Scotland, May 1862
The thistle was beginning to bloom around the well-lain stones of Agnes Sangster’s cottage near Glen Clova, the first purple-pink blossoms opening beneath the bright blue morning sky, joining the short green grass and yellow-green bog myrtle that had started its own colorful show in April, as well as the white cuckoo flower which reminded Agnes’ daughter, Marnie, of a duck bill. Yet, despite the beautiful sights of spring, the inherent beauty of the Scottish highlands, and the weather which had at last broken free from the cold grip of winter, Agnes and Marnie remained inside the cottage.
Marnie Sangster didn’t want to be inside. She and her mother were to make yarn from the black wool they had sheared off the four sheep, kept in a fenced area by the house. The shed in which the beasties stayed at night was also home to a single milking goat and a family of rabbits that never seemed to stop multiplying.
Because Agnes was in her mid-fifties, she had Marnie do most of the farming, while she stayed inside preparing meals, spinning, or crafting garments to sell or wear.
The sound of the turning wheel made Marnie want to sing, but Agnes only accepted a quiet hum, as any open-mouth singing would be too noisy. Marnie disagreed with this, but didn’t feel like arguing with the woman who had always been quick with the wood spoon or a widdie. Mouth closed in order to hum, Marnie had to breathe in through her nose: the whole house smelled strongly of sheep. Dirt, dead grass, and dust formed a silty layer over the brick floor beneath them, combed from the wool prior to spinning it. Sheep wasn’t the worst of smells—Marnie much appreciated this over the assault of stench she was subjected to every time she made use of manure.
“Marn,” Agnes said, looking up from her labor at her fourteen year-old daughter whose features scarcely matched hers, “Ah ken yer eager to go out and join the yewe.”
“Aye, Mam.” Marnie gave her mother a questioning look, combing out more wool on her lap meanwhile. She didn’t always look down as she did this, because she would get to thinking that she might as well be a yewe: her dark brown dress was made from wool. Her stockings, too. Even her dark red hair, pulled in a bun at the back of her head, was thick and wavy and likewise wooly.
Agnes’ narrow eyes fixed on Marnie’s round, blue eyes, and the two stared at each other for a moment. Agnes’ square jaw clenched in thought. The woman’s sharp features directly opposed her daughter’s soft face. “Yer a bonnie quine, but Ah canna see ye more than a wean.”
Not expecting an affectionate statement, Marnie smiled at her mother and said, “Bless ye! Yer sweet to’ve said this. But how?”
“How?” Agnes scoffed, sitting back on her creaky chair. “Ye were my bairn once. How no?”
A cold breeze blew in through the cracked window at the other end of the cottage, making them shiver. Most of the time, Agnes said nothing nice and ordered Marnie around like a servant. It was no wonder that her father was gone, Marnie had thought on numerous occasions as she grew up with but one parent in the home. It wasn’t like that until she had turned eight. That’s when her father got sick and packed his bags, saying farewell and never turning back. Agnes wasn’t the same after that.
As Marnie predicted, her innocent question disrupted the goodness inside Agnes and turned the woman sour: “Yer doing a poor job at kaming, Marn.”
“Hmph. I’m wanting to keek at the yewe and the gait.”
“Ah ken it. Stop being so fidgin fain. How don’t ye stour?”
Burning with annoyance, Marnie gestured her woolless hand at the dusty floor. “How don’t ye stour?”
“Ahm spinnin.” After a long look at her, Agnes snapped, “Go then, ye riddy lassie. Take yer skunnered, crabbit cairie-on!”
“Aye! I can haud mine out on the ben while ye haud the wool, and yer wittie from my legs.”
With that, Marnie stormed out of the house.
After a few minutes, she realized she may want to grab a waistcoat. But she didn’t want to return to the house so soon, as her mother would be in a rotten mood. So, she took her hair out of its bun. Then, fighting against a heavy wind which tossed it around her face, she split her hair in two parts and tied it under her chin, a make-shift scarf to keep her ears from freezing.
“There,” she said to herself, then started toward the nearest stream on the high hills. Threatening gray clouds were beginning to form beyond the cliffs, but she ignored this, continuing up the grassy path.
Once she got to the stream, she sat on a fat rock and reached her cupped hands into the cold water. She took a sip, and caught sight of her reflection. All of her freckles, her thick red hair which had numerous streaks that were two shades darker than the rest … She hoped that she was bonnie like her mom said. She didn’t catch anyone’s attention when she attended a school as a child, so she could learn to read, a skill her father had valued highly. She kept up the practice at church, or kirk as it was commonly referred to. But Marnie’s focus had often drifted to those kids who were close to her age: she desired companionship, especially in the prettiest of the girls she saw. She didn’t want to acknowledge why this was the case, because she knew what the Bible said and she knew her mother would be the first to exact punishment for her sinful desires. If she could form relationships under the guise of friendship, that might be enough.
“Hello, lass,” a man’s voice broke through the whistling wind. Marnie turned around on the rock and saw a tall fellow dressed in a thick green coat, with a fox pelt hat on the top of his head. Behind him walked a shady white figure in a dark dress and hooded cloak—she wore a ribbon around her eyes. If not for the couple’s clothes, Marnie would assume they were homeless, or wandering hermits. The man continued in an accent that Marnie recognized as sounding closer to English than Scottish, “Have you room in a house to spare for me and my wife?”
“Ach—I dinnae ken. Mam’s at home, though, and if ye ask her, mebbe she’ll say ‘aye, the room’s there for two more.’” Marnie stood up and approached the odd pair. The man had beautiful blue eyes, and interestingly, his left eye had an orange color to it that the right eye did not. “Yer stayin’ in Scotland …?”
“No,” said the man with a shake of his head and a smile on his face.
He guided his wife along by the hand as they started toward the Sangsters’ cottage. She’s a shady wicht, Marnie thought.
“Well, I stayed here as a bairn, but I’ve since lived elsewhere. Among the English and Americans.”
Marnie could make out the dark speckle of the farm cottage way across the field. The wind was picking up fast as the storm brewed closer overhead. “Where’s that, that the ‘English’ and ‘Americans’ stay together in one place?”
“One might say, we stay in another world.”
That made Marnie laugh. “America, then. Now, I don’t mean harm by askin: yer blind wife; has she a voice?”
“Aye,” the wife said in a voice low and polite, “but I let him do the talking.”
“How?”
The woman went silent, and the man said, “She’s not well. I’ve failed to mention: I’m called Will Bell, and my wife is Fenella.”
Fenella added, before once again returning to a mute state, “What name do ya go by?”
“Marnie. Me mam’s Agnes, aye, but from a guest she’ll be wanting a ‘Ms. Sangster.’”
