to one other time?”
“Miss, the dogs are with the master. Ye need
not worry.” And the girl was gone.
“You’re sure?” Edwina called out loudly, but
the soft sounds of retreating footsteps announced she was already
out of hearing range. These people sure did move fast.
This time Edwina chose the front door to
exit. She had already seen most of the gardens in the back. The
hills across the way were calling her name. Besides, she would do
well to memorize the surroundings so the descriptive scenes in her
book would be real and ring true. There was nothing she hated more
than to find a falsehood in a book.
Suddenly she knew she needed paper and ran
back for her pad and pencil.
The hills and dales were everything the books
said they would be. Soft, lush green, low and gently rolling. She
made note of each attribute and walked through fields of
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