“Sometimes we form the dough into shapes,” Amelia commented, smiling at Livie. “Like last year, when we made cutouts of the entire household, including Scone. This year we thought we’d make a gingerbread house instead.”
“Nay, a gingerbread castle,” Livie corrected. “Glenrose, to be exact. And some of the crofts, too, if there is enough dough.”
Blair was at a loss for what to say. It was as if the grim conversation about Glenrose’s future had never happened. Instead of sour looks and silence from Livie and cool disappointment from Amelia, the two were bright-eyed and happily moving about the kitchen.
Their mood was contagious. He could have stood in the corner of the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, content to watch them work and breathe in gingerbread air. But some stubborn part of him resisted the desire to pretend all was well.
“We do not typically celebrate Christmas in Scotland,” he said, eyeing the gingerbread as Amelia slid it from its tray. “It is considered rather…Popish.”
Livie made a decidedly unladylike noise. “Da always said that was nonsense. Scots used to celebrate Christmas in the grand times of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce.”
Blair’s brows rose, but he couldn’t refute Livie’s point.
“And aye, the church may frown on a few of the more elaborate rituals,” the girl continued, “but Da said that keeping some traditions alive is good for the soul. And if we Highlanders forget our own ways, what distinguishes us from the Lowlanders—or worse, the English?” She cast a glance at Amelia and shrugged unapologetically. “No offense meant.”
Amelia pressed her lips together against a smile and nodded judiciously.
“Lord Glenrose did allow some indulgence when it came to Christmas,” Amelia said, turning back to Blair. “In fact, he encouraged the household to combine our various traditions to help us all embrace the spirit of the season. We celebrated both Christmas and Hogmanay, which I’ve come to learn is the holiday of far more import here in Scotland. He welcomed my little gingerbread tradition, and of course I’ve learned about a few Scottish confections along the way as well.”
“Like clootie dumplings!” Livie said, rolling her eyes heavenward as if in ecstasy at even the thought of the treat. “With heaps of apples and raisins and cinnamon, and a great round scoop of cream on top.”
“Indeed,” Amelia said with a soft chuckle.
Blair’s gaze slid between the two of them, uncertain what to make of all this…cheer.
“Ye are from the Highlands, my lord,” Livie said, her bright blue eyes fixing him with a curious look. “Surely ye observed Hogmanay with yer family.”
“Aye, of course,” he replied, sounding rather gruff even to his own ears.
“How did ye celebrate? What foods did ye eat? What traditions did ye practice?”
Blair shifted his weight. “Well…we cleaned the hearth the night before Hogmanay each year.”
Livie had the gall to roll her eyes at him. “That is a chore. I meant, what fun did ye have?”
He scowled at her impertinence, but she seemed unaffected. Sighing, he dug deeper into the soft-rounded memories of his youth. “There was the first footing, of course.”
“That’s another Hogmanay tradition,” Livie said as an aside to Amelia. “It is said to be good luck for the whole year ahead if a dark-haired man is the first to cross yer threshold at the stroke of midnight.”
“I was often sent to all the homes in a three-mile radius of Brenmore.” An unexpected smile tugged at the corner of Blair’s mouth. “For a young lad, nothing seemed better than getting to stay up late and ride my pony about in the dark. Not to mention, I was greeted as a hero at every house. The drams of warmed wine and spiced cakes on offer at each stop weren’t so bad, either.”
“What else?” Livie prompted.
“The foods were always grand,” Blair offered. “Black buns, crumbly shortbread, venison pies, rumbledethumps—that is a fry of all the late-season vegetables,” he clarified, catching Amelia’s furrowed brows.
“We always had a goose dinner on Christmas, and another on Hogmanay,” Livie added, excitement now lighting her face.
“Aye, and cranachan.”
“Och, cranachan.” Livie closed her eyes as if she were savoring the first bite of the decadent treat.
Amelia huffed a laugh at the girl’s euphoric expression. “And what is cranachan?”
“It is the most delightful dessert,” Livie expounded. “Made with layer upon layer of oats, raspberry preserves, honey, and thick, fluffy cream.”
“Like a trifle,” Amelia said, brightening.
“If ye’ve had cranachan, ye would never want a trifle again,” Blair said ruefully. “The honey is made from purple heather, the preserves fill yer mouth with the taste of summer, and the oats are soaked in the finest Highland whisky. If ye’re lucky, ye may get a wee tot to go along the side, as well.”
Of course, Blair’s father hadn’t wanted to waste his best whisky in the cranachan itself, but once Blair had turned sixteen, he was permitted a dram to sip with the dessert. It had made him feel like a man grown—like a Highlander.
He looked up to find Amelia smiling at him, and suddenly the sweetness of even the most liberally honeyed cranachan dwindled by comparison.
“Perhaps Cook could make it for us this year.” Her rich chocolate eyes warmed even more. “In fact…I have an idea. A little game the three of us could play together.”
“What sort of game?” The merry spell that hung in the air of the kitchen slipped. Blair wasn’t here for tomfoolery and diversion.
“Only to pass the time while we are snowed in,” Amelia hastened.
In true Highland fashion, the snow had struck hard and fast—and at the most inopportune time. None of them was going anywhere anytime soon. Nor would Cullingham be able to reach the secluded estate until the snow ceased falling and melted from the roads.
“What do ye have in mind?” he asked, eyeing Amelia.
“We
