Elusive (4 page)

In secret, Caena had spent some of the small
amount of time they had alone together teaching a very rudimentary
knowledge of reading and writing to Ròs. Anytime the other women
were present, she and Ròs concentrated on their sewing, embroidery,
telling tales, or singing the women’s poems of their
history—keeping any
unwomanly
abilities between
themselves.

Yes, Caena was well aware that, had she not
dared to help Ròs learn to read and write, she would be just
another of the number of women of Scotland dependant on the oral
tales. Caena went to this woman who had raised her from birth. She
loved her and would willingly give her anything a daughter would
give a mother. “No, Ròs. Although he does not know it, ’tis father
to whom we should be thankful.” They could never dare make Ròs’s
lessons known to others. “Despite these opinions, he insisted that
I be tutored right along with Macrath and Sòlas.”

They both remembered that it had caused a
great scandal in the beginning. Even the easy-going tutor had
resented her, until he realized what a bright student Caena was.
And then, in fear of reprisal, he had avoided letting anyone
outside the castle know he was teaching a girl. He’d admitted this
to her when he’d had too much whiskey at the Yule celebration at
the castle last winter solstice.

She had heard her father explain his attitude
in this matter to his brother, and others when the matter arose.
Despite his brother’s ranting, in Finnean’s mind—frugal Scot he
was—it only made sense. The teacher was there, so why not make full
use of the man? Caena was, after all, no trouble to him. She took
up little room and, once instruction began, she had picked things
up so quickly that the tutor spent all his time working with the
laddies. Finnean paid the man to teach. He was not paid by the
number of students. Therefore, using Finnean’s logic, having the
man teaching the laddies, but not the lassie, was just wasteful.
Finnean was
not
a wasteful man!

Thus Finnean had justified her education to
others. In his heart, and privately to Caena, his true reasons lay
elsewhere. The child was bright, and he wanted her to learn
everything she could so that she could protect herself in the
future. Knowing their
family
, she would need all the skills
she could get.

But, no matter how logical his
justifications, this was greatly frowned upon by other members of
the family. Sometimes a member of court tried to use this against
him, but his many friends in court supported his quirks. As long as
none of their women were affected by his views, they saw to it that
no action was taken to interfere with his running of his own
household. So the daughter of the popular, powerful Laird of
Donnach had learned to read, write, think, and reason as had few
other women in the country.

“I suppose,” Caena continued, “that I should
think myself fortunate that any Scotsman would have me to wife.”
She giggled, “While other women spent their entire days in
wasteful, womanly pursuits, I was given a rare gift—instruction in
Scots, and of course English, mathematics, and sciences.”

Learning the languages had been confusing she
thought. But she stubbornly studied both, since English was rapidly
pushing the Scots’ own language aside. She feared that someday, her
own language would disappear completely. While many still spoke the
old Gaelic, it was rapidly being replaced. How much longer Scots
could hang onto their own language was a question that upset her
greatly. How much more could her people lose?

“The English hornies take every opportunity
to degrade us. They even use our language as an example of their
English superiority
,” she sneered. “They dare to think that
our Scottish language is a
lower form
of their
English
—that English is being degraded by us Scots!” She
laughed scornfully. Any self-respecting Scot, she thought,
disagreed with this point of view. It was just one more proof of
Scots being thought of as a lower society than that of their
southern neighbors—just one more matter of contention between the
two societies.

Caena smiled, the humor now reaching her
eyes. “But Ròs, even with all I learned, I still had to learn the
sewing
and the
embroidery
,” she said, as she reached
over and patted Ròs’s knee gently as they both laughed.

“Aye, I remember how you fought it for weeks
until you were given the choice of doing both or getting no more
tutoring.” Ròs reminded her with a broad smile on her handsome
face.

Caena laughed as she too recalled it, “Yes, I
can read and write better in both languages than either of my
cousins, my sums are more accurate, as is my aim with a bow and
arrow,” she said. Then, as she leaned close to Ròs in a posture of
conspiracy, she whispered, “Much to Mordag’s chagrin!” They laughed
together. Then Caena’s expression changed to a scowl as she added,
“But, of course, the important thing is that I can sew!”

“Ah, Ròs,” Caena sighed, “I have never felt
so trapped. All my life our society will hold me down at every
opportunity. Now comes the biggest chance I may ever have to
determine my own future, and it is a decision that could end any
chance I have to be happy.”

Once again the tears started to flow. Ròs
just held her and let her cry.

**************************

Chapter 3: Meet Blair

Paris, France - March 1912

Blair woke up pulling herself from the dream
that had plagued her for as long as she could remember. While the
nightmare hit her perhaps once a month as a child, now that she was
full grown it had come upon her more frequently—now appearing more
often than not. She never knew what it was about—it just hovered
there, dark and unsettling as she awoke. It was as if it held a
secret message of dark foreboding.

Refusing to give in to the mood in which the
dream unvaryingly left her, she rose from her bed. She was a
determined young woman. She simply made up her mind that she would
not let the dream ruin her day. She threw off the coverlet that
entangled her body using the same determination with which she had
fought off the dream.

Reaching for her robe, she yawned and
stretched her petite body, pulling out the kinks from her battle
with her covers. As she donned the robe and tied it at her waist,
she walked to the window of her small, cozy and—to her mind and
great satisfaction—beautiful apartment.

She pulled open the dark green, wooden
shutters to the window. The morning light of Paris immediately
streamed into the large room that served as parlor, bedroom, and
dining room. Its yellow walls brightened with the rosy sunlight of
the Paris morning. The splashes of bright blue and lavender she had
tossed about the room in the form of a glass-shaded lamp, pillows,
vases, and the little painting she had bought from a local artist
always raised her spirits.

The breeze immediately lifted the scents from
the little garden below the window. It had just started coming to
life the week before. She inhaled deeply, letting the wonderful
scents of the morning air fill her, lifting her mood. Basking in
the morning, she wondered if there was anywhere any more glorious
in the spring—or any other time, for that matter—than Paris.

Behind her landlord’s quarters was a small
courtyard where he had permitted her to plant a small garden that
she thought of as her own. The rose bushes were just coming into
leaf. It would be a few weeks before their first spring blooms
would scent the air. The hyacinths and other wonderful spring bulbs
she had planted were already putting their perfume into the air.
Someday, she sighed to herself, someday she would have a home of
her own with gardens galore. And water, she thought. Yes, she must
have water—blue and peaceful water. Her sigh was one of utter
peace.

Smiling, she thought of her landlord, the
tiny, fragile-looking eighty-six-year-old Mssr. LeGard. So aptly
named, he thought of himself as her guardian, her protector from
the dangers that he felt awaited her out on the surrounding streets
of Paris. He might look frail, slightly bent, and small in stature.
But, she giggled to herself, the man had the heart of a feisty,
young lion.

Her uncle would never have permitted her to
get her own apartment if she had not found such a protective,
caring landlord. Mssr. LeGard constantly urged her to eat more, get
out more, and find another handsome young man. She felt her heart
clutch, then put the thoughts of the past away again.

Oh well. Yawning and stretching one last
time, she spoke aloud to herself. “It’s time to stop your
daydreaming, Blair. Your day has begun, and…” looking at the clock
on her desk, she jolted, “you are already late!” Except for the
smudges of color under her eyes, the nightmare was forgotten for
now.

Opting for a quick shower instead of the long
hot soak she longed for, she ran to the bathroom removing her robe
and nightgown as she ran. Once she was finished bathing, she
wrapped a towel around her hair and went to her closet. She
selected her favorite blue dress with its large buttons down the
front and its collar that closed just a few inches below her chin.
Taking little time for make-up, she piled her long, quickly-braided
blond hair on top of her head and pinned it securely.

Once she had dressed for work, she grabbed an
apple that would serve as her breakfast. Ready to start her day,
she ran out her apartment door, then down the steep, narrow
stairway. She quietly passed Mssr. LeGard’s door and ran out the
front door of the building. She had always thought it was a sweet
little building. It sat on one of Paris’s cobbled streets in a
neighborhood that was centuries old. The building in which she
lived had been there for at least one of those centuries. It had
been Mssr. LeGard’s home for most of that century. He had married,
raised a family, and—sadly, she thought—outlived them all.

As she rounded the corner of the building,
she saw Mssr. LeGard returning to the house with his arms loaded
down with packages from the marketplace. She would have loved to
help him with his packages, but knew that he would be hurt to have
her offer. He was a very proud man, and a very large part of that
pride was wrapped up in his independence.

“Bon jour, Chéri,” he said in his gravelly
voice, as he stood still long enough for her to kiss both his
cheeks. “You are going to be late getting home tonight, Chéri?”

There was the care she had been thinking of
just moments before. He would check on when she would be home—he
would then wait up for her, she knew. “Oui, Monsieur, but not so
very
late—speaking of late,” she said, as she glanced at the
little lapel watch she wore on her jacket, “I must get to the shop!
Madame will be worried about me. Adieu!” she said, as she quickly
turned and continued her fast-paced walk to work.

She turned around just long enough to wave to
him and see him smile in return and head for home. He was such a
dear man, she thought. Mssr. LeGard had spent a generous amount of
time and money having the interior of his house modernized. There
was a private bath for his quarters downstairs, as well as one in
his tenant’s quarters upstairs. Blair almost moaned out loud when
she thought of that little claw-footed tub that held enough hot
water and bubbles to relax her to the bone. And then there was the
little shower head that sprouted from the wall at the far end of
the tub. That certainly came in handy for days like today when she
was running late.

A small kitchen area was installed in the
rented apartment as well. She was learning to cook but was still
not very good at it. At least the little kitchen gave her the
opportunity to practice. She was so thankful that she had found the
wonderful apartment and so close to where she worked. It was a
short four blocks to the shop.

As she passed the street-side flower stall,
she smiled and waved at Claude, the vender. She made a mental note
that she wanted to pick out something nice for her dinner
companion. Since she was running late, she would have to do so on
her way to his apartment after her day’s work. She passed the other
vendor stalls, walking quickly, waving and shouting a greeting to
those who knew her.

Still thinking of her dinner companion, she
smiled as she scurried to the shop where she worked. Uncle Roddy
was the happiest, most important part of her life. How she had
missed him while he had been away. It was unlike him to go away
without telling her where he was going, but she would do her best
to pry information out of him tonight. He never could keep things
from her for very long. She would just stubbornly and
unceasingly—with love and a smile—keep working on him until he gave
in and told all. How she adored him!

She continued rushing along, trying to regain
some of the time she had lost day-dreaming at her window. Rushing
was not something she was prone to do unless running late. She much
preferred soaking up the atmosphere of Paris while leisurely
strolling to and from work, but there just wasn’t time for it this
morning.

Then, the results of letting her mind wander
became all too real. The screeching of a horn and frantic screams
reminded her that the streets of Paris were not a safe place to
daydream. Bicycles and taxis—horse-drawn as well as the newer
motorized ones—sped through the neighborhood with little care to
lanes or people. She knew better than to walk without watching
where she was going. She managed to jump to the side just as the
driver of the taxi sped past her on the narrow street. Shaking his
fist from his open perch, he swore in a stream of gutter French
that, despite the vulgarities, still sounded like music to her
ears.

Instead of being upset at the cabby’s rough
language, she just smiled. Laughing to herself, she thought that
the women cabbies, with their horse-drawn taxis or motorized
versions, had usually been more civil to passersby. She shook her
head as she continued down the road towards the shop. Ah, is this
progress, she wondered?