Lady Violet Finds a Bridegroom by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781952443954
Publisher: Grace Burrowes

The gig had stopped on the road ahead of us when we were more than half the distance back to Leland House. A crew of men in laborer’s garb, some undressed down to their shirt-sleeves, were clearing a ditch. This was a thankless task that involved scything the weeds down to knee height, wielding a mattock, then pulling the weeds up by the roots.

The alternative was to allow nature to wreak havoc with drainage and court either flooding or parched crops. My father was of the opinion that stagnant water bred foul miasmas as well, and it did seem to be the case that many illnesses spread more quickly in the warmer months, when muddy ditches and stagnant ponds abounded.

“The big fellow on the end is Iain,” I said as St. Sevier slowed our horses.

Iain wore only a plain black kilt and heavy work boots with gartered knee-high wool stockings. He shrugged into a billowy white shirt as we approached, but not before I saw a torso, chest, and back sculpted in lean muscles.

“Remind me to parade about naked for your nightly delectation,” St. Sevier muttered.

“Believe me, I will.”

Iain approached the gig, and for the first time in my memory, he smiled. He made a halfhearted job of tucking his shirt into the waistband of his kilt, while Fanny or Eulalie engaged him in some sort of small talk. He petted the horse’s broad flank with a large, dusty hand as I brought my mare nearer the gig.

“Lady Violet,” he said, offering me a bow. “St. Sevier. Bonnie day for a trot, aye?”

The smile faded, though the dour Scot did not entirely supplant the charming laddie. Iain’s eyes remained friendly, his manner relaxed. He was, I surmised, a man whose happiness required him to be regularly out of doors and exerting himself physically. My brother Felix had some of the same qualities, though his passion was horses.

“Lovely day,” St. Sevier said, “but now we’ve caught up with the gig and its dust. I’ll water the horses if nobody objects.”

I dismounted with Iain’s assistance as the ladies in the gig bid Iain and his crew good day.

“Shall you have a wee sittee-doon?” Iain asked, exaggerating his accent. “The day is too fine to hasten back to Leland House.” He gestured to the stone wall next to the road, which I was apparently to use as a bench, as in sit ye down.

The culvert passed beneath the road, though the water was little more than a fast-moving rivulet. “That seems like a lot of ditch for not much stream,” I said.

“’Tis now, but a month ago, when the snow was still melting in the mountains, that ditch was barely enough. With the hillsides so steep, water develops significant velocity. We get the occasional watershoot with summer storms, too, and the force of the flooding can carry off livestock.”

That was more words strung together than I had heard Iain offer, ever.

“I saw serious flooding last year,” I said. “The dam irrigating a water meadow burst after a spate of heavy rain.

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