Holding Maggie close against her shoulder in the dark hours of the morning while she softly paced the carpet of the downstairs front room, back and forth and back again, reminded her of holding Bessie, who’d been nearly this same age—the warm weight of that little golden head tucked trustingly against her neck; the lightly rapid breathing, and the small hands holding on to her as though they’d never let her go.
If life had divided Lily from her sister, it had brought her this wee lass whose blood was bound to Jamie’s, and she took this as a comfort.
In the room, the fire had died down to a faint glow that could barely cast reflections on the window glass. The others were abed, and she was trying not to wake them. She moved quietly, the swishing of her skirts the only sound, save for the gentle creaking of the floorboards.
So when Barbara whispered from the doorway just behind her, it caught Lily unawares.
“She’s still awake, the poor wee thing,” said Barbara, stroking one hand over Maggie’s soft cheek. “Chaft teeth are a misery.”
Lily knew little of chaft teeth, except in the English anatomy book Archie kept on his shelf they were labeled as “molars” and looked too large for Maggie’s mouth, and had given the little girl no end of pain these past weeks as they tried to break through. Nothing else would soothe Maggie but being held closely, and walked back and forth in this room, where she could see the books in the cabinets and look at the fire with her head resting on Lily’s shoulder.
Barbara asked her, “Did ye mean to have that window open?”
“Aye. She felt very warm, and the fire was not helping. When I let the air in, she went calm.”
“All right, then,” Barbara said. “I’ll get ye a fresh towel.” The one lying over Lily’s shoulder was wet through and crumpled now from Maggie’s chewing, but Lily paid it no more heed than she did her appearance. She’d not yet undressed for bed, and was still in her day clothes, though she had undone her hair and let it fall free of its pins so Maggie could play with it as she liked, because it helped to keep the little girl distracted.
“Thank ye,” Lily said, and “Thank ye,” Maggie echoed, as she had been taught, and Barbara smiled and kissed them both and tiptoed from the room.
The quiet of the sleeping house descended on them once again, and Lily went on walking, holding Maggie and remembering how much she’d always loved these hours of peace, and the feeling of being a part of a family.
She might have dreamt the voices.
Colonel Graeme’s, strong and so familiar. “Jamie, wait, lad.”
And a man’s voice overlaid atop the voice of her beloved friend, assuring him, “This way is quicker. They will have ye in the prison if ye’re not aboard at dawn.”
“I think ’tis my own son who’s eager to be rid of me.” That was said in jest, and met with mild impatience.
“Must ye stroll?”
The laugh that answered him was Colonel Graeme’s laugh, Lily was sure of it. She moved into the passage, where she shifted Maggie on her shoulder just enough to free one hand so that she could unbolt the door and open it. The close, in both directions that she looked, was dark and empty. There was no one to be seen.
She didn’t know what she’d have said to them, if they’d been truly there, but still the disappointment hit her deeply, and her eyes filled with swift tears. She closed the door against the chill air, bolting it securely.
Maggie’s small hand reached for Lily’s hair and clung, and Lily wrapped her arms around the little girl for reassurance, starting back into the rhythm of their walking as she entered once more into Archie’s workroom. It ought to have been soothing, in the dim light with the fading fire, but Lily had gone only a few steps before she realized they were no longer alone.
He must have come in through the window, for he stood there now beside it.
Lily found, just as she had that night those years ago in the Bells’ kitchen, she could neither move nor speak nor call out—only stand and stare while the intruder stared at her. It was, in some ways, as if time had barely moved at all—the fire so low, the window, and the tears upon her face. But this was not a boy. This was a full-grown man who faced her, and her mind and body were reacting to the danger of that when she heard a cry behind her—not of fear, but happiness.
And Barbara, rushing past her, flung her arms around the young man who had entered through the window, nearly knocking him off balance. But he stood against the onslaught, and embraced her, too, with tenderness, because she’d started sobbing.