I compose two letters. Both are to Giles Stewart.
The first tells him the levels of the loch are falling rapidly. It details everything I can remember from the Naomhfhuil logs over the past few weeks, up until tonight, where I add that the bottom-feeding fish are beginning to come to the surface. I tell him in no uncertain terms that his mill is using too much water. He’ll care if his income and status is threatened, maybe. I can’t do more than try.
The second tells him that I lied about the night my mother vanished. That he was right all along; my father did kill her. I tell him everything I remember – the shots, the gun, my mother’s missing body. I don’t bother with apologies, excuses or explanations. They won’t matter to him, or to the sheriff he’ll have to pass it on to. They’ll just want facts, so that’s what I give them.
I seal both letters inside envelopes and hide them under my pillow. Then I lie back down and watch the candle burn all the way till dawn.
I’m still awake when my father leaves the cottage, not long after the sky has finally begun to lighten. Thanks to my sleepless night my head is full of wool, and I know from experience the only thing that will get me through the day is raiding my father’s stash of coffee. I brew a huge mugful, opening the window to let the aroma out. Then I lace it with obscene amounts of honey and carry it back to my room.
Closing the inner shutters over my window, I open the switchblade and dig it into the seam between the floorboards, levering the loose one up. Duncan should be almost at the village by now; he’ll stay overnight in the inn, hosted by Giles, and leave the next day with an extra, unexpected package – though he won’t know it. He’ll make his way down the mountain towards Balinkeld, where I’ll hop out and find a convenient barn or outbuilding to stay in overnight, before getting the stagecoach onwards to Thurso. Easy as you like.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be gone.
I unroll the canvas bag I made from scraps of old sail from the boats. It’s ugly but sturdy, and that’s all I need it to be. In go my two pretty dresses – I want to look like I belong in town, and I know from listening to the gossips in Maggie Wilson’s store that women down there wear a lot more lace than we do. I add my nicest everyday clothes, stockings and underwear too, all of it a mix of what I salvaged of my mother’s old clothes and what I could bear to buy from Maggie.
Next is my new, thick winter earasaid, lined with what Ren assures me is the finest lamb’s wool. It’s soft, so soft, and when I lay my head on it, I swoon with sleepiness. I hastily fold it and shove it in the bag, taking a hefty gulp of coffee after. No more of that, thank you.
I leave the boots where they are – I plan to wear them for the journey – but I pack my pens and ink with care, wrapping those and my jar of gold-leaf scraps in an old blouse. I also split the money up – only a fool would keep it together. I fill small bags, one for each boot, to tuck down beside my ankles, another to put in my underclothes, and I’ll attach a fourth to my belt.
Then I add the gun.
I lay it on top of the earasaid, reverently as a mother lays down a newborn. Finally, I reach for the bullets. Curious, I open the box. Six tiny rounds sit in a neat square. I asked for four, only wanted enough to fill the gun, but here’s a full set. Including the two bullets still in the gun, that’s eight deaths at my disposal. I take one out and hold it up. It’s as long as the first joint of my little finger, and just a little slimmer. The casing is silver, and so is the rounded surface of the actual bullet embedded at the tip. It looks so elegant. I shudder and put the bullet back in its place, then slip the box into a pocket I sewed especially into the bag.
There. I have everything I need.
Thanks to Ren.
I squash down thoughts of him, trying to bury my guilt beneath my fluttering heart. I close the bag, realizing it won’t fit back under the floorboards now that it’s full. I shove it under my bed instead, wishing I could do the same with my conscience. Ren’s the only person in Ormscaula to be a real friend to me in the last seven years and I held a gun to his head.
I need to apologize to him before I go. Today.
Screwing up my face, I drain the last of my coffee and push myself to my feet, throwing open my bedroom door.
Only to come face to face with my father.
My stomach drops. I don’t know how long he’s been out there, listening through the door. I wasn’t paying attention and now there will be a reckoning.
It’s only when he swears sharply, clearly as startled as I am, and I see the net clutched in his hands, that I understand why he’s there. A strange sense of déjà vu comes over me.
“Get dressed,” he commands. “I need you at the sheds. The net at the north shore wants replacing. Again.”
It’s not until the afternoon that I finally make it to the mountain path, my mood sour as early cherries as I head towards the village. My hands are sore from needle pricks and rope burns, and my nerves are shredded worse than the net. The only saving grace was that when I started to load the repaired net into the cart to take it north, he told me in dark tones he’d do it himself this time.
“I fitted it properly,” I’d insisted, outraged at the implication.
“Did I say you didn’t?” he’d said gruffly.
“No. What time will you be back for supper?” I’d asked.
“I don’t know. Likely not until late, if at all. Leave my supper in the warmer. Don’t come looking for me if I don’t come back,” he’d warned. “And keep your hands off my coffee.”
We’d walked back to the cottage together, where I’d waited until he was out of sight. He’d said not to go looking for him, but he didn’t say I was to stay in the house…
I repeat it like a magic spell as I make my way down to Ormscaula. I just need to find Ren and say I’m sorry. And goodbye, although he won’t know it.
By the time I reach the bridge, I’ve almost walked off my temper. I pause at the peak and look down into the river. It’s flowing as fast as ever; little wonder no one’s noticed anything is wrong with the loch. I watch a pair of moorhens flirting and smile at them. Then my smile falls, as I remember the feis samhaid is tonight. The whole village will be out and about.
Instead of taking the main path and risk running into just about everyone, I duck behind a row of cottages and follow the outskirts around, listening to the bustling crowds homing in on the centre of Ormscaula. Already I can smell roasting meat and onions, and it makes me hungry; fool that I am, I didn’t grab anything from my cottage before I came down. My stomach rumbles aggressively, emphasizing that I’m an idiot.
Deciding to take a chance, I make a turn and head towards the bakery, hoping to buy a roll to tide me over. But of course, it’s closed, a sign hung from the silver horseshoe above the door, saying the Campbells will be serving food at the feis. I sigh in annoyance.
“Alva?”
I whirl round to see Gavan Stewart standing there, a bunch of keys in his hand.
“You came,” he says, smiling.
“Oh,” I say, confused. “No, I just wanted a roll.”
Gavan holds up a set of keys. “You’re in luck.”
His grin widens as he steps past me and slips a key into the lock, opening the door.
“The Stewart Pastry Kitchen and Cook Shop is open for business,” he says. “Come on in.”
NINE
I follow him inside, and he disappears into the back of the store, behind the curtain. I walk over to the counter and hoist myself up, sitting on it and kicking my legs.
“Here.”
I turn and catch the small cloth bundle Gavan tosses at me. It fills my hands with warmth, and I unwrap it to find a fresh crusty roll, topped with cheese. I used to love these when I was little. I tear a bit off, dropping it into my skirts when a string of still-molten cheese burns my fingers.
“It’s hot,” Gavan says, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Thanks for the warning.” I blow my sore fingers and retrieve the fallen piece, eating it carefull
y.
Gavan disappears again, returning with a huge basket, the contents covered with a cloth, before he goes back and gets a second. He leaves them both near the door, then reaches in for a roll, juggling it in his hands as he comes to sit beside me.
“Why do you have the bakery keys?” I ask, chewing.
“Mhairi Campbell needed someone to come and take the rolls out of the oven and Wee Campbell has vanished. I volunteered.”
Of course he did.
“Well, I’m glad,” I say, before popping a fluffy chunk of bread in my mouth.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Gavan says sincerely.
I have no idea what to do with that, so I shove the last of the bread in my mouth. I need to find Ren and get back. I’m about to hop down, thank Gavan and be on my merry way when he turns to me, his expression sly.
“You see, I can’t take both baskets at the same time. I was hoping you’d help, now I’ve sated your hunger with a nice cheese roll.”
The sneaky little… I fell right into his trap.
“Come on.” He widens his brown eyes at me. “There’s more food in it for you. Mhairi Campbell is going to pay me in roast pork. I’ll get some for you. You can’t say no to that, fresh off the fire.”
It’s like trying to say no to a baby cow. He just keeps looking at me, all soft faced and hopeful, long eyelashes batting.
Say no. Alva Douglas, say no. Say no.
“Fine.” I jump down and march to the door.
We each take a basket. Gavan locks the bakery diligently behind us, and then leads the way, winding down towards the square. I’m already sweating, my stomach cramping with nerves. It’ll be seven years since I’ve seen some of these people. I can’t imagine I’ll be a welcome sight.
“You all right?” Gavan calls back over his shoulder.
I swallow instead of answering.
It feels like every face in the square turns to us as we enter. In the middle is the huge pyre I saw them building the other day, not yet lit; they’ll wait for sundown to do that. To the left is the Staff, loose ribbons fluttering in the breeze, waiting for the dancers to come and take a strand and swaddle the Staff to sleeping. Lining the outskirts are stalls selling spiced cider, whisky, ale and birch wine, juice for the kiddies. I scan each one for Ren, knowing it’s not likely he’ll be there, but hoping that, like me, he’ll have braved it today. The sooner I see him and apologize, the sooner I can go back to the cottage. There’s no sign of him, though. No hint of blond among the browns, blacks and reds. No devilish laugh causing old crones to cross their chests.
At the far end of the square, Iain-the-Smith – not to be confused with awful Auld Iain – has been co-opted by the butcher into turning a huge pig on a spit, while the butcher himself is carving another into thick slices and tossing them into a tray. Mhairi Campbell, the baker’s wife, is beside him, at the end of their production line, cramming meat into a dwindling supply of rolls.
“Looks like we’re just in time,” Gavan calls cheerfully.
I stay close behind Gavan, keeping my head down as I follow in his wake, trying to stay out of sight, both for his sake and mine. I stay so close that when he stops I walk into his back.
He turns, amused, and takes the basket from me, handing it to Mhairi.
“Thanks, lad, you’re a lifesaver,” she says, wiping her forehead with an apron. “Here you go.”
She stuffs a roll and hands it to him. Then her gaze falls on me. She stills, fork held aloft.
“Alva helped,” Gavan says, seemingly oblivious to the tension that’s suddenly rolling off Mhairi in waves. “I promised her a roll too.” He gives her the kind of wide, bright smile that would charm the birds from the trees.
But Mhairi just stares at me. I lift my chin. I won’t cower. I can feel the gazes of everyone nearby on us, waiting to see what she’ll do.
Without breaking her stare, she stuffs a second roll and holds it out to me.
“Thanks, Mhairi, that’s kind of you,” I say.
“That’s Mrs Campbell to you,” she snaps, and turns away, aggressively filling more rolls, pretending I’m no longer there.
“Come on,” Gavan says, tilting his head, beckoning me to follow.
It seems that Mhairi’s decision to turn her back and ignore me has decided everyone else, because now it’s as if I’m not there. As we cross the square, skirting around the pyre, people call out to Gavan, greeting him, slapping him on the back and chatting with him, but their gazes slide from me like butter off a hot knife.
Being ignored is somehow worse than their dagger eyes, and I chew my roll with vigour, taking my frustrations out on it, throwing myself on to the wall outside the tiny village gaol, kicking my legs against it angrily.
“Don’t mind them,” Gavan says. “They don’t mean any harm.”
He’s lucky my mouth is full of food.
“They just don’t know you,” he continues. “Come on, Alva, you know what it’s like here, everyone in everyone’s business.” He looks at me, those big eyes miserable, and I soften. This isn’t his fault.
“It’s fine, Gavan. I get it.” I look across the square. “Why don’t I fetch us some cider?”
“I’ll go,” he says eagerly, and I sigh. It was supposed to be an excuse to leave and find Ren. Still, a wee cider to wash my food down won’t hurt. I might even find some courage in it.
Gavan hops off the wall, heading into the sunlit square. I realize we’ve been sitting in a patch of shadow, and the aptness of it almost makes me laugh. I spy Duncan Stroud across the square. He gives me a wave, and I nod back at him, before noticing who he’s standing with.
Giles Stewart. He is laughing, patrician face tilted to the sky, teeth gleaming, the picture of the jovial leader. Employer. Husband. Father. Pillar of the community.
He was in love with my mother.
It’s one of the reasons – probably the biggest one – that no one really believes him when he says my father killed her. Everyone knows Giles Stewart was sweet on her, and sour she didn’t feel the same.
I had no idea until he came to our cottage one afternoon. He hadn’t been before, and it felt exciting, that he’d come all the way up to see us – few ever did. My mam sent me to my room and kept him on the doorstep, but I opened my window to listen. It was near my birthday, you see, and I’d got it into my head that he might have come about my birthday party. I hoped he would offer his big house for it, as a surprise, because I’d been hinting…
I used to go to Gavan’s house for tea on Friday night after school, just the two of us, and Giles – Mr Stewart, as he was to me then – would hover, asking me questions about my da and mam, and our lives, while Mrs Stewart stood in the background, mousy and silent. He used to say I was welcome any time, that I was like a sister to Gavan. I didn’t notice at the time that my mam never went there. That it was always Mrs Stewart who’d walk me to the bridge, where my da would collect me.
Giles wasn’t there about my birthday party. He was distraught my mother was pregnant again. I heard him say two Douglas children was too many. She was pushing her luck, and his love wasn’t limitless.
My mam tried to interrupt him, but he kept going. He could forgive her for marrying Lachlan Douglas, and for having me. But he couldn’t forgive another baby.
“Giles, I never promised you anything.” My mam tried to sound gentle; I recognized it as the voice she used on sick or frightened animals. “We never had an understanding. I don’t know where this is coming from.”
“Not a spoken one,” Giles had insisted. “What we had was deeper than an understanding, or a silly promise. Look at this place,” he’d said, gesturing up at our cottage. “It’s a hovel. You can’t be happy here, not you, not with what you came from. I can give you a town house, make you a lady.” She tried to speak again and he held up his hands. “I know you’re worried about your reputation, but you don’t have to be. No one would dare say a word to us, not with the mill now up and running. I can give you ever
ything you want.”
A silence, and then my mother said, “Don’t you see? I have everything I want.”
“How? How can you be satisfied with this?”
“Giles,” my mother said, and her voice was firm now. “You have to know I’d never leave Lachlan. Never. Nothing on earth would make me leave this place, or my family.”
Giles would remember that. He would remember that when she went missing.
I stopped going to Gavan’s for tea after that, saying I was needed at home. I didn’t like how hungry Giles looked to me, like a caged bear, waiting for its moment.
Now, in the shadow of a sunlit square, I watch Giles Stewart laughing. And, as if he can sense my attention, he turns and looks straight at me.
“Sorry it took so long. There was a queue.” Gavan takes his place by my side again.
Across the square his father sees us, and frowns.
“Actually, Gavan, I need to be getting on,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“At least drink your cider.”
“Why don’t you—”
“Miss Douglas.”
I fall silent. I have no idea how Giles crossed the square so fast, but there he is, standing too close. Duncan is at his side, a tankard in his hand.
“Giles,” I say as politely as I can. “Duncan.” He gets a smile.
Giles’s face is thunder-dark. “I’m afraid I need to take my son from you, Miss Douglas,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
“Let me finish my drink,” Gavan says easily.
“Now,” Giles says, taking both mugs from Gavan and setting them down on the wall. After a moment, Gavan stands and Giles puts an arm around him, steering him away. I watch him try to turn to say goodbye, only for his father’s grip to tighten on his shoulder, preventing him.
Duncan watches Giles’s retreating back.
“Was it just me, or was that a wee bit awkward?” he says.
“Giles is not a fan of mine,” I tell him.
Hold Back the Tide Page 6
