Page 11 of Fletcher

Lark spent her first days on the island sewing in the room they’d given her. Altering the crudely made, oversize gowns she’d been given to wear kept her busy enough to avoid thinking about her situation too much. The work also kept her tattered nerves from shredding apart. Still, each night she wondered if she’d wake up at all the next morning, and then find herself in some ICU, hooked up to dozens of machines. The blow to her head during the mugging might have permanently damaged her brain, too.

Instead nothing changed, and except for daily visits from maids, Duncan, and Valerie Baker, no one bothered with her.

Duncan always looked in on her first thing in the morning, something that did a lot to reassure her. He asked her some questions as he checked her head wound, which according to him seemed to be healing well. His attractive face, silver-streaked black hair and mysterious, dark blue eyes probably made a lot of hearts flutter, but he reminded her a little too much of Lawrence in coloring to make Lark completely comfortable with him. Despite the resemblance she liked his aura of calmness, and the way he listened carefully to everything she said.

“I’ve a time convincing the vassals make a habit of washing proper,” the healer said as he inspected her scabbed gash. “’Tis unpleasant, for the soap stings, and they fear ’twill make their injuries fester. How sleep you at night? ’Tis any pain or lingering headache? I’ve a draught I may give you that should ease such.”

“No pain, really.” Lark wasn’t sleeping very well, and it probably showed on her face. Not having a mirror made judging her own appearance impossible. “The feather bed takes getting used to, but my head’s okay.”

“I shall ask Fletcher send some calming brew for you tonight,” Duncan promised. “’Tis but some herbs and honey, and shallnae harm you. Lady Valerie quite enjoys the taste.”

Lark wanted to ask if he’d send the seneschal with the brew, but decided against it. From some things the maids had said, she guessed Fletcher to be one of the busiest members of the clan––too busy to bother with her, apparently.

The laird’s wife would stop by shortly after Duncan’s visit to deliver Lark’s breakfast on a tray, and sit and talk with her for a few minutes.

“If you’re getting bored, I’d be happy to give you a tour of the stronghold, or show you some of the island,” Valerie offered one morning. “It’s really beautiful this time of year. Like spring was born here.”

Lark liked the laird’s wife, whom she learned had been a high school science teacher before traveling back in time. She had a sunny, empathetic personality, and yet never lingered long or asked too many questions. Although she had been politely friendly to the other woman, Lark decided against volunteering too much information about herself. The fact that the two people she’d trusted most had made a complete fool out of her factored into that.

“Of course if you’d rather keep sewing, the tour can wait,” Valerie added when she didn’t say anything. “Don’t let me push you into anything.”

“Am I worrying you that much?” Lark asked.

“Just a little.” The other woman wrinkled her nose. “Mostly it’s the thought of you staying in the room all day. I’d go crazy if I had to sit and sew for hours.”

“Stitching by hand is very relaxing for me. I usually work on a computerized sewing machine.” She eyed the other woman’s poorly-fitted tunic. “Did you make what you’re wearing?”

“This? Oh, no. I can tack on a button, but that’s the extent of my dressmaking skills. We have a seamstress who makes all the clan’s clothing, but she’s getting older now, and her eyesight isn’t the best.” As Lark shook out the gown she’d just finished Valerie made a startled sound. “My goodness. You’re really talented.”

Lark turned the gown around to inspect both sides. She preferred wearing linen to wool, and had taken apart three shifts and an apron to salvage enough fabric to make herself a simple A-line dress. The creamy white color of the fabric, however, wasn’t her favorite, as it would make all of her freckles stand out. A taupe or tan would suit her much more.

“Does your seamstress dye the cloth she gets from your weavers?” she asked Valerie.

“I think they do that before they make the wool and flax into cloth, but I can check.” The laird’s wife peered at one of the seams. “Wow. I can’t even see your sewing.”

“I used a ladder stitch there. It conveniently disappears.” She smoothed out the skirt before she draped it on the rack by the hearth. “If you’ll let me measure you, I’ll tailor your clothes to better fit you.”

Valerie tugged at the hem of her tunic. “Is it shameless if I accept with a whoop of gratitude?”

“Not at all. I’m a seamstress, and it’s what I do.” She picked up the long ribbon she had been using to measure herself. “If you don’t mind undressing, I’ll measure you first.”

The laird’s wife wore modern lingerie under her medieval tunic and long skirt, but that was also in a slightly shabby condition.

“I apologize for the ratty state of my underwear,” she said as Lark began circling her waist with the ribbon. “I only came with the one set I was wearing. What they use for laundry soap in this time is double industrial strength, I think, but at least it’s not old urine like they use in some cultures.”

“That didn’t go out with the Romans?” she asked, and when Valerie nodded she shuddered. “Ick. If you want a few more sets of lingerie I can make those up, too. You’ll have to use ties instead of elastic, but the linen they weave here is exceptionally light and comfortable.”

The laird’s wife grinned. “Is there anything you can’t make?”

“I mastered pattern-making for men’s, women’s and children’s clothes before I started working, so not really. I don’t make push-up bras, waist trainers, and girdles. I know how to, of course, but they disgust me.” She thought for a moment. “Add butt lifter panties to that list.”

“I’m the same way about wearing pencil skirts,” Valerie said, nodding. “How is a woman supposed to walk in them, anyway?”

Once Lark finished taking her measurements she went to the table to write them down on a scrap of parchment she’d gotten from one of the maids. In the process, the thin piece of charcoal she’d taken from the hearth, which she had been using in place of a pen, snapped.

“I really miss the sewing app I had on my phone,” she mentioned as she went over to find another piece. “I haven’t actually written down anything since I was in school.”

“I brought some office supplies with me from the future, if you’d like something less medieval,” Valerie said as she pulled on her tunic and skirt.