Mother Curran's poor lambs return to the fold

Old Mother Curran sat on the edge of the bed, straining her old ears against the silence of the house and the rustling of the wind through the new leaves.

She did not feel at ease sleeping alone. She was supposed to have stayed with her son’s family in their house at the roadside, but her old heart had so ached for the worried father that she had agreed to stay here. She would keep the fires lit and the big house warm and waiting for the poor young bride.

She did not think she had heard anything after all, but she decided she would go out and tend the fire anyway. The night was cold and raw for April, and she did hope that wherever the poor lamb might be, she was wandering no longer.

Mother Curran took her candle and stepped out into the hall, but just as soon as she opened the door of the little room where she slept, the front door opened and all the house was filled with a gust of cold, rain-​​scented air. The flame of her candle shuddered and Mother Curran shrieked her surprise.

“The Devil!” a familiar young voice swore. “Mother Curran, it’s only we two! Could you…” She was nearly blind beyond the circle of her candlelight, but she could hear him blundering into the hall as if he carried a heavy burden.

“Oh, my poor lambs!” she cried. “You’ve brought her home!”

“Aye, Mother,” Sir Malcolm sighed. “Would you kindly run light the candles in the bedroom?”

He had his little wife in his arms, and her pale face peeked over his shoulder like a baby’s. She was awake, but her bleary eyes stared out as if she could see through the old woman to the wall behind her.

“Come along, come along, my chickies,” Mother Curran cooed and went clucking away into the bedroom. She lit the candles from her own, and Sir Malcolm came in behind her to lay the wee girl down, still wrapped in her heavy cloak. As far as Mother Curran knew, it was the first time her lady had ever lain on her bed.

“I’m that glad to see you again, sir!” she sighed happily. “And my lady! I never did get to welcome you home!”

Her lady did not respond.

“Aye, Mother,” Sir Malcolm said wearily. “I wondered who had a fire lit in here.”

“Her poor father did ask me to keep the house warm for her, in case you brought her home. I never thought she would come home at night, but you see! What do I know, even at my age? And I been sleeping in the baby room, for now.”

“That’s fine, Mother. May I get past you to light a fire?”

“That you may. Oh, the poor lamb! The poor gosling! Where have you been wandering on this bitter night, my pretty?”

“Mother Curran,” Sir Malcolm said, “I must go out and put the horse away. Could you help your lady to get undressed meanwhile?”

“That I will! My poor kitten!”

Mother Curran had the delicacy to wait until Sir Malcolm had gone out, and then she went to work on her lady’s cloak and gown. It was a wonderful thing, she thought, to serve such a fair and finely dressed lady, but as she worked her way down through the layers of garments, she realized that the girl was heartbreakingly thin, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Mother Curran had scarcely met her before this night, but she was quite certain that she had not always been this way. It seemed that her disease, which had gone into a retreat in the weeks before her wedding, had returned. And the old mother, who had buried four children and eight grandchildren, feared that it had returned this time to finish her.

The girl did not speak, but she allowed herself to be undressed, and even helped by lifting her arms or sitting up as necessary. When it came time to pull the gown off over her head, she even stood, though Mother Curran was frightened she would faint if they did not hurry.

“That’s my pretty pigeon,” she cooed, hoping to keep the girl awake with her words. “That’s my good lamb. Are you certain you aren’t hungry? I can make you an egg or two in no time, my pet.”

“Would you teach me to cook an egg?” Lady Iylaine mumbled confusedly.

“Well! That I will! You’ll be wanting to cook a breakfast sometimes for your young husband before old Mother Curran comes in the morning, won’t you, my precious? But perhaps not tonight, my chick. You need your rest. And an egg!”

Mother Curran gave her lady one last fussing-​​over from head to toe, preparatory to putting her back to bed – and then she caught a glimpse of the girl’s palm.

“Good heavens!” she cried. “Whatever did you do to your poor pretty hand, my angel?”

She thought she had spotted an ugly gash across the palm of her right hand, swollen and poorly healed and darkly crusted over.

“I cut it,” her lady said curtly and turned her face away.

“Well, won’t you let Old Mother Curran see? Poor lamb!”

“Malcolm will see to it.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, but she seemed too weak to lift her legs into it. Mother Curran forgot about the hand for a moment in her concern over the girl’s illness, and she helped her to lie down.

Sir Malcolm had returned before she could ask anything else.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said and gave her a tired smile.

“You’re welcome, sir!” she nodded. “She’s that tired, she is, the poor lamb, but I think she could stand to eat an egg. What do you think?”

“I think she will be hungry in the morning, and you can make her an egg then, if you have any. Just now I think she could stand to sleep.”

“Well, that too,” she nodded. “But we’ll have to get to work on fattening her up, that poor starveling squab, starting first thing in the morning.”

“We shall. You have my word,” he smiled. “Now, good night, Mother, and we shall see you then.”

He tried to hustle her out the door, but then she caught a glimpse of his own palm.

“Sir Malcolm!” she gasped. “Whatever did you do to your poor hand?”

She was certain she had quite clearly seen a fresh scar across his right palm, though in his case it seemed to have healed neatly.

“I cut it,” he said quickly. “It’s nothing. Good night, Mother.”

“But that poor girl! Have you seen her hand?”

“I know. It’s nothing. Perhaps you will have a look at it in the morning.”

“Don’t tell me you got them marks from holding reins!” she wailed. “How far did you make that poor girl ride?”

“We only went north to visit my mother. Now, we shall see you in the morning.”

“Well…”

“And could you do one favor for me before you go to sleep?” he asked. “Would you kindly light the candle in the front window?”

“Oh!” Mother Curran smiled knowingly. She had already received the instruction that this candle was not to be lit unless her lady was at home. “Your lady is come home again, and you want the whole sleeping world to know! Well, and that I shall, my ducks! That I shall!”