Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  "Wow,” I breathed. I was standing in a large hall, and the ceiling soared a good fifteen feet above my head. The flagstone floor was covered with a variety of throw rugs, and the walls were lined with portraits, coats of arms, swords, and guns. A layer of grime covered the entire place.

  "Who, exactly, is in charge of cleaning this place?” I asked delicately.

  Evan cleared his throat. “Well, nobody at present."

  "So I see,” I murmured.

  He followed my gaze to the large clumps of cobwebs on the walls. “Ranald was a bit of a miser. He never felt that a cleaning lady was worth the money spent on one. And Jamie was just indifferent. He was always outside mucking around in the fields or sailing the loch, so he had little interest in clean floors."

  "We're going to need a whole gaggle of cleaning ladies to work on this place,” I sniffed. I'm not really a big neat freak, but the smell of dust and mildew permeated the hall, and I coughed in spite of myself. “Are all the rooms this bad?"

  "No,” he grinned. “Some are much worse."

  I just stared at him, hoping it was a joke.

  "I keep mine tidy,” he admitted. “And I cleaned out the top floor for you, once I knew you were coming."

  "Thank you for that, Evan.” I dropped my backpack. “Why don't you show me where it is so I can unpack my substantial belongings?"

  He guided me up a wide staircase and down another hallway. The walls were dirty here as well, but at some point someone had attempted to cover the grime with large tapestries. The result was an interesting blend of stone wall, grubby hangings, and cobwebby furniture. Evan stopped in front of a yet another huge oak door.

  "The Murray has traditionally kept the rooms on the third floor for himself, or in your case, for herself.” He opened the door for me.

  "The Murray?"

  "That's you."

  "So I assumed. I don't suppose anyone will remember or care that my name is legally Brynne Marlette?"

  "They might remember, but they won't care. You're Jamie Murray's daughter, Ranald's great-niece, great-something grandchild of Colin's son Dugald. That means you're the Murray,” he said with an air of finality. “Go on up."

  I entered cautiously. The wooden stairs curved up to the top of the manor house, and I found myself in a large library. A desk similar to the one in Evan's office sat to one side. He noticed me looking at it, so I tried to hide my scowl of distaste.

  "It's the same,” he confirmed. “I made the mistake of admiring it once, out of politeness. Ranald had one sent to my office the next week. Hideous, isn't it?"

  I laughed, immensely relieved. “It's awful. I'm so glad you're not fond of it. I was worried about you there for a moment."

  Evan sat at the desk and began opening drawers. “Ranald never had a very good filing system, and Jamie wasn't much better. I think they just shoved things in here randomly, to tell you the truth. I tried to organize it a bit after Jamie died, but found myself getting frustrated.” There was a catch in his voice.

  "We'll do that later,” I said gently. I might be in a foreign country, but organizing was definitely something I could do. Hell, up until the great Brandi coup of last month, I was someone who got paid to organize things. “You and he were friends?"

  "Aye,” he said brusquely. “You'll find your bedroom through that door, there."

  I peered through another door, and discovered the large master suite. An enormous four-poster bed sat in the middle, as well as furniture which most likely would fetch a hefty price in an antique store. I whistled appreciatively. “Nice."

  Evan rose and followed me. “The master bath is off to the right, and there's a large closet as well. Jamie had those added a few years back, before Ranald died."

  I tossed my backpack on the bed, and wandered to the window. The view was breathtaking.

  "Loch Lomond?"

  "Aye,” he replied softly. “When the sun hits the water in the late afternoon, it's so bright you can barely look at it."

  I was suddenly very aware of Evan Muncaster's presence at my shoulder. He smelled faintly of cinnamon breath mints and Irish Spring, and his hand rested lightly on my back.

  I had an overwhelming urge to turn around and pounce on him.

  * * * *

  A pair of dark-haired boys squared off against one another under a tree. Nearly ten years old, they were the same size, identical in features. They wore simple linen shirts, and each was wrapped in a length of the Murray plaid.

  "You give me your dirk, Dugald,” one of them said menacingly. “I've lost mine, and Da will thrash me for it. Give me yours."

  The other shook his head warily. “Tisn't my fault you lost it, Lachlan. You shouldn't have been throwing it about near the loch. Da gave us those dirks, and I won't be turning mine over to you."

  His brother swung at him, rage glaring in his green eyes, but Dugald ducked just in time. “Give it to me, Dugald, or I'll take it from you and then cut you open with it."

  "No."

  Lachlan pounced, catching Dugald unaware, and threw him to the ground. Dugald boxed the side of his twin's head, and flipped him over. Lachlan's hands closed around Dugald's throat, and he began to squeeze.

  Everything began to go gray and spotty, and just when Dugald was sure Lachlan would kill him, the pressure ceased. Dugald looked up to find Lachlan pinned to a tree.

  "You stay off him, boy,” said Lachlan's captor. It was Will Spalding, four years older than the Murray boys, and at least a head taller. “You may be destined to be the Murray some day, but that doesn't mean I can't whip you if I need to, aye?"

  Will released his grip, and Lachlan began striding down the hill towards Kilgraeme. “I'll kill you some day, Will Spalding,” he called over his shoulder. “Don't you doubt that for a moment."

  Chapter Three

  Common sense prevailed, fortunately, before I did anything stupid or embarrassing. Evan Muncaster was smart, genuinely pleasant, and irresistibly cute. Then again, he was also my lawyer, or at least, Kilgraeme's, and I had known him all of six hours. I took a deep breath, and pushed the thought from my mind. “Um. So, are you going to show me the rest of the house?"

  He stepped back abruptly. “Of course. As I said, you'll need to know a wee bit about things before you start running the place."

  The moment was gone, and I felt myself relax a bit. When he stood behind me at the window, there was a very definite spark. I strongly suspected Evan had felt it too.

  "Running what? You mentioned that earlier. I'm good at running things."

  "Well, there's the bookkeeping. Ranald always did that himself, but Jamie rather let it slide. I usually helped him with tracking rents, that sort of thing, but I imagine you'll want to take that on. You'll have to learn how to order supplies for Mrs. Much, so they can be delivered each week. Also, the masters of Kilgraeme have traditionally held a council on the first Friday of each month. You don't have to, but I think it will be expected of you."

  "Explain, please?"

  "It's sort of an informal court."

  I turned to face him. None of this was what I had bargained for. “Wait a minute. I thought if I lived here for a year, I could get my money, or at least some of it. No one said anything about holding a court session. I'm not sure I can do that."

  He shrugged. “Sure you can. I'll help you if you need it."

  "This is completely archaic. You can't tell me Scotland doesn't have a judicial system. You're a lawyer."

  "Aye, there's a judicial system here. But the problem is that the courts are backlogged, and a lot of the things that happen on a private estate aren't really things that need to be tying up the legal system. This is about disputes between tenants. You're in charge, so it's up to you to mediate and help solve them,” Evan explained patiently. I felt like a small child.

  "I don't know these people,” I protested. “What if they don't like my decisions?” This was way different than settling some little inter-office spat between a couple of cranky secretaries.


  "Doesn't really matter, aye? They'll follow along. You're Lady Kilgraeme, although in your case that's more of a ceremonial title than anything else, what with you being an American by birth. But you're the Murray. Folks will listen."

  At that point, I completely gave up. “Right.” I glanced outside. It was, as Evan had predicted, raining.

  He showed me the rest of Kilgraeme then, and I made the appropriate noises, trying to sound impressed. If it weren't such a mess, it could have some potential. The one common area of the manor that was spotless was the thirty-foot long kitchen, thankfully. In its center was an enormous stone fireplace. Even though it was late summer, it was cool in here, and a fire burned brightly in the hearth.

  "Mm. What's that smell?"

  "Some concoction of Much's, I'll bet. Mrs. Much!” called Evan. There was no response. “I'll go find her."

  Bundles of fresh herbs hung from the rafters, and an assortment of pots dangled from wrought-iron chains over my head. There was even a pair of doors on one side of the fireplace, which I recognized from touring the old homes in Charleston.

  They were bread ovens. I felt the doors, which were nice and warm. Not seeing anyone else around, I decided to sneak a peek at the contents.

  "Who are you, and what in the bloody hell are you doin'?” barked a voice from behind me. I slammed the door shut and tried not to look guilty. A middle-aged woman approached me angrily, hands on her hips, resembling a stout, gray-haired battleship coming into port.

  "Sorry,” I apologized, looking around for Evan, who had vanished.

  "And bloody well you should be,” the woman huffed. She stomped to the ovens and checked to make sure I hadn't tainted her bread.

  "It smells really good,” I offered, trying to make peace.

  The woman wrinkled her nose. “You're the American, then, that's come to claim Kilgraeme?"

  "Yes. Brynne Marlette.” I extended my hand politely.

  She shook it begrudgingly. “Mary Much. This may be your house, but it's my kitchen, aye?"

  "Um, okay.” I was just here for my money. Besides, my culinary skills were limited to programming my microwave and speed-dialing the pizza place. “Are you the cook?"

  "Aye, lass, that I am. I prepare food for everyone here at the manor, and for some that can't make it for themselves.” She eyed me approvingly. “You look like you've a hearty appetite."

  How nice. I wondered if I was supposed to thank her.

  "We'll keep you good an’ fed here. You do look like your da, don't you, with those green eyes of the Murrays. A braw handsome laddie Jamie was, too.” She winked at me then, and I couldn't help but smile in response. “Now, I'll be giving you an order of supplies each Monday, and you'll need to call it in to the market in Arrochar so they can deliver on Thursdays, aye? Now that you're the Murray, that'll fall on you to take care of."

  I thought for a moment and decided Mrs. Much would probably be a worthy supporter. “Who does it now?"

  "I do. ‘Twas my job back when Master Ranald was alive, and I carried it on for Jamie as well,” Mary Much answered proudly.

  My mind raced, and a plan formed almost immediately. “Would you mind continuing to take care of the supplies? I'm sure you've got a system worked out by now, and I have no idea who I'm supposed to call or how to go about this,” I admitted. “I bet you could teach me a lot."

  The older woman's eyes lit up. “I suppose,” she said carefully, “I could do that for you. I'd show you the orders each week, of course, so you can see what ye're paying for, aye?"

  "I would appreciate that, Mrs. Much,” I replied. By the time Evan re-appeared, I felt rather pleased with myself. I had made an ally in Mary Much, simply by asking her to continue the same work she had always done. I've always been a big fan of delegating authority, so maybe this lady of the manor thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

  Mrs. Much ushered us out of the kitchen. “You two go on, now. Dinner's at six, and I've got work to do."

  "What are we having for supper?” I made the error of reaching to lift a pot lid, and Mrs. Much whacked my hand with a wooden spoon. “You're having what's put on the table. Now, get out o’ my kitchen."

  I obeyed. Thankfully, my bruised knuckles only ached for the rest of the day.

  I took a half-hour nap, buried in the depths of the feather mattress upstairs, and groggily awoke when Evan tapped on my door. “Is dinner a formal affair?” I asked. “I only have two changes of clothes, remember."

  "Very casual. Might be just us, or maybe a few others will come crawling out of the woodwork. I expect we'll have a crowd, so everyone can check you out, aye?"

  "A crowd? So, nuking a French bread pizza and eating it in bed is out of the question, then?” I asked, in mock horror.

  He thought for a moment. “Mack Piper eats here a lot since his wife died. I think he has a crush on Mary Much. Trish should be around somewhere. She's the American genealogist I told you about. Danny Beaton is the gardener, and can't cook a lick for himself, so I'm sure he'll be there whether you want him to or not. Cayden Spalding may grace us with his presence, but I think it rather unlikely,” he finished.

  "Who is Cayden Spalding?” The name had an interesting ring to it.

  Evan snorted. “He's a royal pain in my ass, is who he is. He's a local blacksmith, and worked a while for old Ranald, and then for Jamie. He lives in a croft on the other side of Beinn a'Choin, that's the mountain behind the house, and only comes out when he wants to aggravate me."

  "Is there really much work for a blacksmith these days?” I wondered.

  "Sure, if you can find it, and he apparently manages to do so. There's a tradition at Kilgraeme, the Spaldings protect the Murray. But there was no guarding Ranald against being a hundred years old, was there?” he mused. “There've always been Spaldings here, though. He's sort of the unofficial mascot of Kilgraeme. One of those peasant families you can't get rid of.” I couldn't help laughing at him.

  "Evan Muncaster, I think you're a bit of a snob,” I observed, not unkindly. “Not everyone can go to law school."

  "And thank heaven for it,” he grumbled, checking his watch. “Better get to the dining hall. Much won't save leftovers, so if you miss dinner, you have to fend for yourself."

  "She throws the food away?"

  "No, no,” he shook his head. “She packs it up and takes it to the tenant families. A few of them are fairly poor, so Much makes sure that each of them gets a good solid meal at least once a week."

  I thought that was a very nice thing, and so out of character for the gruff, round little woman who had whacked my hands in the kitchen. My opinion of Mary Much rose considerably.

  In the dining hall, someone had tastefully decorated the oaken table, which was easily the length of a school bus. It seemed that the room wasn't used often, and I wondered if my arrival had something to do with the arrays of fresh flowers all over the place. A simple green cloth draped the table, and a dozen or so places were set with hastily polished silverware. I moved down to find a seat.

  "Brynne? You sit here,” indicated Evan. He pointed at the head of the table.

  "There's no one else here, though."

  "They're waiting for you to sit before they come in.” He pulled out the ornate armchair for me.

  "This is weird,” I whispered, looking around. No one was in sight. It was all rather confusing.

  "I know,” he replied. “Trust me, it'll get easier."

  I sat obediently, and Evan made himself comfortable in the chair to my left. Mrs. Much appeared out of nowhere, and began to fill glasses with wine.

  "Lady Kilgraeme,” she said politely, “dinner will be out in a moment."

  Lady Kilgraeme? I stifled a giggle. “Please, you don't have to call me that.” After all, this was a woman who had hit me with a spoon just hours ago, so I figured we were on a first name basis. And technically, I wasn't a “Lady” of anything at all. My protest fell on deaf ears, because Mrs. Much looked scandalized and ignored me co
mpletely. Before I could sample my wine, the door burst open and a petite, curvy woman with fluffy blonde hair burst in.

  "Am I late?” she exclaimed. “No, of course I'm not. Dinner's never on time here, is it? You're Brynne!"

  "You must be Trish,” I guessed. Her accent was American Midwest. “The local genealogist, right?"

  The blonde pulled out a chair next to Evan Muncaster and sat. “Right. Trish MacGregor. Nice to finally meet you, after all this time.” She turned to the attorney and purred, “I've missed you, Muncaster."

  Evan looked noticeably uncomfortable, and I wondered if there was a reason for Trish acting so proprietary towards him. She was leaning close enough to him that if he had peeked downwards, he would have had an astounding view of her ample cleavage, which was threatening to leap right out of her silk blouse. “Hello, Trish. How's the research going?"

  She sighed dramatically and perched on her chair. “Nowhere, as usual.” She looked at me and winked. “We're cousins, sort of, you know?"

  I was a little taken aback. “Really? I didn't think I had any relatives, actually."

  "Well,” Trish began, “Dugald Murray's mother was Maggie MacGregor, of course, and she was a cousin of Robert Roy MacGregor, whose nephew was my great-something ancestor."

  "And Dugald was one of the original Murrays of Kilgraeme?"

  Trish was a blonde ball of energy, incapable of sitting still. “Mm-hm. Oh, there's a portrait of him out in the hall underneath some cobwebs. You should see him. Sexy as all get-out, even if he was your great-something grandfather. Right, Much?"

  The cook, who was placing large baskets of bread on the table, rolled her eyes and didn't answer.

  "Much agrees with me,” interpreted Trish. “Dugald and his brother Lachlan were the sons of a Colin Murray; they lived here in the 1700's. They were both delicious-looking, if those portraits are anywhere near accurate. Their sister Catharine married a Spalding."

  "Didn't you say something about one of the Spaldings earlier, Evan?” I asked.

  "Cayden,” he replied abruptly.