by Pam Binder
She hadn’t really lied to Fiona about getting lost. She did have a unique system when she traveled, but it was more than that. The reason Irene wasn’t worried about losing her way in Stirling Castle was because of her mother’s diary.
Her mother had written with such detail about every nook, every alcove, and every chamber in Stirling Castle that Irene felt as though she had a personal road map of the area. There was even mention of hidden passageways, dungeons, and what passed for a library in the thirteenth century. Irene’s stepfather, however, said the notion that his wife had visited Scotland was ridiculous. He was certain she’d never traveled outside the continental United States. Traveling to Europe had been a dream of theirs, but they’d never had the chance.
And yet Irene and her sister were convinced that their mother had been here before. That was the only explanation that made sense, which only added to the puzzle.
After a short time her good intentions to explore ended when she realized she was hungry. Exploring a castle on an empty stomach proved a distraction, especially when she could smell the rich aroma of fruit pies baking in the oven.
Irene gave up and followed the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. It took longer than she expected, but she hoped she was getting close. Her mother’s notations weren’t as helpful as she’d thought they would be, and the photos in the brochures Irene had read on the plane had made the kitchens seem closer to the Great Hall than they apparently were. She’d misinterpreted the distance. Kitchens were fire hazards in this time period. Logically the best solution was to situate them as far from the living quarters as was practical. She’d read that some kitchens were even located in an outside building.
She paused. “Of course.” Changing directions, she raced down the ground floor corridor where the baking smells had been the strongest. She’d dismissed the area, as it looked like it led into the courtyard.
A few minutes later she reached a dead end. There was a flurry of activity and a parade of people coming and going, carrying baskets of fruit, sacks of flour, and spices. Irene entered the kitchens and was immediately engulfed in the sights, smells, and sounds of baking bread, baked apples, and laughter. The compact room was filled with women bent to their tasks. Some peeled and sliced apples, some kneaded and braided dough into loaves of bread, while others washed dishes or wiped down counters. Bridget was in the center of the activity.
Bridget had filled tins with sliced apples, sprinkled nutmeg and cinnamon, then placed rolled-out dough on top. She decorated each with sections of dough cut out in the shape of apples and leaves. Her creations were a work of art.
Irene paused, not sure if she was allowed entrance. One of the women nudged Bridget, who looked up, her expression hesitant at first but then melting into a smile.
“You found us,” she said.
“Such yummy smells. I couldn’t resist.”
Bridget laughed, the sound so natural it brought an answering smile to Irene’s face. “The pastries in this country are an adventure for the tongue, my mother would say. The French say the English food is too plain, and for the most part I agree. The French have mastered many things, including perfecting anything to do with chocolate, but I love the simplicity of a good fruit pie and a well-baked bread. The pies have almost cooled. Sit a while, and I’ll get you a slice.”
“Do you cook pheasants in your pies?” Irene said, remembering one of the notations in the guide books.
“You know your history. The answer is a resounding no. We try to cook authentic recipes for the time, but there are some I have refused, and that is at the top of the list.”
Irene noticed a saying painted on the wall, titled A Recipe For A Successful Match:
Begin with a mixture of friendship,
Communication and respect.
Add a dash of attraction.
Blend equal parts of commitment,
Trust, and honesty.
Now fold in a generous cup of love.
“That is a beautiful saying,” Irene said.
“It’s been in our family for generations.” Bridget cut a generous slice of pie, set it onto a plate, and handed it to Irene. “The poem also serves as the matchmaker motto.”
Irene took a bite of pie and closed her eyes as the combination of flavors melted in her mouth. “This is delicious,” she said with her mouth full. She swallowed and cut into the pie for another bite. “What you do is a family business, then?”
“It’s more of a calling.”
One of the women whispered in Bridget’s ear. Bridget’s expression changed as though a cloud had passed over the sun. She took off her apron and hung it on a hook. “I have to go, but stay, finish your pie. Mary will take good care of you and make sure you get back to your room, or you can participate in the games going on in the Great Hall.”
“I’m not much on games.” Irene rose. “Can I help?”
Bridget hesitated at the door. “Thank you for asking, but Fiona said she has things under control.”
Chapter Eleven
Irene had declined both a second slice of pie and Mary’s help to show her the way back. She wanted to make sure she had time to explore the castle before the feast. And the library seemed like the perfect place to start, as her mother had mentioned it more than once. Maybe she’d find the answers there. When Irene had first read the entries, she had supposed her mother had done extensive research. Except there were huge discrepancies between some of her mother’s accounts and the reference books she’d read on the flight. Her mother said there were hundreds of portraits at Stirling Castle. The reference materials claimed portraits were seldom housed there because the castle was always changing hands or under siege.
The reference books also mentioned that in the sixteenth century King James V had ordered the construction of more windows and shallow niches to house statues of Greek and Roman gods. The guide books said these statues had survived the wars and were on the “must see” list for anyone visiting the castle, but Irene hadn’t seen anything of them. The sisters did stress they’d recreated a thirteenth-century experience, so King James V wouldn’t have been around for another two or three hundred years. Had the sisters managed to cloak the statues somehow?
Irene smiled to herself, impressed by their attention to detail. And people said she was a stickler for facts.
She checked a small diagram in the diary, drawn in her mother’s hand. According to the map, the library was at the end of the next bend in the corridor. The hallways in the castle were like an elaborate maze lined with portraits of nobles and their children, and this one was no exception. No wonder Fiona had thought Irene might get lost. Without her mother’s diary, there was a pretty good chance she would have. The corridor came to an abrupt dead end, and on Irene’s right was an arched doorway.
Flanking the entrance stood life-size statues of knights in full suits of chainmail, complete with helmets and golden spurs. Inside the library, the walls were lined with shelves stuffed with scrolls and books. A fire burned in the hearth, and in the center of the room in a place of honor lay an illuminated manuscript.
She approached it reverently, as though she’d entered a place of worship. The manuscript was a work of art. Wide margins were filled with intricate designs of rabbits, birds, and stylized flowers. The illuminations were so vibrant they seemed to give off their own light.
Irene held her fingers over the pages. They begged to be touched, but even the thought felt sacrilegious.
“The book is meant to be read.”
Irene snapped her hand back, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Who’s there?”
Logan emerged from a corner by a small window, looking even taller than she remembered. Were his eyes always that blue? He held up a leather-bound book as though to show he came in peace. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was on a quest.”
She also registered that his tunic was forest green with gold piping. The same colors were also used in her bedchamber. Now, why did she make that comparis
on? She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts. “Aren’t you interested in the games going on in the Great Hall?”
He shrugged with a smile. “Too many people. What’s your excuse?”
“I don’t like games,” she admitted. “You mentioned a quest?”
He motioned to the book he held. “I was looking for the poem Beowulf and got distracted when I found this one written by Sun Tzu, titled The Art of War. One of my favorite quotes by him is ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’ ”
Irene nodded, leaning over to examine the book he held. “That is a beautiful saying, but speaking personally, following its advice to know yourself would be the tricky part.” She glanced up at him. “This book is in Chinese. Can you read the language?”
“My mother had both a translated copy as well as one in Chinese. I recognized the symbols on the cover. She loved the idea of reading books in their original language.” He paused, replacing the book on the shelf. “She doesn’t read much anymore.”
Irene felt a wave of pain emanate from him when he spoke about his mother. “Your mother sounds amazing.”
He cleared his throat. “Back to Beowulf. I haven’t found it yet, but I’m not giving up.”
She recognized that he didn’t want to talk about his mother, and she understood completely. When her mother was diagnosed with cancer, the last thing Irene and her sister had wanted was to see that look of pity in a person’s eyes when they offered comfort.
Irene moved along the shelves filled with books interspersed with scrolls secured by wax seals. “Beowulf was the first book I read in grammar school that wasn’t on the class assigned reading list,” she said. “When I was a child, I loved that it was a story about castles, betrayals, warriors, battles, and a monster named Grendel, but I admit I really wanted more romance.”
“Beowulf isn’t what a child normally reads in grammar school. He’s a completed hero, someone who fights against impossible odds. I’m impressed. What do you know—you have a nerd flag. You just don’t fly it as boldly as the rest of us.”
She reflected his smile. “Guilty as charged.”
He tucked his book under his arm and selected a thin volume, thumbed through it, and then set it back on the shelf with a wink. “My theory is that Grendel is not only a misunderstood monster but that the sixth-century story is based on real historical events. A recent site in Denmark uncovered a hall where the story might actually have taken place. I’m looking to see if they have any information in the library. I figured since I had time on my hands it was worth exploring.”
She liked that he was drawn to those who fought even though the odds weren’t stacked in their favor. “Any luck?”
He seemed distracted and replaced the book he’d been holding back on the shelf. “Not yet, but I enjoy a good hunt.”
“You sound like an archeologist…”
“We can’t reveal our jobs, remember? Your turn. What are you searching for?”
“Is it that obvious?” She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, and pulled one of the scrolls out of its cubby. She could pretend to read it, but it was written in Latin. She put it back. She didn’t know how much she wanted to share. The one time she had, she’d received a lecture on why would a mother lie to her daughters and husband about traveling to Scotland and then bequeath them a diary that not only claimed the opposite but suggested an affair with a mystery man named Connor? The lecture was followed by a theory suggesting her mother had made the whole thing up.
“Maybe I simply wanted to get away for a while,” she offered.
“A quest seeker always recognizes his own kind.”
Irene rarely had shared the mysteries she’d discovered in her mother’s diary. Chad, her ex, had suggested she was obsessed with learning about her mother and insisted she seek professional help or meds. Maybe both. His lack of understanding had highlighted the gulf between them. He had also harbored the delusion that cheating was okay.
Chad had tried to make the argument that seeing other people would make their relationship stronger. He said she should be honored he’d chosen her best friend, Silvia, instead of a random woman. Irene had to give him credit for one thing. Nothing ruffled the jerk. He’d made his argument with his best courtroom charm, moments after Irene had discovered the two of them together. Irene believed in being faithful to the one you professed to love. Her ex obviously did not.
But she barely knew Logan. So if he thought she was nuts about the mysteries in her mother’s diary, it wouldn’t matter. After tomorrow she’d never see him again. Besides, he might be able to help.
She took a deep breath and produced her mother’s diary. “You’re right. I am on a quest of my own. More like a journey to unravel a mystery. I’m trying to understand my mother’s interest in Stirling Castle and why she not only kept her time here a secret but also wanted my twin sister and me to visit.” She handed the diary to Logan and opened it to a page with an illustration of the library. “My mother wrote in her diary about her time here, including detailed maps of the interior of the castle.”
Logan sat on the edge of a table and examined the page. “These drawings are amazing. This is the book you dropped on the stairs.”
She nodded. “You’re very observant.”
He flipped over to the next page and then back again. “It comes in handy in my line of work. I gather the diary is the real reason you’re on this tour. You’re not looking for a quickie romance with one of the men in kilts. My guess is that you are more the happily-ever-after type.”
She turned away and pretended to study another bank of scrolls. If he could see that about her so easily, why hadn’t her ex? “What about you?”
“Don’t you think I’m looking for a wife?”
His question was playful, almost teasing, except the expression in his eyes was serious and held her gaze. It made her wonder. Was he the real deal? She’d gone down this path before on first dates, hoping for the best only to be disappointed. “Julia’s available,” she said, knowing her remark was a test.
“Not my type.” His response was so quick it took her by surprise. In a very good way.
“What is your type?” She wished she could pull her question back. What was she thinking? More importantly, why did it matter?
“My type?” His grin widened. “No one’s asked me that question in a long time. But since you asked…I’m looking for someone who’s scary-smart and not afraid to dress up as Wonder Woman.”
A delightful shiver, like raw silk over bare skin, brushed over her. She moved away from the shelves toward the fireplace, in the hopes he wouldn’t notice the heat of a blush rising on her face. She had a vintage collection of Wonder Woman comics. “I would think you could find plenty of candidates who fit your description, at a comic book convention.”
He slid down from the desk and joined her by the fire. “Not as many as you’d think. I have a third item that is my deal breaker.”
The chamber warmed as the fire glowed a little brighter. “What is it?”
His smile was mischievous. “We don’t know each other well enough yet. Let’s get to work on your puzzle. Do you mind if I look at more of the illustrations and maps in your mother’s diary? I’m a pretty good detective.”
She seized on the distraction of trying to find out his occupation. “You’re a policeman.”
Logan laughed as he opened it and started turning the pages. “First I’m an archeologist and now I’m a policeman.”
“Back at the café, Bridget mentioned she thought you were a rugby player.”
He laughed in earnest, a trait that seemed natural for him. “Remember, we’re not to tell each other our occupations. Out of curiosity, what profession would be a deal breaker for you?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Fair enough. Maybe the sisters have a point. Sometimes a person’s job doesn’t reflect who they are.” He paused over a photograph taped to one of t
he pages. “This is you as a small child, maybe seven or eight. I recognize the smile. All teeth and bright eyes, like you’re about to burst into a belly laugh.”
“Hey,” she said, nudging him in the ribs.
He leaned in. “It was a compliment. The woman in the middle looks familiar.”
“That’s my mother, and there’s always been a strong family resemblance. My sister, Louise, is the one on the other side. We’re twins, but we don’t look anything alike. My mother was also named Irene. It was a tradition in her family that the first daughter born would be named Irene, and the second, Louise.” Irene felt the familiar catch in her throat. She pressed her lips together for a brief moment before she spoke. “The picture was taken long before she became ill and passed away.”
Logan lifted his gaze from the photograph. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded a thank you, but she wasn’t ready to share the details of the last days of the illness that had taken her mother away too soon.
Logan refocused his attention on the photograph. “It’s more than a family resemblance. I saw a portrait of a woman who looks a lot like your mother on one of the walls leading toward the library. I remember because she was wearing earrings that look like your pendant. Maybe you and your sister have Scottish ancestry?”
Irene shivered as though someone had opened a window and let in a cold blast of air. She rubbed her arms, but the sensation remained. Like most people these days, she and her sister wondered where their ancestors had come from. Louise had once asked their mother about the possibility of a Scottish heritage. Her mother’s answer had been a resounding no, and she had changed the subject. Looking back, Irene thought their mother’s overreaction seemed odd. If there was a connection to Scotland, why did her mother want to keep it a secret?
Chapter Twelve
The door to the library banged open, interrupting Irene’s thoughts.
A man rushed in, his mop of dark hair flopping over his angular face. Irene recognized him as one of the men who had come with them on the tour. “Lady Roselyn and her sisters are going nuts looking for you two,” he said, out of breath. “The feast is about to begin. I stalled for as long as I could, but I swear the youngest sister, Fiona, could charm the spots off my Dalmatian puppy. Before I knew what was happening, I had volunteered to find you.”
