Page 53 of A Scot on the Rocks

“What ye’re wearing may be fine for the Americas,” Morag said as she crossed to the table, bringing damp wool, cold air, lavender, and the much more appealing smell of warm bannocks with her, “but here ye’ll dress properly if ye’re to go down to the glen.”

She ran a hand over her waterproof pants. “These are practical.”

“Aye. For a stable lad.”

From beside the hearth came a suspicious sound.

Olivia turned toward Jamie. “Did you just laugh?”

“Nay.”

Morag’s mouth twitched as she untied the bundle. “She’s got a tongue on her.”

The woman began laying garments across the bed. There was a clean linen shift, knitted stockings, two petticoats, stays, a dark blue wool gown, a fitted jacket, a cloth pocket, pins, and ribbon.

Olivia looked at the growing collection as a sense of dread filled her. “I’m supposed to wear all this?”

“Aye. I know yer a widow and should wear black but the dark blue is also respectable and yer too…”

Morag gestured towards her chest. “A bit overlarge in that area for the black dress.”

Jamie made a strangled sound in his throat as heat flooded her neck and face. She’d inherited her generous boobs from her grandmother and had learned at an early age that men were attracted to women with big boobs who were mean to them.

Jamie had drifted toward the basket while she was distracted. Morag slapped his hand without looking, though not before he managed to secure half a bannock.

She handed Olivia the shift. “This first.”

The linen felt substantial beneath her fingers, nothing like the soft cotton or synthetics she usually wore. Morag explained that linen sat against the skin because it washed well, while wool was brushed, aired, spot-cleaned, and expected to last for years.

By the time they reached the stays, Olivia wondered if she’d be able to run if she needed to.

“How often would someone buy a new gown?” she asked while Morag adjusted the laces.

“Depends who she is and how much coin she has. Cloth costs dear. A good gown can be altered, turned, cut down, or passed on.”

Olivia looked at the blue wool waiting on the stool. “Who did this belong to?”

“My daughter’s before she had the bairns. It will fit ye near enough.”

That changed the feel of it entirely.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any money. I’ll take care of it.”

“I expect ye will.”

Morag said it as though Olivia’s promise required no more discussion.

The separate pocket fascinated her almost as much as the stays. Morag tied it around her waist beneath the petticoat and showed her how to reach it through a slit in the outer layer.

Olivia slipped her hand inside. “The pocket goes under the gown?”

“Aye. Harder for a thief to cut away.”

“That’s clever.”

Morag looked satisfied. “Women usually are when men leave us alone long enough.”

Olivia laughed and reached inside again, imagining money, keys, a handkerchief, perhaps a small knife. Grandma Bennett’s apron came suddenly to mind, its pockets full of bottle openers, peppermints, receipts, aspirin, folded bills, and a few pens.