Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  “Maitland’s got no woman, no children,” Fergus said. “He’s had time for too much schooling.”

  “Pitiful thing, when a man’s got nobody, but then, you’d know all about that.”

  Fergus gave him a shove, and Hugh took half a step into the ferns beside the path. “Pitiful thing, when you can wield every tool in your toolbox, but haven’t any opportunity to wield the one God equipped you with at birth.”

  “Now, that’s your blood sugar plummeting,” Hugh said. “Makes a lad cranky. You should not have had that second brownie.”

  “I think it’s the fourth one causing problems.”

  They rounded the next turn in the trail, the castle parapets peeking through the trees.

  “Maitland will eventually get into those files, Fergus. Why you didn’t spend the weekend tidying up the reports and bringing the time sheets up to date, I do not know. He won’t appreciate a nasty surprise.”

  Fergus had done summaries, as required, and sent them along at the end of each week—and he had spent the weekend trying to bring order to the chaos, but thoughts of unrequited longing had interfered at every turn.

  Ridiculous, that. “I’m not lying to the man.”

  “You’re guessing at how many hours the lads are putting in, estimating what’s owed to the subcontractors on the next progress payment, and seat-of-your-pantsing the material orders. I haven’t said a word, but we don’t employ fools on this project.”

  “There’s Dinty.”

  “A hard worker and one of the best masons this valley will ever see, drunk or sober.”

  “He actually does better when he’s been at the Speysides.” Fergus had tried having a wee nip between searches for missing invoices, and the whisky hadn’t helped.

  The path angled upward in a series of switchbacks, until it emerged outside the castle gates. Fergus would have cheerfully wandered in the woods until Hogmanay, rather than face the crapstorm of forms, spreadsheets, and schedules waiting for him in the solar.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me help you sort this out?” Hugh asked.

  Hugh was a handsome charmer when he was bantering and teasing, a fine specimen when wielding his hammer and saw. When he turned a serious gaze on Fergus, he was a god of the forest, offering understanding when Fergus deserved a sound beating.

  “I’ve made one hell of a muddle since Jeannie stopped coming around, Hugh. Another set of hands moving things about, another set of eyes trying to decipher my notes won’t make the process go any faster.”

  Above Hugh’s shoulder, a peacock butterfly fluttered by on wings of orange, black, yellow, and violet. A crossbill chirp-chirp-tweeeeeted from the canopy, and a prettier summer’s day had probably never graced Deeside.

  So why did Fergus battle a compulsion to drive into Aberdeen, get drunk, and never lay eyes on Brodie Castle again?

  Hugh slung an arm around Fergus’s middle and thumped him a wee tap between the shoulders. “I have faith in you, Fergus, me lad. You’ll subdue the powers of darkness, and your estimates and guesses are doubtless more accurate than all of Jeannie Cromarty’s careful figures. When Maitland has you taken up by the queen’s man for embezzling, I’ll even smuggle you a nip from time to time and speak of you fondly on holidays.”

  “Mind you bring me a decent Speyside, none of that Campbeltown crap you rot your innards with.”

  “A blasphemer and an embezzler,” Hugh said, putting Fergus in a headlock and scrubbing a set of hard knuckles over his crown. “I do fancy a man who can multitask.” He let Fergus go with a friendly shove, though by the time they emerged from the trees, Hugh was once again striding along, not a care in the world.

  Fergus took what comfort he could from Hugh’s affection and parted from him at the castle gates. A smart site foreman would have gone straight up to the solar, sat down with the orange crate full of paperwork that was his worst nightmare, and faced his demons.

  Fergus instead took the path to the laundry and set the lads to scrubbing every surface within an inch of their lives.

  Max was not sorry he’d kissed Jeannie Cromarty. He was very sorry he’d never have that privilege again. This regret dogged him through the week as activity picked up both in the castle and at the Hall.

  “I don’t understand something,” Fern said, sliding next to Max on a bench at the Earl’s Pint. “Who would want to attend a conference where you have to tramp through the woods to get from your hotel room to your classroom? Only so many bird watchers and hill walkers are devoted to Deeside, and most of them prefer the holiday cottages.”

  Holiday cottages were a threat to the castle’s success, and one of Scotland’s most ubiquitous features. Every unused garage, English basement, and spare lot sported a tidy little dwelling with a lockbox discreetly tucked near a side door. The cottages tended to be well built, well maintained, and well managed, damn the luck.

  “Only the largest conferences will need to move traffic between the Hall and the castle,” Max said, “and most people who regularly attend these gatherings learn the value of some outdoor time throughout the day. Sitting in meetings and workshops for hours dulls the mind, particularly when sitting in the bar or the restaurant is all the break you get.”

  Fern set a basket of silverware and a pile of green and white plaid napkins on the table. “I’ve been to a few. Pub owners love to get together and bemoan the challenges of their trade. Have you heard from Jeannie?”

  Max took a sip of very fine beer. “I have not, nor do I expect to. She bailed me out when I needed bailing out, and I wish her the best.”

  Fern set a knife, fork, and spoon on a napkin and rolled the linen around the silverware. “You miss her, then.”

  Fern’s good opinion of Max mattered. He’d taken to stopping by for a beer once work at the castle had wound down for the day and grabbing some takeout to bring home to the Hall.

  Though the Hall wasn’t home, and takeout wasn’t a home-cooked dinner. Mrs. Hamilton’s lasagna and salad, chased with sticky toffee pudding and shared with Jeannie Cromarty, were but a fond memory.

  “I can’t miss somebody I hardly know, Fern. I met Jeannie less than a week ago.”

  “That Henry’s quite the handful.” She set a pile of napkins in front of Max. “Harry MacDonald was a rascal.”

  Max had waited tables, because in Maryland, construction all but stopped during cold weather, and what few jobs were available in winter went to the old hands and union members. He positioned a knife, fork, and spoon on the napkin and rolled up the cutlery.

  “Into each life,” he said, “some rascals must fall.”

  Dinty shuffled in, waved to Fern and Max, and kept right on shuffling until he was behind the bar, building himself a perfect pint. Over in the corner, two old women were playing a ferocious hand of some card game, and three geezers by the fireplace where arguing over a game of cribbage.

  This wasn’t home either, though the Earl’s Pint was a consolation for homesickness.

  “Harry MacDonald was worse than a mere garden-variety rascal,” Fern said. “We had a casual friendship before he married Jeannie, and he was more than happy to keep that friendship up even after he’d taken a wife and Henry was on the way. I’m not in the business of judging others, but Jeannie’s a friend. Harry MacDonald is no longer welcome in my establishment.”

  All the while she spoke, she worked, efficiently rolling silverware.

  “Are you warning me?” Max asked. “I all but offered Jeannie a job, and she didn’t even sniff at it long enough to ask about salary and job duties.” Which was for the best. Max had reached that conclusion before he’d kissed her, and he was reassuring himself of its truth nearly hourly now.

  “You’ve met Elias,” Fern said as two laborers and a mason wandered in. Dinty set the pint he’d pulled for himself on the bar and began on another.

  “I have had that pleasure, and I’m acquainted with his wife.” Violet Hughes—Violet Brodie now—was a formidable, relentless woman. Max admired her
from the safest distance he could keep.

  “Elias has that fancy PhD in economics. He sits on the boards of a dozen charities, owns property all over the UK, and is on cheek-kissing terms with princes and princesses.”

  “He’s learning how to raise chickens, last I heard.” Even the hens loved the Earl of Strathdee, but then, chickens were not noted for their brains.

  “When he deigned to join his Cromarty cousins for a family gathering, do you know who would brace Elias on economic theory and the latest banking news? Not Uncle Donald, who’s a devoted amateur investor; not Liam, who buys and sells art all over the world; not Niall, who did the international golf-pro bit for years, complete with groupies and sponsors.”

  “Does that leave Jeannie?”

  “That leaves Jeannie, who had the foresight to turn a fishing cottage into a source of revenue, when the family has an architect among its numbers and plenty of strong backs to handle the build-out. She could have done that all over Deeside and Tayside, but instead she got tangled up with that wretched Harry MacDonald.”

  The pile of silverware was dwindling, and having something to do with his hands soothed a restlessness Max tried to ignore.

  “Jeannie’s smart. This is not news.”

  “She is smart, you need help up at the castle, and she needs a job.”

  Jeannie did not need a casual fling with a guy who’d be spending every third weekend on an airplane.

  “I have responsibilities in Maryland, Fern. Family responsibilities.”

  “Are you married, then?”

  “I am not. I have a younger sibling with special needs and no other family to help out.” He should probably not have said that. “My personal situation is not for publication, and yes, I did tell Jeannie.”

  “I’ll overlook that insult, Mr. Maitland. The trust placed in a tavern owner is more sacred than the confidentiality of the confessional.” She collected Max’s pile of rolled cutlery and arranged it in the basket. “Dinty, stop nickin’ my cherries.”

  The guys at the bar hooted, and Dinty nicked another cherry, dangling it by the stem over his open mouth.

  “The man does brilliant work with stone,” Fern said, “but if he doesn’t stop snacking on my garnishes, I’ll grant his death wish.”

  “Not until my castle is put to rights,” Max said.

  “I still don’t see how you’ll accomplish that when anybody who wants to travel between the castle and Hall has to pretty much hike through the trees to do it. Put a few inches of snow on that hillside, or a fresh winter breeze, and a mere covered walkway won’t serve.”

  “My job is to solve the problems nobody else is working on, and that’s at the top of the list.”

  Not quite the top. The top of the list was occupied by the challenge of forgetting Jeannie Cromarty’s kisses.

  Fern stacked the last of the wrapped silverware. “Will you take a break from your problem-solving long enough to join us for the ceilidh tomorrow night?”

  “That’s a dance of some sort?”

  She used her wrist to draw a wisp of red hair from her brow. The gesture was graceful and a little weary.

  “A ceilidh is mostly a social gathering, but quantities of drink and food are consumed, so the dancing becomes necessary, and then the dancing inspires more drinking and eating. All quite jolly and loud. Everybody comes, including the children, and if the old ladies ask you to dance, you’ll learn the true meaning of stamina.”

  “I’d better pass. I need the weekend to rest and catch up, and the guys won’t want me gate-crashing their fun.”

  Fern hefted the basket onto her lap. “You’d better not pass. In case you haven’t noticed, you employ both women and men on your work site, and if they’re to learn to trust you, you will have to give them a chance to look you over.”

  Max expected her to move off—Dinty was working on the olives now—but she scooted to the edge of the bench and remained there.

  “I would never speak ill of a friend,” she said.

  “My discretion rivals that of a Scottish pub owner.”

  “Fergus will never ask you for help, Mr. Maitland, but I sent him an invoice nearly two months ago for a spread like the one I did for you on Monday. The crews were celebrating Elias’s decision to lease out the castle. I’ve yet to be paid. Fergus knows the name of every person on your job site, whether they have aged parents in Peeblesshire or a spouse on temporary duty in Budapest. He can fill in for any trade and keep up with an architect arguing with a lawyer and an accountant. He cleans up amazingly well, if you ever need to put him in a suit, but he’s allergic to paper.”

  Max thought back to weeks of terse emails and summary reports. “That’s not good.”

  “You mustn’t let on I told you. Fergus has his pride.”

  “Fergus has a job too, and part of that job is handling a blizzard of documentation. I’m glad you spoke up. I’ll see that your check is cut tomorrow.”

  She ran a hand over Max’s hair, the gesture maternal or sororal. Not flirtatious. “My thanks.”

  Fern crossed the common, stopping to chat with the ladies, then peeking over the shoulder of one of the duffers at the cribbage board. She was a natural-born pub owner, and if Fergus thought he could hide or fudge lousy paperwork, Fergus was a natural-born fool.

  “He’s been furloughed,” Millicent said. “My Harry’s a good, hardworking man who knows everything there is to know about an oil rig, and they furloughed him.”

  Jeannie coaxed Henry’s arm into the sleeve of his jacket, for the week’s weather was ending on a brisk note, and Millicent had decided to serve lunch on her back deck. Her home overlooked the River Tay, though more than an acre of manicured yard lay between the house and the water.

  “I’m sorry to hear Harry’s had some bad luck,” Jeannie said, “but he’s resilient, and his skills are in demand. I’m sure he’ll be called back shortly.” She was equally sure he wouldn’t use his free time to visit his son, not when he could be larking about the Greek Isles or bicycling in Croatia.

  Harry did not pay child support, something he’d promised to work out with Jeannie when he was next in Scotland, but he had paid six months’ rent on the apartment before announcing his decision to resume a bachelor’s life. Jeannie anticipated having to pay rent out of her as-yet-nonexistent paychecks in four week’s time.

  “Henry’s outgrown that jacket already,” Millicent said, gathering up plates.

  The jacket was new and far from snug. “He is growing quickly. He’ll soon be a year old.” And Harry was missing all of it.

  Millicent left off scraping plates to spear Jeannie with a look. Harry’s mum was a tall, athletic blonde who’d passed on both her height and her Nordic coloring to her son. She poured the remaining half of Jeannie’s glass of water into the potted salvia at the center of the table.

  “If you can’t afford decent clothes for the boy, Jeannie Cromarty, then it’s time you got back to work. I mean that kindly, one mother to another. I’m more than happy to look after Henry so that you can be about paying the bills. I know you weren’t entirely to blame for Harry’s decision to move on, but if you think you’ll get him back by keeping a hand in his pocket, think again.”

  Henry was not interested in putting on his jacket. He was having a grand time playing Frustrate My Mum, which was fortunate. Without Henry to distract her, Jeannie might have burst out laughing.

  “I know Harry’s decision to leave is final. He told me so himself, and I consider his honesty a kindness.” At the time, Jeannie had considered his piking off rank immaturity. She still did, but at least Harry hadn’t tried to blame her for his decision. “I am looking for work, though I appreciate your very generous offer. You’ve been more than kind, and I’m sure Harry appreciates all the time you spend with Henry too.”

  Not that Harry had ever said as much to Jeannie, and not that Millicent spent much time with Henry. On weekdays, if Jeannie dropped Henry off for an hour or two with his grandmother, Millicent’s
housekeeper, Mrs. Nairn, looked after Henry. She was a kindly soul and a grandmother herself. Leaving Henry with Millicent for most of Friday the previous week had been an experiment, and a desperate one.

  Henry had been tired, cranky, and hungry when Jeannie had retrieved him, and his diaper had been soaked.

  “Harry is that boy’s father,” Millicent said quite firmly. “If Harry can’t be here, then the least I can do is step in to fill that void.”

  Harry had chosen not to be present for his son. Jeannie turned back the cuffs on the sleeves of Henry’s jacket and reminded herself—for the thousandth time—that she had chosen to marry Harry and had chosen with Harry to bring a child into the world.

  “I’m sure there will be times when Harry will work closer to home,” Jeannie said. “When that happens, he can spend more time with Henry.” Harry-fashion, those times might not arrive for another seventeen years.

  Millicent took Jeannie’s plate, though Jeannie had had plans for the rest of her raspberry cheesecake.

  “I’m glad you don’t intend to go dangling after the next handsome rascal who comes along,” Millicent said. “I’d take a dim view of any attempt to replace Harry with some daddy-come-lately. Blood is thicker than water.”

  Neither blood nor water kept Henry warm and dry, so to speak, and as a father, Harry’s involvement was less than come-lately.

  “Might you wrap that piece up for me? Your raspberry cheesecake is not to be missed.”

  Henry made a grab for a spoon, which Millicent snatched out of baby range. “Hands to yourself, my lad.”

  “Fuh.”

  Millicent started a game of keep-away with the spoon, which amused Henry not at all. Before he erupted into full-throated indignation, Jeannie retrieved her barely touched piece of cheesecake and maneuvered it onto a paper plate.

  “I should give you the recipe.” Millicent had been not-giving Jeannie the recipe since before Henry had arrived. Jeannie took that to mean the recipe was actually Mrs. Nairn’s.