Scottish Tweed
"In the Borders, master weaver Morag maintains tweed traditions that once clothed aristocracy. When Savile Row tailor James needs authentic cloth, she weaves something unexpected."
Scottish tweed had been woven in the Borders since time beyond counting—complex patterns that identified clans and regions, cloth that lasted generations. The mills had mostly closed, but my family's workshop still produced the real thing.
"Ms. MacLeod?"
The man at my door was clearly Savile Row—the suit, the eye for fabric, the immediate assessment of the cloth samples visible behind me.
"Morag. And you're looking at the Shepherd's Check."
"I'm looking at authenticity." James stepped inside. "I make suits for people who can afford anything. Most of them are wearing lies—machine-made fabric pretending to be handcrafted."
"And you want to offer them truth?"
"I want to offer them this." He touched a sample. "Real tweed. The kind that keeps you warm and lasts your lifetime."
Real tweed became our project. Over months, James learned about traditional patterns, regional variations, the particular weight that made Borders tweed different from Highland or Harris varieties.
"Why do you keep doing this?" he asked during month three. We were at my loom, watching the shuttle fly.
"Because the patterns carry meaning. That check identified shepherds from thieves—useful when you found strangers on your land." I gestured at the emerging fabric. "Because cloth that lasts is cloth that matters. Fast fashion is just slow landfill."
"That's profound."
"That's practical. Profound is what city people call common sense."
"My clients need common sense." His hand found mine near the loom. "Morag. Meeting you has changed how I think about my craft."
"I just weave."
"You create heritage that people can wear." He moved closer. "I want to dress people in that. In meaning."
We kissed by the loom while the warp threads waited, his tailor's mouth warm against my weaver's lips. The centuries of textile tradition seemed to hum approval.
"The cottage is through there," I said.
"Show me where weavers live."
The cottage was craft made comfortable—samples everywhere, tools organized precisely, the evidence of a life spent turning thread into cloth. James looked around with professional appreciation.
"This is art."
"This is work."
"In your hands, they're identical."
We made love while the loom waited for morning, our bodies finding rhythms that the patient weaving had taught. James touched me with tailor's attention—measuring, fitting, ensuring everything lay perfectly.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for looms."
"You're built for creation." He kissed down my body. "The finest cloth I've ever touched."
We came together while thread waited to become tweed, both of us finding completion that felt like warp meeting weft—interlocked, inseparable, stronger together. When I gasped his name, it was with the same satisfaction I felt at a finished bolt.
"Stay," I said.
"In the Borders?"
"In my workshop. In my life." I touched his face. "Savile Row can wait for the cloth. You don't have to."
He stayed. His suits now feature my tweed prominently, and the story behind the fabric makes them even more valuable. The workshop has expanded; an apprentice is learning.
"We're makers together now," James said one night.
"We're weavers together. Everything is weaving—thread into cloth, moment into memory, you into me."
"That's beautiful."
"That's true." I pulled him closer. "Truth is always beautiful, even when it's plain."
The loom still works. The tweed still weaves. And now there's a tailor who became a weaver's partner, who found in Scottish thread everything he'd been stitching toward.