The House on the Shore

by Victoria Howard

  He pitched the cigarette and started the engine. The driveway seemed to have more potholes than he remembered, and the overgrown bushes on either side desperately needed pruning. The front offside wheel bounced over a particularly deep rut. He cursed. As he turned the last corner, the house came into view.

  The Georgian mansion, complete with grand portico and perfectly symmetrical façade, had always impressed him. In fact, he’d always been envious of Alistair living here. Alistair’s great, great grandmother had designed the formal gardens, which stretched down to the river. Set against the mountains, and surrounded on either side by trees, it was one of the finest houses in Scotland.

  Or it had been.

  He got out of the car and stretched his back, and stared up at the front of the house. Most of the windows in the east wing were closed and shuttered, something never seen when Alistair’s father had been in charge of the estate. Two of the four centre chimneys leaned at an alarming angle, and tarpaulin covered part of the roof.

  He slowly climbed the leaf-covered steps to the front door and rang the bell. A plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a green and blue kilt and a navy blue sweater, opened the door.

  “Findlay Armstrong. An old friend of the Laird. Is he in?”

  “Mr. Alistair is in the library. If you’ll wait in the hallway, I’ll tell him you’re here, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Fin stepped inside. He waited while the old woman shuffled away. There was a strange smell in the air—damp and mildew, the arch-enemy of any householder. It reminded him of the cellars in his former home near Crieff.

  He ran a hand along the heavy oak furniture. It was covered in dust and grime. He looked around for something to wipe his hand on and settled for the threadbare seat of a Chippendale chair. There had been other Chippendales, he remembered sitting on them. Where had they gone?

  Alistair’s mother would never have allowed the house to get in such a state. In her day, the house was staffed by a bevy of servants.

  “Fin! This is a surprise! Come in. Come in,” Alistair said.

  “I was in the area and thought I’d drop in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Come through to the morning room. Mrs. McTavish, rustle up some coffee and sandwiches for our guest. There’s a dear.”

  Mrs. McTavish shot him a glare and shuffled away.

  Fin followed Alistair down the hallway. The faces of previous generations of Grant’s peered down at him from the numerous portraits.

  “Ah, I remember these people,” Fin said. “They looked down on me a good bit since I always seemed to be inebriated whenever I stayed here. So were you. Good times, eh, Alistair?”

  “Very good,” Alistair mumbled.

  “What’s happened here, old chum? The estate used to be quite the playground. It’s all gone rather depressing, don’t you think?”

  “It’s still got its charm.”

  “If you say so. These paintings—if it were me, I’d sell the lot.”

  Alistair scowled. “I can’t, at least not until I inherit the estate.”

  “You mean you haven’t. I thought with the old man out of commission…well, doesn’t that mean this is place is all yours?”

  “Not precisely. Father would have to pass on before I officially inherit.”

  Fin went directly to the drinks cabinet. He found a collection of crystal decanters inside and sniffed at the contents of each until he found one he liked. Looking for ice and finding none, he poured himself a lavish drink.

  “Hope you don’t mind, old thing. Long drive and all that.” He sank down onto the faded chintz-covered sofa, the springs groaning under his weight. “I still say the old place looks a bit different from when I was here last. Do you have only the one servant now?”

  “It’s hard to find good staff these days—”

  “You mean it’s too goddamned expensive! In your parent’s day you had what, ten? Twenty?”

  “Only seven, including the cook.”

  “The estate used to hold such grand parties. And the fancy dress balls, do you remember the time we had the same costume and that girl, what was her name?”

  “Lucy. Lucy Colquhoun.”

  Just then there was a knock at the door. Mrs. McTavish scowled as she set the tray on a wide rosewood table.

  Alistair smiled extravagantly. “Just leave the tray, if you would, Mrs. McTavish.”

  The servant nodded and left.

  Fin swirled his drink. “Too bad you’ve no ice in here. What were we talking about? That’s right, Lucy Colquhoun. God she was a stunner; blonde hair, sapphire blue eyes, long legs and big breasts. She couldn’t tell us apart. She kissed you, and thought it was me. God that was so funny!”

  “Can we cut the social chit-chat, Fin? I assume there’s a purpose to your visit.”

  “My dear boy, that’s no way to talk to your saviour. I’ve driven a long way. You could at least refill my glass instead of expecting me to drink coffee.” He smiled, revealing even teeth, although slightly yellowed they were the only remnant of his boyish charm.

  “What do you have already? Whisky?” Alistair asked, opening the drinks cabinet.

  “Very good, old man.”

  Alistair refilled the proffered glass. Fin drank the contents down in one mouthful and held the glass out for a second refill.

  “Go easy on the booze, Armstrong. We don’t want you being stopped by the police for being over the limit.”

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a bed for the night?”

  “I wish I could. You’ve seen how things are. Most of the house is closed up. Mrs. McTavish cooks for me or I eat in the Monymusk Arms.”

  “You have indeed fallen on hard times, old boy. In that case, you’d better have this.” He took the thick envelope from his jacket pocket and weighed it in his hands. “I’ve taken my seven per cent as agreed, plus the cost of my little trip. There’s £16,000 plus in there. Not quite as much as you expected, but at least it will keep the bank off your back for a while.”

  “Only £16,000? You should have got at least £20,000!”

  “What can I say except that old cliché about beggars not being able to choose? Times are hard, dear Alistair. One only needs to watch the evening news to see we’re in the midst of a recession. You still have satellite TV, don’t you?”

  Alistair ignored the question and thumbed through the cash. He wouldn’t say no to it, but his stomach seized at how little his precious antiques had garnered.

  “By the way,” Fin continued. “Strangest thing. I passed a caterer’s van as I came down the drive. Are you planning a party?”

  “Just a small gathering for the tenants, that’s all.”

  Fin screwed up his nose. “Oh, how positively boring. I suppose you must keep the plebs happy. If you ever decide to host a ball and invite the country set, do let me know. I could use some cheering up.” He put down his glass. “Thank you for the refreshments and fine company. I’d better be going. I’ve a plane to catch tomorrow. The sea breeze in Monte is always welcome at this time of year. But oh, I forgot, you know that, don’t you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Suddenly it was Friday. How could the week have slipped by so quickly? Anna wondered as she drove home after her morning’s work in the hotel. There’d been no further sign of her midnight prowler, and neither had the surveyor returned, but despite Luke’s reassuring presence in the croft, she still felt uneasy. If anyone asked why, she would be hard pressed to explain and would say it was feminine intuition. She shook her head and laughed out loud. As if talking to herself wasn’t bad enough, now she was beginning to think like Morag! Whatever next?

  She really liked having Luke around. He was attractive, funny, intelligent, a considerate lover, and if she was honest, she was more than a little in love with him. The part for his yacht would arrive any day. Then he’d sail off, leaving her with only memories. Anna swallowed the lump in her throat. She wasn’t going to think about that until the day it happened. In the meanti
me, there was a ceilidh to attend.

  The croft came into view as she steered the old Land Rover round the last bend in the track. She let out a sigh. It was home. Her home. The only place she had ever felt truly happy. With summer already half over there were major decisions to make, but she would worry about them later, she told herself, as she climbed out of the driver’s seat. She greeted the two dogs and walked towards the loch.

  Luke had set up his easel close to the water’s edge. Anna stood and watched as he roughly sketched in the scene before him with a pencil. Once satisfied with his drawing, he opened his palette of watercolours and started mixing until he had the exact shade he needed. Selecting a broad flat brush, he applied a pale blue wash to the heavy paper. Next, he took a paper towel and carefully dabbed away the excess.

  Anna shifted from foot to foot and continued to watch. When the paper had dried, Luke chose a rounded brush, and started adding detail. She didn’t understand the techniques involved, but layer-by-layer, the painting evolved. Slowly the mountains began to emerge, then the loch, and finally Sandpiper in the foreground.

  When he sat back to examine his work, she stepped forward and slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “Hi, there, handsome.”

  “I didn’t hear you drive in.” Luke put down his palette and brush.

  “You were engrossed.” She nodded at the painting. “It’s very good.”

  “It’s not bad. I can do better. I just don’t seem to be able to capture the reflection of the mountains on the loch. How was work?”

  “Tiring, it’s too hot. We’ll have a storm before the night is out. The hotel is full for the ceilidh this evening. It seems that Alistair Grant has invited most of the village, including, I might add, Ms Anna MacDonald and her guest. This was waiting for me in the hotel reception.” Anna waved her gilt-edged invitation under his nose.

  “I thought you said the ceilidh was just for the tenants. Are you going?” Luke rested his hand intimately on her hip.

  “I wasn’t going to go, except Lachlan is still away, and Morag was so looking forward to it that I didn’t have it in my heart to say no. Apparently, he telephoned her last night to apologize. He’s been asked to stay on the rig for another week while his opposite number is on holiday. Besides, this will be your opportunity to experience a traditional Scottish ceilidh first-hand, and nobody throws a party like the Scots.”

  Luke groaned. “What if I said I had nothing to wear?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you. And what’s more, Morag would insist on lending you one of Lachlan’s kilts.”

  “Me? Wear a skirt? No way!”

  “But Luke, darling, you have all the right attributes, especially those required to wear it the traditional way.”

  “What traditional way?”

  Anna grinned. “Nothing underneath.”

  “Nothing? Are you shitting me? So you expect me not to dress for the party?”

  “Of course,” she said laughing, and then ran towards the croft. Luke caught up with her in seven strides.

  “Right attributes, huh?” He pulled her to the ground and kissed her until she was breathless.

  “Mm,” she replied as her body squirmed beneath his.

  Luke’s brown eyes smouldered with fire. “And what might those attributes be?” He planted a kiss in the hollow of her neck.

  “You’ve broad shoulders for one thing, great legs, and—” Her fingers slid between them to his zipper.

  Luke’s hand caught hers and halted its progress. “The thought of being seduced by you is delicious, my love, but I have no desire to get my butt bitten off out here by the local wildlife.”

  “Local wildlife? Oh, you mean the midges, the mosquitoes. Now that you mention it, they are a bit fierce today.”

  “Besides,” he said, kissing the top of her nose. “My days of making love in the open are long over.” He helped her to her feet. “Let’s be sensible.”

  She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Perhaps I should call you Mr. Sense and Sensibility…”

  Luke laughed and squeezed her.

  “I’m going to make some iced tea,” she said. “Would you like a glass?”

  “No thanks. I’ll finish my painting before I lose the light.”

  “Okay. I’ll put my feet up for half an hour and then work on my manuscript for a while. The ceilidh starts at eight, and there’s a buffet too. I said we’d pick Morag up on our way.”

  Once in the kitchen, Anna switched on her laptop, opened the file containing her manuscript and started typing.

  The town, I learnt, was Ullapool, a small, bustling fishing port on Loch Broom, many miles from my native Knoydart. Here, my husband secured passage for us on a ship known as ‘Hector’, bound for the Americas.

  We sold our ponies and purchased supplies for the journey—salt beef, ale, tea, coffee, flour, and biscuits, which were to be delivered to the quayside, along with our few possessions, in time for our departure. I had new clothes too, a travelling dress of heavy cotton, as well as two others and a heavy coat. Stockings, under garments and shoes filled my trunk, along with linen and a bolt of tartan cloth.

  Three days later, we stood on the quayside waiting to board. As a three-masted, wooden sailing ship, ‘Hector’ had seen better days. Even I could tell her timbers were rotten and see her sails were tattered.

  The Captain himself showed us to our cabin. It was tiny, but afforded us privacy, unlike many of my clansmen who I’d seen herded into the hold like cattle. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling on a hook, and there were two beds, one atop another.

  I stood on the deck that evening, my plaid wrapped tightly around my shoulders, as we waited for the tide to turn

  “One day, m’eudail, my darling, we will return.”

  I smiled at my husband’s use of my tongue. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. I knew he spoke the truth, for the ‘Sight’ had shown me that it would be our sons and daughters who returned, not us.

  Two hundred souls bade farewell to our native land that day in July 1773. A lone piper stood on deck and played a lament as we sailed out of the loch. When the coast of Scotland disappeared from view we retired to our cabin.

  That first night I lay in my husband’s arms and wept. I cried for our families, for their future and ours. He kissed away my tears, and I became his wife in every way.

  Anna took her time getting ready. First, she pinned her long tresses into a neat chignon, being careful to leave some loose tendrils around her face. Her face was tanned and only needed the lightest touch of blusher. She accentuated her bright green eyes with bronze shadow and then applied a light coating of mascara. A little lip-gloss and…yes, she would do.

  She took the plain white, crêpe de Chine dress from its hanger and stepped into it. The sleeveless, scooped-necked bodice fitted her figure to perfection. The full skirt fell almost to her ankles, and she couldn’t resist standing on tiptoe and twirling round.

  A parcel of tissue paper lay on the dressing table. Inside was her grandmother’s sash in the MacDonald clan colours, soft black, white, green, red and blue, which shouldn't have blended well into a heathery plaid, but did. She opened it and touched the soft fabric to her cheek. Her grandmother’s favourite perfume still lingered on the fine tweed.

  “I miss you, nana,” she whispered.

  Suddenly a fine breeze shook the curtains.

  “Nana?” she said, almost unconsciously. The breeze stopped. Could it be? Could Nana be giving her some sort of sign, perhaps a blessing? She blew a kiss toward the window, just in case. Nana had always blown them to her.

  The curtain moved once again.

  I’m getting like Morag, she thought. She shrugged off the silly idea and carefully folded the tartan in two. She pinned the top of the fold to the right shoulder of her dress with the large Cairngorm and silver brooch that had been in her family for generations. She had inherited it on her eighteenth birthday.

  With one fi
nal look in the mirror, and her dancing pumps in her hand, she pranced her way down the stairs.

  Luke stepped into the hallway as she reached the bottom tread. The warmth she saw in his dark eyes made her heart skip a beat.

  “You look stunning.” He pulled her into his arms.

  “Why, thank you, kind sir. You don’t scrub up so badly yourself.” She kissed his cheek. The scent of his dark, musky cologne intoxicated her. She shook her head to bring herself back to reality, and resting a hand on his arm, bent to put on her shoes.

  “I hope this is okay. When I packed for my trip, I didn’t think I’d need a tux or a suit.”

  Anna admired his smart dark slacks, and crisp white shirt. “Trust me. Once the whisky and wine start flowing, no one will pay attention to what anyone else is wearing. If you’re ready, we should be making a move. Morag will be wondering where we are.”

  It was a little after eight when Luke steered the Land Rover through the rusting iron gates of Killilan House. The Georgian mansion looked sad and forlorn. Once an architectural jewel, it was now a testament to years of neglect. Grass sprouted from the gutters. Masonry crumbled. Paintwork peeled. The darkness was kind—in the night, it was still majestic, still proud of its heritage and the family that had inhabited its land for six generations.

  “My, my, Mr. Alistair has pushed the boat out,” Morag declared as her gaze took in the floodlit façade. “Judging by the number of cars, I’d say the whole village and half of Scotland is here to see what he’s up to, but then it’s not often the ceilidh is held in the big house.”

  “Isn’t that old Dougal?” Anna pointed to a gentleman almost bent double with age.

  “Aye, it is. And there’s Mrs. McCloud and the Fraser twins.”

  A lone piper, in full Highland dress, stood on the steps of the west wing playing a lively reel to welcome the guests.

  “Ah, the pipes. Don’t you just love them?” Morag wiped a tear from her eye. “My Lachlan is such a bonny player. What a pity he can’t be here.” She spied Luke cringing. “Do you no like the bagpipes, then?”