The Whaler's Treasure

Chapter Seven, Scene 1

The smell of scones baking and the ring of laughter filled Gran's kitchen and spilled out into the yard where tables were being set up, plank boards long enough to accommodate the entire population of the valley. The ladies of the Braes worked in harmony to prepare a feast. The priest would arrive in three days, and, though no particular feast arose on the calendar to celebrate, celebrate they would.


"How long has it been, Gran?" Beth asked.


"Too long," the old woman replied hefting a crock of bread dough to her kitchen table. Trim at seventy, Mairi Gordon had begun to slow, but only so much that close family noticed. She still managed the croft and its livestock, and she determined that a celebration would be held at her premises to welcome the return of clergy. "After all," she said, "I have the return of my Elsbeth to celebrate as well."


"And how long is too long?" Beth persisted.


"Th'auld priest stopped comin' six months ago. Couldn't manage the hills."


"He likes his snug house in Aberdeen. Always liked his creature comforts did Father Walker," one of the women chimed in to a chorus of genial laughter.


"It's takin' 'em long enough to find us another," a young woman sighed. Morag Gordon had married one of Beth's cousins while she was gone, and now she dangled a baby in her hip. Beth reached for the little one and smiled when he went to her willingly.


"We always had a priest once a month," Beth observed.


"Aye. The folk of the Braes have ever stayed loyal to the old religion, and the Church well knows. We hid Scanlan from the Hanoverian troops up the old smuggler trails for a century until the Sassenach changed th' laws and they built a proper seminary in Aberdeen," Morag went on. Scanlan, the underground seminary, had closed thirty years before.


"Didn't ha' to worry none about priest then. They were thick in the gorse," Gran grumbled.


Beth wiped spit from the baby's mouth. "So now we kill the fatted calf, and the whole valley turns out."


"More like the fatted lamb," Gran snorted pounding two fists into the dough.


"The whole valley, aye," Morag said. "And folks line up for sacraments. That wee one you hold has waited for baptism these months. We'll keep the man busy, and that's no lie," she went on cheerfully.


"Beth, give that wee one back to 'is mother and help me knead this bread," Gran said. "The rest o'ye, scrub those tables and get the yard raked. We have lanterns to trim, linens to collect, and food to store."


Morag reached for her son. Beth kissed his blond locks and handed him over with a sigh. The young mother's shrewd assessment caused Beth to drop her eyes. "You need a bairn o'yer own, Beth," Morag whispered. For a moment a memory of Rob Thorpe's shock of black hair flitted through her mind, and Beth feared Morag would go on. She left without another word, however, shouting a greeting to the women outside.


Beth reached down and picked up another crock of dough from the warm stones near the fire. She slammed the dough onto the table with more force than needed.


"Knead it, lass, don't kill it," Gran told her.
Long moments passed in which Beth pounded the dough as if she could indeed injure it, as if she could beat her unruly emotions into place. Gran's kitchen had proven to be as warm and welcoming as she hoped, as nurturing as she remembered. It represented safety and freedom from her stepmother's crude suggestions. Why didn't it heal her heart?


"He's a bonny lad, Morag's son," Gran said at last.


Beth nodded morosely. Holding the boy gave her joy, and handing him over had shuttered it, leaving only her aching emptiness. Will I ever have one of my own? A home to call my own?


"Any woman would be happy to have one such," Gran went on. "I had hoped—"


"The answer doesn't lie in Speyness, Gran," Beth snapped, impatient with the old woman's hints. She swallowed hard, Rob Thorpe's gentle eyes vivid in her memory.


Gran sighed. "Nae. Not while Janice Gordon torments you there."


Not when the only man I've met worth knowing thinks I'm a strumpet.
 They worked in companionable silence for the better part of an hour. Beth's mood failed to lighten, but Gran didn't push her any further. When the last of the loaves went in to bake they joined the women finishing up the work outside.


"Time enough the day before to set the linens and bring the trenchers, I think," one said, and Gran agreed.


"You all have cooking in yer own houses to finish tomorrow, no?" she said. A chorus of agreement answered her.


"Has anyone seen to Scanlan?" Morag asked, as the others began to disperse.


"Is it needed? I thought it was in disuse," Beth asked. She had been in the habit of wandering up to the old place to think and to pray as young girl. While not quite a ruin, it showed signs of its age and neglect last time she saw it.


"Aye, but he'll want to have a look. He may want to say Mass in th'auld chapel."


Beth hadn't considered Scanlan. The circuit priests held services in Gran's croft in her childhood.
Gran watched Beth thoughtfully. "That might be so, Morag. There's time tomorrow to have a look. Will ye see to it, Lass?" When Beth remained wrapped in her own thoughts, Grand went on. "It would be a help if ye'd go up."


Beth raised her head and blinked to clear old memories and dismal thoughts. Morag and Gran's stared back at her, identical expressions of concern marring both faces.
 "Scanlan? Aye. I'll go up and see what's to be done." Maybe the old place will help me find some direction for my life.