Page 93 of A Scot in the Storm
Chapter 21
Abigail
Early that morning, Abigail woke in darkness with the certain feeling that she was forgetting something important.
For one disorienting moment she lay still beneath the heavy blankets listening to the tower breathe around her. Wind moved softly beyond the stones while the fire in the grate had burned itself down to red breath beneath the ash. Somewhere below, she heard Mrs. Gable and her minions already moving through the kitchen.
The realization struck all at once. It was the last Thursday in November. Thanksgiving.
The homesickness hit so hard she gasped for air.
Before their parents died in that horrible boating accident, Abigail and Sam would have woken to find their mother already awake, wearing the faded blue scarf she insisted was lucky for making pie crust despite years of evidence suggesting otherwise. The television would be on, turned to the channel for the big Thanksgiving day parade. Classical music would be playing from the kitchen radio because her mother firmly believed the turkey turned out better when she played classical.
The smell of the turkey in the oven would permeate the house.
After. When it was just the two of them, if they weren’t together, Sam would call around noon. Not before. Never before. They’d talk and laugh, and then her brother would be off on his next adventure while she worked. Always work.
Abigail stared blindly at the ceiling while grief rose sharp and sudden beneath her ribs.
A physical ache that made her want to sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor of her mother’s house while Sam argued about stuffing ratios and somebody burned the dinner rolls.
To hear Sam talk about surfing, seeing a pod of dolphins, or some hidden spot he’d managed to find traveling around in his van.
She rolled onto her side and took slow deep breaths. Absolutely not.
There was no way she was going to spend the morning crying because her idiot brother believed thyme should dominate sage in the stuffing.
Outside, the sound of the gulls and the waves slowly brought her back as Abigail drew one long breath. Then another.
A bit of water on her face, the russet wool dress, her hair up in a messy bun, and her hiking boots, the only thing left of her own time, Abigail took a deep breath, and opened the door to go about her day, pretending nothing in the world had changed.
The kitchen glowed gold with heat and firelight by the time she came down.
Mrs. Gable stood elbow-deep in bread dough beside the table with her sleeves rolled to the forearms and flour streaked across one cheek like a woman fully prepared to fistfight winter if required.
“You’re late,” Mrs. Gable announced without looking up.
“It’s still dark.”
“Aye. Which is why decent people have already begun their labors.”
Abigail managed a weak smile and crossed to the cupboard for bowls. Everything looked painfully ordinary. Which somehow made the homesickness worse.
Unwilling to brood, she threw herself into work. There wasn’t anything for her to do with the light now that the bearing was working, so she helped in the kitchens, glad that she and Mrs. Gable were becoming friends.
There were carrots to be chopping, oats to be measured, water to be fetched, and linens to fold.
The kitchen and laundry workers kept up a stream of chatter, and two boys bringing wood inside, were betting who could catch a seagull first. Abigail would have bet on the seagull.
No matter how much she did, all morning the date sat inside her chest like a bruise she couldn’t stop touching.
Rory came in just after sunrise carrying a coil of waxed cord beneath one arm, cold air following him through the doorway along with the sharp scent of the ocean. His hair was windblown beneath the loose tie at his neck while granite dust marked one shoulder of his coat.
He stopped upon seeing her, like some part of him had shifted direction entirely.
“You’ve not eaten.”
Abigail looked down at the untouched heel of bread and piece of cheese beside her elbow.
