CHAPTER FOUR
LIZZIE
It wasn’t possible to look everywhere at once, but I tried. I had never in my life seen such beauty as the landscape out the window of the cab. New York was metal, glass and concrete. Scotland wasn’t overwhelmed with manmade, it was nature in its purest sense. Rolling hills of emerald green span for as far as the eye could see but the landscape changed nearly in a blink. The hills replaced with lochs edged by cliffs where the angry ocean slapped the jagged rocks. It wasn’t a wonder this land was home to so many stories of myths and lore. It was stunning. My fingers itched to paint it.
Miles and miles stretched by with no sightings of other cars or people. The New Yorker in me grew nervous and then I saw the gates. I didn’t know what it was about those gates that held my interest, but they stirred my imagination. Perhaps it was because there was nothing around them, just two large stone pillars and a set of black wrought iron gates. You couldn’t see the house the gates were protecting, the woods that lined the lane were too dense, yet I found I wanted to walk down that lane and see it.
I’d asked the driver to show me the village before taking me to Aunt Brianna’s. About a half an hour later, we drove through the center of her village, Tulloch Croft; built on the edge of a loch, charming stone buildings ran along one side of the two-lane road. Sailboats anchored just offshore. For a small village, it seemed to have everything—grocery, bakery, butcher, a pub, a post office, even a small train station. We backtracked a few miles to a long lane and at the end of it sat Aunt Brianna’s whitewashed cottage. Gardens filled with color wrapped around the small structure. A stone barn sat perpendicular to it and a small stone wall ran along the lane. An older model Mercedes was parked in front of the barn. Behind the cottage was nothing but hills of green. I paid the cabbie, grabbed my bags and headed to the front door. The scent of heather carried on the light breeze. I didn’t go inside immediately, too overwhelmed with a sensation I’d never before felt.
Home.
Inside was as charming as the outside with scarred wooden floors, antiques and an oversized sofa and chairs that begged for someone to curl up in. The kitchen was small, but the Agra stove was a thing a beauty. There was a fireplace in the kitchen, living room and bedroom. Photographs covered one wall leading to the bedroom. I could only assume the woman in most of them was Aunt Brianna. She had beautiful auburn hair that in her later life was chemically maintained. In many of her photographs there was a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes. More telling, she was smiling in every picture. Regret burned in my gut that I never got the chance to know her.
I was pulled from my study of the photographs when there was a knock at the door. Green eyes greeted me. The man was pushing seven feet tall. Wide in the shoulders and chest, even though he had to be in his seventies. My jaw dropped, the corners of his mouth tilted up. “You’re the spitting image of Bri as a lass.” He thrust his baseball mitt sized hand out to me. “Fergus Blake.”
“Lizzie Danton.”
Silence followed. He seemed friendly enough, but the New Yorker in me hesitated inviting in a stranger, particularly one as large as this one.
“You and Brianna were friends?”
“She was the love of my life.”
It wasn’t just his words, but the sadness that flashed in his eyes that had compassion overruling caution. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”
The cottage felt much smaller with him in it. “Not as sorry as she was to learn of you so late. It broke her heart. Must have been a shock learning you had kin in Scotland. Brianna shared with me your story. Sorry, lass, you got dealt a bad hand.”
“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?”
“I suppose. How are you finding the cottage? I had a cleaning crew through it the other day when I heard you were coming. I had food dropped off too.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you. Are you hungry? I could whip something up.”
“No, lass. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you arrived safely. I would have picked you up from the airport had I known your schedule.” There was the slightest bit of censure in his words, but I didn’t even know the man existed so I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to have alerted him of my plans. He moved on. “Are you staying?” Direct. I liked that.
“For a little while. Brianna wanted me to experience my heritage, has given me an opportunity to do so, the least I can do is accept the gift offered.”
“Smart lass.”
I didn’t want to put him on the spot, but he was here and he knew her, so I asked, “Would you like some tea? I’d really love to hear a bit about her.”
His expression softened and my heart ached. He had loved her very much. To be loved like that, to love like that. He had lost her, but at least they had found that. He replied with a simple, “Aye.”
He followed me into the kitchen. I started the tea. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his tree trunk sized arms. “Brianna was always the life of the party. Never had a cruel word for anyone. Not even your mother, but that took effort.”
“Did you know my mother?”
“Aye. Selfish from the day she was born. Her ma died in childbirth. Colleen, Bri’s sister, she was a sweet girl, kind hearted like Bri. Your ma’s dad was a sailor who didn’t stick around when he learned of the baby. Bri tried, but Norah wanted more than this village, more than the Calhoun name, could offer. As soon as she could, she left. It broke Bri’s heart, losing the last link she had to her sister, losing the last of her family. She kept tabs on Norah for a year or two, but Norah was just so…Brianna cut ties completely.”
I brought the tea to the table and grabbed some cups. Fergus settled across from me. “My mother is still selfish and vain. Brianna was better off without her.” I didn’t want to tell him that Norah was after Brianna’s estate, not unless it became an issue. No need for him to feel the thread of disgust that lingered in me at the knowledge.
“Yes, but in cutting those ties she didn’t know of you.”
“I found myself through my art. I don’t know that I would have if I didn’t live the life I did.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“What did Aunt Brianna do, how did she spend her days?”
“She was a teacher. After she retired, she spent a lot of time gardening, hiking, she was trying her hand at jamming. She wanted to get livestock, sheep maybe some cows. She knew the work involved, but she didn’t want to slow down just because she had retired. She was always the first at the hospital when a baby was born, the first to offer a hand when one was needed. She even took a local kid under her wing when he was having trouble fitting in, though the outcome of that wasn’t one of her more successful interventions.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was. I miss her.”
“I wish I had known her.” I fiddled with my cup. “Can I ask why she didn’t leave her estate to you?”
“She wanted a Calhoun to have this land, as is right.”
“But am I taking your home?”
“No. We loved our cottages too much to part with them, so we used both.” He took a sip of his tea. “You’re here. That would mean so much to Bri to know her family had come home.”
“I never felt home, not in any of the places I lived, but as soon as the cab dropped me off I felt it here.”
“’Tis in your blood, lass.”
“I believe that.”
“We’ll make a highlander out of you yet.”
It wasn’t until later that night that I found the letter resting up against the dresser in the bedroom, my name scrolled on it. Nerves caused butterflies in my stomach. My hand shook slightly when I reached for it.
Dearest Elizabeth,
I wish this introduction happened in person. I blame myself in part for that. Pride and anger got the better of me for more years than I’d like to admit. Based on what I’ve learned of you, you understand better than anyone your mother’s temperament. I did try to reconcile with her in my final months, but stubbornness runs in the family. I realize as I’m writing this, you will likely sell the cottage. I can’t blame you; your life is in the States. I’ve seen your paintings. They are beautiful and yet sadness and loneliness weaves through them. It hurts to know you were out there alone, lonely. Had I known of you, I would have come for you. I hope you believe that.
As an artist, I assume you can paint anywhere so maybe you will take a few months and paint here. Saying there is something special about the cottage and village will sound like the ravings of an old nostalgic woman, but there is something special about both. There’s history and magic here, all one has to do is look.
Don’t be surprised to see an old lady with ridiculous red hair in the moors. I do plan on visiting and often.
Your mother rejected her heritage, her past, her family, but Calhoun blood runs through your veins. This is your heritage, your past, your land, and your family. Even though we never met, I love you, Elizabeth. One day, a long time from now, we will meet. In the meantime, enjoy your journey of self-discovery.
Love, Brianna
Tears fell, but I let them. I ran my fingers over her handwriting, imagining the woman in the pictures writing it. She loved me. The words got stuck in my throat. I never had anyone say those words to me. Cait, sure, but for a woman I never knew to say it. What would life have been like if I had known her? If I had come when she was still the vivacious woman in those pictures? My mother denying Brianna and I a chance to know each other really was the cruelest of all her actions.
I unpacked and by the time I was storing my suitcases it was dark, but the cottage was so cozy. I had a fire burning; the lights were on low. Thanks to Fergus, the refrigerator was stocked, including a pint of soup from the local pub. While the soup heated, I gathered the photo albums from the living room. I poured over them; hours later I was curled up in front of the fire smiling at the life Brianna Calhoun had lived. My heart ached when I closed the last album, but after my chat with Fergus and these photographs I felt closer to her. I moved to the back door and glanced up at the moon. It was almost full in the dark sky. Resting my head on the doorjamb, I smiled even as tears brightened my eyes. “I would have liked to have known you. Thank you for giving me this, a piece of myself I didn’t know existed.”
A tingle teased the nape of my neck. I rubbed it away before turning from the window. I put everything back, cleaned up my dinner dishes and headed to bed. It was after three when I shut the lights off. My mind was racing, I didn’t think sleep would come, but as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out.
The Highlands were magnificent. I spent the first few days just soaking it all in. There was something wild and untamed about its beauty. Mountains dotted the horizon, an almost rugged landscape where beauty survived despite the harsh environment. There was a house not far from Aunt Brianna’s. It was tucked up against a stream, a small forest sat behind it, rocks covered in moss and little patches of wild flowers poked up here and there. Cottages speckled the landscape, but the focal point was nature whether that was the hills, the rocky terrain, the rivers that cut through the mountains or the wildlife that defied human settlements and still claimed the land as their own.
An elderly man with a walking stick and his dog moved slowly in my direction. I wished I had a paper and pencil to capture them.
He touched the rim on his hat as he passed me. “Evening, lass.”
“Good evening.” I was definitely not in New York anymore.
I had my phone to snap pictures; I wanted to capture the colors that seemed more vibrant than home. I had a little bag as well, to collect things like some twigs of heather, stones, maybe even some grass. I had ideas, paintings that would be different than my earlier work, that wouldn’t have that dark edge because I didn’t see darkness here, just bright, hopeful beauty.
I hadn’t realized how far I had walked, but it wasn’t the fact I was in town that had my feet stopping, it was the animal standing in the street. It looked like a cow, but it had long fur. It was blocking the road. Did cows attack humans? I was thinking no, but I did give him or her a wide berth. At least I tried, but two others appeared, much bigger than the first. The parents. The largest of the three mooed at me in what seemed like irritation. I didn’t move and they continued to stare, like I was the one out of place. Maybe I was. Nervousness had me speaking my thoughts out loud. “I don’t mean you any harm.” The parents were flanking the calf, a clearly protective stance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I think we all know if anyone is getting hurt in this scenario it isn’t you. I hope you’re dairy cows because the idea of you being served up for dinner is enough to turn me into a vegetarian. Not really, I’m sorry to say I do love meat, but seeing you walking and talking…not really talking, well for you it is talking. Maybe I should stick to cheese while I’m here, just to be safe.”
The hair at my nape stirred again. I rubbed it away even as I glanced behind me. A shiver moved down my spine when I saw the man leaning against a sexy black car watching me talk to cows. If I wasn’t careful, people might start warning others to stay away from the crazy American. I was knocked off balance when the calf’s head butted me in the stomach.
“Hey.”
He mooed in my face and I swear it sounded like a laugh.
“Where do you belong because I am quite certain it isn’t in the middle of town?” I asked that out loud to the cows. Yep, get the straitjacket.
“Hey, don’t let them run off,” a man called from down the street as he ran in our direction.
Don’t let them run off? How was I supposed to keep them from running off?
One of the bigger cows started walking in the opposite direction of the man, the other two followed.
“No, wait. You’re supposed to stay here.” I actually jumped in front of them and put my hands up, like a cow was going to know that meant stop. They walked right around me. I dug into my purse for the granola bar I always carried because when I painted, I usually forgot to eat. I ripped off the wrapper. “Want some?”
All three heads turned to me. It was a good plan until they moved in.
“Oh crap.” I broke off some and tossed it at the baby. Mommy and Daddy kept coming.
“Do cows like human?” I called to the man. He appeared, his laughing hazel eyes met mine over the cows’ heads.
“No. They don’t like human.”
“I only had one granola bar.”
“It was good thinking.” He wrapped ropes around their necks.
“You’re going to get them home by yourself?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the help. I’m Bruce.”
“Lizzie Danton.”
I didn’t think I imagined his easy friendliness turning slightly cool. “Brianna’s grand niece. I went to school with your mother.”
“By the temperature drop, I’m guessing you had about as good a relationship with her as me.”
I saw contrition before he said, “I’m sorry, lass. I fear you’ll get that reception a lot around here. With Brianna’s death, Norah is back in everyone’s thoughts. She made it very difficult to like her.”
“I understand that completely.”
He studied me for a second. “Sadly, I can see you do.” He offered his hand. “It is very nice to meet you, Lizzie.”
“And you, Bruce.”
“Welcome to Tulloch Croft. I better get these three home. My wife was just putting tea on the table.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“Aye, but thank you.”
There was comfort knowing that Norah was a bitch to everyone. For a minute, I watched as Bruce walked three cows home, definitely not a sight I was used to seeing. Curious if I still had an audience, I glanced over to see the black car driving off. I continued on my walk. I reached the other end of town and intended to turn back, but my attention was drawn to the sight in the distance. The hills were lush and green and centered in the middle was a castle, or what remained. The roof was gone; the stone walls were jagged, like broken bones piercing through flesh. It was grim, bleak, sad and absolutely beautiful. I moved to get a closer look. Green grass grew up through the charred earth. The place had burned down some time ago and still it sat here abandoned but untouched. Why?
I walked through the rubble, reached what I imagined at one time was the front door. The sun tucked into the clouds when I stepped inside. The temperature dropped. It had been grand once upon a time. I could tell from the furniture, most of which was burnt beyond recognition, but there were a few pieces still recognizable that sat here and there. Paintings hung from the walls, carpets on the floor. Whoever owned this hadn’t tried to save anything and stranger still, poachers hadn’t tried to salvage it. Was it haunted? And if not, what was its story that it kept people at bay? I moved deeper into the castle, toward what had been the kitchen. It had been a grand kitchen. Had they large celebrations for the holidays? Had this space once teamed with staff, pulling the meats and breads from the ovens? Had a crew worked on nothing but sweets—fruited and spirit-laced cakes, fruit and meat pies? The sun moved from the clouds and how the rays shined down on the sad remains seemed almost ethereal. A glimmer caught my eye as the light reflected off something. As I grew closer, I saw it was a small medallion. It was only when I reached for it that I realized it was a necklace. It was charred so I couldn’t see what it was of, but it felt warm against my palm. I didn’t realize tears had gathered in my eyes until one rolled down my cheek. It was sad to see something so thoroughly neglected and to see the hints of life that had at one time existed here.
I was curious about the ruins, so I stopped at the small library in town on my way back to the cottage. Small was an understatement, with only a few racks of books, most of those being tourist books of the area and another of best sellers from the last few years. The librarian, Mrs. Wilson according to her tag, was an older woman with white hair pulled up into a bun. She glanced up when I approached her desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I was taking a walk and saw the castle just outside of town, the one in ruins. What happened there?”
I thought I saw fear flash in her eyes. She definitely crossed herself. “The McIntyre place. It burned down nearly twenty years now. The smoke from the fire was seen as far as Edinburgh, or so they say.”
“Is there a reason it hasn’t been taken down and the land cleared?”
She glanced around before leaning closer. “Only that the laird wishes it to stay as is. A memorial.”
My heart twisted. “People were killed in the fire?”
“Aye, the old laird, the current laird’s father. It was the McIntyre ancestral home since the eleventh century.”
To lose his father and his home, that had to be hard.
It seemed the old woman didn’t need me for this conversation as she continued. “The young laird is a cold sort. The truth is I don’t believe he feels much of anything. Some even say he was born soulless. Our more superstitious townsfolk think he might even be…well not of this earth.”
I didn’t like gossip and I didn’t like those who perpetuated it. I realized it was a small town and small towns fostered gossip, but I didn’t have to listen. I was about to excuse myself until she said ‘not of this earth’. What the hell did that mean? “Not of this earth?”
She leaned over her desk and whispered, “Supernatural.” She then immediately crossed herself again.
Supernatural? Like what the Winchester boys battled every week? What nonsense and still I queried, “What, like a vampire?”
“No, a beastie for sure.”
“A werewolf?”
“Aye.” She crossed herself again. I entertained the possibility that she was pulling my leg for about ten seconds, but the look on her face. No, she was serious. Okay, so the librarian was crazy. I wondered if the laird knew about the rumors flying around about him and that the townsfolk spoke of him so candidly to strangers.
“Do you know this laird?”
“No, of course not. He stays to himself.”
She didn’t know him and yet she spoke with such authority, going so far as to call him a werewolf. I didn’t blame the laird for staying to himself. If he made too many appearances in town they were likely to hunt him down with pitchforks and torches. “You don’t know him and yet you say he’s cold…a werewolf.”
She crossed herself again. “Rumors. The town is small.”
I wanted to educate her on the ugliness of rumors, but she was well into her seventies. She should know better.
“If he doesn’t feel anything, why keep the castle standing?”
If she realized I was questioning her ridiculous comment, she didn’t let on. “I don’t know, lass. Maybe he gathers his powers from it.”
“Powers?”
“Aye.”
It was on my tongue to ask what powers did a werewolf possess, but it seemed unwise to challenge her delusion. Was she dangerous or a harmless crackpot? I wasn’t really eager to spend any more time in her company to learn the answer to that. Thanking her was the polite thing to do despite the nonsense she’d shared. “Thank you for your time.”
I reached the door and glanced back to find her watching me. Perhaps she’d start a rumor that I was a witch or a banshee. I supposed there were worse things to be. Curious I asked, “What is the young laird’s name?”
“Brochan McIntyre.”