Chapter 13
“Ah, I shall never appreciate a shower ever again,” Edwina cooed as she settled into the warm water. I wonder if I could possibly fit a tub this size... no, it would never work, even if the landlord were willing to pull down the wall between the kitchen and bathroom. Then what would I use for a kitchen?
Her musings quickly gave way to thoughts of moving into a larger apartment. Perhaps she ought to think about making a real home for herself, not just a come-hither-and- rest place to lay her head until the next day’s duties.
Funny, she’d never thought about that before. What had prompted her to think about it now? She should know some- thing about herself, with all the psychology books and magazine articles she had read.
Strangely enough, she had no idea why she wanted a cozy home at this point in her life. She had planned to keep the apartment until—or if—she married. Now it seemed to take on a sense of urgency. Edwina shrugged. Just when you think you’ve figured out who you are and what you’re about, something as simple as a slight emergency trip to Scotland changes your whole way of thinking. And after only two days! Perhaps she was overly tired.
She lifted herself out of the tub and to her surprise found a beautiful, satiny white dressing gown lying across her pillows. Had Bertie left it for her? Perhaps there was a new guest and she needed to leave the room tonight.
Still in her cherry pink towel, she picked up the heavy garment, and it slid across her fingers like silk. Perhaps it was silk. She had no clue. But it felt wonderful as she rubbed it across her cheek. The scent... what was it? Lavender? She fanned the fabric underneath her nose and sniffed. “Ah, it is Lavender, my favorite.” She whispered.
A tap followed by Bertie’s now familiar presence interrupted her thoughts. “Ye like it?”
“Aye,” she answered and saw Bertie’s smile.
“Lass, ye are not Scottish are ye?”
“Oh no, Bertie. Irish on both sides.”
“Ach.” Bertie said no more.
“I see how it is,” she teased and let the towel slide off while Bertie slipped the gown over her head. “It is so beautiful.” Her hand ran along the smooth fabric.
“Silk, lassie. Pure silk.” Bertie’s eyes skimmed her. “Ya know ye’d be a right pretty lass if ye’d... well, walk the hills a bit.”
“Ah, so you think I’m fat?”
“Fat? Such a nasty word, lass. If I thought so, I wouldna say it.”
“Well, you’ve got eyes. I’m not exactly a willow stick.”
Bertie made great work of punching the pillows into shape.
“What does it matter? I’m just a librarian in a small town back home. I doubt I’ll marry. . . Edwina didn’t exactly like where this was going.
“Oh puff and stuff. Ye’re a young gal. A good man would like a woman with some flesh on ’er. Just ask my William.”
“You have a husband?” Edwina knew her shock was showing.
“Ye think me incapable?” Bertie’s familiar hands-on- hips stance was unrepentant.
“It’s not that, Bertie. Would you please stop putting words in my mouth?” She sat on the side of the bed and nearly slid off.
“See lass, a smart-tongued one ye are. Nearly fell to yer death with that slippery silk.”
Suddenly the absurdity of their conversation struck Edwina and she began to laugh. She laughed until her sides hurt. The usually sharp-tongued Bertie had joined in and neither could stop themselves.
“I can see me tellin’ Laird Dunnegin that ye slipped off the bed and died, right at my feet, cause of the nightdress. And ye being an American . . .”
“Now Bertie, that’s not nice.” They were off again. For several minutes neither could gain their composure.
“Bertie, stop. Stop!” Edwina held her sides as she rolled on the bed.
“Lass, ye are the grandest child in a woman’s body I ’ave ever witnessed.”
“Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Bertie... when you lighten up a little.”
Finally they settled down, and Edwina could ask the question she longed to say.
“Bertie, tell me about your William.” She settled herself under the covers and allowed Bertie to tuck her in.
“Now lass, what ye be wantin’ to know aboot me old man? He died and left me penniless, ye know it.”
“He did? Did you love him, Bertie?”
“Aye. Till I wanted to die for not having him with me.”
“What did it feel like—to love someone that much, I mean.”
“Lass, there are no words. Even Shakespeare, bless his English soul, was not able to pin it down about the way a man loves a woman, even though he tried.”
Edwina gazed into the woman’s sad eyes. “And as a woman also loves her man.”
“Ah... I see. Did you have children?”
“One lad, but he died afore he was three. And no more came after that. It was our lot in life, I suspect. We must have sinned too much, for the good Lord gave us no more babes.”
“Oh Bertie, God doesn’t do things like that.”
“Puff and stuff.” She waved off Edwina’s comments.
“Well, He doesn’t.”
“And ye—the little lass from America—thinks she knows all things?” Bertie made work of smoothing the covers and plumping the pillows.
“No. I don’t really. I just know that God loves you. And you must trust Him, no matter what’s happened to you.”
“What easy talk, child. Ye have no senses yet about how ye might feel if’n ye was in my shoes, poor as they might be.”
“You’re probably right, Bertie. Just remember one thing for me?”
“Aye, child, say ye’re piece and let me be.”
“God loves you no matter what you’ve done right or wrong. Just ask Him to forgive you and He will.”
“There, now ye’ve said it. I’ll think on it, lass.” Bertie patted her hand and left.
Lord, please let Bertie know that you love her.