“Well, a friend,” Charles started, “by the name of David called after he read the story and suggested I search the burial place for somethin’. I did, and this is what I found.” He reached in his pocket, pulled the item out, and put it in his other palm. Then he started down the front row and showed it to those sitting there.
“’Tis the diamond,” a woman gasped.
“’Twas in the dirt beneath where the bones lay,” Charles explained.
“So ‘twas not Lexine, ‘twas Hendry,” said the Provost. “Now what do we do with the bones?”
Still mad, a man in the back said. “McKenna should not have kept the story to herself.”
“It cannot be helped now,” Nicholas said.
“What other stores are there that she wishes not to share?” the same man demanded.
“I assure you, you have all the stories we found,” said Nicholas.
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Charlotte.
Provost Knox stepped forward just then. “I have been thinkin’, and...”
“That’s a first,” someone teased to the laughter of the others.
“Who said that,” the Provost asked.
“Go on, Provost, what have you been thinking’?” Nicholas asked.
“Well, the village needs the business, and at the same time the traffic needs be taken care of. I suggest we build a place to house the bones and display the story off behind the village.”
“They would still go to the glen to see the graves,” said Raymond.
“Not if we take very fine pictures and hang them on the walls. Twould not have to be a large structure, just one that sits back from town a piece.”
Charles was delighted. “With a road to it that cuts off from main street and then joins up again on the other side of town?”
“Precisely,” said the Provost
“I like the idea,” said Nicholas.
“So do I,” said Charles. “Anythin’ to keep people out of the glen.”
“Will McKenna object?” someone asked.
Nicholas took a breath. “I shall certainly ask, but I doubt she shall. She is as upset over the matter as are we all.”
“Could the bones remain in the casket?” the undertaker asked.
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “How else would you expect McKenna to bear the price of your most expensive casket?”
The undertaker narrowed his eyes. “You mock me?”
“I do,” said Nicholas.
Slowly, the undertaker sat back down and whimpered, “’Tis what I thought.”
“I’d not want to be buried in that casket anyway – not after Hendry had been in it,” Egan said.
“We could move the old cannon to the display too,” someone suggested.
“Perhaps we might find out more about the battle and have that in a display case too. Someone could take pictures of the Moor, and...”
Seated in the center row of the pews, Edana stood up. “I have been there. They put up a memorial cross to mark the place just two years ago. Out of curiosity, I went to the library in Edinburgh.”
“What did you find, teacher?” the Provost asked.
“Well, I was surprised to find that there was an earthquake in 1534. It was strong enough to bring the towers down and was felt as far away as Dublin, Ireland.”
One of the men whistled his amazement. “Did you find anythin’ out about the battle?”
“They call it the battle of Flodden now instead of Branxton Moor. More than 20,000 Scots died and only 1400 Englishman.”
For a long moment, there was silence in the church as the people tried to imagine such a thing. At last, the Provost said, “I pray we never see another war like that one in Scotland.”
“So do I,” said the teacher. “Yet the Scots went on to fight on the side of Mary Queen of Scots, and abided in still more, albeit much smaller battles. This earl and that duke wanted the Scottish throne in those days, only to give it up to England in the end.”
“We should have won that other war,” Provost Knox said. “If it had not been for the king...”
“What other war?” Charles asked.
“Pardon my sayin’ so, Mr. Mitchel, but we should have beat the pants off them Americans when they rebelled.”
Nicholas chucked, “I cannot blame you for regretting the loss. On the other hand, some of America is not nearly as splendid as Scotland’s hillsides. Never have I seen such beauty.”
“Ladies and Gents, let us not become distracted,” said the Provost. “All in favor of buildin’ a tourist place outside of town in which to display the bones say aye.”
“Aye,” they all shouted at once.
The meeting was over and the people had just begun to leave as someone said, “Now we know who haunts the place.”
Charles lifted his eyes to heaven, closed them, and then let his head fall to his chest. “’Tis not haunted.”
“How do you know? Have you ever spent the night there?” the same man asked.
“Many a night,” Charles answered.
As two of the women left the church, one said, “I wonder what became of the other MacGreagors?”
“So do I,” her sister said.
IT ACTUALLY TOOK LESS than six months to finish the castle and the carriage house. The statue of the highlander, with the soot from the fire cleaned off, was now in place. There was a new coal stove and icebox in the kitchen, and rugs and new furniture adorned all the rooms. Pictures were hung on the walls, flower arrangements were set on several tables, and a MacGreagor coat of arms hung on the wall above the head of the table in the Great Hall.
All that was left was to help McKenna and her family move in.
Charles was pleased.
He was also pleased with the warrior monument that now stood at the head of the three mass graves in the graveyard. As well, the headstones of those who survived, including Laird Shaw MacGreagor, had a permanent gold crest affixed to them. No one quite knew what to do with those of the men who very well might have run from the battle, but it was decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Of course, that was one discussion that graced many a dinner table for months after.
The answer as to what to do with Hendry’s bones was easier solved than the clan expected. The town bought an aging cottage, one with a thatched roof, and made it into a very fine tourist attraction. On the walls were all sorts of black and white photographs of the graveyard, the castle, and Provost Knox holding the diamond in the palm of his hand. In the back room was the undertaker’s casket which contained the dagger Hendry did not have time to draw, and his remains. Miraculously, the missing arm bone had been found. The undertaker complained when the Provost announced admission to the cottage would go into the town’s coffers for upkeep and expenses, but there was little he could do about it.
When the road was fixed and the display opened to the public, they not only had the Shaw MacGreagor story on the wall, they had printed copies available to sell. Of course, a hungry or thirsty visitor could buy a sandwich and a mug of Scottish ale made from an ancient recipe, if he or she had a mind to.
At last, all was well in the Glenartair Village and the MacGreagor glen once more.
The End
Beloved Vows
Book 4
(The Lost MacGreagor Books)
Sample chapter
THE YEAR WAS 1912, but rumors of a war in Europe was the last thing on Blair MacGreagor’s mind. Engaged and hopelessly in love, she returned to America from the United Kingdom on the HMS Mauretania thinking only of planning her wedding. Yet, by the end of her first day on dry land, her whole world was turned upside down.
In 1713, in order to secure his passage to America, Scotland’s Rory MacGreagor happily signed an indentured servant contract and boarded a tall ship. It wasn’t long before he suspected it was a decision he would come to regret.
CHAPTER 1
EMILY TAYLOR PUSHED her utility cart down the hallway and wondered what it was like to die.
She
hated her position as hotel maid in the posh Labrodine Hotel in downtown New York City, that was conveniently located near the train station. It paid more than her job in the shirt factory, but not that much more. The year before, she narrowly escaped the deadly 1911 shirt factory fire and having lived when so many others perished, thought she might be destined for something important in life. Working as a hotel maid was not what she had in mind. Of course, where she worked made little difference – if people knew the appalling past she so desperately kept hidden, securing and maintaining any job at all in New York City was highly unlikely.
The hotel proprietors had enough rules and regulations to fill a wash tub, all of which were slanted in favor of the establishment. Some rules, such as those forbidding thievery, went without saying, while others, such as having to purchase uniforms from the hotel, and then suffer endless weekly payments, were unkind at best. Her uniform consisted of a long-sleeved black blouse, an ankle length black taffeta skirt, a long white apron that had to be washed nightly, and a crisp white bow to wear atop her blonde hair. At least at the shirt factory, she could wear more comfortable clothes.
Foremost was the hotel’s proclamation, that she take all possible precaution not to cause a scandal that might tarnish the hotel’s unblemished reputation. Therefore, the attractive maids serviced the bottom floors, and the ones deemed less tempting to single and married men alike, worked higher up where the affluent enjoyed the larger and more expensively decorated rooms. Although she didn’t think so, Emily was prettier than most and had little chance of working any higher than the third floor. A pity it was too, for it was well known that the affluent were more likely to leave generous tips for the maids. The top floor offered a breathtaking view of the massive city, the Atlantic Ocean, and everything in between. She’d only been that high once and often thought to disobey and venture up a second time.
Alas, she needed the job and dared not take the chance of getting caught.
Several rooms had come vacant on the third floor that morning, and three were in near ruin. Emily had no patience for lazy, careless people. There were new cigarette burns on the furniture, water on the bathroom floors, and beds in such disarray as to demand a complete remake. The hotel’s policy, which was kept secret from the guests, demanded that the maids examine the sheets and change only those that most needed to be changed. So long as the bed coverings were pulled taught, none of the guests would be the wiser. The same pertained to the bathroom towels. If they looked clean, she was simply to hang them back up and straighten them. It was those two policies Emily found most repugnant, but she did as she was told just the same.
Hard work for little pay was not her only problem. Several of the maids were married to men who worked in the same hotel as ushers, doormen, bellhops, and kitchen help. Bellhop Freddie Hawthorn was married to a maid that worked on the top floor. Karen Hawthorn was desperately in love with her husband, an attachment Emily found unfathomable. He was a disgusting man with a perpetual sickening grin who thought himself entitled to whatever he wanted. Freddie had a habit of sneaking up behind her and grabbing Emily around the waist. Twice, it startled her so, she had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out and alarming the guests.
However, that morning she was ready for him. As soon as he grabbed her, she picked up a washrag soaked in ammonia, spun around and shoved it against his freshly ironed uniform jacket. The instant the repugnant smell reached his nostrils, his eyes bulged, he let go of her, and ran out of the room.
That was the end of that – or so she hoped.
With only one room left to clean, she opened the door, pushed her cart far enough inside to keep the door from closing, and turned up her nose at the overpowering smell of perfume. She hurried to the window, opened it and allowed the cool autumn breeze to filter in. The view from that window offered only a look at the tall buildings across the street and the bustle of automobiles, street cars and horse drawn carriages on the street below. The avenue was clogged with noisy traffic just as it always was that time of day.
“That’s better,” she muttered, tearing herself away from the window.
She made the bed without changing the sheets, emptied the trash, dusted the top of the dresser and the arms of the chairs, made certain nothing had been left in the closet, and then went to see about the bathroom. Emily was on her hands and knees mopping up the last of the water on the tile floor, when someone shoved the hotel room door open wide. Fearing guests had arrived before she finished, she hopped up, quickly straightened the front of her uniform and went to see who it was.
It was the last person she expected to see. “Mrs. Hawthorn?”
Wearing an identical uniform, Freddie’s wife marched into the room, plopped down on the freshly made bed, and folded her arms. “How dare you?”
Emily guessed she had come to complain about the ammonia smell on Freddie’s clothes, but asked anyway, “How dare I what?”
“Freddie has finally confessed.”
“Confessed what?”
Mrs. Hawthorn unfolded her arms and dismissively examined the chipped fingernails on her right hand. “Come now, you know what.”
“I do not know. What did he tell you?”
Mrs. Hawthorn stood up, walked to the door, turned around and hotly glared at Emily. “It is you he sneaks off to see at night. Do not deny it, Emily Taylor, for I shall never believe you. I know your kind, always flirting and not caring whose husband you tempt. Stay away from Freddie. Do you hear me? Stay away!”
“He lies!” Emily tried, but before she could protest further, Karen Hawthorn walked out, shoved the cart all the way into the room, and slammed the door. Emily’s heart was beating so fast she thought she might pass out. She forced herself to take a deep breath and when she thought she might cry, she took a vow not to give in to the impulse. Instead, she straightened the bed again, finished cleaning the room and pushed her cart into the hallway. She closed the room door, went down the hall to the maid’s quarters, stored her cart next to the others, and grabbed her coat.
Her day was finally over and she was glad of it.
Emily took the service elevator down and just as she was about to walk out of the building, the night manager took hold of her arm. “Come with me, Miss Taylor, if you please.”
Her heart sank. Mr. Peters did the hiring, the firing, and little else. Therefore, she knew she was about to lose her job. Instead of cowering, she let him know with a hot scowl that she did not appreciate the way he had ahold of her arm. He abruptly let go and led the way to the small office behind the lobby’s check-in counter. Emily was tempted not to follow, but at length she decided it was better just to get it over with. She walked into his office, located a chair to sit on and waited while he closed the door.
Mr. Peters reminded her of the picture of a lion she saw once in a book. His unmanageable bushy hair and beard framed his entire round face. His eyes slightly slanted toward his nose, his jowls sagged, and since he combed his mustache in opposite directions, the part was directly under his nose. He even had an abundance of hair on his arms, what she could see of them. Indeed, he reminded her of a lion, and any second now she expected him to roar.
He did not roar, but he might as well have. Mr. Peters bluntly got right to the point. “Miss Taylor, I find I am forced to terminate your employment. We cannot afford a scandal, particularly not your kind of scandal.
Terrified he had learned the awful truth about her past, Emily held her breath. “What scandal might that be, Mr. Peters?”
“I am told you have been bedding Freddie Hawthorn. He is a married man, Miss Taylor, and such fraternization is strictly forbidden at this hotel. You know it, you know it very well.”
Emily almost smiled. “Oh, that.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Of course I deny it.”
“I expected you to. Nevertheless, his wife accuses you and Mr. Hawthorn confirmed her suspicions.”
“When you spoke to him, did he happen to smell like ammon
ia?” she asked.
“Miss Taylor, I am well aware of your quick wit, but my mind is made up. You are to be dismissed immediately.”
She said not another word in her defense, listened as he tried to further justify his decision...to himself more than to her, and accepted the pay he handed her, minus what she still owed for the uniform. It amounted to all of four dollars and no letter of recommendation did he offer.
“Of course,” Mr. Peters continued, “I might be willing to pay for services that have nothing to do with cleaning hotel rooms.”
His hopeful expression was nauseating and this time she could not resist the impulse to smile. “My dear Mr. Peters, what a tempting proposal. However, I’d sooner give my services to Freddie Hawthorn, and I cannot abide the very sight of the man.” With that, she got up, stuffed the money in her pocket and stormed out.
“Use the back entrance,” she heard Mr. Peters shout behind her, but sixteen-year-old Emily Taylor no longer worked for him and was free to do whatever she liked. She spotted Karen Hawthorn standing near the service elevator with a smirk on her face, but Emily ignored her. Two bellhops waited to be needed near the hotel entrance and one of them was Freddie Hawthorn. She grinned and slowly sashayed up to him as though she might finally accept his advances. At first he did not seem to trust her, but when she wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled his mouth close to hers, he was convinced she wanted him after all.
He did not notice his wife starting toward the two of them, nor did he see it coming when Emily kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. Freddie cried out in pain, brought his knee up and began to hop backward.
Not caring who heard her, Emily shouted, “Come near me again and I shall aim higher!” She defiantly glared at the horrified manager, and when Emily noticed several newly arrived guests watching, she took a moment to smile and curtsy to the well-dressed ladies. “You should know they do not change the sheets at this hotel.” Emily left the shocked guests with their mouths agape, held her head high and walked right out the front door.
Beloved Secrets, Book 3 Page 16
