Alasdair laughed loudly. He turned the bundles of witch hazel over in his hands. “Then I guess me Lady will just have to set the new fashion with this bunch.”
He could not pinpoint precisely why the idea tickled him so thoroughly, but it did. Miss Graham was a unique woman, so it seemed fitting that this gift to her…his first…would be slightly odd and a tad unconventional. As Alasdair hacked another branch of witch hazel from the shrub, he laughed lightly to himself, and envisioned the happy moment when he would give these flowers to Miss Graham.
Chapter Nine
Lady Branwen was waiting at the edge of the garden near a stone bench, wrapped in a thick shawl. She held a walking stick in one hand, appearing to carry it more out of habit than necessity. She observed Isobel as she approached and because Isobel so desperately wanted to earn Lady Branwen’s approval, she met the critical stare with a beatific smile.
“Good morning,” Isobel said pleasantly as she dropped into a quick curtsey.
“Ye look better than ye did when ye arrived,” she said. “The castle agrees with ye.”
“That is good to hear, since I have spent the last four days confined to the stone halls and chambers.” Isobel shivered dramatically, then sent Lady Branwen a catlike, playful grin. “But I am glad you sent Jane to fetch me. It is a pleasure to be outside,” Isobel said.
Lady Branwen’s eyes crinkled. “The sun is a blessing.” She tapped her cane on the path. “Come, then. Walk with me.”
They moved along the garden paths at Lady Branwen’s pace, which was slower than Isobel’s but just as purposeful. The old woman knew every inch of the ground, stopping at each bed to point things out with her walking stick, naming plants in a mix of English and Gaelic as if it never occurred to her that Isobel might not understand both.
“This is yarrow.” A tap of the stick near a low clump of feathery leaves. “Crush the leaves, pack them on a wound. Stops the bleedin’ better than half the potions Moira keeps in her workroom, though daenae tell her I said so.”
“Is Moira the healer of the castle?”
“Aye.” Lady Branwen nodded.
“Is she…” Isobel tried to think of how best to phrase her question. “… Easily offended?”
“Nay. But she enjoys an argument, and I’ve learned nae to hand her the ammunition.” Lady Branwen moved on and pointed to a plant Isobel already recognized simply by taking a long, deep inhalation of its perfume. “Lavender here. It does nothin’ useful until summer, and then it does everythin’. Ye can sleep with it, bathe with it, dry it, and put it in the linens, burn it when the air feels heavy. The women of this household have been arguin’ about the correct use of lavender for three generations.”
“Who’s winning?”
“Nobody. That’s the nature of lavender arguments.” Lady Branwen said it with the satisfaction of someone who had survived all three generations of the debate. “Currently, me granddaughter Sarah is of the opinion that it should be used exclusively in cookin’, which places her firmly in the wrong, but she says it with such conviction that nobody likes to argue with her directly.”
“And you?” Isobel asked. “What’s your position?”
“That it belongs in the linen. Obviously. I’ve held this position for fifty years, and I see nae reason to reconsider it simply because Sarah has new opinions,” Lady Branwen said with magnificent composure. “The lavender kens what it’s for.”
Isobel pressed her lips together. “Has anyone told the lavender that?”
“It’s meant to steady the nerves,” Lady Branwen said, with the patience of someone who had explained this before and expected to explain it again. “Calms the mind. Helps a body sleep.”
“Then it and I are going to become best friends,” Isobel said.
Lady Branwen glanced at her sideways, and something in the old woman’s expression shifted into genuine interest. “I think I’m goin’ to enjoy havin’ ye here,” she said.
“Thank you,” Isobel whispered in reply. She felt as if Lady Branwen had just given her a mild compliment and the notion was heartwarming.
Lady Branwen sent her a crooked smile then, with the left side of her mouth lilting ever so slightly. The half-grin reminded Isobel so much of Laird MacRaeh and the animated faces he had produced the night before in the library while reading aloud that she had to stifle a giggle.
It did not seem as if Lady Branwen noticed Isobel’s distraction or the way her lips twisted into a broader grin because she continued their tour a heartbeat later, moving toward the next set of beds.
“And here, there’s rowan.” She stopped before the small tree near the eastern wall, its silvery leaves catching the morning light. “We plant it at every entrance. Old protection against ill intent. Me grandmother planted this one.”
Isobel looked up through the branches. “Do you believe it works?”
“I believe me grandmother believed it, and hers before her, and that between them they got those beliefs past a great deal of genuine trouble.” Lady Branwen touched the bark briefly, a gesture that was almost affectionate. “Belief is nae nothin’, lass. It keeps people tendin’ the tree. And the tree keeps growin’. Somewhere in that circle, somethin’ real is happenin’.”
Isobel thought about that for a moment. “That’s either very wise or very practical.”
“On a good day, it’s both.” Lady Branwen moved on. “Come. The bluebells are starting at the far end, and they’re worth seein’ before they peak.”