She produced a tiny tin and opened it to reveal something which looked like crushed green peas. Using a finger, Emma scooped out a small amount and smeared it around Paisley's wound. The paste tingled, but in a good way.
Then it was over, and Emma was binding up the wound again with a clean square of white linen, tying the ends tightly.
"Ye will be fine," she said lightly. "I'll check it the day after tomorrow for signs of infection, but it should have started to heal by then. Dominic, she's nae to wash any dishes or put her hand in dirty water. She needs to keep that wound clean."
Flinching, Paisley glanced over her shoulder and found Dominic hovering there, his expression unreadable. Had he heard her whole conversation with Emma?
He must have. For some reason, Paisley wasn't happy to think that he'd been standing so close to her when she was rememberingthatargument with her parents, when Martha Burton had decided once and for all that her daughtermustget married.
Normally, that wouldn't have bothered Paisley too much. After all, her Mama always wanted her to get married.
What bothered her was when her father agreed.
Clearing her throat, Paisley drew her hand back her to her chest, poking at the linen bandage.
"But won't I have to do that sort of thing?" she asked in a hushed tone, glancing nervously up at Dominic. "I've just started my job here."
Emma levelled a stare at Dominic, who pursed his lips unhappily.
"Ye can wait until yer wound is healed before ye worry about that," he said lightly. "Do as Emma says, she knows what she's talking about. Now, ye stand behind the counter and pour the drinks I tell ye to, and I'll carry them to the tables, aye?"
The next few hours passed by in a flurry of ale tankards and whiskey. Paisley learned very quickly how to pull a good pint, and also learned how to do it without putting pressure on her injured palm. Dominic darted to and from across the crowded floor, and nobody was foolish enough to knockhim,either accidentally or deliberately.
Thomas joined his wife at the bar, and the two stood side by side, alternatively whispering to each other and taking turns to ask Paisley questions.
"That was a fine curtsy ye made back there," Thomas said at one point.
"Curtsy?" Emma chipped in.
Thomas grinned. "Aye, our wee Paisley here dropped the finest, smoothest curtsy I've ever seen. None of those awkward, lopsided bobs the lassies do when they're trying to impress someone. Nay, our Paisley wasgraceful."
"Show me." Emma said suddenly, grinning. "I could never manage a curtsy meself. I bet ye must have practiced for ages. I bet ye look like a proper lady, something I couldn't say for meself, even if I had years of practice, too. Or are ye too shy to show me?"
Paisley did not want to display her curtsy. Curtsying was, of course, a staple of polite London Society. Elegant bows and graceful curtsys were one of the hallmarks of a proper lady or gentleman, and there were countless rules on how deep or how long one should bow, and to whom.
Ever since she was small, Paisley could recite the rules and demonstrate the depth of a proper curtsy to everyone from a common knight or squire to the King and Queen themselves.
It didn't seem like the Scottish Highlanders went in for a great deal of bowing, though.
Still, Emma was watching expectantly, and she had already challenged Paisley twice to do it. Never been one to turn down a challenge, Paisley dropped into a standard curtsy and grinned. Maybe now they'd stop asking questions for a while.
The couple laughed between themselves, giving her a light round of applause.
"Ye must have practiced that," Thomas said, leaning forward. His face was flushed with drink and amusement. He was trying to be friendly, she could tell – trying to draw her into conversation, to make her feel at home.
It wasn't working, though, despite his best efforts.
"Come on, lassie, where did ye learn to curtsy like that?"
So much for taking a break from their questions.
Paisley bit her lip. She'd been taught to curtsy – as well as a myriad of other pointless accomplishments a ladyhadto have – when she was still in the nursery. But a good curtsy seemed to fade in comparison with Emma and her green fingers. Paisley felt almost ashamed.
"I don't remember," she said lightly, shrugging.
Thomas would not be dissuaded. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
"Where are ye from, lassie? Ye never did say."