Cauldstane

by Gillard, Linda

‘I am in no way advising you what to do. That’s not within my remit. My job would be to help you tell your story in whatever way you wish to tell it. Any moral or artistic decisions must ultimately be yours.’

  ‘Of course. It will be my name on the dust jacket.’

  ‘Indeed. But Fergus has already mentioned you’d like your book to sell a lot of copies.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s the whole point! Only reason I’m doing it, in fact. You think I want to spend weeks cooped up indoors poring over old scrapbooks, talking about the adventures I used to have? The man I used to be?’ His laugh was a humourless bark. ‘I do not! Delightful though I’m sure your company would be, Jenny,’ he added graciously.

  ‘Well, if you want us to produce a bestseller, I suggest you’re absolutely frank with me and allow me to give the reader the inside story.’

  ‘Because scandal sells,’ he said wearily.

  ‘It certainly does. But I think there’s a way to tell your story without resorting to vulgar sensationalism.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We need to present the man. The whole man, in all his endearing fallibility. I’m not suggesting we expose feet of clay, simply that we explain exactly why you did what you did. After all, to understand is to forgive.’

  Sholto smiled. ‘That’s what Liz used to say. My first wife. You know, she’s been dead for more than thirty years and I still miss her.’ He shook his head. ‘I was a bastard to her. A complete bastard.’

  I said nothing but my silence must have been eloquent. He shot me a defensive look, then went on quickly. ‘I was going to finish with Meredith. It was only ever meant to be a fling. Nothing serious. Liz understood that, I think. But then she went and died. And I never had the chance to explain.’

  ‘You do now, Mr MacNab. You can explain everything and readers will lap it up.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about, Jenny… Your vision of my book isn’t quite what I had in mind, but I have to admit, I can see the sense in what you say. I mean, one has to compete with a lot of other memoirs these days. I’d been wondering what my angle – is that what you call it?’ I nodded. ‘I wondered what angle we could exploit.’

  ‘Sholto MacNab: soldier, sportsman, husband, father, laird and lover. The complete man.’

  ‘Warts and all.’

  ‘If you can bear it. And if you think your family can bear it.’

  ‘You know, there will be rather a lot of warts.’

  ‘The more the merrier. Everyone loves a bad boy.’

  He beamed. ‘I think you’ve just talked yourself into the job I was convinced I wouldn’t offer you. That is, if you still want it?’

  ‘I do. Very much.’

  ‘On the terms we agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When can you start?’

  ‘As soon as you like. I’ll have to go back to London to fetch my stuff, but I can come back in a few days’ time, or whenever you think you might be ready to start.’

  ‘Come back as soon as you can. I shall be raring to go. I thought preparing this book would be rather a chore. A necessary evil. But now I think… Well, I think it could be rather fun, don’t you?’ His blue eyes were bright and full of mischief.

  ‘I certainly do. And I’m hugely excited at the prospect of working with you.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual, I do assure you.’

  I stood and Sholto hauled himself to his feet, limping round the desk to stand beside me. As he vacated his chair, I noted with a thrill that the carved oak bore the date 1663.

  ‘Welcome to Cauldstane, Jenny. I hope you’ll feel at home with us.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr MacNab.’

  ‘Call me Sholto. Ridiculous name, isn’t it? My father was called Ninian. I suspect he named his children as an act of revenge.’

  ‘Your brother was Torquil, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You’ve done your homework, I see. You can imagine what they made of Torquil and Sholto MacNab at Eton. Actually, you probably can’t, a nice well-brought up girl like you.’

  ‘Torquil inherited first, didn’t he? He was your older brother?’

  ‘Yes. Cauldstane should have been his. And so should all the problems that came with it. He was trained up for it, you see. I wasn’t. I was the madcap younger son who was going to have to make his own way in the world. And I was the one everyone thought likely to die young. The Cauldstane mantle was never meant to fall on my narrow shoulders. But Torquil was what they used to call a “confirmed bachelor”. He was also a chain smoker and a heavy drinker.’

  ‘Was it cancer?’

  ‘Lung, then liver. It was a slow business… I miss him too, you know. He was a splendid fellow. Bizarre sense of humour though. You saw the albatross in the hall?’

  For a moment I was thrown by his question, then I remembered. ‘Oh – the stuffed bird?’

  Sholto chuckled. ‘Torquil sent me that when he realised he was dying and I’d have to take on Cauldstane. Oh, we had a lot of laughs… And some of his boyfriends were quite charming. Not that I ever indulged, of course. Always been one for the ladies myself – as you’ll know if you’re familiar with my press cuttings.’

  ‘It’s certainly going to be a colourful story, Mr MacNab. And it has all the ingredients of a bestseller.’

  ‘You think so? That’s what Cauldstane needs, Jenny. Needs badly.’ He smiled and took my hand again and this time I allowed myself to look down. And there it was. The MacNab thumb.

  I decided it was a good omen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I emerged from the library cock-a-hoop. It wasn’t just that I’d managed to secure the commission against the odds. I was already smitten with Cauldstane and the MacNabs – all of them, even the dead ones. I estimated this job would take me two or three months, depending on Sholto’s degree of co-operation. He’d offered me bed and board at the castle and I knew he couldn’t afford to pay hotel expenses, so I was perfectly happy to stay as a guest and save myself a lot of driving. If I got to know the family it couldn’t fail to add depth to what promised to be a fascinating and, at times, emotional story.

  I went back to my room, hurled myself on to the bed and wallowed in my sense of triumph. For all of three minutes. Then the professional writer dragged me off the bed and propelled me over to my laptop. I needed to make notes. Sholto had already been quite frank – about his love life, Torquil’s and Liz, the long-suffering first wife. And what about Alec? It sounded as if more than ordinary grief lay behind the fragility Sholto had referred to.

  I switched on my laptop and gazed contentedly out the window at the view. This was to be mine for weeks. My room. My view. My family, almost. I could have hugged myself.

  The sun was lower now. The castle threw an immense shadow over the river so the water looked much darker. I looked up at the stone bridge and saw a figure standing in the middle, staring down into the river as it foamed over the rocks. His head was bowed and at this distance, I couldn’t be sure who it was.

  He had something in his hand, something red. He held it up to his face, then raised his arm and tossed it into the river, throwing it a long way upstream. He placed his hands on the bridge and watched as the object returned to him. As it tumbled over the rocks towards him, he leaned over and watched it disappear under the bridge. Long after it must have vanished from sight, he still stood staring down into the water. Eventually he turned and began to walk away from the river, slowly, head down, his shoulders slightly hunched.

  I’d known as soon as he’d raised an arm to throw that it was Alec, but it wasn’t until I turned away from the window and saw the jug of roses on my writing desk that I realised what he’d thrown into the river.

  Puzzled by the gesture, I sat down at my laptop, my attention scattered. I opened a new document, called it The MacNabs and tapped out some notes, recording my thoughts randomly.

  History of MacNab clan – le
gends/ghosts etc?

  “Let fear be far from all.” Origin?

  Who shot the stag in the hall?

  Who painted the portrait of Meredith? When?

  Sholto’s affairs – Liz knew. Did M?

  M’s singing career? Rôles? Photos? Old programmes?

  Paintings in attic?

  How long has Mrs G been here?

  Eton & Gordonstoun. Was Sholto happy at school? Were Alec & Fergus? Bullying?

  What does Fergus do?

  Alec – mental health history.

  Why did Coral MacN kill herself?

  Visit Alec’s armoury.

  Condition of Cauldstane – building & estate.

  How does Alec feel about inheriting?

  How do the others feel about Alec as the next laird?

  Debts. How bad? Financial plans for future of Cauldstane?

  Is Sholto under pressure to sell up and leave Cauldstane to its ghosts?

  There was a knock at the door and Mrs Guthrie appeared with a tea tray. ‘You’ll be wanting your tea, Miss Ryan. After your ordeal,’ she added, rolling her eyes.

  I swivelled round in my chair. ‘Please call me Jenny. You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me over the next few weeks.’

  Her eyes widened as she set down the tray. ‘Mr MacNab’s given you the job, then?’

  ‘Yes. He seemed quite happy about it too. Excited, in fact.’

  ‘Well, that’s grand! I’m glad it’s all settled. We’ll make sure you feel right at home here.’

  ‘I do already. Everyone’s been very kind.’ Eyeing the plate of shortbread, I added, ‘But I can see I’m going to put on pounds. How’s a girl supposed to resist?’

  ‘Och, you’ll work it off walking round the estate and running up and down our stairs. Living in a castle keeps you fit. That’s what Mr MacNab always says. A childhood spent at Cauldstane was the best all-round, all-weather physical training he could have had, he says, and Eton was the best preparation for Arctic conditions and short rations. Though I think he’s a wee bit inclined to exaggerate, for the sake of a good story. You’ll perhaps need to bear that in mind.’

  ‘I will. I’m greatly looking forward to hearing all his traveller’s tales.’

  ‘Oh aye, there are some good ones. And most of them are true! Now, can I get you anything else?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’m just making some notes about our meeting,’ I said, indicating the laptop.

  ‘Well, when you’ve had your tea, I’ll show you the Music Room.

  ‘Oh, that’s OK, you don’t need to give me the tour. I’m sure I’ll find my way around.’

  ‘The Music Room is where you’re to work, Miss Jenny, if that suits you. It’s never used now and Mr MacNab thought it would serve as a study for whoever took on the job of writing his book. I think you’ll be comfortable in there. There’s a desk and a fireplace and of course there’s the harpsichord if you’re able to play.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at all musical. Who’s the musician in the family?’

  ‘It was Mrs MacNab’s instrument. The second Mrs MacNab. Mr MacNab bought it for her as a wedding present.’

  ‘How lovely! Does anyone play it now?’

  ‘No one, not since Mrs MacNab passed away. She was the only one who could get a tune out of it. The children were never allowed to touch it. Mr Alec learned the fiddle when he was a boy, but no one’s ever played the harpsichord. Mr Fergus has often suggested it should be sold. It’s an antique and worth a great deal, I understand, but Mr MacNab won’t part with it. It’s a beautiful instrument. Mrs MacNab played it every day when she was in residence.’

  ‘She was very musical, obviously.’

  ‘Aye, she was a famous singer before she married. Meredith Fitzgerald, she was then. She used to sing in opera mostly. Mrs MacNab was a very dramatic personality.’ There was something about Mrs Guthrie’s tone that suggested admiration, even envy of her mistress’ temperament. ‘I never saw her perform on the stage, but she used to organise concerts now and again at Cauldstane. For Christmas, or as charity fund-raisers. Folk used to travel for miles to hear her and her friends sing. Those were very merry occasions.’ Mrs Guthrie’s sad smile belied her words. ‘The castle was full of guests. There were fires and lights everywhere, music and laughter. Cauldstane was full of life then. And Mr and Mrs MacNab were such a handsome couple.’

  ‘It must have made a lot of extra work for you. Did you have help?’

  Mrs Guthrie shrugged sturdy shoulders. ‘Just a couple of lassies from the village. And Miss Coral, of course, Mr Alec’s wife. Fiancée as she was then. She was always keen to help out. So we managed.’

  ‘Coral MacNab is dead, isn’t she? When did she pass away?’

  It was obviously a question I shouldn’t have asked. Tears formed in Mrs Guthrie’s eyes and her lower lip started to tremble. ‘Seven years ago. I can’t believe it’s seven already,’ she chided herself. She stood with one hand braced on her aproned hip, the other clamped over mouth, staring at the floor.

  I rose from my chair. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  She took her hand away from her mouth and flapped it at me in a futile, helpless gesture. ‘No, if you’re to write their story, you’ll need to know all the sadness this poor family’s known. And I’d far rather you asked me than Mr Alec. It’s just that – today of all days…’

  I remembered Alec by the river and my heart rose up into my mouth. ‘It isn’t… the anniversary of Coral’s death, is it?’

  ‘Aye, it is.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘She drowned.’

  My voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘Did she drown… here? At Cauldstane?’

  Mrs Guthrie nodded, unable to speak, then fled from the room as fast as her trainers could carry her.

  I walked over to the window, but I couldn’t bring myself to look down at the fast-flowing river. Instead, I stared at the jug of roses on my desk and counted them. Then I counted them again. I kept counting until I felt calm again, then I drew the heavy curtains, lay down on my bed and fell asleep.

  ~

  I woke an hour later, feeling refreshed, but it took me a moment to realise where I was. When I remembered, I felt ridiculously happy. My mind was buzzing with more questions I wanted to ask about the MacNabs, so I got off the bed, opened the curtains and sat down at the writing table. I opened up my laptop and gazed out the window, suppressing a desire to wave at passing crows. My happiness was slightly diminished when I glanced up at the mirror above me and saw the river tearing past, in the wrong direction.

  Poor Coral.

  Poor Alec.

  The thing was, not to get involved. That’s where I’d gone wrong in the past. I’d got too involved with the stories I was telling. You have to maintain a distance, a certain professional objectivity, otherwise you’d go mad trying to get into someone else’s mind, trying to think like them, live their life. This was just a job. It wasn’t my life, or anyone’s life. It was just a book.

  I clicked on the document in which I’d made my earlier notes. When it opened, the screen was blank. Puzzled, I clicked back to check I’d opened the right one. I had. I clicked back to the empty screen. Surely I’d saved what I’d written? After all these years, I saved automatically. Perplexed by what looked like uncharacteristic inefficiency, I scrolled down, hoping to see my notes eventually.

  I found only one line. Everything else had gone. It wasn’t even a complete line. Just five words.

  leave Cauldstane to its ghosts

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I left Cauldstane before breakfast the next morning. Mrs Guthrie was struggling visibly with the affront of someone embarking on a long train journey on an empty stomach, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. As she said goodbye, she handed me a small package wrapped in tin foil. When I opened it on the train a few hours later, I discovered it was two pieces of sticky gingerbread. Interleaved with the foil was a paper napkin on which she’
d written Haste ye back. As I sped south towards the border, I wolfed down both pieces with a cup of coffee.

  No one else had been up when I left and the silence had been eerie. The night before, Fergus had offered to take me back to the station, but as it was Saturday I thought he might appreciate a lie-in. I said I was happy to travel back to Inverness by taxi and he’d looked relieved. So it was just Mrs Guthrie who waved me off from the castle’s back door.

  I’d heard about autumn in the Highlands. That morning the sky was a cloudless Mediterranean blue and the bright northern light seemed to shift everything into sharp focus. A big bird of prey hovered above the castle, apparently defying all physical laws by maintaining complete stillness in the air. Then with a casual flick of its forked tail, it would change its position, but hover still, watching and waiting. I watched too, hypnotized by the bird’s apparent immobility.

  It was only September, but there was a freshness to the air, almost a chill. When I looked up at the trees beyond the courtyard walls, I could see some leaves had already turned. Their warm, vivid colours stood out against the fresh green, like blemishes. The short Highland summer was over.

  ~

  As I sat on the train I had leisure to examine the subject that had preoccupied my thoughts since yesterday afternoon, all through a rather stilted dinner and for some of a restless night. (Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters had failed to do the trick.)

  Who had wiped my notes? And why?

  My bedroom door had not been locked. Fergus, Alec and Mrs Guthrie all knew which room I was in. Probably Sholto and Zelda did too. I didn’t think I’d shut my laptop down completely. An inquisitive person could have lifted the lid and the laptop would have woken up. They’d have been able to see what I’d written.

  And what exactly had I written? Was there anything that would upset or offend a family member, to the extent that they’d delete my notes? I simply couldn’t remember. I recalled typing a lot of questions and topics to think about later. The only contentious thing I remembered writing was a question about Alec succeeding Sholto, but I’d expressed no opinion myself. There had also been a question about Coral MacNab’s suicide. Perhaps someone thought I shouldn’t be prying into private grief? Alec was the most likely candidate. It was after all the anniversary of his wife’s death and hadn’t Sholto hinted at his son’s instability?