Coming Home to Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  He meant the glowering bank of purple-grey that crouched over the darkening landscape in a way that reminded Merry of a bruise. ‘Trouble?’

  Peering at the screen for a few more seconds, Niall frowned. ‘Heavy rain seems to be blowing in from nowhere. But I think we should just make it before the worst of it hits us. If we hurry.’

  He started the engine, but it wasn’t until they’d retraced their route through the nature reserve and turned south that he gave in to Merry’s demands to spill the beans. ‘Has anyone told you the story of Betty Corrigall?’ he finally said.

  Merry racked her brain but the name was unfamiliar. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  Niall’s eyes lit up in a way Merry recognized; he had a real passion for Orkney history that somehow made everything come to life for his audience. She settled into the passenger seat and prepared to listen. ‘It’s something of a cautionary tale,’ he began, ‘although I’m happy to say times and attitudes have changed.’

  Betty was a young woman who lived in Greengairs Cottage on Hoy in the late eighteenth century, Niall explained. She wasn’t married, but had fallen in love with a local man, whose flattery encouraged her to give in to his advances before they made it to the church. When Betty discovered she was pregnant, he refused to take any responsibility and ran away to sea.

  ‘Typical,’ Merry interrupted, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Oh, he was quite the coward,’ Niall agreed. ‘He abandoned her to face the scandal alone and, by all accounts, her neighbours were vicious in their condemnation. The shame was so great that Betty tried to drown herself.’

  Merry couldn’t prevent a gasp of horror. ‘No!’

  ‘She was rescued from the waves in the nick of time,’ Niall said. ‘And you’d think the shock of near disaster might have jolted people into finding some compassion, but if they did, it was too little too late.’

  A heavy weight settled in the pit of Merry’s stomach. ‘What happened?’

  Niall sighed. ‘She hanged herself a few days later.’

  He’d been right to describe it as a tragedy, Merry thought unhappily. Mother and baby both lost. ‘Poor Betty.’

  ‘To make matters worse, because she’d taken her own life, both the church and the local lairds refused to have her buried on their land. She was placed in an unmarked grave on unconsecrated ground and soon forgotten.’

  Niall pulled the car into the side of the road and turned to face Merry. ‘But she didn’t stay that way forever. In 1933, some men were digging for peat near the Water of Hoy. Their pickaxes hit a wooden coffin.’

  Suddenly, Merry knew where the story was going. ‘They found Betty’s grave,’ she breathed.

  ‘After checking with the postmaster, they decided to open the coffin. And inside, they found—’

  A sudden spattering of rain hit the windscreen, causing Merry to jump and squeak. She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Sorry. I’ve read too many Stephen King novels.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s not a million miles from something he might have written, actually. Inside the coffin, they found the body of a woman, as fresh as the day she’d died, with lustrous dark hair curling around her shoulders.’

  Merry gave him a shrewd look. ‘If you’re about to tell me she had unnaturally pointy teeth…’

  ‘You, me or Mr King would probably have thought to check, but nobody else did,’ Niall replied as rain continued to patter at the windows. ‘The authorities decided she should be reburied in the same place and left in peace.’

  ‘Why do I think that isn’t quite what happened?’

  Niall tapped his nose. ‘Your spider senses are correct. In 1941, some soldiers stationed on Hoy were digging for peat again and found the coffin. Once they’d opened it and realized what it was, the men decided to cover Betty’s remains once more, but word of her remarkable preservation spread among the soldiers’ peers. Before long, others came to dig her up and take a look.’

  Merry felt a rush of sorrow and anger at the further indignities Betty had suffered in death. ‘Please tell me she rose from the grave and inflicted a terrible revenge on them for disturbing her.’

  ‘Not as far as I know. But we could go and check if you like?’

  She gaped first at him, then out of the rain-lashed window at heather and grass landscape beyond. ‘You mean—’

  He nodded. ‘She’s buried not far from here. Once the soldiers’ commanding officers found out what was happening, they arranged for her body to be moved out of temptation’s way. Eventually, a little tombstone was placed as a marker, and a fence was put up to make sure everyone knew not to disturb her again.’

  Merry grabbed her waterproof jacket and started to pull it on. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go before the rain gets any heavier.’

  The temperature had dropped significantly and they’d only taken a few steps from the car before Merry began to question the wisdom of her suggestion. But the rain was already dripping from her coat and spattering her face by then, and besides, there was no way she was going to turn back. Betty’s story had been so unfair – so desperately and furiously sad – that Merry somehow felt the least she could do was pay her respects.

  By the time she and Niall stood at the small, slightly neglected rectangle of picket fencing, the sky was almost black and the rain was torrential. Merry wiped her face and shook the water away. ‘If this were a horror story, now would be the perfect moment for Betty to rise up for revenge.’

  Niall pursed his lips. ‘I’ve always felt there was something more Brontë-esque about her story,’ he said, shielding his eyes with one hand. ‘I can imagine poor Betty’s ghost wandering the peat moors along the water’s edge, driven by despair and misery, calling for the lover who’d abandoned her. Can’t you?’

  She could, Merry realized, and it was exactly the sort of story Emily Bronte might have written, if her own life hadn’t been cut so tragically short. There was such a correlation with Wuthering Heights, in fact, that Merry could almost visualize a figure materializing out of the rain right now…

  ‘Shall we get back in the car?’ she asked Niall, before her imagination could get the better of her. ‘In case we get washed away?’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘And with a bit of luck, we’ll still have time for that drink in Houton.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The rain and wind worsened overnight and by Monday morning had been officially designated as Storm Elsa.

  Merry and Niall had made it back across the water to the Orkney mainland, although it wasn’t a crossing she looked back on with fondness. The water had been choppy and the rain driven by gusts of wind, so that the ferry rolled as it cut through the waves. Merry had been grateful to reach land without losing the contents of her stomach, and even regular sailor Niall had looked relieved. They’d agreed to forego a visit to the pub and instead had driven to Brightwater Bay. Seeing Merry shivering in spite of the car’s heaters on full blast, Niall had insisted on coming into the croft to get the fire started while she dried off.

  ‘But you’re drenched too,’ she objected when he knelt before the fireplace and piled up the logs.

  ‘Then I’d better hurry up and get this lit,’ he said, and she couldn’t argue with his logic.

  She’d put the kettle on before heading to the bedroom to change. By the time she was wrapped up in warm, dry jeans and a jumper, Niall had made a pot of tea and poured two steaming mugs. Merry took one gratefully and sipped at the scalding liquid. ‘Thank you for today,’ she said. ‘It was fascinating – almost a perfect day until the rain hit.’

  Niall shook his head. ‘I don’t know where that came from – even the guys on the ferry were surprised. It wasn’t on the long-range radar.’

  ‘Maybe it was Betty,’ Merry said solemnly.

  ‘Maybe,’ Niall replied, smiling. ‘Or maybe it was just a freak rainstorm. It happens on Orkney.’

  And of course it hadn’t been Betty – it had been Elsa, the news had declared later that evening, and she
’d grown in fury until most of Scotland was being battered by downpours and gale-force winds. Merry had lain in bed, shivering a little as she listened to the winds tear across the roof of the croft, and hoped the cottage would survive the onslaught. This wasn’t the first storm to hit the islands, she told herself logically, and it wouldn’t be the last. But logic was hard to appreciate when it felt as though you might be blown away at any moment…

  Merry woke on Monday morning with an ache in her bones and skin that felt too hot. Paracetamol helped dull the headache but, by lunchtime, her throat was on fire and she had to concede she was ill. She did her best to sleep, sipping water and dozing on the sofa while the wind and rain raged across the cliffs. Jess wanted to know she was safe from the storm, and Merry sent a reassuring reply to her faintly anxious message, while Niall had texted to make sure she had everything she needed, including power to the croft. It was only Magnús she was unable to fool. And that was because she’d slept through three of his messages, which prompted him to ring her.

  ‘You sound terrible,’ he said, when she’d croaked a hello into the phone. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Merry considered lying – the last thing she wanted was for him to feel honour-bound to drive over to the croft – but her bone-weary exhaustion meant she didn’t have the energy. ‘I’ve got a cold.’

  His tone was immediately concerned. ‘How ill are you? Is there anything you need?’

  Her gaze came to rest on the cold, blackened fireplace and the barely touched cup of tea on the coffee table before it. The croft had central heating and her fever was still high enough that she was sweating beneath the blankets she’d draped over herself while she’d been shivering earlier, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t find some comfort in the glow of a real fire in the grate. She couldn’t ask Magnús to drive through the storm just for that, however. ‘I’m fine.’ She pressed the back of one hand against her too-hot forehead and closed her eyes. ‘Honestly, don’t worry.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine,’ Magnús persisted. ‘Why don’t I come over? You shouldn’t be alone in weather like this if you’re ill.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Merry said, her eyes snapping open in alarm. ‘I don’t want you to risk driving in this wind.’

  ‘I have a big truck,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. And besides—’

  But she never got to hear what he was about to say next, because the light above her head went out and Magnús’s voice was cut off abruptly.

  ‘Hello?’ she said and looked at the screen to see the call had failed because her Wi-Fi connection had vanished. She tried calling back, but the phone stayed stubbornly silent, with no signal to suggest she was still connected to the outside world. And then she forced herself to get up, wincing at the pain in her shinbones as she shuffled over to the light switch. Nothing happened when she flicked it on and off, just as the lights in the kitchen and bedroom remained dead. Merry pulled the blanket tighter round her shoulders and groaned as her head swam. A power cut was the last thing she needed, she thought, and made her way slowly back into the darkened living room. She’d have a little rest on the sofa, gather her strength, and then she’d light the fire.

  Merry had no idea how long she’d slept when she heard someone banging on the door. The living room was almost completely dark, but that didn’t mean anything; the sky was so heavy outside that there was very little natural light to brighten the room. But there was no mistaking the urgency of the knocking and even in her feverish, sleep-addled state, Merry knew who it must be. Keeping the blankets close, she pulled herself upright and went to let Magnús in.

  His truck was parked right outside the croft but he still seemed to be drenched to the skin as she opened the door. Rain gusted inside, splattering Merry’s face in a way that was both pleasantly cooling and shiver-inducing at the same time. Magnús took one look at her and hustled her back inside, shutting the door firmly after himself.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Merry said. ‘It’s awful out there.’

  Water glistened on his face as he looked her up and down, worry evident in his eyes, and then glanced past her into the cold, dark living room. ‘I definitely should have. The power lines are down and you’re ill.’

  She swallowed painfully. ‘I might be contagious. And even you can’t single-handedly restore the power if the lines are down.’

  ‘No, but I can get the fire going,’ he said, stripping off his waterproof coat and shepherding her back to the sofa. ‘And I brought supplies.’

  Merry sank onto the cushions and feverishly wondered if he would set the logs roaring by firing a lightning bolt from his fingertips. But he reached for the matches and, a few minutes later, orange and yellow flames were licking greedily at the wood, sending some warmth into the room.

  ‘Do you have any oil lamps?’ he asked, glancing around. ‘Or candles?’

  ‘There are some in the kitchen,’ she managed. ‘I was going to get them when the power went off but I think I dozed off instead.’

  Magnús frowned and placed a blissfully cool hand against her forehead. ‘How long have you felt like this?’

  It seemed to take Merry an age to answer the question; yesterday’s visit to Hoy felt almost like a dream. But she pulled her woolly thoughts together long enough to tell him it was less than twenty-four hours, and to describe the soaking she and Niall had endured.

  ‘I must have been coming down with something already,’ she said slowly. ‘And getting half drowned made it worse.’

  He shook his head as he lifted her feet onto the sofa and tucked the blanket carefully around her. ‘First, I’ll find the candles. Then we can discuss your treatment.’

  She wanted to protest that all she needed was more paracetamol and rest, but he’d gone so Merry closed her eyes and let her head lean against the cushions. When she woke up again, it was to the inviting smell of vegetable soup and the sound of the storm still howling outside. Magnús was sitting in the armchair opposite her, lit by candlelight.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She blinked slowly, and gazed around, taking in the blazing fire in the hearth and the overall peacefulness of the room, despite the wind battering at the walls. Her headache seemed to have lessened and her skin felt less like it might spontaneously combust. ‘A little better, I think,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. ‘I made you some soup but didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Merry considered the question; the scent of the food was making her stomach growl but she didn’t feel in the least bit hungry. ‘I should probably eat something,’ she admitted. ‘I think I skipped breakfast – lunch too. In fact, I don’t even know what time it is.’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll warm the soup and you can try it.’

  It took a few moments after Magnús had left the room for Merry to wonder just how he was going to heat anything up when the kitchen had no electricity to power it. Perhaps he’d hung a pot over the fire and cooked the soup that way. Glancing across the back of her shoulder, she tried to see into the kitchen and thought she could just about make out a faint blue glow. Either he’d brought the Tesseract back from Asgard or he was using a camping stove.

  Several minutes later, Magnús reappeared with a piping-hot bowl on a tray, which he laid across Merry’s lap. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You didn’t need to do any of this, but thank you.’

  He settled back into the armchair and shrugged, his long hair glistening like burnished gold in the light from the fire and the candles. ‘You know, even the Valkyrie accept help sometimes.’

  It wasn’t the first time he’d referred to her that way but it still made her want to remind him that the comparison couldn’t be more wrong; even at the best of times, she was a soft-hearted novelist, not a legendary warrior with the strength and courage of a hundred mortal women. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want his help now – she was pathetically grateful that he’d driven over to take care of her – but she hadn’t wanted to need it. She
hadn’t wanted to need him.

  ‘I’m fairly sure the Valkyrie don’t let a bit of rain slow them down,’ she pointed out, and took a sip of the soup, which was hot and delicious. ‘They definitely don’t take to the sofa the moment they have a bit of a sniffle.’

  Magnús raised an eyebrow. ‘Merry, your temperature was thirty-nine degrees. That’s more than just a sniffle.’

  She swallowed another mouthful of soup. ‘I’m too tired to argue. But please don’t feel you have to stay with me. I can keep the fire going, can use it to make toast if I need to, and I’m sure the power will be back on soon.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you need to rest and you can’t keep the fire alight when you’re sleeping.’ He gave her a level look. ‘Why don’t we pretend we have had this conversation and you’ve accepted that I’m not going anywhere until you’re better?’

  Merry ate in silence for a few seconds as she considered her options. It wasn’t as though she could make him leave and the truth was that he was right – she could barely keep her eyes open for more than half an hour. And, underneath all her pride and self-reliance, there was a tiny part of her that was glad he was there. That part of her wanted to lean into his arms and fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that she’d be taken care of. It wasn’t who she was, and she hated having to acknowledge it, but it was there, nonetheless.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said eventually and glanced at the rivulets of rain running down the window. ‘And I suppose it’s better than sending you back out into that.’

  He smiled. ‘Exactly. And it’s not as though I am short of books to read.’

  Merry followed the line of his gaze towards the croft’s bookshelves, curated by Niall to cover a wide range of genres and subjects. ‘True,’ she allowed. ‘You should try something by my best friend, Jessie. Sheila and her friends are already big fans.’

  ‘I might just do that. She’s coming to visit, after all – I feel as though I should read some of her work before then.’

  Jess would probably explode when she heard the hot Viking was reading one of her novels, Merry thought, and hid a weary smile behind the last few spoonfuls of soup. When she’d finished eating, Magnús took the tray away and returned moments later with a glass of water. ‘Try to drink this and get some rest,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll be here when you wake up.’