Free An Island Apart by Lillian Beckwith Page A

the Laird’s wife and guests wearing what her Granny had described as ‘Grand Folks Cotamors’, which she had subsequently come to know as Burberrys, she had aspired to wear one herself. It had taken her years to save for one and it was already several winters old but she had taken great care of it, as she had of all her clothes and it still looked as good as new. Her problem, as she saw it, was that the Burberry was not roomy enough to wear over her suit jacket. Her suit jacket, on the other hand, was not waterproof. She wished she could still ‘read the sky’ as her Granny had taught her to do, but since she’d come to the city she’d seen so little of the sky her aptitude had waned from lack of practice. All she could do now was to resign herself to waiting to see how the day after tomorrow should dawn, weatherwise before she would know what she should wear. If it was wet it must be the Burberry over the skirt of the suit and her prettiest jersey. If it looked reasonably fine she would wear the suit and as a precaution take the light macintosh she used when nipping out on short errands such as visits to the local library. It was a trifle shabby but unless the weather turned really wet she would keep it draped over her arm.
    Finally she inspected her one and only hat and her Sunday shoes. The hat – a soft black cloche of which old Mrs Ross had tired – she had to admit looked somewhat defeated, but she reckoned it could be enlivened by a judicious steaming and pressing. She twirled the hat in her hand, grimacing at it as she did so. She’d always rebelled at wearing hats and had shunned the thought of spending money on them. When she’d needed to confine her hair she wore a black chenille tammy which she’d knitted from an old shawl, again one of Mrs Ross’ cast-offs, which she’d unravelled. Her shoes has also seen their best days but she’d made a habit of keeping them so well polished that they didn’t betray their cheapness.
    Kirsty sat on her bed assessing how she would look in either outfit and accepted with a rueful smile that though she would not look exactly bridal, neither would she disgrace her wedding-day by looking like a tinker. Pulling open a drawer, she looked at the three clean and neatly folded winceyette nightdresses it contained, one floral, one pink, and one white all with lace trimming round the neck and sleeves. Thank goodness she’d always made a point of wearing pretty nightdresses, she thought. For a few moments she stared at them reflectively and then pushing the drawer firmly shut she got quickly into bed.
    She waited until Meggy had finished cleaning the bedrooms next morning before nipping up to Ruari MacDonald’s room to put the small finger-sized piece of wool on a tray as she’d promised. When she returned to the kitchen Meggy’s first remark was, ‘How much longer is that Mr MacDonald booked in for? D’ you know when he’s supposed to be going back to his Island?’
    For an instant Kirsty was startled into suspecting there might have been some form of thought transference but she managed to reply offhandedly, ‘One day next week, I believe. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜Oh, it’s just that I’ll be sorry to see the last of him,’ Meggy said as she ran hot water into the sink in preparation for washing dusters. ‘I could wish we got more folks like him at ISLAY ,’ she continued, ‘He’s a real nice gentleman. Never a cross word from him and never leaves his bedroom untidy like most other men. And he never uses the chamber pot, or if he does he empties it himself. Not like some,’ she grumbled. ‘Honest, you‘d swear they spent half the night peeing instead of sleeping.’
    Kirsty chuckled and hurriedly made as much noise as she could while replenishing the fire with coals. She had no wish to embark on a discussion of Ruari MacDonald’s habits good