Chisholm

by Jo Jones

  Darach joined them, settling on the other side of Emily. Tess noticed how he automatically rested his hand on Em’s shoulder, like he’d been doing it her whole life.

  “Gently,” Tess warned, trying to shake the absurd sensation she was stuck outside their world, looking in. “The book looks very fragile.”

  If they’d formed a bond without her, whose fault was that? Hadn’t she held herself back, despite her feelings for Darach? Perhaps she’d been too quick to judge his motives last night. He’d said from the beginning; his stay was only temporary. A few days at best. But he’d never actually refused to stay. Had he? Could it really be that simple? That he just needed to be asked?

  “Here, Aunt Tess, you read it. The writing’s too hard for me.” When Emily handed her the open diary the fragile pages fluttered, giving her a peak at neat lines of faded writing. She thought she even glimpsed a hand-drawn illustration.

  Tess took the book gently, reverently, feeling the centuries fall away. If she allowed her imagination some freedom, she might sense the author of this treasure, anxiously waiting for his, or her, story to be read. She sat straighter and cleared her throat, reminding herself she wasn’t given to such foolishness.

  She turned to the opening page and skimmed a few lines. “It says, this diary belonged to Isla Donaldson Lochridge.” The words, carefully written in a distinctly feminine hand, were dim and difficult to make out. Finally, Tess smiled and looked over at Emily. “She begins the diary on her wedding day, the second of March, 1712.”

  Emily grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Read it. All of it.”

  Tessa wanted nothing more than to sink into her ancestor’s writings, but the day was slipping away, and she had a long list of tasks to complete. “I can’t wait to hear what our lots of greats grandmother has to say,” she teased, mimicking Emily’s usage. “But we’ve so much to accomplish today. We’ve got to go into town, first thing. I need to line up a finish contractor, plumber, and electrician, for bids, so we can make a final decision on this house. And, in the interim, we need groceries and something to cook on.” She touched a finger to Emily’s chin. “You can’t live forever on scones. I’ll tell you what, if you help me work through our to-do list, after dinner tonight we’ll settle in and read until our eyes won’t stay open any longer. Maybe we’ll learn something about the house, along with our grandmother’s life, in here. Is that a plan?”

  “Okay, fine.” Em’s disappointment showed on her face. “But first, I want to see how far it goes. When was the last time she wrote something? Maybe this isn’t her only diary and there’s more in the trunk?”

  Tess looked in the back for a date. The last dozen or so pages were blank. Carefully turning the fragile paper, she found the last entry. “10 July, 1746,” she read.

  Darach made an indistinct sound, rose and paced to the window.

  Tessa watched him for a moment then turned back to the diary, struck by the marked change in the writing. This seemed hastily written. Gone were the neat lines and carefully formed letters. Curious, she read, aloud.

  “Word has come that Bloody Butcher Cumberland’s troops are all but upon us. If we are to escape, we must do so at once. Despite the danger, knowing the atrocities they’ve inflicted on Jacobite sympathizers, we’ve held on, hoping our domestic, our beloved Keita Guthrie, whose husband William has gone to join the Jacobites at Drumossie Moor, would recover enough to travel with us, or return to her family until William returns. Tragically, she, with the delivery of her unborn child nearly upon her, tripped and tumbled down the stairs. This morning, the third day hence, she passed, her bairn with her. We laid them to rest in the garden, where Keita enjoyed walking among the flowers. We’ve had no word from William.

  “Our household is now reduced to James and myself. Our son Murdow, along with his wife and son have, thankfully, already sailed for the colonies. We pray for the opportunity to join them. The others who served our family, have long since departed to their various destinations, hoping to escape what we know is coming.

  “If we’ve any chance for our own success, we must take only what we can carry to sustain us, until we can reach the coast and hopefully secure passage to the colonies, as well.

  “I leave this final record, our home and belongings, along with our hearts and a prayer that someday we’ll return along with our family, to Scotland.”

  Tears gathered on Tess’ lashes, spilling over as she closed the book and fixed the clasp, stunned by how deeply the entry had moved her, and how much more determined she felt to make a go of the B&B.

  She wanted—needed—to fulfill Isla’s wish and finally bring her family home, to stay.

  “But…did they make it?” Both Emily’s voice and chin quivered. There was so much desperation in her expression, Tess wanted to lie to her and say yes, but in truth, she didn’t know.

  “I honestly don’t know, sweetie. But we can take the laptop to town with us, try to locate a Wifi connection, and see what we can find. We may have to trace them back through the census records of their descendants, or something. I’m not at all familiar with that kind of stuff, but we’ll get whatever help we need. Certainly not all today, but we’ll work toward finding some answers.”

  Emily nodded, struggling, Tess could see, with the patience such a plan would require. While Tess tucked the diary safely away, Em went to the window and slipped her hand inside Darach’s, tilting her face up to see his. “Want to come with us?”

  Darach laid his hand atop her head. “ ’Tis kind of ye tae ask, lass, but ’tis best I stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…I’ve still tae remove the board from the last kitchen window. And, if ye’ve chosen a room for yerself, I’ll see tae it, as well.”

  Emily beamed up at him. “Aunt Tess’, too?”

  “Aye, Button. If she wishes.”

  Thirty minutes later, they’d cleaned up, showed Darach which potential bedrooms they’d chosen and gathered what they needed for town. Tessa checked again to be sure her house notes and measurements were securely tucked into her purse, along with a sizeable list of things they’d need if they were going to stay. She should add coal to the list, since what they had wouldn’t last. Extra water, and a few linens wouldn’t hurt, either.

  She considered an air mattress for Darach, glancing at him as he banked the coals in the fireplace. Was that so he could work outside and not waste fuel, or because he was truly leaving? He’d been unusually nervous and edgy ever since she’d read the entry in the diary. Or was it because of last night? Or, simply because he was leaving?

  If she intended to talk to him, ask him to stay, it had to be now. Her mouth went dry and her stomach did a flip, kicking off a swarm of butterflies. What if he didn’t want her? Want them?

  She’d never done anything half this bold, but if she wanted him—and she did—she’d have to swallow her pride. She turned to Emily. “Would you take these two bottles of water and my laptop to the car? I’ll be right there. I just need to talk to Darach a minute, about uncovering some other windows.”

  “Okay.” Emily tucked the water bottles under her arm and grabbed Tessa’s computer bag. “Hurry, though. If you’ll just be a second, I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Only a second.” She waited until she heard the outside door click shut, then walked boldly to Darach’s side, hoping he didn’t see the terror beneath her facade. “Darach, I…” She put her hand on his arm to turn him toward her. The blue of his eyes seemed darker. Troubled. She tried to remember when she’d last seen the magnetic smile that had captivated her the first time she’d seen him. It couldn’t have been that long, but she missed it. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Aye.” He shifted slowly, almost as if he were bracing for something.

  “Darach, I…” She closed her eyes, summoning the courage to lay her heart at his feet. “I wanted to know if you’d like to stay?” The words were rushed, like lines delivered too fast, in a play.

  She
waited while he stared at her. Did he expect her to say more, or was the decision that difficult?

  “I…I want you to stay.” She looked down, fussed with a fingernail. “I just thought you should know. That goes for Emily too, of course.”

  His silence was killing her. But she’d already come this far, so she might as well step clear off the edge. “Will you?”

  His breath was deep, heavy, while hers caught in her chest. “Nae, Tessa. I cannae.” He hadn’t even tried to touch her. He just stood there, mere inches away, his hands at his sides.

  She looked up, fighting tears, fighting humiliation, fighting for a love she’d never thought to find. “Why not?”

  He stepped back, groaned and shoved a hand through his hair. “I dinnae ken what tae say tae ye, lass. If I tell ye the truth, ye’ll no’ believe me, and I dinnae want tae lie tae ye.” She watched his face contort in pain. “Just let me leave wi’out sayin’ anything. Please, Tessa. ’Tis for the best.”

  “Try me,” she said, desperate to understand. “If you swear you’re telling me the truth, I’ll believe you.”

  He searched her face, desperately, like he was grasping for a lifeline. She placed her hand on his chest, spread her fingers, felt the swift pulse of his heartbeat. “I’ll believe you.”

  “I’m no’ sure ye’re ready tae, lass. I ken the truth will no’ sit well with ye.”

  Even if he had someone else, she had to know. She tried to brace herself for the worst. “Please, Darach. I need to know.”

  His deep breath was more of a shudder. He did touch her then, placed his hands at her elbows and trailed them lightly to her shoulders, brushed a hand up her neck to sink his fingers into her hair and trace his thumb along her jawline. All the while, he kept his gaze locked with hers.

  Trembling with uncertainty and unbearable anticipation, she waited to learn what meant more to him than what they’d found, together

  “I cannae stay because…I’m a ghost.”

  She hadn’t heard him right. She couldn’t have.

  “I was granted but two days of mortality,” he continued, “and I thank the saints I got tae spend ’em wi’ ye. But sometime today, the witch, Soncerae, will come for me and I must go wi’ her. Ye must ken that I’d give the rest of eternity tae stay wi’ ye, and wee Emily, if ’twere possible.”

  She tried to move. At least she thought she did, but her brain and her muscles weren’t connecting. Everything around her went blank, like a white void. She blinked—in slow motion, she was sure. Then, like molten lava from deep within the earth, she felt the anger rise, burn, consume her. And erupt.

  “A ghost,” she spat, using that red-hot anger to yank out of his grasp. “With a witch, of course, for good measure.” She snorted. “Really? That’s the best you could do? No aliens? Maybe some trolls from the forest?” She whirled away, grabbed her purse and stormed toward the door, her pulse pounding at her temples. Grasping the knob, she turned back.

  “You picked that excuse knowing how much I detest such absurdity. You could have just said, ‘I don’t want to stay’. Instead, you went out of your way to insult me.” She tried to breathe past her shame, through her nausea. “I want you gone by the time we get back.”

  “But…Emily?” he choked. “What will ye tell her? Why I didnae say goodbye?”

  “That you’re a fraud and everything you’ve said and done here, has been a lie.”

  He was really good at this, she admitted. She could almost swear the expression on his face was one of pure torment.

  “I love ye, Tessa,” he said brokenly. “I hope someday, ye’ll understand.”

  “See? There you go. You just made my point.”

  She walked out of the library, slammed the door behind her, to make her point, and almost made it to the front door before she staggered into a dark room, clamped both hands over her mouth and sank to her knees. Her sobs were wretched and gutting.

  Loving was too hard, the cost, too high.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darach didnae ken how long he stood at the window after Tessa and Emily drove away. The empty cavernous house seemed to mock the hollowness inside him. He and this old place were two of a kind. Both, remnants of the past. At least Tessa wanted to breathe new life into the boards and crevices of this old dwelling. She had no such wish, for him.

  I want you gone by the time we get back.

  Her words played over and over in his mind, but he could see no way to reverse them. How could he fight back, reach for what he wanted, when his mortal realm of existence was about to expire? Though he bristled against it, he sighed in resignation and forced his thoughts toward the one chore remaining before he could fulfill her wish.

  Resolutely, he walked toward the stairs. He couldnae go while the ghost remained. If Darach was to leave, so must the tormented visage, who, like he and the house, belonged to the past. One way or another, willing or no’, Jack would leave, before him, or wi’ him, but he would go.

  At the base of the staircase, Darach paused. Why bother to search the blackguard out when he could coax the apparition to him? Especially with this troublesome weightiness hanging over him. It reminded him of the despair he’d fallen into during all those centuries on the moor, but exaggerated somehow, by the pulse and flow of breath and life.

  He sucked in a huge breath, preparing to yell loud enough to be heard in every nook and cranny of the old house, fueled it with all the pent-up vexation inside him and bellowed. “Are ye goin’ tae hide forever in the shadows, ye bloodless coward, or are ye man enough tae face me? Right here. Right now!”

  An instant rush of air lifted the ends of Darach’s hair as a funnel of yellow light spun in front of him, slowly morphing into Jack’s belligerent form. The specter crossed his arms over his massive chest and reared his head back. “Ye dare tae challenge me, mortal? ’Twill be yer final time.”

  Darach snorted. “My mortality is as much an illusion as yer reason for clinging tae this house for three bloody centuries. ’Twould appear we’ve both been hangin’ on tae notions we’ve drummed up in our heads, that simply arenae true, and ne’er will be.”

  “Och!” The ghost challenged. “And just what would that be?”

  “Look, Jac—” Darach stopped and shot him a bold look. “Yer true name, I suspect, is William Guthrie, is it no’?”

  Stunned, the ghost took a step back, exchanging bluster for wariness. “How did ye ken that?”

  “I recall some Guthries fighting with the The Macphersons, at Culloden. And since ye’re wearing their colors, I assume ye’re one o’ ’em?” Before the ghost recovered from his shock, Darach continued. “I fought wi’ Glengarry that day, left o’ the front line.”

  “Ye lie,” Guthrie snarled. “That cannae be true. Ye cannae have been there and still be standin’ afore me, alive and breathin’ all these centuries, since. No’ unless ye’re a sorcerer!”

  “I speak true, William. I was there. Died there.” Darach yanked the top of his longshirt open far enough to reveal where the musket ball had entered his chest. “But, I learned yer name from the book wee Emily found in the garret, the one ye told me tae take with us. ’Twas the diary of Isla Lochridge.”

  “Mistress Lochridge?” Guthrie whispered, eyes wide.

  “Aye. She made mention of yer wife, Keita, and yer unborn babe. And ye, off tae join the Jacobites.”

  Guthrie’s face was a mask of shifting emotions. “Tis true? She wrote of Keita?”

  Darach nodded toward the library. “Ye can read the words yerself. The book is in there.”

  “I wanted tae come back,” Guthrie pressed. “I did come back. After I’d died, after I’d refused tae cross over. But they were gone, all o’ ’em. ’Twas naught left but the freshly carved marker in the garden.” He hung his head. “If only I’d been able tae return tae her. Or, no’ gone a’tall.”

  “ ’Tis what I’ve come tae tell ye, Guthrie. ’Twould no’ have made a difference if ye’d stayed, or even if ye’d come back alive.
Yer wife tripped and fell down the stairs. ’Twas an accident that could just as easily have happened, with ye right here tae home. ’Tis no one tae blame. No’ her. No’ ye.”

  “A fall? I…I could’ve been with her. Comforted her. Told her how I loved her. Said…goodbye.”

  “Nae, laddie. She wouldnae have heard ye.”

  Darach watched Guthrie pace, wring his hands as he processed this new information. Darach knew what ’twas like to think one way for centuries, only to find out ye’d been wrong the entire time. ’Twas no’ an easy transition to make.

  He took a step forward, unsure what triggered his sudden need to help the ghost find his rightful place in eternity. Mayhap because he kenned Guthrie had suffered enough, paid whatever dues he might have owed for any transgressions he’d made. The poor devil, contrary as he was, had waited long enough.

  In that moment, like a bolt from the heavens, Darach realized his goal was no longer about freeing the house of the ghost, but freeing Guthrie from his self-imposed prison. But how to convince him?

  “ ’Tis time ye put this house and its sad events behind ye. Stop hiding from yer perceived mistakes. Cross-over, man! Find yer wife and child. Surely, they wait for ye.”

  Guthrie turned tormented eyes on Darach. “Where?” He lifted his huge arms in a gesture of pointlessness. “Even if I could, where in all of eternity, would I find her? I thought… I thought if I stayed here, if I waited...”

  “William, if ’twas any way she could have come, why would she make ye wait these long centuries?”

  Darach’s last words, though softly spoken, seemed to finally have an impact. He could almost see Guthrie’s stunned acceptance. His entire countenance sagged, overcome. “I’ve…I’ve truly wasted…all this time?”

  “It doesnae matter now,” Darach pressed his advantage. “ ’Tis only important tae let go of the past, and all the misconceptions in it. ’Tis time tae live in hope. No’ regret. Ye did yer best by your country. Be proud o’ that and go now. Ye’ve earned the right tae spend eternity with yer wife and child.”