It is still dark when she wakes, and she has a crick in her neck from sleeping in an awkward position with Charles's body draped across hers as almost dead weight. He still stinks of whisky, poor man, and that as much as anything else ignites the embers of her anger. She's had a fitful, dream-filled night, fighting again and again with nameless, faceless sluggards doing naught but drinking and telling tales. The thought of them causes a throbbing in her temple. She must shift, she must stretch, even if it means disturbing Charles. She attempts to move him, gently lifting his arm, pushing his shoulders, trying to wriggle out from under him, but if anything he seems to settle more firmly against her. She tries to roll her hips, but he's too simply too heavy. There's nothing to be done then, save attempt to wake him, at least enough for her to shift in the bed. She kisses the top of his head, strokes his neck and face lightly with her fingers.

"Charles," she says quietly. "Charles, will you roll over? He makes a soft grunting noise in his sleep. She runs her fingers lightly over the shell of his ear. "Charles, mo gradh, wake up." And she starts to move beneath him, tries to shift herself out from under his weight. At last he begins to move, just enough for her to slip out from underneath. He mumbles something unintelligible, then buries his face back in the pillow and soon he is snoring again.

Poor man, thinks Elsie again. He'll feel like death once he wakes. She'll bring him water and soda crackers from the kitchen. And probably they should have a basin and some cloths in here, just in case. She pulls her dressing gown on and creeps silently to the door. She must check on the state of her dress after last night. With any luck at all, it will have dried out during the night. Of course, she can always wear her traveling suit today; perhaps that might be best after all. She's not a vain woman, but she knows she looks well in green. Charles always remarks on it, and even before they married she noticed that he always took a second look when she wore that particular dress. No reason not to look her best today. And she can always use the excuse of a still damp dress.

*CE*

By the time she's dressed and made the few preparations in their room for Charles when he wakes, she can hear the rest of the family stirring. Good. She wants to catch Donal early, unawares. She'll be more likely to get the truth out of him if she can surprise him. He'll want to put a good face on it, but she'll have the truth and nothing else.

She makes her way to the kitchen and is surprised to see the kettle steaming and Moira setting out two mugs.

"What's all this?"

Moira smiles tightly. "Thought you could do with a cuppa after last night's doings." She busies herself preparing their tea.

"Where's Donal?"

"He'll be out at the barn, I expect."

"I'll be wanting to talk with him directly." She turns to look out the window towards the barn.

"And why is that?"

Elsie turns to face Moira, an incredulous look on her face. "Why do y'think, Mo?"

"And do you not think Donal has told me?" she asks gently. That brings Elsie up short.

"Which of the lads was it, then? I have to know, Moira. It's important."

Moira pushes a cup of tea across the table to Elsie and gestures for her to sit down. "And why is it so important, lass?"

Elsie wrings her hands, then sits on the edge of the chair. "Because of what he was saying last night," she says softly. Moira waits for her to continue, but it's clear Elsie doesn't want to say more.

"And what was Charles saying last night?"

Elsie looks at Moira, her face twisted in anguish and embarrassment and anger. "They taunted him, Mo. They taunted him. Over me. He said…he said-" but she can't finish. She seems on the verge of tears. Moira reaches a hand across the table, holds Elsie's in one of her own.

"What did he say, lass, out with it now."

Elsie turns her face. "He said someone told him that he'd known me quite well." She lets the words hang in the air for a moment before she faces Moira again. "I'll know who it was, Mo. I'll know who it was, and I'll tell him off for it. Today."

Moira takes a deep breath. Oh gods damn you Andrew Drummond. Gods damn you straight to hell. "It were Andrew, lass."

Elsie turns pale, pulls her hands free from Moira and grips her mug of tea. "Andrew?" she breathes. "Andrew Drummond?"

"Aye."

Elsie rises abruptly, takes a turn around the tiny room. Moira thinks of a bird fluttering its wings against its cage. "Did you know?" she asks, without looking.

Moira takes a breath. "Aye."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"No good reason to tell you."

Elsie whips around at this. "No good reason not to!"

"How was I to know the two would ever meet? And what difference would it have made if they had?"

Elsie gestures to the spare room. "You can see what difference it made!"

"I know that now, lass, and I'm sorry. Does he know?"

"Yes. Some of it, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows what happened all those years ago, but he's not yet understood who it was that pressed the drink on him. It willna be long, though." Elsie wrings her hands. "Andrew Drummond," and she laughs shakily. "Of all the lads I expected to peel the skin off of today, he'll not be one of them." She stiffens her spine. "Well."

"Well what?" asks Moira warily.

"Well I'll be going after a bit. I'll be going down to the village to have a wee word with Mr. Drummond."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, lass."

"And why not? He'll be down at the school, I expect?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly." Now it's Elsie's turn to mock. "Not exactly. Will you tell me all you know and have done?"

"He's the superintendent of schools, Elsie."

"Fine. Good on him. Can I find him down at the school then?"

"No, lass." Moira takes another, deeper breath. Now it's Moira's turn to straighten her shoulders. "You can find him the next farm over, my wee dearie. He married the widow Begbie."

"Peggy?"

"Aye."

"Well." She sits for a moment. "I almost feel sorry for him." She grins wickedly. "Almost."

"Now, Elsie-" begins Moira, but Elsie cuts her off.

"He'll know exactly what he was doing last night, Moira. He'll know exactly the mischief he hoped to cause. Charles is, he'll feel-" she stops abruptly as tears spring to her eyes. She lifts her chin determinedly. "He's a good man, Moira. A good man who accepted me, who loved me as I am. He's a proud man as well, and he'll not enjoy waking this morning feeling foolish and ashamed. There was no need for it, for none of it. It's not as though we parted badly, through fault of his or mine. It was out of our hands and so long ago. Well. I'll be along to talk to him as soon as breakfast's done."

"Donal's already planning to have a talk with him, Els. You should let him handle this."

"I appreciate the both of you, Moira, but this is something I have to see to myself."