Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 59: Rumours of Unrest
Glen Loy, Scottish Highlands, September 1742
The Highlands teach slowly. Elizabeth learns this in her first weeks ... each day a lesson, each night a reckoning.
She wakes before dawn to the sound of wind pushing against the longhouse walls, the smell of peat smoke lingering in her hair, the faint ache in her arms from carrying water or helping Mairead grind oats. She is not used to manual labour. She isn’t used to the colder air as autumn starts to take hold. And she isn’t used to being watched.
But she tries. And the clan sees it.
Today, she follows Mairead to the river. The older woman walks with brisk purpose, her boots sinking into the damp earth. Elizabeth hurries to keep up, clutching her shawl around her shoulders.
“Don’t step there,” I whisper into her mind. “The ground is soft.”
She shifts her foot just in time, avoiding a patch of mud that would have swallowed her shoe. Mairead glances back, noticing the adjustment, but she says nothing.
Elizabeth kneels by the riverbank, dipping a wooden pail into the cold water. Her breath catches at the chill. She lifts the pail, arms trembling, and carries it back toward the settlement.
Mairead watches her struggle. “You’ll grow stronger.”
Elizabeth nods, breathless. “I hope so. I’m trying.”
“You are doing well,” I say. “Your body will learn.”
She straightens her posture, encouraged by Mairead’s and my words.
The clan women teach her to bake bannocks, to mend wool, to braid her hair in the Highland fashion. Elizabeth’s fingers fumble at first, clumsy and slow. But she listens. She watches. She repeats. And gradually, her movements become steadier.
One afternoon, a week or so later, a group of children gather around her, curious about the English bride. They ask questions in a mix of Gaelic and English, giggling when she mispronounces their names.
Elizabeth laughs with them, her cheeks flushed with warmth. “I’ll learn,” she promises.
“You will,” I say.
She glances down at the bracelet. “With your help.”
The children tug her toward the edge of the settlement, pointing at the hills. They want her to climb. She hesitates ... her English upbringing taught her to walk gentle gardens, not tall mountains ... but she follows them anyway.
The climb is steep. Her breath comes fast and her legs burn. But she reaches the top.
And when she stands on the ridge, looking out over the glen with the wind lifting her hair, and the children cheering around her, she feels something shift inside her.
“I’m starting feel that I belong here,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “You are becoming part of the land.”
Hamish watches her progress with quiet pride. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t instruct. He simply observes her determination, her kindness, and her willingness to learn. He steps in only when needed.
One evening, he finds her sitting outside the longhouse, rubbing her sore hands.
“You’ve worked hard,” he says.
She smiles tiredly. “I want to be useful.”
“You are.”
She looks up at him, surprised. “Already? I only do half the work of the other women, and I speak all of six Gaelic words.”
“Yes, but you are trying.”
He sits beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch. She leans into him without thinking. He wraps an arm around her, gentle but protective.
“I didn’t know if your clan would accept me,” she says softly.
“They see your effort,” he replies. “That matters more than where you were born.”
She exhales, relieved. “I’m glad.”
Hamish studies her face, the faint smudge of flour on her cheek, the wind‑tangled hair, the tired but bright eyes.
“You’re stronger than you think.”
She blushes. “I’m doing my best.”
He smiles. “I know.”
I feel the warmth between them steadily growing. A bond forming not from ceremony, but from shared days, shared work, shared quiet moments like this, and a shared bed at night.
Elizabeth rests her head on his shoulder. And Hamish lets her.
As the season changes, Elizabeth begins to understand the rhythms of Highland life.
She learns that the clan’s loyalty is fierce, and not easily given. She learns that the land is both beautiful and unforgiving. She learns that Hamish carries burdens she cannot yet name. And she learns that the Highlands are not at peace.
It begins with whispers. Men gather in the longhouse late at night, voices low, faces tense.
Elizabeth hears fragments... ‘Stuart’, ‘France’, ‘Prince Charles’, ‘the old cause’. She doesn’t understand the full meaning, but she feels the weight of it.
One evening, Hamish returns from a meeting with the elders, his expression thoughtful. Elizabeth approaches him.
“Is something wrong?”
He hesitates. “Not wrong. But ... uncertain.”
The fire burns low in the longhouse, throwing soft amber light across the wooden floor. Elizabeth sits beside Hamish, her knees drawn up, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Outside, the wind presses against the walls, carrying the distant cry of an owl. Inside, everything feels still.
She turns the bracelet on her wrist, thoughtful. “Hamish ... may I ask you something?”
He looks up from the map he’s been studying. “Aye.”
“It’s about the Stuarts.” Her voice is quiet, careful. “I know they ruled England once. But ... how did it end? Why do people here still speak of them as if they were wronged?”
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