“B-but…I donna know the order of things or how much tallow is to be used. Am I to blue the clothing? How shall I blue? I’ve never done such a thing!”
“Miss Lockhart, I trust ye will find yer way,” he said irritably. “’Tis no’ a mathematical equation. Please step aside. I shall send Charlie with the laundry,” he said and stepped around her and stooped to go out the small door.
She gaped at his departing back. She’d never done laundry—Fiona, Dudley’s wife, had always done the Lockhart washing, even after all the chambermaids had gone. And while Beckwith was correct in that the wash was not exactly a science, it did require a bit of instruction, did it not? Douglas, damn him! Why wouldn’t he employ the services of a washerwoman as did most lairds in Scotland? It was little wonder he had such wealth, so bloody frugal as he was.
She’d managed to fill the big kettle with water by the time Charlie brought the laundry down. She begged him for help, but Charlie laughed. “I’ve no’ blued a bloody thing in me life,” he said good-naturedly. “And I donna intend to start now, lass. Besides, the laird is receiving guests, and I’m wanted on the drive.”
“Aye, thank ye for yer help!” she called after him as he jogged up the path, and received nothing more than a shout of laughter for it.
When the water reached a boil, Mared siphoned some off and poured it in the first tub. She determined she’d start with something rather small to better gauge the amount of tallow soap needed as well as the amount of bluing agent. She dug through the pile of linens and clothing and picked out a handful of neckcloths. She shoved the neckcloths into the first tub, took a cake of tallow soap, and grimacing at the greasy feel of it, she put it in the water and watched it melt. Then she took the paddle, stuck it in the wooden tub, and began to swirl it around.
After a quarter of an hour, she had developed the start of a blister on one hand and determined it was enough swishing around. She put more water in the second tub, then lifted the dozen or so neckcloths from the first and put them in the second to rinse them of the tallow. That took some effort, as the tallow, made from sheep’s fat, clung to the neckcloths.
When she’d had enough of the rinsing, she put the neckcloths in the last tub and took the bluing agent from the single shelf in the washhouse and dumped some in. She was standing over the wooden tub, trying to determine if she should stir it or not, when Jamie sauntered in, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Look at ye, then, Miss Lockhart, so very industrious,” he observed as he glanced around the washroom. “Ach, put down yer paddle and come to the gardens with me. ’Tis a bonny day.”
“A bonny day?” Mared laughed. “It is gray and cool, sir, did ye no’ remark it when ye came from the house?”
“Aye, but when a lass is in me presence, on me honor the clouds lift and the sun shines.”
She laughed. “Rather poetic, sir, but I donna think the clouds will lift today.”
“No? Then cast a spell.”
Her hackles rose instantly. Jamie was no longer smiling, but watching her carefully. He made her quite anxious, and she instinctively reached for the paddle. “Would that I could,” she said, smiling thinly.
He suddenly dropped one hand that he held behind his back and held out a note to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The laird has sent ye a note. A love letter by the look of it.”
Mared blinked. Her heart, her perfidious, miserable heart, skipped a beat.
“Aha!” Jamie exclaimed. “Ye hope that it is, I can see it in yer eyes.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she said, blushing furiously. “I fear it is more labor that he requires of me.” She reached for the note.
But Jamie jerked it out of her reach and waved it above her head. “What favor should I ask for yer love letter, then? Ah—I’ve a hankering to kiss an accursed lass. Ye’ll have yer love letter in exchange for a kiss.”
“Jamie!” she cried, trying to laugh. “Have a care! If Beckwith catches ye here, he’d dismiss ye straightaway.”
“Beckwith will no’ come to the washhouse, no’ when there are guests in the salon.” He held up the letter. “Come on, then, leannan. Give us a kiss.”
“Give it over,” she quietly demanded.
Jamie laughed nastily and walked closer, the letter held high over his head. “Kiss me now and I’ll give it to ye.”
She glowered at him, reached above his head for the note, but Jamie chuckled and jerked it out of her reach again and cocked his head to one side. “Well, then?”
Bastard. She felt very vulnerable and frantically thought what to do, her eyes darting to the door behind him, then to him again. Suddenly she smiled. “All right, then, lad. Come here, and I’ll give ye a kiss,” she said sweetly.
Jamie’s eye narrowed, and he grinned lecherously. He stepped forward, but as he reached for her, Mared swung the paddle out of the bluing tub and whacked him soundly in the ribs.