Frederick knew better than to trust that silence.
Caitlin broke first. “How long has Jamie kent that ye ken?”
“Since yesterday at breakfast.”
“And how did she take it?”
“She asked whether I minded.”
Caitlin’s expression shifted at once, delight giving way to something more sober. “Poor bairn.”
“Aye,” Erin said quietly. “Poor bairn indeed.”
Frederick looked toward the window. The village fields were beginning to rise into view, low stone walls cutting the land into familiar shapes. “She asked if she had to cut her hair again.”
“And?”
“I told her nay.”
Caitlin pressed her lips together, though not to hide amusement this time. “Good.”
Erin’s mouth twitched. “He doesnae need praise every time he stumbles onto sense.”
“I didnae stumble,” Frederick said.
“Nay,” Erin replied. “Ye marched into it with all the elegance of a bull through brush.”
Caitlin laughed outright, which only made the old healer look more satisfied.
By the time the carriage reached the village, Frederick had given up trying to determine whether the two women were getting along or whether they merely shared a mutual affection for prodding him past patience. They moved between quarrel and alliance too swiftly for reason to follow. Caitlin called Erin impossible. Erin called Caitlin lassie. Caitlin objected to the title while smiling every time she did so. Frederick, forced to walk between them down the main village lane, found himself less certain with every step whether he had brought useful help or arranged his own punishment.
The village itself was awake in full by then. Smoke rose from low chimneys. Children darted between doorways before their mothers called them back. Merchants were already setting goods outside their shops, and more than one head turned as the laird passed.
“Daenae glare at them,” Caitlin murmured without looking at him. “Ye make people think ye are about to hang someone.”
“I am only walking.”
“Aye,” Erin said. “And yet somehow ye still manage to threaten the whole street.”
He said nothing to that.
Ahead, just beyond the well, the narrow lane bent toward the dressmaker’s row. Caitlin’s pace quickened by half a step. Erin sighed as though preparing for battle. Frederick looked fromone woman to the other and resigned himself to whatever the morning had become.
“Lassie, if ye buy another length of ribbon, the child will be mistaken for a maypole.”
Caitlin did not so much as glance at Erin as she lifted a pale blue spool to the light. “And if ye continue to call me ‘lassie’, I may forget that ye are older than the hills and begin answering ye properly.”
Erin gave a low hum of approval. “There now. A bit of spirit at last.”
Frederick stood between them with three parcels already under one arm and the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. They had entered the first shop less than half an hour ago. Since then, his mother had handled nearly every bolt of cloth within reach, Erin had dismissed half of them as useless foolishness, and both women had somehow agreed upon a sensible wardrobe for Jamie while managing to quarrel over every step that led to it.
Madame Marchand, a narrow woman with spectacles and sharp hands, seemed delighted by the spectacle.
“This one,” Caitlin said, holding up a soft cream fabric trimmed with small, embroidered flowers. “For a church day, perhaps. Or if she should wish to look especially pretty.”
“She issix,” Erin replied. “She should wish to climb things and stain hems. Get the darker one.”
“The darker one is plain.”