"Let me get this straight, poodle,” he said. “So your father—it's weird to call him that—your father died six months ago, and was seeing this Trish person?"
"Correct."
"But he was nailing the housekeeper's daughter on the side?"
"Gil! Stop that. It wasn't a matter of nailing anyone. Mrs. Much says Melissa loved Jamie. And she's a cook, not a housekeeper,” I added lamely.
"Meanwhile, Melissa was married to the local hermit,” he finished.
"They were separated, or maybe even divorced, from what Mrs. Much told me."
"Yeah. Okay. Honey, you have a regular Peyton Place over there. So then your dad and the housekeeper's daughter...."
"Melissa,” I interrupted.
"Whatever. They go out for a little afternoon sail, and both of ‘em end up dead,” he finished. I could hear the click of a Zippo lighter two thousand miles away as he lit up.
"In a nutshell, yes."
Gil sighed. “See? It's all just more links in your Karmic Chain. I totally wish I was there."
"Me too. I miss you, Bubba. How's Mark?” I asked politely.
"Fabulous. His parents are on vacation so we're staying at the beach house.” Mark lives in what is politely referred to as a “guest cottage” on his parents’ property. When they're out of town, he moves into the main house so he and Gil can have parties.
"Cool. Are you guys behaving yourselves?"
"Never. Tell me about the men in Scotland,” he commanded.
"Not much to tell. I mentioned Evan, of course."
Gil sighed dreamily. “Of course."
"He's here a lot,” I hedged.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"Hell, no,” I replied, trying to sound appropriately scandalized. “He's a good guy, okay? He likes me. I mostly just think he's cute."
"You're gonna sleep with him."
"No, I'm not. But even if I did, it's none of your business. Then there's this other guy...."
"Oh?"
"Would you stop interrupting? Little brothers are such a pain in the ass. Anyway, his name is Cayden Spalding. He lives in a hut or something on the other side of the mountain."
"Aha, this is the hermit! I like the reclusive type."
"I'm not sure reclusive is the right word. Maybe sullen or surly or antisocial. Anyway, he's a big guy with red hair."
"Is he cute?"
"Gilbert!"
"Is he?"
I thought about that one for a moment. Cayden Spalding would hardly fit into the category of cute. Puppies, bunnies and kittens are cute, and Spalding was none of those things. He definitely got a girl's pulse pounding, though. If said girl liked big Vikings, that is.
"He's okay,” I shrugged, and wondered if Gil could hear me lying through the phone.
"You want him!” my brother proclaimed. “You want him bad."
"Do not."
"Do too, you lying little hussy. He sounds divine."
I changed the subject once again, and we chatted for a while about the Air Apparent, which was doing nicely as usual, and Charleston weather, and Scottish weather. The two really weren't that different, all things considered. Both were rainy in the fall, Charleston was just hotter and had more tourists. I finally hung up, but not before Gil suggested maybe I should start rootling around in the library archives.
I was curious as to what other secrets I might unearth at Kilgraeme. In addition to the Melissa Much situation, it had been more than a bit awkward finding out that my father had been romantically involved with Trish MacGregor. I argued heatedly with Evan Muncaster about the whole thing.
"You knew! You knew about Trish, and you knew about Melissa Much, didn't you?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “Well, of course, but I didn't think it would matter—the thing with Trish and your father. And why mention Melissa at all? Everyone knew what she was about."
I just stared at him. “What she was about? What do you mean?"
Evan blinked. “The money. She was after Jamie for his money."
"How can you say that, Evan? Did you even know her?"
He snorted, running a hand through his sandy hair. “Everyone knew Melissa, believe me. It was just a matter of time before she sunk her claws into Jamie. She had been after poor old Ranald, as well, before he died, even though he was as old as Methuselah. I just didn't think it was important to talk about her, that's all."
"Evan, she died with my father. Didn't you think I might want to know that?” I paused, staring out the window at the loch. “To know he didn't die alone?” I said softly.
He honestly hadn't understood what I wanted. And when I had asked him for more details on my father's death-and now, Melissa's, too-his eyes had filled with tears.
"I was friends with your Da, you know. I almost went out on the boat with him that evening.... I wasn't feeling well, though, some sort of stomach thing, so I cancelled on him at the last moment. He invited Melissa instead,” he said with a sigh.
And that had been all the information I got from him. Evan felt guilty about his narrow escape from death, and it pained him to talk about the incident. Pressing the issue seemed cruel.
I decided, then, that for all of those reasons, I would get to know the Murrays. I'd spent far too long knowing absolutely nothing about my own ancestors, including my father. All I had of him now was a pile of photos Trish gave me.
And, whether I liked it or not, I had Kilgraeme.
I surveyed the enormous desk in the third-floor chamber. These rooms had been used by generations of Murrays as an office, library, and living quarters. Hundreds of years of record keeping were buried within these walls, and I fully intended to muddle through it all, if it took me the entire year I was to stay here. In part it was to satisfy my own curiosity, but mostly I was just bored, and going through the records game me something to do. Once I started pulling books off shelves, I discovered that any cleaning that had been done up here was superficial at best. I was soon up to my elbows in dust and mold spores, and sneezing somewhat violently, but I didn't care.
The high walls of the library were lined with books that looked valuable even to my untrained eye, and I made a mental note to have some specialists come in and evaluate the treasures here at Kilgraeme.
At some point, someone-Trish, most likely-had started cataloging the papers and books in the library, but there was still a great deal of material left to be organized. It became more and more apparent that our genealogist in residence only applied her researching skills to the Murrays when necessary, or required by Evan, and mostly concentrated on the multitude of neighboring MacGregors.
I leaned back in the giant chair, feet propped up on the hideous desk, gazing around me. Somewhere on one of the lower floors, Emily Much and her friends were singing faintly as they cleaned. It was a relief, really, to have them coming in twice a week. It meant I didn't have to clean anything except my own room.
A knock at the door startled me out of my reverie.
"Come in,” I called. It was the dark-haired girl, the one named Sandie. She came in and stood in front of the desk, hands on her denim-clad hips. Her nails were painted black. With her spiky black hair, she looked like an extra from a Tim Burton movie.
"I come to help you, miss,” she said.
I shook my head. “Don't worry about cleaning in here. I'll just generate a giant cloud of dust when I move things around later on. I'll take care of it myself. Thank you."
Sandie looked puzzled for a moment, blinking her heavily-mascaraed eyes. “No, miss, I'm not after cleaning the room. ‘Twas already tidied in here. I meant I need to talk to you.” She arched a brow at me. “You are the Murray of Kilgraeme, aye?"
"Yes. Er, aye. Fire away.” I had no idea what she wanted, and wondered if this was going to be another advisory about the family ghost.
Sandie leaned closer, and I caught a scent of heady perfume. It was a brand too seductive, too worldly for a girl of sixteen. “I know something."
I fro
wned. “You know something? I don't quite follow, Sandie."
"I know something about someone. An’ it's something you should know too."
Sighing, I toyed with a pencil on the desk, examining the bite marks in the yellow wood. I had been munching it voraciously. Gil says it means I have an oral fixation. “Sandie, listen, if there is something you need to tell me, would you just spit it out? I'm kind of busy, and to tell you the truth, I don't like guessing games."
"Will you be holding a Council at the end o’ the week? It's the first Friday of the month.” Sandie smoothed down her glossy black hair. “Everyone will be there."
I studied her carefully. I wasn't entirely sure I liked this girl at all. Somehow, Sandie seemed much older and wiser than someone her age should. “Do you need to tell me something about holding Council?” I pressed.
Sandie shook her head. “I need to tell you something about a person. But I've changed my mind. I think I will wait until Council after all, so that everyone can hear it, aye?"
I flicked a hand impatiently. “Look, Sandie, I have a lot of work to do. If this is something that can wait until Friday, then so be it. I'll see you then."
The girl pouted a little bit, then smiled. “You ought to be careful, I'll tell you that much, miss.” She moved towards the door. “Things ain't always how they seem at Kilgraeme.” Sandie winked, and disappeared out of the room.
I rolled my eyes. I wasn't going to play these silly games with Sandie MacFarlane, who didn't even live at Kilgraeme and probably just wanted attention. I pushed her from my mind and selected a cloth-bound book at random from the shelves. Leaning back in old Ranald's leather chair, I read for hours.
* * * *
Evan Muncaster found me late that afternoon, still poring over dusty documents in the library. When he climbed the stairs to bring up a sandwich and some tea, he began coughing. He looked around in surprise.
"My God, lass, what have you been doing in here?"
There were piles of paper everywhere, across the floor and atop the desk and chairs. Glancing up, I grinned at him.
"Hi! I thought I'd get to learn a little bit about the Murrays. I had no idea there was so much information here,” I confessed. “Is that a tuna sandwich I see before me?"
"Aye,” he smiled, offering the plate. “Mrs. Much said if you wanted more just yell down to her."
I shook my head. “This should be plenty. I didn't realize how late it was getting. I completely forgot to eat lunch.” I could feel Evan watching me intently.
"Are you making any progress?"
"A little. I haven't learned a lot yet, but I'm just skimming over most of this stuff while I put it into piles."
"And the piles are?"
I pointed, trying to swallow a glob of tuna so Evan wouldn't have to look at it when I talked. “Land and rent information. This stack is birth, marriage and death records. The big pile on the chair has got books in it, like log books."
"Aye,” nodded Evan. “Council records. Speaking of which, you know you are expected to hold a Council on Friday?"
I nodded. “Sandie MacFarlane reminded me this morning. She's creepy. Said she had something to tell me,” I continued, chewing my sandwich, “and then changed her mind and told me she'd bring it up at Council."
"Watch out for her,” advised Evan Muncaster. “I wouldn't trust her over much if I were you."
"Trish basically said the same thing."
Evan rolled his eyes. “Trish would. Sandie is dating Danny Beaton."
I paused. I had a feeling I knew where this was going, all things considered. “And he is connected to Trish how, dare I ask?"
"Trish had a brief ... thing with him earlier in the summer. After Jamie died."
I thought about it for a moment. The pock-faced gardener seemed too old for Sandie, but far too young for Trish MacGregor. “Trish is a busy girl,” I said casually.
"Don't be catty. She loved Jamie,” he said, tearing into a bag of potato chips.
"I thought Melissa Much loved Jamie,” I pointed out.
"That was just sex, I expect. Jamie actually was quite fond of Trish. Anyway, he's been gone six months now. Danny was a diversion for her.” He sat on the floor beside me, and I was acutely conscious of his nearness. He smelled nice, like breath mints and soap. “So, tell me what you've learned thus far."
"Er, well, I'm sure most of this is stuff Trish has already unearthed. It's just that it's been hard to get any free time with her, you know?” I indicated the heap of land records and rent information. “Kilgraeme, as you know, was originally owned by the MacGregors. Donald MacGregor of Glengyle was the father of Robert Roy MacGregor, which actually explains to me why Trish is here so much. Really, I was starting to wonder."
"Aye, she's descended from some kinsman of Rob Roy's,” said Evan.
"Right. Anyway, it looks like after Maggie MacGregor, Donald's fifteen-year-old niece, married this Colin Murray fellow, the MacGregors deeded the land over to them as a wedding gift,” I finished. “But you already knew that."
He waved a hand. “No matter. You should remember, history is not really my department, aye?"
I laughed. “Thanks for humoring me, Evan.” I delicately held up a weather-browned sheet. “This one is kind of strange. Maybe you can explain it to me?"
He took the paper gingerly. “It's a deed of sasine, interestingly enough.” He scanned over the document briefly. “It would appear that at some point in the 1750s, Colin Murray deeded over a portion of his lands to an Englishman, an S. Ludlow. Who on earth is that, I wonder?"
A flash of inspiration hit me. “Susannah! Look here, in with the birth and death records. There's a marriage certificate or two. See?” I pointed beside Dugald Murray's name. “Colin's son married a Susannah Ludlow in April of 1755. Maybe it wasn't an Englishman at all. Maybe it was an English woman,” I grinned. At the bottom was the signature of a Thomas Spalding, Witness.
Evan shook his head. “More likely a brother of hers, or something. Colin could have deeded lands to an English associate he trusted, perhaps to hold onto them for the family while keeping Kilgraeme under royal jurisdiction."
"I don't get it. Why do that?"
"Well, here's the thing, lass. Scotland, particularly the Highlands, has a long and bloody history of feuding with the English crown. After the Jacobite Rising, and the Battle of Culloden in 1746, the King passed the Heritable Jurisdictions Act."
"Which is what?"
"It forced Highland landowners to accept English jurisdiction or else forfeit their lands. A number of clan chiefs and landed gentleman left the area altogether, rather than give up their freedom as Scotsmen."
He was rolling his r's again, and I winked at him. “I don't suppose you have a kilt?” Evan laughed. “I'm afraid not.” He patted my hand lightly.
I leaned back against the wall, and glanced back to the deed of sasine. “So, anyhow. This deed thingy. Why would Colin wait until 1758 to deed over his land to an English person, rather than do it in the late 1740's when the Heritable Whatsis law was passed?"
"I don't know,” Evan admitted. “It's highly unusual. Your guess is as good as mine, Brynne.” We sat in companionable silence for a while, peering at a wide range of paperwork. Finally, shadows filled the room, and I checked my watch.
"Oh, shit. It's nearly six. Mrs. Much will hang me from the rafters if I'm late for dinner again,” I groaned. I climbed to my feet and my spine made some unpleasant popping sounds.
"You and I have a lot of work to do, you know, if you're holding Council on Friday,” Evan said.
"Do I have to?” The whole thing sounded so medieval.
He shrugged indifferently. “Nobody has to. It's just always been done that way."
"Who's been holding Council since my father, Jamie, died?"
A look of distaste crossed the attorney's handsome face. “Well, it was always the place of the Murray. In the absence of one, however, it seems that Cayden Spalding is called upon frequently to settle
disputes.” He frowned at the mention of the man's name.
"Why Cayden Spalding?” I asked, curious. “Does he have a legal background?"
"Good Lord, no. Nobody cares about that. But he's a Spalding."
I blinked. “Okay, once again I fail to see what that has to do with anything."
"Sorry. The Spaldings have been sort of second-in-command types for the Murrays going back to the days of the Rising."
"Culloden again?” I interrupted, as I followed Evan to the main stairs. These people sure seemed to have long memories.
"No, that was the second Rising. I'm talking about the earlier one, in 1714 or thereabouts. Anyway, old Colin Murray rode about with a Spalding and they've been here ever since, as the official factors and seneschals for the Murrays. If there's no Murray available to settle things, then the folk at Kilgraeme turn to a Spalding,” he explained.
"Why not you?” I asked. “You're a lawyer."
For a brief second his eyes seemed to darken. “Aye, a lawyer I am, but a sassenach one to these people."
"I thought sassenachs were English. Aren't you Scottish?"
He grunted in response. “Aye, but I'm not a Kilgraeme Scot, I'm from Glasgow, and my family's from northern England. To these people here, I might as well be from the moon. You, on the other hand, have been here less than a month and you are more Scottish to them than I am. You're the Murray. Cayden Spalding, simple though he may be, was born here at Kilgraeme with three hundred years of bloodline on his resume."
"If he's so stupid, why do they ask him for help?"
"I said simple, not stupid. There's a difference. Cayden Spalding is a very intelligent man,” he mused. “Make no mistake about it."
I thought about Spalding's abrupt manner when I had left his croft the day of the storm, and then the morning at the White Rose. He had shown his disdain for me, but I assumed it was because to him, I was just another greedy American trying to make a buck. “What exactly is it that you dislike about him so much, Evan?” I asked suddenly.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “He and I just ... well, we've had our differences,” he said carefully, pausing as we reached the bottom step. “Be careful around him. There were some rumors."
Call of the Clan Page 7
