The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (14 page)

“I can’t make her eat, Mother. If she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t want to eat.”

“She doesn’t want to eat because this bacon is overcooked. I tell you and I tell you—you have to take it off the skillet
before
it’s done, for it will continue to cook in the grease after it’s been removed from the heat.”

Lamb sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

Emmie did have
lots of work to do, it wasn’t a lie. But when she reached the library, which was the next room on her “to catalogue” list, the thought of pouring over dusty old books all day wasn’t terribly appealing—highly unusual for someone who loved old books so much. Instead, she retreated to the nursery, where she stared unenthusiastically at her laptop while it booted up.

The dig crew hadn’t arrived yet. With a heavily overcast sky threatening rain, it was unlikely that they’d come at all today. To be fair, it had always been unlikely that Sophie was going to come. She must be hurting something fierce after last night’s excess.

The first thing Emmie did when her laptop was warmed up was log on to her email. The archives at Cambridge had gotten back to her about some inquiries she’d fired off last week—complete with invoice. She cringed at the amount when she opened the .pdf document. But at least it was exactly what had been quoted, no more.

No less, come to that.

Lady Rotherham had approved the expense when Emmie explained the necessity. “Oliver will moan and groan about it, but you leave him to me,” she had laughed over the phone.

There was also an email from Dean. The time stamp on it said it had come in at a quarter to ten that morning. Yep, if they were logged on and sending email this late in the morning and they still weren’t at Tullybrae, then today was a write-off.

She opened the email, for which the subject line read, “FW: E-120463-C55 Kilt Pin, Silver, Tullybrae.”

Hey Em,

Thought you might be interested to know that we got an ID on that kilt pin we found a while ago. We were able to clean it up and History was able to identify the insignia as belonging to Clan MacDonald. Haven’t done any digging yet to see that clan’s footprint on the area. I’ll leave that to you history types to figure out.

We likely won’t be out to Tullybrae today. The forecast calls for heavy rain. And besides, Queen Sophie spent all last night yacking in the bathroom, and hasn’t yet graced us with her royal presence. We’ve taken an over-under on what time she’ll emerge — Adam’s going for broke and says she won’t come out at all.

Hope you’re feeling okay this morning, and we’ll see you soon.

Deano

Dean Walker, MSc, Archaeology

Associate Professor, Dept. of History, Classics and Archaeology

University of Edinburgh

“Hold my beer, while I kiss your girlfriend.” – Brad Paisley

Below that was the original message which had been sent from the history department with the details of the kilt pin.

Emmie smiled at Dean’s unorthodox email signature. It was so unprofessional, yet something only someone as naturally charismatic as Dean could get away with. She found it easy to forget that the crew—Adam and Dean especially—were highly educated scholars. When they were working on site, they looked like carefree children digging in the dirt. She tended to forget that theirs was a highly specialized field which took a lot of school and a significant degree of intelligence to earn.

As for the content of his email, the name MacDonald had set a bell ringing in her head. Like the melody that had come to her that night in the bath when she first encountered the countess, she knew the name without knowing why.

Opening an Internet browser, she looked up Clan MacDonald. While she searched, Clunie stalked into the room, settling himself on top of her slippered feet beneath the desk.

“Hey there, fella,” she murmured, wiggling her toes against him. Deep, rumbling purrs were his response.

Emmie conducted her Internet search as methodically as her training had conditioned her to… specifically: experimental keyword searches, occasional hyperlink clicking, and general, all-round hunch following. What she found was a fairly standard history for a Highland Scottish clan, much of which glossed over a long-standing conflict with Clan Campbell. According to the maps on her computer screen, the MacDonalds inhabited a wide swath of land on the western edge of the Grampian mountain range, on which land Tullybrae now sat. Cameron clan land separated that of Clans MacDonald and Campbell, but nothing about their triad interactions through the centuries sparked a similar recognition as that which she’d had for the name MacDonald itself.

She sat back in her swivel chair and folded her hands across her belly. Clunie, ignorant of her inner turmoil as house cats typically are, continued to purr contentedly at her feet.

The search had been disappointing. It shouldn’t have been, for the simple fact that Web searches were always disappointing. They were best regarded as a starting point, a sort of digital muse, where inklings began their tickle and led to deeper, more meaningful searches elsewhere. But when she read Dean’s email—no, the second she saw it in her inbox—she realized she’d been hoping her search would mean something. Would trigger…
something
.

What, though?

She re-read the information on the last website she’d landed on. None of it was significant—MacDonald, Campbell, fighting—nothing meant anything to her.

For some unaccountable reason, this absence of meaning was frustrating. And on some level, it occurred to her to wonder why she was so frustrated. It was as though the frustration wasn’t coming from her, as though someone else’s frustration was rubbing off on her…

The Highlander.

She recalled that sudden and inexplicable burst of anger that invaded her thoughts the morning when the digging had started. As surely as she knew that anger wasn’t hers, she knew this frustration wasn’t hers, either. Or not entirely, at least.

She dropped her head to the desk, and softly banged it against the surface several times.
Get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my head
, she chanted. But the Highlander would not back off.

A distraction. That’s what she needed. Sitting up, Emmie pulled up her email again. The next message was from her brother, Chase. She began reading, mouthing the words to keep her attention on them and off of the frustration. Soon, the reading came more naturally.

Hey there, Em-bo-bem,

I spent Thanksgiving weekend at home, and as you can imagine, Mom was at me non-stop to get in touch with you to see how you were doing. Actually, she was at me to
call
you, and expressly forbade me to email, but who the hell calls anybody anymore, right? I know you get it, and you agree with me, so I know you’ll forgive me for disobeying orders.

Emmie’s heart warmed, picturing her brother’s Thanksgiving weekend with the ’rents. The house was likely done up in fall colours and the pumpkins lined up on the porch, at the ready for Hallowe’en like orange soldiers.

So I hear that things out there in brave old Scotland are going well. I hope they are, anyway, and that Mom isn’t exaggerating. Of course, Ron keeps going on about the pubs, and about how, first chance they get to come and see you, he’s going on the pub crawl of a lifetime. Which, knowing him, means having a pint in the closest dive he can find, then picking up a six-pack from wherever they sell beer over there, and retreating to a La-Z-Boy for the rest of the night.

Things are great with me, in case you’re wondering. And Mom says you
are
wondering — in fact, to hear her tell it, you’re dying of curiosity and inconsolable that I haven’t provided you with an update sooner. She says she’s told you about Gillian already, so I won’t bore you with that except to say that things are going well. And contrary to what she might tell you in one of her spells of wishful thinking, no, we have no plans to get married, no, I have not moved in, and no, grandchildren are not “just on the horizon.” The job’s way too crazy to be worrying about a family. But good crazy. I’m at the bars three or four times a week after work, hanging with some of the top sales execs. And these bars, they’re so upscale, nothing like the pubs back home in Corner Brook, I can tell you that.

From what I hear, Mom’s also told you that I sold my truck. . . ‘nuff about that, it’s still a sore spot, lol.

I’ve had a bit of news. I wouldn’t call it bad, exactly. Maybe sad is a better word for it. My mom — my real mom, that is — passed away two weeks ago. I’m not sure that I’m really sad about her going, more sad about the whole thing. Turns out she’s had cancer for the past few months, and I never knew about it. She and I don’t really keep in touch, as you know. It was her family who got in touch with me after she passed. They invited me to the funeral. Mom and Ron offered to go with me, but in the end, I went alone. It was just something I had to do by myself, to face them all and let them know that I turned out just fine on my own. They were glad I came, but I wasn’t enveloped into the folds of their family like a long-lost son. I’m glad about that. They let her give me away, after all. No point in pretending like I’m happy to see them now.

Anyway, all this got me thinking, and I wanted to tell you something. It’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a while now, and I’ve never said it before. But I think I should, just to know that I’ve said it. My mom’s death has reminded me that life is finite, and you never know when you’re going to be out of it.

I wanted to say that I envy you a bit, Em. I know the circumstances of your adoption were horrific, and no kid should ever have to go through that. But think of it this way: You weren’t given up as though you didn’t matter. Your mom and your grandmother died. My mother could have kept me, could have loved me, and chose not to. And before you start in on me, I know you’re going to say that I had no idea what choices she had to face, and what battles she had to fight. I know all that, and in my head I agree. It probably was for the best that she gave me up. Grace and Ron have been wonderful. They are my mom and dad, and I can’t imagine life without them. But somewhere in the back of my heart, I can’t help but be angry for my own sake. Because I can’t get past the deep-down feeling that my mother’s choice was selfish.

I know that all this doesn’t make what you went through any better. But at least you know that you were always loved. By someone.

I won’t take up too much of your time, but just promise me you’ll take care of yourself out there, and come home soon. We all miss you.

Love, Chaser.

Her brother’s message hit Emmie like a lead ball to the stomach. She hadn’t been expecting something so deep. Not from him. Water off a duck’s back. Butter wouldn’t melt. All the clichéd expressions one could think of—that was Chase.

He’d been right—she would argue that he could never know what his mother had had to face, he had no idea of the choices she had been forced to make at so young an age. Emmie understood his feelings and where they came from. And though she thought he was being unfair about his own adoption, she didn’t resent him for what he was saying about hers. He had a good heart, and she understood the logic behind it. In telling her this, he meant well.

But he was wrong. His feelings were based on
his
experience. He was an outsider to what Emmie had gone through, would never understand what it was to be not enough, not worth it to fight for.

Defeated by feelings she thought were long buried, Emmie pushed away from the desk, shut the screen on her laptop, and retreated to the hidden door to the third floor. The leaden sky broke outside the unadorned staircase windows just as she began to climb, and a flash of lightning, followed by a heavy grumble of thunder, gave way to rain patter on the large, slanting roof.

In her room, she turned on the bedside lamp and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, on the side that faced the dresser. The antique brass frame groaned under her weight.

The framed photo of her mother smiled back at her from behind the glass. Emmie stared at it, trying to divine its secrets.

“Chase thinks you didn’t have a choice in giving me up, but you did,” she accused. “You didn’t have to die—you chose to. You
chose
to let yourself die.”

Silence.

“Did I not mean enough to you? Did my future, my happiness, mean
anything
to you?”