Chapter 9
Once concealed in her room, exhausted, Edwina kicked off her shoes and fell across the bed, pulling a pillow beneath her head. “What work it is to suffer through all this fliff-fluff.” she sighed as her eyelids fluttered. “I rather think my lifestyle much more . . .” Her words faded away as her thoughts left her.
The next thing she remembered was Bertie calling to her softly. “Miss Edwina... Miss Edwina . . .”
Her eyes opened. There in the ghostly darkness was Bertie, a candle burning, flames dancing upon her austere face. Edwina thought her the epitome of a 1940s character on an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
“How eerie.” Edwina tried to sit up. “Do you always go around with a candle? Surely the electricity—”
“Works fine enough. I prefer a candle. It wakes a soul more gently than a light turned on full in one’s face.”
Well, what about that? Bertie had concerns about gently waking me? How strange. Edwina rubbed her eyes, then realized she’d fallen asleep in the dress. She jumped up, smoothing the skirts.
“I’m sorry, I guess I..
“There now, be gentle with the dress, lass.” Bertie interrupted.
“What is it with this dress anyway?” Edwina began to undo the buttons at her wrist.
“Tis nothing for ye to think aboot,” came Bertie’s quick answer.
“That’s true,” she acquiesced. “I’m sorry, Bertie.”
“You need not call me Bertie,” she said smartly. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” She started to say that Bertilda was so proper and decided it may not win her any affection from the formidable Miss Bertie.
“There, give me the dress. And stop saying, I’m sorry.”
Edwina almost said it again and stopped herself with a finger across her lips. She handed Bertie the dress and turned to retrieve her packed case, which still stood next to the door. While Bertie was busy in the adjoining dressing room, she quickly skidded the case to the end of the bed and plunked it down, then opened it.
“Ah, I have found a nightdress for ye.” The woman held up a pink confection to the lamplight now lit atop the small table.
“It is much nicer than my... my . . .”
“Much nicer,” Bertie said forthrightly. So her raggedy pajamas had not gone unnoticed by the maid. “Slip off yer underthings, and I shall help put this over yer head. Edwina obeyed. “We mustn’t muss yer hair.”
“Why not? I’m just going to take it down anyway,” Edwina stated, pulling at the pins. She could not possibly sleep with all those knots Bertie had wound into her hair. “Lass, don’t know ye know yer manners yet? Tis my duty to unwind yer hair and comb it free.” Bertie shook her head. Bertie was forever feigning disgust and tired as she was, Edwina was rather sick of it.
“I can do it myself, Bertie... I mean Bertilda,” she said crossly. But before she had lifted her arms to do it, Bertie slapped her hands away, took hold of her shoulders, walked her to the little pink flowered seat in front of the vanity, and sat her down.
“Well.” was all Edwina could say.
“Now sit still, lass. I have much to do yet this eve.” Edwina nearly blurted, “Well, go and do it . . .and leave me be.” But she bit her tongue. After all, she was a guest. And soon she would be out of this castle with all its Scottish rules and manners. It was au revoir to all plans for a sneaky getaway this evening.
“Oh, but that feels so nice.” Edwina felt her frustrations fly away as Bertie’s hair and scalp ministrations left her body feeling as though she had no bones.
“Tis good for a body to relax before going to the bed.”
Bertie’s voice had softened. Edwina, in some far-off fashion, wondered why. She had so much to do. Suddenly she jumped awake.
“Shouldn’t you be combing Ilana’s hair?” she looked up at Bertie.
“That lass won’t let me lay a hand on ’er.” Bertie’s face hardened right before her eyes.
“Why? It feels so nice... and Ilana has such beautiful black hair . . .” her voice trailed off as her muscles relaxed again. Bertie was running a soft brush through her hair now.
“Tis not for me to speak of.” Bertie clamped her lips shut.
“Ah... and not for a guest to know either,” Edwina said.
“Right ye are lass,” Bertie agreed.
“Then we won’t speak of it . . .” Edwina’s voice trailed off again.
“Now to bed with ye.” Bertie pulled her up and gave her backside a little slap. Her eyes popped open. It was a mother tap. Edwina wanted to cry—her own mother had done such things when she was a child. She could remember distinctly.
“Well, be off with ye,” Bertie’s voice sing-songed.
“Thank you, Bertie.” Edwina hesitated, then hugged the woman quickly and ran for her bed. She felt like a ten-year- old. And here she was a twenty-seven-year-old woman, practical and quite satisfied with her life. But with a newfound bit of humor, she reminded herself.
Edwina saw the candlelight disappear and then heard a soft click as the door closed.