On Friday, October 24, Ian and William rode out before dawn in a heavy downpour to search along Teviotdale for any word of strangers passing up the dale or coming north through the pass at Windy Edge. Over the long tiring day, they spoke to dozens of farmers, shepherds, farm wives, servant girls, and cattle drovers who were all happy to stop work for a moment, get out of the rain somewhere, and talk over every stranger who had been seen in the dale in the last few months.

“Nae, nobody came up the muir on horseback these two weeks.”

“What folk were ye lookin’ for?”

“I saw that Sandy Armstrong ridin’ through here week past, lookin’ right sleekit. Could it be himself ye’re seekin’?”

Everywhere they went they asked for word to be sent if anyone saw the stranger. They asked that their request be given to the shepherds and cattlemen in the high country. These tough, weather-beaten livestock guardians were rarely seen themselves, but they saw and noted everything that passed. 

After dozens of calls, it was time to turn back as Ian was determined to be home in time to bid Agnes goodnight. In the dusk, as they rode down the valley towards Roxholme, the mist came down from the moor and laid an ice-cold blanket over the land and the tired riders. Ian’s head was already throbbing. The mist seemed to make it worse. He rode without a murmur of discomfort, but Willie noticed him swaying in the saddle and pulled up. “Are ye hurt, man?” 

Ian shook his head and immediately regretted it. He leaned out as far as he could so he could vomit without spattering either the horse or his clothes.

“It’s the headache just,” he said, pulling himself upright in the saddle. 

“Oh aye,” said Willie. “We’ll be hame soon.” 

They rode up the drive at Roxholme, and Willie helped his kinsman to the door and called for Dickson. 

“I’m fine,” grumbled Ian, shielding his eyes from the firelight in the hall. “Bring me brandy in the library.” He turned to Willie.  “Thank you for your work today, Willie. Sorry it was a wasted effort. You must get yourself home now, or Mrs. Willie will make me sorry I was born.”

“Aye,” said Willie. “Happen she will.” And he left to ride the half mile down valley to his own home. 

Ian staggered into the library and slumped into his chair by the fire. Dickson found him there, still in his wet greatcoat, and made him as comfortable as possible with a large brandy and a footstool. 

“Mrs. Kerr will want to know you are home, sir.”

“Arhh, no, I don’t want her bothered with this,” Ian grumbled.

“No, sir. Of course.” Dickson left the room with a disapproving look. Ian knew that Dickson had respect for the new Mrs. Kerr and would not wish to cross her. In any case, Eloise had heard the door slam behind Willie and came down.

“Where is my husband?” she asked Dickson.

“In the library, ma’am. He asked that you not be disturbed.” 

“Did he indeed,” said Eloise in a tone that boded ill for Ian. She went across the hall and entered the small library. “Ian, I am so pleased you are home. Agnes has been longing to see you. Did you not find my note? Dinner is nearly …” She stopped. “Are you ill?”

“No. Go away. Leave me in peace.” 

He was immediately ashamed of his rudeness, but it seemed to have no effect on his wife. She kept coming, and as she got closer, he cringed from the sound of her footsteps and covered his eyes with his hand, uncomfortably aware of the faint sour smell of vomit where he hadn’t quite managed to avoid his boots. 

“No, I will not go away.” She spoke in an undertone now, but with determination. He next felt her hands cool on his forehead, stroking towards his temples and around the back of his neck. 

“Where is the pain?” she whispered. “Here? Temples? Forehead?” She found the throbbing temples and the vein pulsating in his forehead. 

He felt her hands press firmly against his temples, and for a few blessed seconds, the pain faded. Then it returned as she released her hold.

“Dickson will prepare your bed straight away,” she said. 

“No! I’ll be fine. Let me alone.” Ian had his head in his hands, pressing tight.

“You are not fine, and I will not let you alone. This one time, Ian Kerr, you will listen to me and do what you are told.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard her clearly just the same. 

“I know what I am doing,” she continued, “and you obviously don’t, or you wouldn’t be drinking brandy when you have a sick headache. Here! Do this!” She showed him how to squeeze the flesh between his thumb and forefinger with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. 

“I will be back in a minute,” she said and left him to reflect that one of the disadvantages of a wife was that you couldn’t order her about like a servant. Or, if you tried, you would not succeed.

***

Outside the library, Dickson was waiting for the instructions he had been expecting. 

“Prepare Mr. Kerr’s bedroom. Is it aired? Is there a fire?” Eloise fired off orders like a sergeant major. 

“Yes, ma’am. It is ready.” If Dickson was offended at the suggestion that any of his tasks could be left undone so late into the day, he gave no sign.  

“Does he have a featherbed?” she asked. 

“No, ma’am. He chooses not to have one.” 

“Well, take the one from my bed and take also my pillow. He needs to be kept warm and comfortable, but it is best if the room is cool.” 

“Very well, ma’am. I will see to it.”

“Where is Mrs. Kershaw?” 

“Here, ma’am,” said that lady, coming out of the servants’ side of the house. “Dinner is nearly…”

“Is there willow bark in the stillroom?” Eloise interrupted.

“Willow bark?” Mrs. Kershaw looked dumbfounded. “Not that I ever heard of, ma’am.” 

“Hmpf! Is the gardener here?” Eloise was more peremptory than the servants had ever seen her.

 “No, ma’am, but his boy is sitting in the kitchen this minute having his supper.” 

“I want to speak to him,” said Eloise sharply.

“Aye, ma’am.” Mrs. Kershaw retreated.

A few moments later, a shy gangly boy of perhaps thirteen slipped into the hall with his cap in hand. “I’m Andrew, ma’am,” he said.

Andrew, do you know if there is a willow tree in the garden?”

“Aye, ma’am, there are many, down along the burn.”

“White willow?” she asked. 

“Aye, and other kinds as well.”

“I want you to go right now,” said Eloise.  “Hurry. Cut an armful of the youngest sallies, quickly, and bring them to the kitchen. Then strip off the bark. Have you a knife?” 

“Aye, ma’am.” He pulled out a short-bladed knife suited for garden work. 

“Go now.” Eloise dismissed him.

 Andrew was off at a run. He had never been spoken to by the new mistress and was in awe. So very handsome she was, and very, very firm in her manner. 

“Mrs. Kershaw?” Eloise walked into the kitchen. “Mr. Kerr is not well enough to dine. I will stay with him this evening. I will take a tray in my room later, but for now, I am sorry, dinner will not be served. Mrs. Clark,” Eloise turned to the cook. “Please put a pot of water on to boil. For the bark Andrew will be bringing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Clark stood and waited for further instructions. 

“And please prepare something light for my husband for later. Broth, perhaps. It may not be wanted till late tonight.” Eloise’s tone was a little softer now.

“Very well, ma’am.” 

Andrew burst into the kitchen, his arms full of willow twigs. 

“Are these all right, ma’am?” he panted.

She looked them over carefully. “They will do. Thank you, Andrew. You did well. Now sit down and start stripping off the bark. When you have this much bark,” she indicated two big handfuls, “put it into the pot of boiling water Cook will show you.” She gave Mrs. Clark a sharp look, and that good lady nodded.

“Aye, the bark is a good remedy for pain,” she said. 

“Half an hour to boil, one hour to steep, and then I want the warm tea with a little honey brought upstairs. The rest of the tea can be left to steep longer.” 

Eloise was done, but in her mind, she was adding to the list of things that needed changing in Ian’s household. No, her household now. The stillroom might be one of the first.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.” The cook’s manner was reassuring. 

Eloise returned to the library in time to see Dickson try to convince Ian to go to bed. He was clutching his head and growling his anger when Eloise walked in. 

Eloise spoke gently to him, all her resentment forgotten. “Come,’ she said and took his hand. “Come now. Let me comfort you tonight.” 

***

Ian hesitated. He was so tired. Tired of always controlling his feelings, denying his hurts. Maybe this one time, he could allow himself to be weak. With a deep groan, he followed Eloise to the hall and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. A few minutes later, Dickson had him undressed, wrapped in a warm bedgown and tucked under the quilts. The room was cool and fresh. Eloise nodded her appreciation to Dickson. Neither spoke – they could see how painful the sound was to him. 

Eloise sat down by the head of the bed and put Ian’s head in her lap. She gently undid his hair and fanned it out. Then she started to massage his shoulders, neck, and back of the head. Ian groaned, but it didn’t seem to make the pain worse. Her firm, sure touch moved up to his scalp, massaging in small circular motions, slowly and carefully. Ian began to relax a little. The pounding in his temples slowed infinitesimally. 

Eloise laid his head down on the pillow and crept from the room. An hour later she returned with a cup of steaming liquid and a spoon.

Dickson helped her raise Ian to sit up, though he nearly vomited again from the pain. 

“What is that?” he asked, his speech a little slurred.

“Willow bark,” said Eloise. “It will help the pain a little, and then you must sleep.”

Spoonful by spoonful, she fed him the warm red tea. It tasted of nothing in particular other than honey, and he was past objecting anyway. A short while later, a slight fog seemed to creep across his mind. In that fog, there was less pain. Gradually, the pounding in his temples subsided, the nausea eased. The tense muscles relaxed. Eloise and Dickson helped him lie down again. Eloise dismissed Dickson, blew out the candle and settled herself in the big chair by the fire. The darkness helped ease the pain. Soon, Ian was asleep. 

***

Ian woke up. The pain was gone, leaving him feeling wrung out and frail as was usual with his headaches. Someone was in the room with him – it must be Dickson keeping watch over him. Over-solicitous nonsense. He had a headache; that was all. 

“Dickson,” he whispered. If the man had fallen asleep, no need to wake him. 

A rustle from the armchair and Eloise came toward the bed. Oh, God, she had sat up all night!

“The pain is gone,” he said. 

“That is good. I sent Dickson to bed.”

“Am I still your prisoner, then?” He was able to produce a tiny smile.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a gentle smile. “Forever!” 

“Ahh, that is good. But I would prefer it if my kindly jailer did not freeze to death in the execution of her duties. Come to bed, Eloise.” 

He lifted the bedclothes. She slipped in beside him. 

“Only if you promise to stay still and go back to sleep,” she admonished.

“Hmmmm.” He put his arm around her. “Where did you learn medicine?”

“It is only a folk remedy,” she said. “My father learned of it from a missionary who had spent many years in the American colonies. My father had headaches like the one you had today. He found the willow bark agreed with him more than laudanum.” 

“And the massage?” 

“Oh, we tried so many things. This was one that sometimes helped”.

“Well, it helped me. Thank you.” 

She turned to catch his glance in the light of the dying fire and answered only with a smile. 

Ian lay awake for some time after Eloise had gone to sleep to consider the day’s events. He had made no progress locating his enemy, but he had at least warned his neighbours. And Eloise had revealed another side of herself. She was a healer. He had not expected that, but tonight, he was grateful for it. Wife, lover, mother, chatelaine…healer. Were there more revelations to come? He smiled in the darkness and hugged her closer and went to sleep.