Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)

by Susan King

  Fatigue did not help his patience. Three days ago, he had started out for Stirling and beyond by landau, entering the foothills of the Highlands to stop at an inn at Callander, where the roads were good. After a night’s rest, he dispatched his driver back to Edinburgh. He spent a solitary day walking the sunny hills in the countryside, finding interesting formations of mica schist, which answered to the bite of the small hammer he had carried with him. He made notes on his finds and that night had a quiet dinner, enjoying the Highland atmosphere more than he would have admitted. Next morning, MacKimmie, Struan House’s ghillie, had arrived to fetch him in an old but serviceable carriage pulled by a pair of sturdy bays.

  Angus MacKimmie had aged some, but he had always been a grizzled, bearded fellow—it even seemed he still wore the same ancient and rumpled red kilt and a threadbare brown jacket and bonnet that James remembered seeing as a boy. The man had offered to carry James’s satchel into the house, but James had released him to tending the horses. When no butler appeared, James had let himself in the door.

  The echoing foyer was even gloomier in the silvery sheen of rain through tall windows. “Where the devil is everyone,” he muttered.

  In the shadows beyond the staircase, a door creaked, and a huge gray wolfhound padded toward him on rangy legs. It gave a throaty woof, then approached to sniff the newcomer. James patted the dog’s head. “Not only fairies and eerie screeches, but fairy hounds too, hey?”

  The dog pushed his head under James’s hand to ask for more petting. The eerie sound echoed again, miserable and faint, and the hound whimpered. A creaking floor, a madwoman trapped somewhere?

  “‘Kirk-Alloway is drawing nigh...where ghaists and houlets nightly cry,’” he murmured, quoting Burns as he rubbed the dog’s ears. Though he enjoyed poetry and ballads, he never recited verses or sang in the company of others. The dog, though, would not judge him for a sentimental bent.

  He was about to take his case upstairs and go in search of his rooms when the front door opened behind him, and Angus MacKimmie stepped inside. “Still here, sir?” He picked up James’s leather case. “Upstairs I’ll be taking this, then. You must make yourself heard here. My wife is a bit deaf these days. Mrs. MacKimmie!” he thundered as he went up the stairs, booted feet pounding. “Mary MacKimmie, where are thee!”

  The door beyond the stairs opened again, and a woman came down the hall followed by two terriers, one black and one white. Stocky and middle-aged, the woman wore a plain dark dress, her gray hair wisping beneath a translucent white cap. “Oh, sir! Lord Struan, is it! I’m Mary MacKimmie, if you do remember me,” she said, dropping a slight curtsey.

  “Of course I remember. Good to see you, Mrs. MacKimmie.”

  “Welcome to Struan House. I hope you did not wait long. I was in the kitchen. I’m that surprised to find you here so early in the day—”

  “MacKimmie!” thundered the ghillie above stairs.

  “Down here, ye loon!” she called, and turned back to James. “He’s a wee bit deaf these days. So you’ve seen Mr. MacKimmie. And these are the dogs. They were not with us when ye were here as a lad. Osgar,” she said, patting the wolfhound, “is a big lad but gentle. The terriers are Taran—the black one—and Nellie. They’re good wee pups, though do they see a fox or a rabbit they’ll be gone after it.”

  As she spoke, the shriek came yet again, and a sharp chill with it, as if an outside door blew open. James turned, wondering. Osgar howled plaintively, and the terriers made low, gruff barks. Mrs. MacKimmie glanced calmly upward, smiling.

  “We expected you later today, with the roads so muddy from the rains. Though Mr. MacKimmie drives like the de’il sometimes, to be sure.”

  “An interesting ride indeed. Mrs. MacKimmie, I must ask—what is that sound?”

  “That? It’s our banshee, of course. She’s glad to see the new laird.” She smiled.

  “When I was here as a boy, I never heard—a banshee sound.”

  “You weren’t the new laird then, were you. That’s why. A welcome, is what that was just now. I’ll take you to your rooms.” She led the way up the stairs.

  At the top landing, Angus MacKimmie met them, having deposited the satchel. “So you’ve brought out our ban-sith, then.”

  “An entertaining idea, though it is possible some hinges or floorboards need repair,” James said. The upper corridor turned a corner at the far end, with several closed doors along cream-colored walls hung with a few paintings. A worn Oriental carpet ran the length of the hall, with a table here, a bench there. He had visited his grandparents here occasionally and had always loved his time at the grand and spooky old place. But his guardian, Lady Rankin, felt he should be schooled and kept busy, and not encouraged to run about like a Highland savage, so she had claimed.

  “I always liked it here. It’s a very nice house,” he ventured.

  “It is. And naught needs repair here, sir,” MacKimmie said. “But if summat does, I am your factor, caretaker, head groomsman, coachman, and ghillie too, do you care to hunt or fish. Come find me for all of it.”

  “I will, thank you. Struan House is quite impressive. A banshee is an old ghostly hag that prophecies death and disaster, is it not?”

  “Some are,” Mary MacKimmie replied. “Our Struan banshee is the sort that belongs to a house and a family, a fairy spirit who makes herself known over deaths, births, something of importance to the family and the estate. Now that she’s marked the arrival of the laird, she will stay silent for a while.” She smiled. “Until something else important happens, for instance, when you marry, have a child, and so on, sir.”

  “A weather glass for the family,” James said. “I thought fairies were just pleasant, harmless little sorts. Small wings, sitting on flowers, and so on.”

  “There are many kinds of fairies in the Highlands. You will learn more when you read Lady Struan’s pages, I expect,” she answered.

  Angus MacKimmie departed down the stairs, and the housekeeper led James to the laird’s rooms, which included bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, and bathing room. He walked past the large, carved bed with its embroidered blue hangings to look out the curtained windows. The magnificent view showed far mountain crests against a vast, rainy sky.

  “Beautiful vista. And excellent rooms,” he said, turning.

  “Oh aye. You’ll want to explore the rest of the house, of course. Downstairs is a library and the study where Lady Struan worked. The parlor is on that level too, along with the dining room. Kitchens are belowstairs and lead out to the back gardens. Normally high tea, our supper here, is at half-five unless you request otherwise.” Mrs. MacKimmie turned toward the door. “I’ll set an early tea in the parlor in twenty minutes for you, as it’s past luncheon now.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. MacKimmie. I’m expecting guests from Edinburgh in a fortnight or so. They plan a Highland tour, and will stay at Struan for a few days.”

  He planned to work on his grandmother’s manuscript until Lady Rankin and the others, including his siblings, arrived. Once they departed, he meant to finish the work and return to Edinburgh to resume his lectures. There was little time to waste.

  “I’ll ready the house for guests, then.” She paused at the door. “Sir, there is summat you should know if your guests will be here in a fortnight. By then we may have very little staff. Only myself and Mr. MacKimmie, a groom, and two housemaids who are local girls. Just yesterday two new girls arrived by post-chaise from Edinburgh, sent here by Lady Rankin.” She stiffened a little. “But—”

  “No insult was intended, I am sure. My aunt sent them to be helpful.” Last week, James had assured Lady Rankin that the Highland staff would be capable, but his great-aunt did not trust Highland servants to keep a house the way she preferred it. “I hope that is sufficient staff for Struan House.” He had no idea.

  “More than enough, aye, but...well, sir, the Fairy Riding will happen soon.”

  “Fairy riding? I am not familiar with that.”

  “A t
radition in the glen,” she explained. “The fairies go riding this time of year. They ride particular over the lands of Struan. Legend says these lands once belonged to them.”

  “Why would the household staff be reduced because of this, uh, festival, is it?”

  “No festival, sir, but a time when we must keep away from the hills to allow the fairy riding to take place. Your grandparents would close up the whole house, and no hunting parties could hire it, either, which otherwise might be allowed. Already the glen folk say fairies have been sighted. ‘Tis unlucky indeed to be about when the Good Folk ride over Struan lands.”

  “Is it,” he said, feeling bewildered, almost as if he had stepped into a foreign land. “You keep to your homes because of fairies?” What on earth, he thought.

  “’Tis how it’s done, sir. The help will leave when it begins, and return after the fairies go back to their own world.”

  “Remarkable,” James said. He must be sure to record the custom in his grandmother’s book. “My needs are simple, so a large staff is unnecessary. Whatever you have done in the past for your local holiday, please continue.”

  “Hardly a holiday, sir. No one will risk being out during the fairy riding, with them sort about. We close the house for a few days. There is a good hotel in the next glen. You will be comfortable there for a bit, your guests too, if they arrive by then.”

  The housekeeper seemed too sensible a woman for this nonsense, he thought. “I can easily stay alone for a few days, Mrs. MacKimmie. I have a good deal of work to do, and the solitude would be useful. My guests will send word before they arrive, so you will know when to be ready.”

  “Oh, Lord Struan, sir, none of you want to stay here then. ‘Tis best we all leave.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a capable bachelor if there is food in the larder and a few simple comforts. The staff may leave if they like, of course. I do not want to interfere with a local tradition. When will this happen?”

  “A week or so, I expect. Very well, sir, but be warned. You must beware the fairy ilk when you walk about on Struan lands now, and at any time of year.” Her glance flickered to the cane he had set against a chair.

  “I keep a habit of long walks when I can,” he said quietly, seeing that, “and I will remember your advice.”

  When the housekeeper left to prepare tea, James turned toward the window again, with its spectacular view, even in poor weather. Mist drifted over the hills and draped the treetops like veils. He thought again of Elspeth MacArthur, living somewhere in this glen—he wondered if she locked her doors during the Fairy Riding too. He wondered if she thought often, or at all, of Struan’s new laird.

  Leaving the room to go find tea, he half-expected to hear the shriek again. But Mr. MacKimmie must have found and silenced the squeaking door.

  Elspeth stepped away from the shuttle loom, pausing to stretch, arching her back a little to ease the strain collected there. With one length of weaving nearly done on the loom, she wanted to think a little about the next pattern, and so left the weaving cottage to stroll across the yard, past two cottages that held other looms, to enter yet another building. This one was used to store yarn and finished lengths of plaids, its thick stone walls heavily limewashed against molds and moisture.

  Inside, she browsed the racks, shelves, and baskets where skeins of yarn and the thinner woolen threads were tucked, some hanging in colorful loops on pegs, other clustered in baskets on the floor, still more spilling in rainbows on a worktable. The single window was shuttered to prevent sunlight from fading the yarns and threads. She pulled her plaid shawl closer about her shoulders, for the yarn room was chilly as well as dim. Only a small brazier kept the cold and damp away; the smoke of hearth or from candles could discolor the wool and give it an odor. Grandfather did not even smoke his tobacco pipe in here.

  A large book of patterns sat on the table, but the pattern forming in her mind was an original design. She wanted to weave this one for herself, rather than as a commissioned length like most of the Kilcrennan cloth. Opening a writing box to remove paper, quill, and ink bottle, she sketched a grid of crisscrossing lines, counting the warp and weft lines in dot patterns, and carefully choosing and labeling the colors she wanted to use.

  As she turned to look through the yarns again, the cottage door opened and her grandfather stepped inside.

  “Supper, Elspeth,” he said. “Did you not hear Mrs. Graham calling you?”

  “I did not. I was thinking about the thread pattern for the next weaving.”

  “Well, come ahead, there’s lamb pie and boiled potatoes, and Peggy Graham’s apple tart, just for you.”

  Elspeth untied her apron, leaving it on a hook by the door, and walked with her grandfather across the yard between the weaving house. Several buildings contained Kilcrennan’s four handlooms, as well as the storage cottage, a building where wools and yarns were prepared, and a small cottage where completed tartan lengths were stored in rolls before being transported to patrons and shops. The little cottage where Elspeth did her own weaving was the original building used by generations of MacArthurs, the earlier weavers of Kilcrennan. She preferred that oldest cottage, and the old shuttle loom there, which had belonged to her great-grandfather and others before him. The old loom seemed to know the work itself, having produced tartan cloth for so long.

  Kilcrennan House, alongside the cluster of cottages, was a large fieldstone manse of three floors, with a simple design of a central entrance flanked by rows of windows. A one-story wing housed kitchen and servants’ quarters, while outer buildings included laundry house, smithy, and brewhouse.

  “I mean to weave a lady’s arisaid shawl for my next sett on the loom,” Elspeth told her grandfather as they walked. “We have plenty of the creamy yarn for the ground color, and I’ll use some purple with brown and a bit of indigo. There is only a little of that last left, not enough for a longer length, but good for this purpose.”

  “We’ve ordered some new color batches from Margaret,” Donal said. “Our orders for red tartans, especially the Stuart patterns, have increased, with customers wanting to show their Highland colors of late. The dyed yarns are ready. Margaret’s eldest son brought some of them the other day.”

  “I can fetch the rest while you are gone to Edinburgh over the next few days.”

  “Come with me there, to meet with the Edinburgh tailors,” he said.

  “And to meet your friend Mr. MacDowell? I know you want him to court me, but I will not marry him, or any Lowland man. Even if you think I should.”

  “You would be happy, lass. He’s a good man. You could learn to love him.”

  She glanced up at him, sighing. She loved her grandfather so, but he could be exasperating in his insistence on what was best for her.

  He did look a charmer, though, she had to admit, and it made her smile to herself. Donal MacArthur, approaching eighty now, was still tall and spare, still handsome, and looked twenty years younger than his true age. His brown eyes twinkled, his dark hair was scarcely gray. Most who knew him simply attributed his health to good habits, spare eating, clean Highland air. Only Elspeth and Mrs. Graham knew that his youthfulness also included a touch of magic.

  “I will not fall in love with a man simply because my Grandda thinks I should,” she said. “I am happy here. And I have a good bit of weaving to do for so many new orders,” she went on briskly. “I will work on our tartan orders while you travel.”

  “The king’s visit was good for us, as weavers of tartan.” Donal smiled. “It’s fine luck we’re having of late, but tiring. Come to Edinburgh for a wee holiday.”

  “You auld rascal,” she said affectionately. “You love having so much work to do. And you love weaving it faster and better than any other could do.”

  “I’m grateful for our luck.” His mood turned sober as they walked on. “Elspeth, if you go over to Margaret’s, do not cross the glen alone. Take a cart, and promise me you will bring a maid and a draw-lad for company and to help you fetch th
e yarn. It’s nearly time for the fairy riding.”

  “I will be fine. Let them ride their cavalcade over the glen. I will not see them, and they will not see me. And I will never be stolen away,” she reassured him, tucking her arm in his. “I intend to stay with you for a long time to come.”

  “Lass, you must marry soon, and may that man, whoever he is, watch out for you as well as I have. And may he take you south and away from this glen. That is what I pray.”

  “I need no watching over.”

  “Mr. MacDowell is a good man, and successful.”

  “And keen on inheriting Kilcrennan’s weaving business through me. He would not be so interested in marrying me if he knew the truth about us,” she added.

  “Then we will not tell him.”

  “He need never know if he never courts me.”

  “He would be well suited to manage this place after I am gone. I will not be here forever, and I must think about your future. I cannot leave you with all this to do, when you should be finding happiness with your own family someday.”

  “I can run Kilcrennan Weavers myself, and you know it.” She looked up. “And who can I ever marry? Few men, if any, would believe the truth about us, or ever understand that you must go off to the fairies every seven years, while I…” She stopped, shrugged. “That there may be claims about where I come from.”

  “That you are half fairy, and may be called back someday? I tell you, marry and go away to the south, or you will not be here to explain it to anyone. I will give permission for Mr. MacDowell to court you. I should have done so earlier.”

  “Grandda, please. I do not want to marry if it means leaving Kilcrennan.”

  “Stubborn lass. This is best for you.” He looked at her sharply. “Unless…is there someone now? You mentioned meeting the new Lord Struan at the king’s ball in Edinburgh. What a match that would be, hey.” He grinned. “The new Lady Struan!”

  “Och, stop.” She smiled to hide her thoughts. Last August, she had been kissed and caught, still yearning for a man she should not dream of marrying, might never see again. Those brief, tender kisses had meant too much to her, and naught to him.