Nodding absently, Tilly shook Cathy’s hand. She watched the woman hop into a silver Mercedes convertible. She forced a smile and waved with more enthusiasm than she felt when Cathy drove away. It greatly pained Tilly that the woman was the best real estate agent in town. It likely would have been more pleasant to work with Lucifer himself than with that rich bitch.
“Come on,” Beth called from the car. “Let’s get the hell out of here and start having fun!”
Casting one last look at the farmhouse, Tilly made her way to the car. Would she ever be able to have fun again?
Two
Hours later, Tilly found herself on a plane bound for Scotland. For nearly the entire flight, Beth lost herself in the latest book from her favorite author. It was a series, and she had been waiting for three years – three long years, she moaned – for the next installment.
Beth gave her a copy of the author’s first novel and encouraged her to read too. The story was set in Oban, a place they planned to visit on the trip. Wasn’t she interested in reading about it?
Tilly snickered when she saw the cover. A rugged, shirtless Scot in a very short, flaming red kilt held a bosomy brunette in his heavily muscled, tan arms. The woman’s ruby red lips parted in invitation, and he looked at her as if he was ready to ravish her right now. Tilly doubted the book would provide useful information about local history and lore. She would likely learn one hundred new words to describe a man’s penis without saying the actual word itself. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep until they touched down in Glasgow.
At the baggage claim carousel, they saw a tall, thin man wearing a tattered brown kilt of undeterminable tartan. He held a sign bearing their names. Beth waved wildly at him to get his attention. The smile on her face was a thousand watts.
After the long flight, Tilly was too tired to muster up such enthusiasm. She watched the man heave their bags into an ancient, green Land Rover and had an uneasy feeling. She pushed it aside. She was confident that Beth’s careful travel planning would result in a nice trip.
They zipped through the now darkened streets of Glasgow. Unfortunately, they arrived so late in the evening they would not have an opportunity to explore before bedtime. It was just as well. When the Land Rover stopped in front of the hotel, they thought nothing more about touring the area.
The online reviews for the hotel were positive – and largely false. They were in a shabby area of town. In this case, shabby did not refer to old, quaint buildings from the 1700s. With its gray, uninspiring stone façade and dingy, narrow windows, the building did nothing to improve the dreary street. Its rickety sign hung limply from a black iron hanger that was broken at the end. A sticker on the dirty front door proclaimed the hotel was voted “Best in Glasgow” – in 1964. They exchanged a worried glance as they exited the vehicle.
Their driver ushered them into the hotel after he piled their luggage onto a brass cart with a wobbly wheel. He banged a bell at the abandoned front desk until an elderly gentleman shuffled from an office in the back. The innkeeper very nicely explained that they had arrived too late for the evening refreshments. Breakfast would be served promptly at 6:00 a.m.
Tilly and Beth were too tired to question the arrangements. They took the keys to their rooms and hauled their luggage up three flights of stairs. The hotel lacked both a bellhop and an elevator.
After struggling up the stairs, they found their rooms. They hugged tightly and wished each other goodnight.
Tilly experienced some difficulty with the sticky lock on her door. She finally managed to open the door and walked into the darkened room. It took a few moments to find a working lamp. When the room was illuminated, she wished it had remained dark. The comforter on the twin bed had a psychedelic floral print that no doubt hid decades of stains. A small nightstand beside the bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room. Spartan would have been a generous description.
She moved into the adjoining bathroom and found a white pedestal sink that looked original to the building. The shower was barely large enough for one person. The toilet was an old-fashioned model with the tank suspended above the bowl. It appeared that one pulled a rusty chain to flush it. While the bathroom lacked modern décor, it was at least clean.
Tilly decided to unpack only the bare minimum of her belongings and left her clothes in the suitcase. She checked twice the zipper on the bag, ensuring it was closed. She was afraid of what might crawl into it if an opening was provided.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she switched on her cell phone. No messages. She flopped back onto the bed and closed her eyes. After the long flight, sleep came quickly. Unfortunately, so did the dreams about her family.
She awoke in a cold sweat a few hours later and spent the rest of the night staring out the dirty window that overlooked the deserted, gray street below. She waited patiently for dawn to come and, as always, hoped it would be the beginning of a better day.
∞
The next morning, Beth and Tilly met in the lobby. Beth had arranged for them to tour the city with a group that convened outside the hotel. They only had time to grab a piece of toast and hop onto the waiting motor coach. Their tour guide was a middle-aged woman who wore too much makeup and not enough deodorant. She pursed her lips as she watched them board the coach with their dry crusts of bed. “In future, please refrain from bringing food on the bus,” she said testily. “We like to keep the vehicle clean.”
Beth lifted an eyebrow at Tilly. They took their seats without argument. The tour company’s dedication to cleanliness was apparent in the sticky floor and soiled seat fabric.
Tilly surveyed their fellow inmates. All the people on the coach were easily thirty years her senior. The ladies must have raided the souvenir shops. They wore baggy sweatshirts emblazoned with Gaelic sayings. Not to be outdone, some of the men sported scarves of fluorescent plaid she was sure had never been any clan’s actual tartan.
Beth glanced at her. “Don’t,” she said, holding up a hand. “I know.”
∞
Beth and Tilly endured the tour for all of an hour. The guide’s knowledge of Glaswegian history was as poor as her hygiene. Tilly elbowed Beth in the ribs so many times she was certain she left bruises. She was afraid her friend would either laugh out loud or argue with the woman whenever the supposed expert proclaimed some “fact” about the locations they visited.
They abandoned the tour outside a church. Hailing a taxicab, they made their way back to the hotel.
“Now, you get some rest, sweetie,” Beth said as they walked toward their rooms. “This is just one little bump in the road. The rest of the trip will be fabulous. I promise.”
Tilly said nothing. She went to her room and stretched onto the bed. She fell into a deep sleep brought on by jet lag and, if she was honest, a little bit of depression. Was it a mistake to come here? she wondered before she drifted off to sleep.
∞
When Tilly descended the stairs with her luggage the next morning, she found Beth waiting for her. Outside, a little blue rental car was parked in front of the hotel. As Tilly climbed into the passenger’s seat, Beth thrust an itinerary at her.
They left Glasgow. Beth talked almost nonstop about all the places she planned for them to visit. Researching family history was her hobby. Before they left, she presented Tilly with a detailed record of her Scottish ancestry and was especially excited to announce they both had ancestors who hailed from the western shore of Scotland. Their itinerary included stops at places where long-dead relatives once lived. Tilly was not sure how visiting such places would lift her spirits but said nothing. Beth was so enthusiastic about the trip that surely some of the excitement would rub off on her.
They would travel to the west coast of Scotland then follow the lochs to Inverness. Beth hoped they would have enough time to visit Culloden and maybe swing down to Edinburgh. If not, they could always fly home from Inverness. Her voice became a steady drone in the background. Tilly stared out the window, her m
ind a million miles away.
Once they exited the city, the scenery changed dramatically. Industrial sprawl was replaced by bucolic countryside. They enjoyed the peaceful view of Loch Lomond and appreciated the lush green peaks that rose around them as the road snaked through the Rest and Be Thankful Pass. The mountains eventually gave way to the thick Argyll Forest. They could not believe they were in such a wild and beautiful place.
Along the way, they made several stops to admire the views. It seemed that every turn brought them another stunning vista. Finally, Beth said they must continue onward, or they would never reach their destination before nightfall. Tilly did not bother to ask where they were headed. She was happy to let Beth deal with all the travel planning. Just along for the ride, she thought.
“We are almost there!” Beth exclaimed when they saw a sign for the village of Deoch. Within minutes, they crossed an old, arched stone bridge, Tilly looked to the right and saw a magnificent castle perched on a small hill. Unlike the craggy peaks they saw along the way, this area was surrounded by gently rolling mountains covered in tall, green trees.
“That’s Castle Fion!” Beth said excitedly. She pointed to the building as they crossed the bridge. She was determined to see it. A famous guidebook declared it was not to be missed. It was built in the 1600s after the original family home fell into disrepair.
They travelled further down the two-lane road that led to Deoch. The little village stood on the shores of a loch bearing the same name, an expansive body of water that reflected the gray sky. A few white-and-black buildings stood along the shores. An imposing, three-story limestone building sat at the top of the High Street.
They stopped at a pub. It was late afternoon, and they were told the castle was closed for the day. If they wanted to see it, they would have to spend the night and try again tomorrow morning. Luckily, the proprietor knew of a small bed-and-breakfast inn that could accommodate them. He helpfully gave them directions after they bought pints of beer and a large order of fish-and-chips.
Their stomachs aching from the fried food, they jumped into the car and headed for the inn. It was at the end of a dirt road near the entrance to the village. The neat, white cottage with a black slate-shingled roof stood in the middle of a green pasture. An ancient rock wall ringed one section, keeping in a few scraggly sheep. The area was surrounded by thick forest.
Apparently, the pub owner called ahead to alert the innkeeper. As Beth parked the car, a plumb woman by the name of Mrs. Douglas passed through the doorway and into the car park. She waved a hand, beckoning them inside. “Welcome, dears,” she said, with a huge smile on her face. “I am so happy to see you.”
She called to a young man who rushed to collect their luggage. They all walked inside, where she produced a large, red ledger book. “My son tells me I should use a computer registry, but I like the old ways,” she explained. She handed Beth a pen and asked her to write her name in the ledger. Then, she swiped Beth’s credit card through a very modern card reader.
The formalities of registration handled, Mrs. Douglas motioned for them to follow her. She led them to their rooms down the hallway. She explained that the front of the house was built in the 1750s. Additional rooms were added over the decades. When Mrs. Douglas took over in the 1980s, she completely renovated the house. Tilly suspected that might have been the last time the inn was redecorated, judging from the décor. She doubted the 1700s were known for combinations of mauve, teal, and golden brass.
Mrs. Douglas stopped in front of a door on which hung a brass number eight and waved a plastic card over the electronic lock. Turning to Tilly, she said, “Mrs. Munro, I have placed you in the garden room.”
The innkeeper swung wide the door and strode into the room. Its main feature was a large, four poster bed with heavy pink velvet bed curtains. A warm fire danced in the fireplace, chasing away the slight chill in the air. Above the mantel hung a silver shield that looked to be much older than the inn itself. A cross spread across the front of the object, with intricate Celtic knots stamped onto each point. Tilly was intrigued by the rugged beauty of the armament and stopped in front of the fireplace for a closer inspection.
When she noticed Tilly staring at it, Mrs. Douglas said, “This cottage stands upon Campbell lands and was originally built by its gamekeeper.” She looked up at the relic and smiled. “We have a few bits and bobs on loan from the family. They have been very generous to us. I hope you plan to visit Castle Fion while you are here.”
The ladies nodded which seemed to please Mrs. Douglas. She crossed the room in four quick strides and flung open a set of doors. She beamed in delight when she showed the ladies the garden. Clearly, it was her pride and joy.
The little garden had a variety of colorful flowers and shrubs Tilly could not name. She was never one for gardening. It was pleasant, though, and she looked forward to sitting outside later.
She surveyed the pasture, old stone fence, and forest. She watched the grazing sheep, their fuzzy heads bent low as they plucked the emerald green grass. The scene was idyllic. Tilly took a deep breath and felt oddly at peace. It was the first time she had the feeling in many, many months. She could not help but smile at the serenity of the scene.
“Mrs. Douglas, can we venture there?” she asked, gesturing toward the woods. She did not want to trespass upon someone else’s property. She felt a strong, inexplicable pull toward the forest.
“Oh, aye,” Mrs. Douglas said. “If you would like to stroll around the property, there is a nice set of trails in the forest. Walk just past that first stand of trees, and you will see a lovely stream. We placed a bench there if you are of a mind to sit and take your rest.”
The innkeeper then left Tilly to unpack while she escorted Beth to her own room across the hall. Tilly was happy to finally have a few moments of solitude. She loved Beth like a sister but grew tired of the constant chatter. She took a seat in a chair beside the garden doors. Closing her eyes, she savored the silence.
Three
The next morning, Beth and Tilly gorged themselves on the most delightful scones they had ever eaten. They would have been content to sit in the garden, fat as ticks, but Mrs. Douglas had other plans for them. She prepared a picnic basket and a set of directions. While there was a more direct route to the castle, she explained they could enjoy a better view by taking an old service road behind the cottage. She deposited the picnic basket into the trunk of the car and cheerily told them to have a wonderful day at Castle Fion.
As Mrs. Douglas promised, the one-lane, gravel road offered spectacular views. It cut through the rolling hills and, at the turn of every curve, they saw fine vistas of the surrounding valley that were even more stunning than the last. They could see Deoch nestled along the loch’s shore and a few farms scattered around the area. There was a distinct lack of habitation.
“Even in the 21st century, it remains a remote, untamed place,” she commented to Beth. “Still, it is so beautiful here.”
About ten minutes into the drive, they found an old stone bridge so narrow Tilly worried their car might not fit. Beth carefully drove over the bridge, checking the sides of the car. Fortunately, there was just enough room to slide by without incident, and they continued their journey. As they drove through the verdant forest, they wondered if they would make it to the castle before dark. Finally, they approached a small hill. The trees were cleared to reveal a striking view of the castle below. Beth stopped the car in the middle of the road. They both climbed out, mouths ajar.
“It is like something from a fairy tale!” she exclaimed.
Tilly agreed. Castle Fion was impressive. It sat on a slight rise below them. The forest bracketed the building on the left and right. A garden rested behind the castle. Filled with shrubs and wildflowers, it looked like a great place to take a relaxing stroll.
The castle was the real jewel, though. Its crenelated roof conjured images of men in full armor, standing guard and ready for action. The dove gray stones did little to soft
en the formidable image of the two-story structure. And yet, there was something very romantic about the ancient home. Tilly half expected a fair maiden to drop her long, flowing hair from one of the many windows that lined the exterior. She knew her children would have loved it. Anna would have expected a princess to be waiting for her in the castle. John would have insisted upon climbing to the battlements so that he could survey the knight’s kingdom. Tilly felt a sharp pain in her heart.
“Excuse me, misses,” a gravelly voice bellowed from the forest. “You cannot block the road.”
Tilly turned to find a short, elderly man hobbling their way. He carried a gnarled walking stick almost as tall as he was. He would have been imposing if he did not look like a kindly grandfather. His thick, white hair was barely held in check by a tweed fedora that matched the jacket he wore. She could not resist smiling at the sight of him.
“You will want to bear right just there,” he instructed, pointing to a fork in the road. “It will take you to the car park.”
“Thank you, sir.” Noticing his difficulty in walking, she asked, “Can we give you a lift?”
He gratefully accepted. As they drove down the hill toward the castle, he informed them he was the former groundskeeper. When arthritis made it difficult for him to work, the Campbell family generously offered him a job as general supervisor. Beth asked him what that meant.
“Nothing really,” he said, chuckling. “I stroll around the grounds and offer suggestions to the staff when I see something that needs fixing. It keeps me out of my wife’s way, so I guess it is a good thing.”
“Oh, I am sure your wife would not mind having you help around the house,” Beth said.
“No, no,” he said. “She says she has enough to do, what with running the inn and all. She prefers it this way.”
“What is your wife’s name?” Tilly asked, leaning forward. She had climbed into the backseat of the car, knowing the old man would have difficulty managing it.
Through the Mist: Restoration Page 2