The Secret Gift (19 page)

“I see you found Libby,” she said sunnily.

He turned, stared at the woman in green, then back to the woman in yellow. Then he looked at Libby, who was grinning, obviously enjoying his confusion.

“Let me give you a hint. Miss Aggie”—she pronounced the name slowly so he could hear the difference—“always wears the yellow. Miss Maggie, the green.”

“Thank you for that rather useful piece of information.”

Behind them, the sisters were tittering, having just realized their unintended charade.

“That wasn’t very fair of us, was it, Mr. Mackenzie?” said Miss Maggie.

“Are you sure you won’t stay for tea?” asked Miss Aggie.

“I think we’d best be off,” Libby answered, coming to the rescue. “I’m not sure how long it will take us to get to the estate sale. I wouldn’t want to miss out on any treasures by arriving too late.”

Graeme couldn’t have agreed more. Somehow he suspected if they stayed for tea, it would be well past noon by the time they managed to disentangle themselves for their outing.

The drive to the estate sale took them a meandering route along the northernmost coast of the Scottish mainland.

They passed through several small villages and sparse settlements all separated by mountains and vast tracts of wild, untamed moor. The sea stretched far to the north beside them, and the day was mostly clear with a modest, teasing wind. A clump of dark clouds, however, was gathering low and to the north, threatening rain later that afternoon.

They made good time driving and so stopped once or twice along the way to watch the soaring path of a sea eagle or to explore the ruins of an ancient castle. The sale would open at noon, with a preview at eleven. With five minutes to spare, they rolled up the drive and swung in to park beside the other cars.

The former Victorian hunting lodge where the sale was being held was a huge Gothic-looking pile with a mishmash of narrow turreted towers and gargoyles peering out along the roofline. According to the newspaper, it had belonged to an elderly war veteran who had become quite a hermit in his later years, refusing to leave his house or admit anyone other than his trusted valet. A niece and nephew from London had been left with the task of sorting through his effects and had decided it would be far easier to dispose of the nearly three generations’ worth of belongings at a local sale, instead of having to haul it all to the south to be sold through Sotheby’s or Christie’s in London.

A yellow-and-white canopy had been set up on a stretch of green lawn with signs that directed Graeme and Libby inside. Once there, Libby headed off for a quick peek at the books area while Graeme had a browse of some of the other items that would be offered for sale.

He was looking over a rather fine example of a seventeenth-century Flemish tapestry when he suddenly heard his name being called from across the room. The voice that called him, however, was not Libby’s, but the very deep, very distinctive voice of Henry Cabotte, otherwise known as the Earl of Ashburnham.

“Graeme, m’boy! I thought that was you. I told Clarissa there, ‘Say, isn’t that the Mackenzie lad?’ She told me I must be mistaken, that no one had seen you in weeks, so of course I had to come over here to prove it to her.”

Graeme turned to where indeed Lady Ashburnham was standing, smiling under the brim of her wide straw hat. He offered a casual wave.

“So, what the devil are you doing all the way this far north, and at an estate sale of all things?”

Think,
Graeme told himself.
Think fast.

“Just decided to take advantage of this incredible weather before winter comes storming in, my lord. Saw the signboard on the main road and found myself wandering in.”

“Yes, us, too. Alone, are you?” The man never had been one to mince words.

“Of course. Just flew up for the weekend. Get away from the city and all.”

The earl chuckled. “Quite. We’ve a place over on the coast. Stunning sunrises. Unfortunately we can only get up here once or twice a year. You know”—he narrowed his gaze on Graeme—“you should come, stay the weekend with us. What are you, in some dreadful B and B someplace? Nothing much else up here but B and B’s and country inns.”

Graeme simply smiled.

“Might as well be camping, m’boy—positively primitive. Come, now! I’ll not brook any refusals. Your mother would never forgive me. We’re not far a’tall, and we’ve a couple thousand acres if you’re of a mind for some stag hunting. Clarissa’d love it. The company of another, I mean. Not the hunting, of course.”

Graeme glanced to where the countess had been standing, but saw Libby instead just making her way back from the books area.

Bloody hell.

He pivoted, giving her his back. “Thank you, my lord, for your kind invitation, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I’ve actually got plans to fly up to the Orkneys for a spot of bird-watching.”

“Oh.” The earl looked confused. “Wouldn’t have put you as a bird-watcher.”

“Indeed,” Graeme said. “I find it is most meditative.” He cut their chat short. “It was a pleasure to see you again, my lord. Please give my farewell to Lady Ashburnham. If you’ll excuse me ...”

Graeme quickly turned and headed out of the tent before Libby could spot him talking to the earl.

He was standing outside, leaning against the back of the Land Rover, when Libby came out of the tent some time later.

“There you are!” she said with obvious relief. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d abandoned me. I didn’t know how I was going to get all the books I just bought home.”

Graeme looked at her. “So you were successful?”

“Oh, yes!” Her excitement was alight in her eyes.

“What a trove! Some of these books don’t appear as if they’ve ever been read, and they’re over a century old. More than one of them are first editions, too.”

Two of the sale workers had followed her out and started loading the books into the back of the Land Rover. There were at least twenty or thirty books that Libby had bought.

“I saw you talking with a man earlier,” Libby said. “Someone you knew?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. He was just asking me about the tapestry I’d been looking at. I think he was afraid I was going to try to outbid him on it. Ready to go?”

To celebrate Libby’s success in negotiating a good price for the books, they spent the rest of the afternoon sightseeing. Most of the touristy attractions were either closed or just closing for the season, but Libby still managed to find a few souvenirs for her friends back home—postcards, tins of shortbread, and woolen lap blankets in colorful tartan patterns.

When she spotted the sign for the village of Tunga, she asked Graeme if they might stop in.

“I read in the newspaper about a Mackay clan center that was recently opened here. Perhaps I’ll find something to help me with my research.”

Minutes later, they were pulling into the newly paved drive.

Characterless and plain, the building itself was little more than a cottage-sized box with stark white walls and a slate roof. They were greeted by a huge portrait of Lady Venetia inside the door, while Graeme paid the three pounds each for admission.

The clerk who counted out their change noticed Libby staring at the portrait.

“She is a striking woman, isn’t she, though?” she said proudly. “That’s Lady Venetia Mackay, our benefactress. It was through her generous donations that we were able to open the center.”

Libby merely nodded.

“If I can answer any questions for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Inside, there was a collection of clan artifacts and mementoes hanging on the walls and encased in glass displays. The Mackay tartan was hung everywhere, and the clerk noticed Libby’s wrap of the same design.

“Oh, are you a Mackay?”

Libby smiled and said simply, “I like to think so.”

She noticed a wall of paintings and photographs of the various Mackay clan chieftains during the centuries. At the end of the portrait line was an oil painting of the last Mackay of Wrath—and his only son, Fraser.

Her father.

In the portrait, he was formally dressed in suit coat, kilt, and tie, standing behind his father’s chair. Unsmiling, his eyes were vague and his expression was austere, very different from the laughing, carefree young man pictured in her mother’s photograph. Libby decided she liked that image better.

She read the placard pinned to the wall beneath the portrait.

CHARLES MACKAY IV, THE LAST MACKAY LAIRD OF WRATH, AND HIS SON AND HEIR, FRASER MACKAY, WHO WAS TRAGICALLY LOST DURING A FAMILY FISHING TRIP. SADLY, HE DID NOT LEAVE BEHIND ANY ISSUE, BRINGING TO AN END THIS NOBLE AND PROUD MACKAY SEPT.

Libby blinked, frowning.

Graeme stood behind her, reading the placard.

“So that would explain why Lady Venetia sold the castle. The place must hold very sad memories for her after the loss of her son.”

Libby could only nod silently.

“Did you see this?”

Graeme motioned Libby over to a small display that read:

THE LEGEND OF THE MACKAY STONE.

There were photographs and a brief history of the stone, relating its purported origins and the various “miracles” it had performed over the centuries.

“ ’Tis quite a tale,” Graeme said after reading the information posted.

“Oh, ’tis no tale, sir.” The clerk had come to check on them again. “The stone was once very real. In fact, there are those still living today who remember seeing it.”

“So what happened to it?”

The clerk motioned toward the portrait of Fraser. “The most common belief is that the stone went down with the last laird’s son, Fraser Mackay, when he was so tragically drowned. He was known to have been the last person to have it. Others believe it was stolen. ’Tis sad, it is, that such an important piece of Mackay history is lost to us forever.”

Libby could do nothing more than stand, listening between them, while the very stone they were discussing hung hidden underneath her sweater.

“Does Lady Venetia still live in the area?” she finally asked, trying not to feel like she was a spy in an enemy camp. She just couldn’t deny a certain curiosity about the woman whose actions had played such a large part in her life’s direction.

“Oh, indeed. She lives right here in the village. In fact, if you look out this window, you can just see her house, Tunga House, over the treetops.”

Libby took a glance at the distant pitched roof, just making out the smoking chimney. She found herself wondering what Lady Venetia could be doing at that moment and what she would do, what she would say if she knew that the granddaughter she had forsaken was so very close?

It had started to rain while they’d been in the center, and the storm that had been building all that day was soon pouring down in buckets. It was a fitting backdrop to Libby’s mood, which had been dampened by the visit to the center and her grandmother’s home village. Daylight had vanished almost completely behind the clouds, and the driving was slow, the rain almost seeming to fall sideways at times.

They stopped for petrol in a small coastal village and decided to have dinner at the local pub while they waited to see if the storm would move on.

Soon after, they discovered that getting back to Wrath was going to be more of a challenge than they’d thought.

“Road’s flooded,” said the police constable who stopped them just as they were leaving the pub. “The burn’s spilled over. Can’t get through.”

“Is the water so high that a four-by-four couldn’t get through?”

“I shouldn’t like to chance it, sir. The road dips quite low at the bottom of the hill. And we’ve already lost a tractor in it.”

Graeme asked him if there was any other way around it.

“Aye, you’ll have to go back and take the A897 south, then double back north.”

He showed Graeme the route on the road atlas. It would take them more than half the way south to Inverness, and then at least another two hours’ drive northwest from there to Wrath Village.

Graeme shook his head. “It would take us three, four hours to detour, at the very least.”

“In this weather, probably longer,” the constable said. “My suggestion would be that you take a room at Lily Middleditch’s B and B. It’s just down the road there, and I think she’s got room for one more set of guests. I’ve sent a couple others her way, and I know she was just closing for the season, so things might be a bit stretched. But she’ll do her best by you. This storm’s s’posed to pass through o’er the night. By morn, I’d expect you’ll be able to cross without any trouble.”

Graeme looked at Libby. “What do you think? I’ll make the drive south if you’d prefer to push on for the village.”

She shook her head. “It’s been a long day of driving already, Graeme, and right now a warm, dry B and B sounds far more appealing than driving all night and risking getting stranded in the middle of a moor somewhere.”

Graeme thanked the constable, who gave them directions to the B and B and promised to radio Angus MacLeith in Wrath to let him know they’d been stranded so he could tell those who needed to know that they wouldn’t be returning that night.

They found the B and B quite easily. The proprietress, Lily Middleditch, was waiting for them at the door, having been alerted to their arrival by the constable.

“Good e’en, m’dears.” She was an older lady, with a fringe of silver curls and a floral housecoat. She ushered them into her front room. “Come in, come in. Get those wet things off of you and warm y’self by the fire whilst I see to getting your room. ’Tis a fearsome night, isn’t it now?”

They soon discovered that the available accommodation actually consisted of one room ...

... with one bed.

“Perhaps we should see if there are any other places nearby,” Graeme said as Mrs. Middleditch set off to the kitchen to get the tea brewing.

Libby, however, wasn’t much inclined to go back out into the storm. “Graeme, it’s late, and for all we know every place else has already been taken up by other wayward travelers. We’re both adults. I don’t know about you, but I’m completely exhausted. I could curl up right here, right now.”