The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 90
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Francie’s eyes widened comically at Merle. Elise piped up: “So did Davina, right? Are all of Callum’s old girlfriends going to be here?”
Mrs. Logan blinked at the impertinent girl and Merle stifled a laugh. “I was wondering about Hugh and Davina myself.”
“They spent the night at the house,” Mrs. Logan said. “And went up the ben earlier.”
“The ben?” Elise asked. “What’s that?”
“In the old tongue it means mountain,” Mrs. MacKeegan explained. “It’s called Ben Cardie. That’s where we are.”
Just as the path got so rocky they had to hold onto the sides of the wagon to keep from being thrown out, the driver pulled the horses to a stop. The sound of bagpipes was louder then abruptly stopped just after they did. The driver hopped down then lifted Annie by the waist, just like in an old novel. She patted her hair and waited for her sisters.
When everyone had dismounted, or whatever you called hopping awkwardly from a tall hay wagon in a tight skirt, the women gathered and began climbing the final stretch of the path. It led behind some huge rocks, up and around. The older ladies were slow, clutching onto each other. The cook was taking tiny steps with breathy pauses.
Annie stopped, looking back. She turned back in the direction of the mountain top, put two fingers in her mouth, and gave her best dog whistle. All the women blinked, surprised, then she did it again. There was a pause then suddenly Callum and Hugh appeared around a boulder, both in their kilts.
Annie shouted to them to come help their mother. They sprinted down the path, sporrans bouncing, laughing, racing to see who would get to Mother first. Merle and Francie smiled as Hugh pushed his little brother out of the way and took Fiona’s arm. Callum took Mrs. MacKeegan’s and the party walked the rest of the way to the top.
When they rounded the last turn and entered a grassy pasture strewn with mossy rocks the sun was shining. The breeze had died down to a low roar, kicking up tablecloths that had been expertly tied to table legs. A single bagpiper, a burly man with a lengthy beard, bowed legs, and a flapping tartan kilt, stood on a flat boulder on the far reaches of the grassy area. As they arrived he began a cacophonous dirge, slow and melancholy and extremely loud, as only a bagpipe can be.
Chairs were set up, twelve or so, enough for the older guests. Fiona Logan and Mrs. MacKeegan were deposited next to three older gentlemen in tweeds. They nodded and smiled, apparently all acquainted. Jack and Bernadette sat behind them. Merle made her way across the spongy turf, so glad they swapped flats for those silly heels.
“Everything okay?” she asked her parents.
Bernie patted the folding chair next to her. Merle perched on it and leaned in to hear above the racket of the pipes. “You look nice. Is it a wedding then?” Bernie shouted. “Nobody tells me anything.”
Merle shrugged. “I thought you knew.”
“Why the secrecy?” Bernie looked annoyed.
Merle patted her arm. “All will be revealed.”
As Mrs. Logan predicted, Glynn Barra lurked in the back, sipping what looked like champagne. She was talking to Jinty Arbuckle and smiling. Francie dashed up and hugged them both fiercely. They looked embarrassed by the display. Hugh and Davina seemed busy conferring, heads together over by the bagpiper. Standing that close had to be hazardous to one’s hearing.
Mrs. Logan rose from her chair and stepped over to the tables. She peered down at the bottles of liquor and wine, picked up a plastic glass and frowned at it. As she set it back down Jinty Arbuckle appeared at her side. She looked contrite and apologetic, her hands clasped in front of her like a schoolgirl. Mrs. Logan’s stiff air softened, she nodded, and she grasped Jinty’s hands tightly. The caretaker’s eyes widened, and then so did her smile. All was apparently forgiven.
Pascal came from the direction of the wagon, carrying a tub of ice with the kilted driver. They set it down by the table and stretched their backs. Merle excused herself from her parents. As she walked over to the table a gust of wind caught her hat. It broke loose from its pins, flying madly, causing a general commotion of running and laughing. Callum, then Hugh, jumped to catch it. Pascal lunged and missed. The straw hat did pirouettes then careened into the bagpiper, bounced off his forehead, and sailed out over the glen. He didn’t miss a cacophonous beat.
When Pascal returned from his chase with no hat, he put his arms around Merle. “I’ll hold you down, madame. No blowing off the mountaintop.” She buried her face in his chest, happy, taking in the scent of him. She couldn’t believe she had to go home tomorrow, back to her grim, regimented city life. Back to life without Pascal.
Then her plan popped up, all shiny and enticing. Why was she waiting to tell him? “Pascal?” She craned her neck to look up at him.
Just then Callum tapped Pascal on the shoulder. He cupped a hand to Pascal’s ear and talked over the sound of the pipes for a minute. Pascal nodded, more behind-the-hand talk, then Callum clapped him on the back and disappeared.
“What was that about?” Merle asked, still in his arms.
“Remember Gunni, the sheep man?”
“Of course.”
“He was taken in yesterday for questioning. They found Vanora’s red boots in the barn. Gunni had hidden them there. He confessed to that.”
“Did he kill her?” Merle whispered.
“He says he came back from the pastures at dawn and found her floating in the puddle. He tried to pull her out by her feet. Her boots came off, and he realized she was dead and panicked. He pushed her back in the water and hid her boots.”
“And they believe this story?”
“Apparently he cried like a baby.” Pascal shrugged. “It’s so—”
“So Gunni.”
The bagpipe suddenly silenced, the vibrations fading. In its place a bell chimed. Everyone turned toward Hugh Logan who held a small silver bell and a tiny, round-ended hammer. He hit the bell slowly, with ceremony, until all were quiet. Then a few more for good measure.
The high pitch of the bell died slowly, carried on the wind. Hugh lowered the bell and hammer to the ground then straightened, eyeing the crowd somberly.
“Friends, clansmen, countrymen. We are gathered here to say farewell and cherrio the nou to our clansman, our devoted friend, Hector MacRoberts Craigg.” A murmur of ‘hear, hear’ rose from the old gentlemen. “He was a native son, a Scotsman through and through, a soldier, a man of the land who loved it all from glen to ben, and walked the heather many miles with his trusty dogs and his wee pony, Annabelle, much beloved, who was with him to the end and then some.”
Callum appeared in front of Pascal and Merle with two small glasses of whisky. He hurried around the gathering, delivering drams to everyone. Hugh continued, speaking of Mr. Craigg’s adventures in the war with their grandfather, his heroism in Italy, his care for the house and all who lived in it, of his abiding love of sheep that he had passed on to anyone who would listen, and especially to young Gunni.
The young sheep man had found Mr. Craigg up here, lifeless, in the ruined sheepherder’s hut. Frightened, he returned later to wrap him carefully in a blanket. That much Merle had learned from Annie. Gunni didn’t feel it was anyone’s business but Craigg’s where he died and how he rejoined the earth. But modern practices prevailed, and Mr. Craigg would be cremated later in the week and his ashes strewn high in the beloved hills.
Gunni was nowhere to be seen today and now Merle knew why. She wondered if Jinty knew he had been taken in for questioning. She stood behind the table, pouring drams of whisky, wearing a solemn gray dress with a little tartan collar and a deer-in-the-headlights look. She was obviously trying hard to be calm and efficient. Rick, dressed in sober black, handed the drams to Callum. Glynn and Davina whispered, standing behind the chairs.
“Mr. Craigg, whose full name was a mystery to most of us until today,” Hugh said, “was a second father to Callum and me. He was also a cousin to our grandfather, a MacRoberts. Also news to me. Mr. Craigg didn’t flaunt his clan ties, only his ability to take charge of the Highlands he loved. He taught me and Callum how to ride, back when we had horses at Kincardie. How to drive a car too. He taught us how to train a dog although neither of us has owned one thus far. He taught us how to stalk deer, although we never got the hang of that either.” He smiled. “We could have been better students, eh, Callum? But we couldn’t have had a better teacher, a better friend, than our Mister Craigg.”
Callum handed his brother a dram of whisky and took his place next to him. Hugh said, “One thing he taught us well was how to appreciate a good whisky. So now, his favorite bevvy, a well-aged, or not, Speyburn— as he declared, ‘never a swally better’— we drink a wee dram in memory of our friend, our clansman, Hector MacRoberts Craigg.”
“Never a finer man be!” hollered one of the old gents.
Callum cleared his throat. Everyone kept their drams aloft, waiting as he spoke.
“Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me die.
Glad did I live and gladly die. And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me: Here lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.”
The three old gentlemen stood then, pushing themselves awkwardly to their feet. Their whisky splashed, one wet another’s sleeve, and there was cursing, followed by laughter. They righted themselves then held their glasses high. Jinty dashed over with the whisky to refill the empty drams. The middle one in the tam o’shanter said in a high, quavering voice: “If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.”
With a nod from Hugh the piper began to play ‘Amazing Grace.’ Callum looked at Hugh and they drank their whisky in a single gulp, as intended. The old men followed suit, and around the gathering whisky slid down the gullet. Merle felt hers burn as it went down her throat and thought of ol’ Craiggie in the kitchen, drenched to the skin, grinning toothlessly and eating toast. One of a kind, he was. His old friends clapped each other on the shoulder. The bagpiper did his thing for quite awhile then the notes faded away.
Oliver, in his full Scottish regalia, and his sister, Willow, in a pretty green dress and flowers in her hair, appeared at the front of the gathering. They must have come up earlier with Jack and Bernie. As the music ended Hugh took a bouquet of bluebells from Willow.
“We are also remembering another of our Kincardie family today. We mourn the loss of Vanora Petrie who kept us all fed and clean this week past while the house was full. She was a good lass. We shall miss her. Godspeed, Vanora.”
Murmurs of her name rippled through the older people. Oliver and Willow went through the crowd, handing each a bluebell solemnly. Merle whispered, “Godspeed, Vanora,” as Oliver handed her a limp stem of flowers. Pascal squeezed her shoulder.
Callum disappeared during this part of the ceremony but Hugh remained at the front of the gathering. When everyone held a bluebell he cleared his throat.
“Now, friends and clansmen, we have another occasion, a happier one. We are gathered here to witness the ceremony of commitment and hand-fasting for Callum and Annie!”
Francie stepped closer to Merle. “What is that?” she whispered.
The bagpiper began again before Merle could answer, a livelier tune with many high notes. Then, from behind a huge boulder, Callum and Annie appeared, he still in his ceremonial kilt with the black jacket, and she in the cream wedding dress. Instead of heels she wore her old leather boots, and Merle saw now that they matched Callum’s boots, lovingly worn and laced to mid-calf. She had a tartan ribbon in her hair. Behind them walked Stasia, carrying some lengths of fabric and another bouquet of bluebells.
Francie and Elise moved closer so they could see. They tried to pull Merle with them but she resisted, holding Pascal’s hand.
Hugh, it appeared, was the officiant. Merle felt her heart swell: it was happening. Pascal leaned into her ear, kissed it and whispered: “I knew they were too smart for marriage.”
Hugh signaled the bagpiper. He stopped his racket. Callum began with a simple poem that Merle remembered as he went along, lyrics to one of Annie’s favorite Beatles songs.
“To make you mine, Be the only one.” He pushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Love me all the time and we'll go on and on.”
Annie placed a hand on his shirt front. “Someday when we're dreaming, deep in love, not a lot to say.”
He finished the verse: “Then we will remember, the things we said today.”
“I love you, Callum,” Annie said so softly it was barely audible.
“And I love you, Annie,” Callum said loudly, smiling.
Hugh said his lines then. “When you love someone, you do not love them all the time— despite these ancient words of wisdom from the Fab Four.” He grinned and the crowd tittered appreciatively. He sobered himself and continued: “You do not love in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It’s an impossibility. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in change, in freedom.
“The only security is not in owning or possessing the beloved, not in demanding or expecting. Happiness lies neither in looking back to what was, nor forward to what might be, but living in the present and accepting it as it is now. Love is flexible, love is kind. Love is everywhere. The promises you make today to love each other, and the ties that bind you together here, strengthen your union and will cross the years and lives of each soul’s growth.”
Then the business of hand-fasting began. Now Merle dragged Pascal a little closer. Stasia stepped forward and gave Annie and Callum each a few sprigs of bluebells. She draped the two long pieces of fabric, one of one tartan, a second in a different plaid, over her own forearm.
Annie and Callum joined hands. Stasia wound one tartan then the other around their clasped hands as Hugh murmured some kind of blessing. Stasia finished wrapping their hands in the fabric, tied a loose knot, and stepped back. Reaching awkwardly for the ends Annie and Callum tightened the knot of fabric themselves, pulling as they laughed, cried, and literally tied the knot. A hushed pause fell over the mountaintop group.
Then there was kissing.
That was it. Short and sweet, just the way Annie wanted it. No big hoo-ha. Merle glanced at Jack who was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief and handing it to Bernie. Stasia was wiping her eyes, as was Rick. Francie and Elise hugged, smiling. Hugh and Davina linked arms, struggling not to break their faces with smiles. A few hoots rose up, the bagpiper launched into another ear-splitting tune, a smattering of applause was heard, cries from the old gents and the Bennett sisters. The beaming couple turned to face the gathering, bound hands raised, delirious grins on their faces.
Annie and Callum made their way around the crowd, hugging everyone, kissing everyone, doing a fling to the music with a few. Callum pulled his mother to her feet and made her move around in a circle. Then he and Oliver threw arms over each other’s shoulders and did something jiggy with their feet.
When the couple came to Merle and Pascal there was a group hug, followed by a longer one where Annie slipped out of her hand-fasting bonds for a moment and held Merle tightly. They blubbered for a moment, expressing their love and elated happiness. It had been a long two weeks in Scotland, with many ups and downs and tears, and yet, this was the happy conclusion. Merle felt her heart would burst. Annie had done it her way, and still managed to make everyone happy.
Annie dabbed her eyes. She turned back to Callum, slipping easily back into the ribbons. He smiled, the happiest man alive, and kissed her again.
And then it was time for the party.
Epilogue
One month later
Chér Pascal,
What good news about Gunni! Just tampering with evidence— wow. He gets to go back to his beloved woolies after all. I didn’t think he’d harmed Vanora, despite his attitude. A man who loves beasties as much as he does can’t be that bad. Probation, and Mrs. Logan, should keep him on the straight and narrow. She’d scare anybody straight.
Annie and Callum are settled in the City. She’s decided she likes the views from his high-rise apartment after all. She brought sixteen houseplants with her and is growing basil on the terrace. They seem so happy, those crazy love-birds.
It is our anniversary, chéri! On June 22, two years ago, you came to the stone house in the Dordogne (which we still must name!) and began working your magic with pigeon guano. A fateful and smelly day. You persevered, even though it has become clear to me that you have a very sensitive nose.
But the roof is done and the pigeons are history. All that remains is for the two of us to be under the same roof again. I will be back in France very soon. I have some news. I didn’t want to mention it, to promise anything that might not happen. (Do you do that? Protect the ones you love from disappointment? I think you might.) I wanted to be sure.
I started writing a novel in your kitchen. Did you see it? All that mess? You must have wondered about my scratchings. I want to finish the novel in France. It is set there, in the Dordogne (I think) and there are too many locales and customs and language questions for me to do it long distance. It is historical, a gothic romance of the sort that is probably old-fashioned and passé. But whatever. I’m writing it for myself, and because I cannot not write it.
That means, voilá! I am taking a leave-of-absence from my job! What do you call them in France? Suspension, absence, time-the-hell-off! Before I take my leave-of-absence Tristan will come to France with me for the summer, for four weeks in July. That is vacation time. After the four weeks are done, I will not go back to work until after the new year. Can you believe it? The workaholic is taking time off.
I will need to go back in the fall to get Tristan settled in school. He has been studying so hard this year that he has enough credits to start college in September. And he got a very good scholarship! What a little smartie! I am so proud of him but my heart is already breaking. He’s so tall and responsible and grownup, I could just cry! Where is my little man? Gone, as they all go, you will say, where all children go, off to become a real man. He doesn’t need his mother anymore. If I’m off in la belle France it might not be quite so hard. Possibly. It’s time for us both to start new chapters, n’est-ce pas?
