Dust to Dust

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Rebecca only stalled out once on the way to Edinburgh. Michael was polite enough not to laugh.

  *

  Places and people whirled like the bright flecks in a kaleidoscope, and before Rebecca quite realized it, it was August the twentieth. She stood in the window of the Dornoch Castle Hotel looking across to the cathedral. A small cathedral, yes, but the simplicity of its Norman lines and the character of its ancient stone did indeed make it choice, while the painted Victorian fountain in the grassy square out front added a note of whimsy.

  “Did you want to open these letters?” Hilary asked from behind her.

  “That one’s from Jan in Ohio, isn’t it? Let me see… .” Paper ripped. Rebecca laughed. “She’s thanking you, Hilary, for filling in for her as bridesmaid, and teasing me about moving over here.”

  Hilary put several checks from Rebecca’s parents’ friends into an envelope. “Getting married overseas is one way to make sure you don’t get too many toasters.”

  The soft rose-pink dress Hilary had bought in Paris was probably three times as expensive as the wedding gown Rebecca wore. But Hilary had been so excited at getting her fellowship that she’d splurged. Rebecca certainly hadn’t wanted her to get a dress she could wear only once.

  Maddy’s gown fit Rebecca perfectly. Not only did the off-white silk complement her dark eyes, but also the puffed sleeves and low ruffled neckline made her feel like a Barbara Cartland heroine. She pushed at her hair, and Hilary, ever mindful of her duties, rushed over with another hairpin for the roses and bits of organza that had been substituted for a veil. In another day or so, Rebecca told herself, she’d finally forget that scratch on her skull, just as Michael was working on forgetting the scar on his arm. No more fear. No more pain.

  Outside on the green lawn, the wedding party was gathering. If Rebecca wasn’t already in love with Michael, she thought, she’d develop a crush on his father, his brows animated by ironic humor and every hair of his salt and pepper beard meticulously trimmed. In their kilts and formal Prince Charlie jackets, Andrew, Colin, and Mark were birds of paradise flocking around the crow-like figure of Kevin Reid. Rebecca smiled—her brother looked just like the overgrown high school football player he was.

  The first words out of his mouth when he’d stepped off the plane had been, “I don’t have to wear one of those skirt things, do I?” But Mark’s attitude ran more along the lines of, “If they can do it, so can I.” As Rebecca watched, though, he made a dubious wriggle. She could almost hear him thinking, “These things are a little breezy, aren’t they?”

  The Rudesburn delegation stood talking with the dark, dramatic figure of Anjali MacLeod. Geoff Lewis, a compact, soft-spoken Yorkshireman in a three-piece suit, herded his three little boys in their tiny kilts away from the fountain. Caroline Campbell’s red-gold curls nodded like a chrysanthemum, and every line on her face tilted upward, set by a lifetime of laughter.

  And there were Simon Mackenzie and a strong-featured woman with assertive “Rule Britannia” teeth—Amanda Fraser, no doubt. Harry Devlin was escorting Bridget Hamilton; his Irish eyes were certainly smiling.

  The door opened and admitted Maddy, her red hair flying every which way, as if electrically charged. “No, you canna see the bride before the weddin’,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’ve seen the bride,” returned Michael’s plaintive voice.

  Maddy shut the door on him. “Here,” she said to Rebecca. “Michael asked me to give you this. A token of his affection, like the quaich you gave him.” Rebecca opened the velvet jeweler’s case to reveal a Scottish silver Luckenbooth brooch, two hearts intricately knit together. “It’s inscribed on the back,” Maddy went on. “Ruth 1:16. He said you’d be recognizin’ the verse.”

  Rebecca did, and started bravely, “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee.” She felt her throat close and her eyes fill with tears, but plunged on, “Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall by my people.” Her voice broke and a tear spilled down her cheek. “And thy God my God,” she finished.

  “That’s really sweet,” said Hilary, and pinned the brooch to Rebecca’s shoulder.

  Rebecca gulped and quelled her tears before her mascara ran. “I was doing fine,” she protested to Maddy.

  “That’s Michael for you,” Maddy replied with a comforting hug. “A thistle wi’ a heart of toffee. Here’re your flowers, your audience awaits.”

  By the time Rebecca, Hilary, and Maddy reached the square, Michael and the witnesses were already in the cathedral. A cool breeze ruffled her organza. Her stomach felt like a tropical rain forest, butterflies swooping through trembling fronds. She gritted her teeth and clutched at her tiny bouquet of roses. Their stems were threaded through the metal ring from the wine bottle; she wanted no other engagement ring.

  Kevin handed his camera to Maddy. Gratefully Rebecca took her brother’s arm. The Reids had agreed it wasn’t right for her to be married alone and had passed the hat around the family to send Kevin to give her away—not that she liked the concept of being handed over like a parcel. But for someone who prided herself on not running away, she’d undeniably run from her family; letting Kevin walk her down the aisle was little enough restitution.

  He patted her hand and took her across the square and into the cool interior of the cathedral. The soaring arches reminded her of Rudesburn. So did some of the faces turned toward her, except now the faces were smiling, and somewhere in the background a piper was piping a voluntary, and several miles away Michael and Colin stood beside a black-clad minister, bathed in the multicolored glow of a stained-glass window. Hilary paced up the aisle. Rebecca lifted her feet and put them down. The butterflies in her stomach grew to the size of condors.

  Kevin levered her up a step. The minister spoke. Kevin spoke. He put her hand in Michael’s. Michael winked at her and squeezed her fingers—he would have to be calm, just to show her up. The colors of the sunlight melted and ran and her own voice quavered, “I, Rebecca Marie, take thee, Michael Ian… .” She fumbled handing her bouquet to Hilary, but Hilary caught it.

  Michael kissed her. She was clutching his arm, following Colin and Hilary back down the aisle. Flashbulbs flared. Michael’s nephews—her nephews too, now—frisked before them like dolphins near a ship. “You’re a sight,” Michael stage-whispered. “Lovely.”

  If Rebecca’s knees got any weaker he’d have to carry her. “You’re gorgeous,” she replied. “I always wondered how you’d look with lace at your throat.”

  “Uncomfortable. It’s prickly, and the tie’s too tight.”

  “Where did you get the new sgian dubh?”

  “An old relative of my mother’s on Skye said I needed a proper one and gave me his. Antique bone handle, but no very sharp.”

  “Good.”

  The square flashed by, and they were in the banquet room of the hotel, facing a tiered wedding cake decorated with pink, white, and yellow roses. Champagne corks popped. Andrew started piping “Peace and Plenty”, and Michael pulled Rebecca into a dance. The ring finger of her hand resting on his shoulder gleamed with a broad gold band. The corresponding ring was warm on his hand holding hers. She cried unashamedly, and as he kissed her tears away he was ducking his head to hide his own.

  Sometime that afternoon Rebecca sipped at the champagne, but her corpuscles were already sparkling. Michael played a duet with his father while Rebecca danced with Kevin. Then she danced with Grant Johnston, her hand engulfed by his. Mark led her out, and she danced again, her feet barely touching the floor, the fabric of her dress swirling lightly around her ankles. “When are you leaving?” she asked him.

  “Day after tomorrow,” he replied. “Fall semester in Austin.”

  “And Hilary’s leaving for France. Do you feel cheated?”

  He glanced at Hilary dancing happily with Colin. His eyes glinted as he answered. “Of course not, how could I?”

  Michael and Rebecca stood by the table feeding each other bites
of cake. From the corner of her eye she saw Devlin writing something in his ever-present notebook. “Dr. and Dr. Campbell-Reid, historical troubleshooters,” he said. “The Chief Inspector has a file of consultants.”

  “Wi’ all due respect—” Michael said to Mackenzie’s hawk face, and Rebecca finished, “—don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Mackenzie bared his teeth in a delighted guffaw.

  Colin brought them the silver quaich, brimming with aged single-malt. Rebecca drank and handed it to Michael. Over the silver rim his eyes glistened blue, depth after depth of intellect and emotion, humor and challenge.

  Mark danced by with Hilary. Rebecca overheard him say to her, “Have a nice life.”

  She replied, “It’s getting better all the time.”

  Soon Rebecca was whisked by Maddy and Hilary back upstairs where she was stripped of headdress and gown and dressed in a skirt and sweater, the brooch pinned securely to the throat of her blouse. In front of the hotel, the red Fiat waited, painted with messages, bawdy and otherwise, balloons waving from its antenna and streamers from its back bumper. She hugged Kevin’s beefy chest. He said, “I know Michael will take good care of you, Squirt.”

  “I can take care of…” she started indignantly, and over Kevin’s shoulder caught Michael’s jaundiced eye. “We’ll take care of each other,” she amended, and hugged everyone else in sight.

  At last she took Michael’s hand; he was back in his hand-knit sweater again, the intricate pattern hanging comfortably over his kilt. Confetti showered down on them, half of it going down the back of her neck. The Fiat zoomed around the square and toward Inverness. Rebecca combed confetti out of her hair and took a deep breath. “Dr. Campbell-Reid, I love you.”

  Michael shifted gears. His hand moved over to tickle her leg beneath the hem of her skirt. “I love you, Dr. Campbell-Reid.”

  “Nice of your parents to let us have their best room.”

  “It has a four-poster bed. We started in a four-poster.”

  She laughed. Rich green hillsides stroked with purple heather sped by on one side, backed by the celestial blue of distant mountains. Dornoch Firth opened on the other, the indigo of its waters sheened by the late afternoon sun.

  What was the Burns song Michael had sung all those years ago in Ayr? Oh yes. She tried another version: “A’ that I have endured, laddie my dearie, here in thy arms is cured, laddie lie near me.”

  “I intend to,” he said.

  The world centered itself below the profound blue skies of home.

  *

  About the Author

  After starting out in science fiction and fantasy, Lillian Stewart Carl is now writing contemporary novels blending mystery, romance, and fantasy, along with short mystery and fantasy stories. Her work often includes paranormal themes. It always features plots based on history and archaeology. While she doesn’t write comedy, she believes in characters with a sense of humor. Her novels have been compared to those of Daphne du Maurier, Mary Renault, Mary Stewart (no relation), Barbara Michaels/Elizabeth Peters, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s colleague Charles Williams.

  Her fantasies are set in a mythological, alternate-history Mediterranean and India. Her contemporary novels are set in Texas, in Ohio, in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, and in England and Scotland.

  Of her Lucifer’s Crown, Library Journal says: “Blending historical mystery with a touch of the supernatural, the author creates an intriguing exploration of faith and redemption in a world that is at once both modern and timeless.

  Among many other novels, Lillian is the author of the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron cross-genre mystery series: America’s exile and Scotland’s finest on the trail of all-too-living legends. Of The Secret Portrait, Kirkus says: Mystery, history and sexual tension blend with a taste of the wild beauty of the Highlands. Of The Burning Glass, Publishers Weekly says: “Authentic dialect, detailed descriptions of the castle and environs, and vivid characters recreate an area rich in history and legend. The tightly woven plot is certain to delight history fans with its dramatic collision of past and present.”

  With John Helfers, Lillian co-edited The Vorkosigan Companion, a retrospective on Lois McMaster Bujold’s science fiction work, which was nominated for a Hugo award.

  Her first story collection, Along the Rim of Time, was published in 2000, and her second, The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth, in 2008, including three stories that were reprinted in Year’s Best mystery anthologies.

  Her books are available in both print and electronic editions. Here is her website. Here is her Facebook Group Page Here is a listing of more Smashwords books.