Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  Mark met me at the door. “Where on earth have you been?"

  I blinked, giving him that deer in the headlights look, waiting for the tirade to begin. “Um, looking for a job? Why are you whispering?"

  Mark glanced toward the back of the shop. “You have a letter. A certified letter. Go open it.” He pinched my cheeks and swiped some cappuccino-flavored lip balm across my mouth. I felt like I had my own personal Mammy, just like Scarlett O'Hara. Of course, my Mammy was a gay Chinese-American guy, but the methods were the same. Next thing I knew, Mark would be telling me not to eat too much at the barbecue. His behavior was much weirder than usual.

  I peeked through the drapes that separated the shop from the office area, and found Gil hopping up and down excitedly. “It's a letter!” he exclaimed. “From Scotland. Open it!"

  It was indeed an envelope. A rather large, thick one, as a matter of fact. I had never been to Scotland, so it was unlikely that there was anything interesting in it. I tossed it back on the desk. “I'm not in the mood right now, Gil. I've had a shitty day."

  "Did you find a job?” he demanded.

  "Well, no, but that's because...."

  "I thought not. Open the letter, Brynne.” He blinked at me, all wide-eyed, and for a moment he was still the awkward adolescent who'd held my hand at two funerals too many. “Please?"

  Damn it. I could never say no to Gilbert without feeling like I was kicking a puppy. “Okay,” I cautioned, “but you've got to give me some space. Let me read it without you hovering over me, would you?"

  He grinned. “How about I fix you some tea? I've got a nice chamomile and comfrey blend."

  I flopped down on the office futon. “Lovely. Bring me some chocolate too, if you're feeling subservient."

  The return address was in Glasgow, from someone whose name began with an E. Rain had smeared the rest of it, either on their side of the Atlantic or mine. With a sigh, I slid Gil's sword-shaped letter opener underneath the fold.

  Most of the papers looked like official legalese. I skipped over those and tossed them on Gil's desk, although I did pause for a moment to note the fancy letterhead of Dawlish, Soames and Muncaster, Solicitors. A smaller envelope tumbled out, sealed with a glob of red wax. I popped the seal, partly because my curiosity was getting the better of me, and partly because Gil and Mark would hound me to no end if I didn't tell them what was in the letter.

  August 12, 2005

  To: Ms. Brynne Murray Marlette

  From: Evan Muncaster, Solicitor

  Number 15, Derwentwater Place, Glasgow

  Dear Ms. Marlette,

  You will, I hope, forgive the intrusion of this letter by way of introduction. My firm, that of Dawlish, Soames and Muncaster, has been entrusted to locate you and advise you that you are the sole recipient of a familial inheritance left to you by your father, one James Murray.

  This bequest consists primarily of some land in Scotland, the specifics of which are contained and described in Attachment B. The land, a holding known as Kilgraeme, includes a home with several outbuildings, and several plots of land presently being farmed by tenants. The village of Kilgraeme itself, while not precisely owned by the Murray family, is located nearby and does include several properties which are within the boundaries of Kilgraeme.

  In order to claim what is your birthright, you must abide by two conditions. The first is that you personally come to Scotland and live on the property for a period of no less than one year. The second is that you may not sell Kilgraeme nor turn it into a commercial enterprise such as hotel or inn. Should you opt to waive your claim to Kilgraeme following your twelve-month residence, you will be offered a small cash stipend equivalent to three months of the property's income.

  I apologize for being presumptuous, but my researchers advise me that you are presently without income, so I have taken the liberty of booking you a flight to Glasgow next month. This should allow you time to wrap up any pressing personal business you may need to tend to. I look forward to meeting you soon.

  Yours sincerely,

  Evan Muncaster

  For a brief moment I thought about tossing the letter in the trash. After all, Charleston was my home.

  How did I know this wasn't some elaborate hoax? Maybe it was like that Nigerian thing I kept getting emails about, telling me that Uncle Mbwata had died and left some money. Or maybe this Muncaster was some weird creepy pervert who lured women off to a moldy castle and did unspeakable things to them.

  A single plane ticket slipped out of the papers and landed in my lap.

  If it was a scam, it was an elaborate one. If Muncaster was a serial killer, he was one who was going to a lot of trouble to get an unemployed and somewhat snarky American to visit him overseas.

  And then common sense prevailed. I had no job, no home, no car, and no money. With an inheritance, even a small one, I could pay off my bills, maybe go back to school, and start my life over again.

  I had nothing left to lose.

  "Gilbert!” I called. “I'm gonna need a ride to the airport. I'm going to Scotland!"

  Thus the first link was forged in my Karmic Chain.

  Chapter Two

  Glasgow, Scotland

  I waited in Evan Muncaster's office, too tired to complain to the secretary that I'd been sitting here for nearly an hour. My eyes kept drooping shut. My plane had landed at Edinburgh the day before. Despite a number of problems with my luggage, rental car, and all-around crappy weather, I'd still managed to make it to the solicitor's office in Glasgow, and now he was keeping me waiting.

  I didn't care. I closed my eyes, and leaned my head back against the wall.

  "Miss? Miss?"

  I opened one eye. I had been just about asleep. “Mmph?"

  The secretary smiled at me, showing a broad expanse of bad teeth. “Mr. Muncaster just rang. He'll see you now."

  I sighed, and grabbed my backpack, which I had been reluctant to leave in the car, all things considered. Everything I owned in the world was in it. I followed her obediently, and sat in front of the desk, a large oak monstrosity with a leather top. “He'll be right with you, miss."

  Apparently I drifted off, because at some point, a deep voice with a faint Scottish accent called my name. “Miss Murray! Sorry, I mean Miss Marlette. How are you enjoying your trip so far?"

  I cocked one eye open, and peered across the desk. Evan Muncaster was worth opening the other eye for. He stood smiling politely on the other side of the desk, hand extended. I leaped to my feet.

  "Hi,” I said pleasantly. His hands were big and firm, and I felt a slight tingle when we shook. “You're not at all what I expected,” I blurted out.

  "Really?” He grinned, showing perfect white teeth, and his blue eyes crinkled up. Oh, this guy was adorable, and not just physically. His accent was absolutely delicious too. It abruptly hit me that I'd been celibate for two years. I blinked, pushing lustful thoughts of handsome attorneys out of my head, at least for now.

  "Yeah. I figured you'd be old, and ... erm, ugly,” I finished, having the decency to blush a bit.

  He laughed, a deep melodic sound. “Well, I'm not old, I don't think. I've got a few more years before I hit forty. You're not what I'd expected, either.” Muncaster paused for a moment. “If you don't mind me saying, I'm rather pleasantly surprised."

  We stood grinning at each other like idiots for a moment, and then the air cleared. Suddenly, Evan Muncaster was all business. “Please, have a seat. Your flight was without incident, I take it?"

  I sunk back into an oversized chair. “Oh, it was dandy. My luggage is still somewhere between Baltimore and Edinburgh, my rental car has a broken window and smells like feet, I can't drive a stick shift, and I keep forgetting which side of the road I'm supposed to be on.” I sighed. “So, uh, thanks for the plane ticket."

  He raised an eyebrow, apparently unsure if I was serious or just being facetious. “I realize it was a bit unorthodox for us to provide airfare, but it was stipulated in the legal in
structions in our files. And I'd heard you were ... er ... short on cash, not to put too fine a point on it."

  I tried not to yawn, and failed miserably. “No secret there. Anyway, all that aside, can you tell me a little bit about what's going on? All I got from your letter is that I've inherited some property."

  "Did you read the legal forms?"

  "Oh, sure,” I lied, “but they seemed rather complicated."

  He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I'm happy to explain it. Basically, you're the final descendant of a man named Colin Murray, who was the laird of Kilgraeme back in the 1700's. It was passed along from father to son for two and a half centuries, until Ranald Murray inherited it back around World War II. He was your father's uncle."

  I cut him off. “My father, Mr. Muncaster, was a wonderful guy named Steve Marlette. I've never had any contact with the man who was essentially no more than a sperm donor. I don't know anything about him, other than his name."

  Muncaster smiled pleasantly, and poured some steaming coffee. “Well, be that as it may, when Ranald died two years ago, the estate passed along to Jamie, your biological father."

  If the inheritance was now mine, it could only mean one thing. “Did he die too? Jamie, I mean?"

  He nodded. “He drowned in Loch Lomond about six months ago, March twentieth, I'm sorry to say."

  "Don't be. I never knew him,” I repeated. Why, then, did I feel a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach? Jamie Murray was nothing to me, no more than a name on my birth certificate. “Why would he leave me anything?"

  "Oh, he didn't, not personally,” Muncaster said hastily. “It's a familial inheritance set up in an entitlement a couple of centuries ago, so that it automatically goes on to the next descendant. Ranald had no children, and Jamie was the son of his younger brother Robert. After Jamie, you were the last. Frankly, we were a bit surprised to learn about you."

  I could just imagine. Somehow, I couldn't picture Jamie Murray, whoever he may have been, sitting in his attorney's office casually discussing the illegitimate child he'd fathered back when he was motorcycling around the United States during the early seventies.

  "Look, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Mr. Muncaster...."

  "Please, call me Evan."

  "Okay, Evan. Not to be unpleasant about this, but my life is in Charleston,” I pointed out. “I'm only here because I happened to get fired from my job right before your letter came. What if I don't want to stay here at.... What's it called again?"

  "Kilgraeme. Well, you could stay for a year and then collect a small cash payout."

  "Can I sell it?"

  "No. If you decide you don't want it, we have to trace back to any other descendants of the original Murrays. You're the last in line from Dugald Murray, Colin's son, but there was also a sister and brother.” He looked very earnest, and seemed to hope that I'd accept what was rightfully mine. “We've had an American genealogist helping us out, and I'm sure, in time, we could track down another heir. But I'd really rather not. I promised Ranald, and I promised your father, that I'd find you and bring you to Kilgraeme."

  I stared at him. I was tired with jet lag, and wanted more than anything to just go home and sit with Gil and Mark on the beach, sipping margaritas and watching the tide roll in. I didn't want to live in Scotland. I didn't know anyone there, and I didn't care about the Murrays. They were not my family.

  "Would you be willing to at least go see it? Please?"

  Curses, I thought. Evan Muncaster was hard to say no to, especially since he looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine. That familiar tingle shot through my body again as I looked into his eyes, which were the color of well-aged whiskey.

  Maybe I'd stay. Just for a little while.

  We made casual small-talk as we drove. Evan Muncaster had a sporty red Saab, and I was happy to just sit back and enjoy the three-hour ride. I napped for most of it, and then awoke to find we had left the city and were in a much more rural part of Scotland. The hills got steeper, and I noticed a deep drop on the right, down to a large expanse of lake. Evan turned off of the primary road onto a smaller one.

  "We're at the northernmost point of Loch Lomond now. Kilgraeme is northeast of here. It's a fairly small village, maybe a hundred people or so. There are a half dozen shops, a pub and a post office. That's about all. Anything else you want, you'll have to drive into Arrochar."

  We crested another hill, and wide green fields dotted with fat sheep opened up before us. At the base of a still distant mountainside was something brown. “What is that? Over there, at the foot of that mountain? It looks like a big pile of rocks."

  Evan raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “It is a big pile of rocks. It's Kilgraeme Manor."

  Holy shit, I thought. This was going to be much worse than I thought.

  * * * *

  Kilgraeme was originally constructed in the late 1600's, by one Donald of Glengyle, a chieftain of the Clan MacGregor. According to Evan, Donald deeded it over to Colin Murray as a thank-you gift for marrying one of Donald's nieces. Each generation had added on a little bit to suit its own needs and now Kilgraeme was a jumble of several interconnected buildings, resembling a very large and crumbly rabbit warren. Most of it was made of stone, which I could now tell was not truly brown after all. It had been whitewashed at some point, and was just dirty. I cringed. Mark would have a hissy fit if he saw this place.

  The main house, in the center, rose three stories. I stared at the roof. “That's not thatch, is it?” I wondered if maybe I had arrived at the scene of one of those Renaissance fairs that Gil and Mark attended every year.

  "Aye,” nodded Evan. “But don't worry. It's very sound. Never leaks."

  "I'd be more concerned about it burning than leaking."

  He nodded. “I suppose so. But it's about four feet thick, so you'd at least have a bit of time to smell the smoke before the rest of the building went up in flames."

  "Well, that's comforting,” I murmured. We were approaching the house now, and I noticed a good deal of activity in the yard. “Who are all those people?"

  "Your tenants."

  "Tenants?” I gaped. “You mean like slaves?” I had spent my whole life in South Carolina, and I was not, under any circumstances, going to be a slaveholder. No way.

  "No,” he sniffed. I couldn't tell if he was amused by my ignorance or offended by it. “Tenants. They live in the village, part of which is technically owned by you, and they rent your land, and farm it. They pay you for letting them use the fields."

  "Oh,” I said, feeling kind of stupid.

  "They're here to get a look at you,” Evan winked, parking the Saab. “Did I mention there's never been a woman that was heir to Kilgraeme?” He opened the door and hopped out.

  "No, you didn't,” I called. It was too late. He had already shut the door.

  Before getting out, I watched him carefully. Evan was shaking hands with several men. Friendly and good-looking, he would have made an excellent politician. A few women and small children were watching me more than a little suspiciously. It wasn't quite a Renaissance fair after all, but more like stepping into a romance novel. If I met anyone who claimed to be a governess, I'd be on the next train out of here.

  Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of the Saab, and walked over to where Evan Muncaster stood. “So,” I said cleverly, “this is Kilgraeme.” There'd been no sign of a village on the way in, and I wondered where it was. Evan had said there was a pub, and I had a feeling I was going to need to find it pretty soon.

  Evan introduced me to several of the locals, most of whom claimed to be just “passing through” when I arrived, although I was fairly certain that it was more than coincidence. Most of them were indeed farmers, although one, a man named Piper, was a weaver with a shop in the village. He specialized in tartan wools for the Glasgow kilt shops. I was intrigued.

  "Is there still a market for kilts?” I asked curiously. “I thought that was just something for the movies."

 
The little man's eyes sparkled. “Aye, the films, and the Highland games, and folks who like to dress up fer’ a Gatherin’ and such.” His accent was thick, and hard to understand.

  "I'm sorry, a ... a Gathering?"

  "Aye, ‘tis held in the fall, at harvest time. There always be a Gatherin’ at Kilgraeme, leastaways ‘twas when his Lordship was still wi’ us,” he announced.

  Evan intervened for me, his clipped and precise accent suddenly becoming broad enough to spread with a knife. “Mack, let the lass bide a bit before you start hammerin’ her about plannin’ a Gatherin'!"

  Mack Piper laughed and shook my hand. “Ye'll do fine with a Gatherin', Lady Murray. I kent your Da weel, and if ye're even a bit like him ye'll do just fine.” He wandered away.

  "What did he say?” I whispered to Evan. “Was that even English?"

  "Of course it was. He knew your father,” replied Evan, “and he liked him a lot."

  There were more greetings; so many that I couldn't keep them all straight. Flustered, I asked Evan to stay at Kilgraeme for a while, just to help me get used to things. Technically, people here spoke the same language I did, but I definitely was in a country I knew nothing about.

  He brightened visibly. “I'm rather pleased that you asked. I keep one of the guest rooms here, you know—Ranald and Jamie always had an open invitation for me to spend weekends at Kilgraeme, and I never lost the habit, even after they both died. I have to admit, I was a little concerned that you wouldn't want me around."

  I frowned. “Why on earth not?"

  "I thought maybe you'd like to run things your own way, and wouldn't want me interfering."

  "Run what things? I thought I just had to live here."

  "Well, you do. Come inside. It's getting ready to rain.” He opened the door abruptly.

  I looked up. The sky was blue. “How can you tell? It doesn't look cloudy at all."

  "It rains every day at three o'clock here. Trust me.” He guided me inside. Once inside the great oak doors, I stopped short, gazing around. It was like walking onto a movie set. Maybe if I got really lucky, Liam Neeson would pop out of the shadows at me.