Waterfall Glen (5 page)

“What can I get you to eat?” Miss Weir asked after closing the door.

“I don’t want to put you out.”

“I’d be much more put out at the thought of the lady of the house having to get food for herself while I stood back and watched. And besides,” she added, “you wouldn’t even know where anything is kept.”

Realizing Miss Weir was desperate to show how indispensable she was, Kate smiled and said, “A sandwich would be fine, thanks. Cheese, ham—whatever’s at hand.”

“How about salmon and tomato?”

“Sounds great.”

“And a cup of tea to go with it?”

Kate was about to ask for coffee, then thought,
When in Rome.
“That’d be lovely. I’ll fill the kettle,” she said, and started walking towards an antiquated, highly polished kettle that sat on the slate worktop beside the stove.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Miss Weir said, hurrying over to cut Kate off in action as well as word, then quickly added, “I mean, allow me, Lady Kate.” She filled the kettle from a tap that groaned and shuddered before gurgling into life. “I’ll just put this on the stove and then show you through to the banquet hall.”

“Actually, I’d like to eat in here if that’s okay—it’s so cosy,” Kate said, sitting on one of the two stools at the roughly-hewn pine table in the center of the kitchen.

“Aye, I suppose it is,” Miss Weir said, looking around as if seeing a familiar place in a new light.

Kate looked on as Miss Weir used a knife the size of a cavalry sword to saw through the crust of a newly-baked loaf and then carve an inch-thick steak from a baked salmon that was still complete with head and tail.

“There you are,” Miss Weir said, as she cut the resulting plate-sized sandwich in two and set it down in front of Kate. “That should keep you going until dinner.”

Kate started to thank her but was drowned out by a rattling from the stove, followed by a high-pitched hooting. The room filled with steam, and for a moment Kate thought something was about to blow up. Then she realized
that what sounded like a locomotive pulling into a station was just the old-fashioned kettle coming to the boil.

After making the tea Miss Weir said, “Would you be wanting a mug or the fancy porcelain stuff that Mr. Colin never bothered with?”

Knowing she’d just been shot point blank with a loaded question, Kate fought back a smile and said, “A mug will be fine, thanks.”

Miss Weir put a large mug down beside Kate’s sandwich and brought a jug of milk out from the fridge, saying, “I’m sorry we’ve none of that nonsensical half-fat milk that seems to be all the fashion these days, but I’m afraid we don’t have any half-fat cows in Glen Cranoch.”

This time Kate couldn’t fight back her smile, so she used the sandwich to hide it. It was more than up to the job; she needed both hands just to get half of it up to her mouth. It was like a different kind of food altogether from the dainty, cellophane-wrapped sandwiches she was used to in the coffee shops of Sausalito and San Francisco, with their thin slices of bleached white bread or artificially colored “wholemeal,” smears of margarine, and shavings of savoury filling. After taking her first bite, Kate realized Miss Weir was watching her intently, waiting for a verdict. “I had a salmon sandwich on the plane coming over, but it didn’t taste anything like this,” Kate told her.

“Aye, well, it wouldn’t have been made with home-baked bread, salmon caught by Mr. McRae, and butter courtesy of Flora the cow from the crofts down below.”

The sandwich was so much bigger than Kate was used to that she was full after eating half of it. She didn’t want to offend Miss Weir by not finishing it, but simply didn’t have room for any more.

Miss Weir read what was in Kate’s mind from the look on her face and said, “Don’t tell me you’re full up already?”

Kate nodded, feeling like a little girl confronted by a fearsome nanny.

Miss Weir shook her head from side to side. Kate half-expected the beehive would stay where it was while the rest of her head swivelled, but it moved as one complete unit, not even a hair drifting out of place despite the vigorous head-shaking; testament to either the quality or quantity of her hairspray.

“You’re not one of those dyslexia nervosics, are you?” Miss Weir asked.

Kate laughed and shook her head.

The denial didn’t seem to convince the older woman, who said, “Well, we’ll soon have you cured of that, don’t you worry.”

Kate knew there was no point protesting any further, and instead said, “Wouldn’t you like some tea yourself?”

“Well, now that you mention it.” Miss Weir whipped out a mug, filled it with tea and milk, and perched herself on the stool opposite Kate. “I’m just hoping you’re not going to suggest that I try one of the scones I made for you this morning, because I might be tempted and I should really be watching my weight.”

“Go on, be a devil.”

“Well, I’ll maybe just take a little one. Can I be getting one for yourself as well?”

“I won’t have room for dinner if you do, and it smells too good to miss,” Kate said diplomatically.

With surprising agility, Miss Weir flew off the stool and over to a big platter of scones on the worktop next to the bread. “I’m just looking for the smallest one,” she said, a predatory hand hovering over the scones.

Kate suspected Miss Weir was thinking aloud, but that her words weren’t a perfect match for her thoughts.

This suspicion was confirmed when the housekeeper returned with a scone that wasn’t much smaller than the teaplate it was sitting on. She cut it open and spread a thin layer of butter on it. After taking a bite she said, “Hmm, a bit dry. It needs a wee spot of jam to moisten it.” Again she seemed to be thinking aloud when she said, “I suppose there’s no harm if I just have the one spoonful.” She dismounted from her stool once more, and when she came back she had a jar of strawberry jam in one hand and a tablespoon in the other. After rolling off the elastic band and peeling back the wax paper she dug the spoon into the jar in agricultural fashion and brought out a mountainous, wobbling heap of jam. Upending the spoon over the bottom half of the scone, she scraped every last trace of jam from it with a knife, which she then meticulously wiped on the top half.

“That looks good,” Kate said as Miss Weir set about
devouring the scone.

“Aye, but it could do with a bit more jam. I just wish I didn’t have to think about my figure,” Miss Weir lamented. “Are you sure I can’t get you one?”

Kate shook her head. “I really am stuffed, thanks.”

“I’ll just leave the rest of the sandwich on the table if you don’t mind,” Miss Weir said. “It’ll do for Finlay. There’ll be a timid, mouselike knock at the door any minute now, mark my words, and a wheedling little voice saying, ‘Miss Weir, I wonder if I might trouble you for just the smallest bite to eat’.”

Kate laughed at the perfect imitation of Finlay’s singsong lilt. “Something tells me that, underneath it all, you’re quite fond of him,” she said.

“I suppose I am, at that,” Miss Weir conceded. “He must have been quite a man,” she said thoughtfully, and for once in a quiet voice. “You might have noticed a wee ribbon on his blazer. Well, I once asked him what it was for, but he changed the subject and wouldn’t tell me. I’m a nosy besom, I have to admit, so I asked Auld Davie about it—he’s one of the crofters who served with Finlay during the war. He said that the pretty little ribbon is for the Military Medal. He also said it’s second only to the Victoria Cross.”

“How did Finlay win it?” Kate asked, impressed even before hearing the details.

“The hard way.”

“I can’t imagine there’s an easy way to win a medal
like that.”

“No, indeed. Anyway, he didn’t win it charging forward with a blazing gun and all-consuming rage, blinded by the heat of battle to the risks he was taking, but with an altogether more uncommon kind of courage. It turns out Finlay McRae was one of the first men—well, he can’t have been much more than a boy—to set foot on the beaches during D-Day. While the bombs and bullets were flying all around and other men dived for cover he stayed on his feet to pipe the commandoes ashore to the tune of
Highland Laddie.”

Kate had taken to Finlay from the start, and now felt admiration for him as well as affection.

Miss Weir started washing up the plates and knives. Before she’d finished there was a barely audible knock at the door, followed by a timid, “Miss Weir—”

Kate couldn’t hear the rest of what Finlay said for the sound of her own laughter.

“Come in, Finlay. We’ve been expecting you,” the housekeeper announced smugly.

The door opened and in came Finlay, taken aback to see Kate sitting quite the thing at the kitchen table.

“It’s okay,” Miss Weir told Finlay. “It seems that Lady Kate is quite at home taking a mug of tea with the likes or us.”

As Finlay sat down, Miss Weir said, “You’ll be wanting a sandwich, I take it.”

“Just if there’s one already made,” Finlay said, looking
at the leftover half of Kate’s sandwich sitting in the middle of the table.

Miss Weir shook her head. “Men,” she said to Kate. “They’re so predictable.”

“I’d prefer to say ‘reliable’,” Finlay said.

“I can rely on you wanting a mug of tea and a scone as well, I suppose.”

“That you can, but I’ll see to it myself.”

“That means he wants to pick his own scone,” Miss Weir told Kate.

Finlay polished off his sandwich in short order and got up to help himself to a scone. “I see that someone’s already taken the ‘smallest’ one,” he said, peeved.

Once more, Kate had to work hard not to burst out laughing.

Finlay took a bite of his scone and said, “It’s very nice, Miss Weir. Yes, very nice indeed. But maybe just the littlest bit dry, if I might be so bold as to say so.”

Without a word Miss Weir brought him the jam jar.

“It only needs a spoonful,” he said.

“Aye, well, just remember what happened with your wallies the last time you took more than that.”

Kate knew it was probably better not to ask, but couldn’t keep her curiosity at bay: “Wallies?”

“Aye, falsers—you know, false teeth.”

“Miss Weir!” Finlay said indignantly. “I’m sure Lady Kate doesn’t want to know about such things.”

Miss Weir carried on regardless. “Greedy guts here
overdid it with the strawberry jam one afternoon and got his wallies stuck fast in a scone. Not a pretty sight, I can assure you. In fact, I’m still having nightmares about it yet. It was a month before I could bring myself to even think about baking another tray of scones or making a pot of jam.”

“Miss Weir, please! A man’s entitled to a bit of dignity in his senior years,” Finlay protested, so embarrassed that his face had turned almost the same color as the jam on his scone.

“Not if he gets his wallies stuck in a scone, he’s not,” Mrs. Weir said.

Finlay shook his head sadly and said, “Old age is a terrible, terrible thing.”

Kate laughed. “I’m sorry, Finlay, but your accent cracks me up,” she told him. “You only said terrible twice but I heard way more than two words’ worth of ‘r’s.”

“You’re not going to be tricking me into saying words with lots of ‘r’s in them just so you can laugh at me, are you?”

“It’s a distinct possibility once I’ve had enough sleep to be able to think straight.”

“You must be exhausted, right enough. Would you like to get some rest now, and I’ll show you around after?” he asked.

Kate shook her head. “There’s no way I could sleep until I’ve looked around this place, Finlay—I’m way too curious and excited.”

“A
FTER YOU,”
F
INLAY SAID, OPENING THE DOOR AT THE
foot of the tower house.

The windows were so small and high that little light was let in, and at first Kate had no idea what sort of space she was walking in to. As her eyes adapted she discerned different shades of shadow, and gradually the shades took on shape and form. Rows of wooden pews flanked a central passage leading to a dais with a simple altar. The ceiling was braced with thick wooden beams, and the walls were lined with dark oak panelling.

“This is the chapel,” Finlay said in a reverential whisper.

Kate understood why Finlay’s tone had changed. She’d always thought it seemed more likely that man had created God rather than the other way around, but even so she experienced an almost religious sense of awe as she stood there. Grand churches and cathedrals distracted a congregation with the glories of their architecture and artistry; this plain, dimly-lit little place left a person with nothing to think about but God, and seemed far more holy as a
result. Pointing to a double door on the right, barely distinguishable from the panelling it was set in, Finlay said, “The banquet hall’s through there, if you want a look.”

Kate followed him through a slender, slanting shaft of sunlight, their footsteps echoing on the flagstones as they made their way along the rear of the chapel and up the narrow passage between the end of the pews and the panelled wall.

Finlay opened the double doors to the banquet hall and stood aside to let Kate enter. She hesitated before doing so, as enchanted by what lay in front of her as she had been when she opened the door in the outer wall and caught her first sight of Greystane. “Finlay,” she whispered, “it’s amazing!”