A Scone of Contention

by Lucy Burdette

  “Text me tomorrow, okay? Let me know what you find out.”

  Returning to the table, I felt torn, not quite settled in Scotland and yet so far from home. I felt it again, the shiver on the grave. You’re tired, I told myself. Everything will be fine.

  It was after two by the time we got back to Vera’s home, though lord only knew what time it really was in my body. Nathan had warned me to try to think only of local time in order to dispense with jet lag and get settled more quickly. Easier said than done. I washed my face and put on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, and prepared to attack a power nap. I heard a soft tap on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door cracked open and Miss Gloria’s elfin face appeared.

  “Everything okay?” I asked. “Come on in.”

  “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? I can’t wait to see more of the countryside.” She paused, plucked at a few wayward peaks of white hair. “But I am a little worried.”

  I patted the bed beside me. “About what?”

  She crossed the room and perched on Nathan’s side of the bed. “It might sound silly. But I didn’t realize that Vera’s husband is a Campbell. I never asked you their family name.”

  “And that’s a problem because …?”

  “Because my mother’s people were MacDonalds.”

  She stopped speaking, as though that was all I needed to know. But it explained nothing to me.

  “Say a little more about that?” I suggested.

  She heaved a troubled sigh. “My ancestors lived in the Highlands, in Glencoe, where we will be going with Vera, I’m sure. It’s well known for being a thin place. And many of those same people were massacred by the Campbells. William’s people.”

  She looked so distressed that I needed to understand. Clearly, I should have been reading more Scottish history. “And how long ago did all this happen?” I asked.

  “In the 1600s. But they wiped out most of the clan. And we have long memories. I still sense that loss right here.” She pressed her hand to her chest, and I could almost see her heart pounding like a little bird.

  “I can imagine how distressing that bit of history would feel,” I said—though, in truth, I couldn’t quite imagine getting that upset about something so long ago. On the other hand, I didn’t know the details of the massacre, and I was a lot younger than Miss Gloria and more concerned with the here and now than my ancestors’ lives. And this was likely a failing of my own. All that aside, I knew that Miss Gloria had a special connection with spirits from the past. I’d seen this in action watching her take visitors on guided tours of the Key West Cemetery. I didn’t understand it, but I believed that her experience was unusual and true. And a little exhausting.

  “Let’s get a little rest. We’re both tired. And then we can figure out what to do when we’re fresh.” I reached over to give her a hug.

  Though, honestly, what was there to do? Demand reparations from our host, Nathan’s brother-in-law? I sighed. Old hurts and the damage they’d done were hard to heal and impossible to undo.

  Chapter Six

  She’d fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots vert and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as the traditional kimchee—a concession to the bland English palate—but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans.

  —Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

  By five o’clock, we were refreshed as much as we could be for Vera’s friends’ party. I had scrounged the only skirt from the bottom of my suitcase and attempted to steam out the wrinkles, while Miss Gloria decked herself out in a sweat suit beaded with sequins. Vera’s husband had harangued Nathan until he folded and agreed to wear a borrowed kilt sewn from the official Campbell tartan, finished off with a waistcoat and a traditional sporran hanging from his waist.

  “Doesn’t he look amazing?” William asked, once they’d marched into the living room where we waited. The fabric of their kilts consisted of rows and columns of green and blue separated by black lines.

  “He’s got the legs for it, that’s for sure,” said Miss Gloria, grinning. “Look at the muscles in his calves! He could give Jamie in Outlander a run for his money. Did you know,” she added, ignoring the fierce blush that had spread over Nathan’s cheeks, “that men used to carry cooked oatmeal in those pouches? That sounds a little disgusting, doesn’t it? It would make an awful mess.”

  “It must have been some kind of dried grain,” I suggested, only glad she was focused on the contents of the sporran rather than questioning him about what he was wearing under the kilt. Or even worse, launching into a discussion of the Campbell–MacDonald conflict. We’d have time over the week to explore that quietly.

  We strolled through the streets of St. Andrews, passing clusters of young people, some wearing flapping black or red graduation gowns.

  “The gowns were traditionally worn at all Scottish universities,” said William, scowling. “Now they mostly trot them out for special occasions, which I find appalling. Where is their sense of history and tradition?”

  “Keep in mind that he’s the man who convinced your husband to wear a kilt,” Vera said with a laugh. “And he’s a full professor at the University.” Then she began to describe the cast of characters that we would encounter at the party. “Ainsley and Dougal are the hosts tonight. You are not likely to see a penthouse this grand again except perhaps in your dreams or an Architectural Digest. It overlooks the 16th hole of the Old Course, so they are besieged by celebrity guests when the British Open takes place in this town.”

  “I’m getting the idea that should mean something very important,” Miss Gloria whispered, catching my elbow and pulling me toward her. “I’m not sure this will be our crowd.”

  I laughed. “But Nathan will love talking about the golf course with the others. Even if he claims to hate golf, I can see that it’s in his blood. And if they’re friends of his sister’s, I’m sure we’ll enjoy them.”

  An elevator whisked us up to the penultimate floor of a stunning red sandstone building. Inside, a hallway that looked like the entrance to a museum gallery led to a living room where a set of stairs swept up to another floor, resembling something out of Downton Abbey. I felt stunned by the glamour, and I could see that Miss Gloria’s mind was just as boggled.

  “I promise we won’t stay late but I wanted you to see the house and meet a few friends,” said Vera. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s astonishing, isn’t it?”

  She introduced us to her book team, including Glenda Findlay, a slender blonde woman with dark brown eyes; her husband, Gavin, somewhat corpulent with watery blue eyes and a reddened nose; and Ainsley, the hostess, her beautiful auburn hair swept into a stylish knot. She had a spray of freckles across her cheeks that I imagined she’d hated as a teenager, though they looked adorable now. She was standing next to a tall man with pronounced laugh lines and a red kilt.

  “Welcome to our home!” Ainsley said. “This is my husband, Dougal. We’re so excited to meet Vera’s family. Come get a drink and meet some friends.”

  We were plied with flutes of champagne and introduced to a series of people with thick brogues. “I’d love to show them around,” Ainsley said to Vera. “You’ve seen it all, and you probably have to chat with the golfing set.”

  Vera laughed. “Unfortunately, I do. That would be wonderful—your home is a dream.”

  Then Ainsley whisked us through a tour of the downstairs rooms: a dark wood paneled bar with striped club chairs and floor-to-ceiling drapes and chandeliers and Doric columns; a separate den with pink plush tufted chairs and a gilt fireplace (for the lady of the house?); and, at my request, a peek into her glorious kitchen.

  “Wow,” I said, stepping out of the way of a waiter carrying a tray of what looked and smelled like sausage rolls encased in puff pastry.

  Miss Gloria snagged one as the waiter floated by. She blew on the end to cool it
off, then took a healthy bite and nodded her approval. “Hayley can’t help it. Even though she has a brand-new kitchen, she contracts a bad case of appliance envy each time she sees someone else’s.” She waved the end of the sausage in the air. “These are marvelous by the way. The truth is Hayley can cook anywhere. She made amazing dishes when she lived in my floating tub, and that was by no means a show kitchen.”

  “You cook?” Ainsley asked me, looking a bit surprised. “We’d heard that Americans eat all their meals out.”

  “She’s an amazing cook,” Miss Gloria said. “And she’s also a restaurant critic.”

  “I write about food for a magazine in Key West, the town on an island at the very bottom of Florida. I’m on the hunt for the best scones in Scotland,” I said with a grin. “Or die trying.”

  “We can help with that,” said Ainsley with a warm return smile. “My personal favorite is a hint of citrus or cinnamon when serving at tea, but you might prefer cheese, which the chef is serving with dinner tonight.”

  She then introduced me to the cook standing at the stove—Grace, a sturdy young woman who wore chef’s whites and brown hair pulled back to the base of her neck with a yellow ribbon. I studied her as she pulled a heavy tray of pastries out of the oven. She had a square face, a cleft in her chin, and powerful forearms. She slid the tray onto the counter, wiped her hands on her white apron, and turned to greet us. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You may find the very best scones right here in Grace’s kitchen. You’ll see.” Ainsley grinned, then explained to Grace, “Hayley is a food specialist.”

  “Not really a specialist, but I do love to eat. And those are gorgeous,” I told Grace, pointing to the fragrant baked goods, which were striped with cheese and smelled like heaven, if heaven was butter and cheese, which sounded about right to me.

  She cut into one of the golden scones and offered pieces to each of us. “Hot!” she warned, as if we were food toddlers.

  I nibbled and closed my eyes to savor the perfect flavor and buttery crumb, which left me almost speechless. “These are absolutely divine. Maybe you’ll share the recipe?”

  “I will,” she said. “And I would love to show you around the kitchen properly tomorrow when things aren’t so hectic, if Miss Ainsley doesn’t object?”

  “Of course not,” said Ainsley. “And maybe you could take her to the market when you go in the morning, if that suits her schedule? Vendors come from all around the countryside, with farmhouse cheese and heritage pork, Scottish game, organic vegetables and fruits, honey,” she explained to me. “Grace does most of our shopping from these local folks.”

  “I would love that so much,” I said, glancing at the young chef, who nodded shyly. I arranged to meet her here at the house at eight AM.

  Then Miss Gloria and I followed Ainsley up the elegant sweep of stairs and down a hall to more steps leading to the roof terrace that they shared with other tenants in the building.

  “This view is sensational,” I exclaimed, looking over the wide, flat West Sands Beach on one side and out to sea, and the kelly-green golf course on the other. “Aren’t you lucky to live here!”

  She nodded. “The weather can be iffy, but it’s Scotland and we’re Scottish, so we expect that.”

  “How did you meet Vera?” I asked.

  “We all went to University here in St. Andrews,” she explained. “Glenda, Vera, and I were inseparable pals that first year. We had big plans to become artists and writers and share a garret in Paris while we waited for our talents to be discovered. We certainly never intended to remain in this town.”

  She laughed. “But life has a way of finding its own path, and we found soon enough that getting married shackled our ankles a bit and curbed our plans to travel as free birds. I’ve never really gotten back to my art, though I can’t complain about my life.” She shrugged, gave a wry little laugh. “Vera has been discovered because of her brilliant writing, but the rest of us are still waiting.”

  “What kind of art were you studying?” I asked. “I’m guessing because of your home that you’re a designer.”

  Again, her laugh was light, but I sensed a hint of regret underneath. “Most of the paintings on the walls are mine. And I planned the decorating, but as far as professional design, life has gotten in the way. I suppose that should have been obvious going in, that marriage and the trappings of adulthood become a wee cage of sorts. But it never occurred to me. With this project, I’m hoping to make up for lost time.”

  “I never found being married to my Frank to cramp my style,” said Miss Gloria, turning away from the view to look at our hostess. “We wanted a lot of the same things in our lives, and we both liked some of our own space, and had separate friends and hobbies. And that meant I was almost always happy to see him at the end of a day.”

  “I wish I’d met him,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  She smiled back at me. “And Hayley here is a newlywed so hopefully she hasn’t experienced that trapped feeling—and won’t. In any case, if you’ve ended up in a cage, it’s definitely gilded,” said Miss Gloria to Ainsley, adding a warm laugh that took some of the sting out of the comment.

  “But Vera mentioned too that you are all working on a joint project,” I said. “Will you tell us more about that? You must be involved with design.”

  Her face brightened. “You guessed correctly. Design, and also organization. I have a knack, it turns out, for herding cats. But the subject is a passion of mine too. All of us except for Vera are Scottish nationals,” said Ainsley. “And over many conversations, we came to realize that we were appalled by the influx of tourism.”

  She sighed. “It’s not that we object to people learning about our country, but we do object to tourism based on inaccurate portrayals of our country and its history. And we object to sacred sites trampled by careless guests. Our project is designed to counterbalance that. We plan to tell an accurate story of our history and display photographs of the most gorgeous sites in our country, but also raise questions about the way tourism may be threatening those exact qualities. And we hope that our book will offer a template for how best to absorb these sacred places.”

  She patted her elegant twist of red hair and continued. “I’m certain it’s not only Scotland that is suffering. My husband and I took one of the ferries from Stranraer on the west coast over to Northern Ireland last fall. We wanted to see the Giants Causeway and hear some Irish music. Do you know that site? It consists of enormous columns of basalt rock along the coast, formed by a flow of lava, and it has many myths associated with it.”

  Miss Gloria and I both shook our heads.

  “It wasn’t exactly a beautiful day, rainy and cool. Even so, the place was overrun with tourists. Busloads of visitors posed in front of the rock formations with their umbrellas, and kids tore around as if it was one big playground. Of course, the Giant’s Causeway has been designated a World Heritage Site and everyone should be entitled to enjoy it. But we felt disoriented and overwhelmed, rather like a panicked herd of sheep being driven to the marketplace, I imagine. It was impossible to truly experience and absorb the magic of the setting.”

  “This happens in Key West too,” said Miss Gloria sadly. “The more people crowd in, the more the beauty is obscured. Lorenzo—that’s our tarot card–reading friend—likes to say that money rules Key West. And money and magic don’t fit together that well.”

  “I think Iceland has suffered in a similar fashion, mostly because Game of Thrones was filmed there,” I said. “Too many tourists watched that show and then rushed across the ocean to cram themselves into the famous spaces.”

  “And the Justin Bieber YouTube video was part of Iceland’s appeal too,” Miss Gloria added. “The one with him walking on that narrow ledge of rock? I must have watched it a hundred times, and I wasn’t the only senior on that soul train.” She winked at me. “Iceland’s on my bucket list now, and I don’t even like heights.”

  “It’s really a problem without a go
od solution,” Ainsley said, “because on the one hand, we want our beautiful country to be seen and enjoyed. And maybe it’s not fair to put a value judgment on tourism. And who should be the arbiter of taste? And who will be assigned to man the gate?”

  A gong rang in a distant room. “Dinner is served,” said Ainsley. “Just in time before we all sink into a great quagmire of depression.”

  Chapter Seven

  There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger’s origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes.

  —Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

  She ushered us back down the hallway and into a cavernous dining room. I was seated next to one of Vera’s cowriters, Gavin Findlay, and across the table from another man wearing a kilt, with Nathan’s mother cattycorner and Nathan and Miss Gloria at the far end.

  Ainsley leaned between me and Gavin to introduce us. “Gavin, this is Hayley, Vera’s new sister-in-law. We are so happy to have her visiting. Hayley, Gavin is my old friend Gloria’s husband and simply a brilliant photographer.” She patted us on our shoulders and smiled, though her left eye seemed to be twitching as if she was sending me a message. He slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. I could smell the scotch on his breath, and a whiff of cigar.

  “Always glad to make the acquaintance of another beautiful woman,” he said.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I said, trying to ease out of his grip. “I’m struggling to keep everyone straight, so remind me which beautiful lady is your better half?”

  He looked confused for a minute.

  “Your wife, I mean,” I added.

  “Glenda’s down there.” He gestured at the slim blonde at the end of the table, who wore a purple gown with a deep slash of cleavage. She was glaring at us, or me anyway. I flashed her a big smile and shrugged her husband’s hand off my back.