Chapter 12
The journey to Islay was enough to make Hunter forget it was almost the twentieth-century.
The train only went so far, then he had to rent a carriage—the grooms Thorne sent with him insisting he wasn’t well enough to drive.
He’d insisted they head back home when he’d reached the coast, and then the ferry was bloody hours.
Once on Islay, Hunter had to rent a farm wagon—almost a dog cart! —to make it across the island.
Next time ye do this, ye’ll be well enough to ride, and it’ll take less time.
Because the closer he got to Helena, the more certain he became that there would be a next time. He’d keep coming back to Islay again and again, as often as necessary, until she agreed to allow him to be part of her world.
The last few weeks had taught him that he adored and loved Helena Lickfold, wanted to spend his life with her, whatever that looked like.
Aye, he’d built a space for himself in London, but it wasn’t an important space, not like what she’d built here.
He might not already have a place on Islay, but he still wanted to be a part of what she’d built.
If she’d let him.
Hired husband or real lover or merely a distillery employee; Hunter would take whatever she could give him.
Because he couldn’t live without her.
These last days—waiting for Uncle Fawkes to judge him healed enough, then the packing up to travel, collecting his abandoned luggage from the stationmaster at Crianlarich, traveling to Islay—had shown him how much he needed Helena in his life.
He missed her, dammit!
But now he was on Islay, and despite his weary fatigue and irritation at the traveling, he could see why she loved this place.
There were few trees—likely cut down centuries ago and never replanted—which meant that every direction he looked he could see rolling hills, fertile fields, and small lochs sparkling like jewels.
Port Charlotte in the west was picturesque, but he turned north at the crossroads, towards his true north.
The heather and rowan and aye, fescue was plentiful, and Hunter could count the ewes and lambs in the fields as he trundled along.
Aye, this place was lovely, and he was already prepared to call it home.
If she’d allow it.
If she still needed him.
Bruadarach Distillery was a cluster of white buildings surrounded by barley and smaller outbuildings, all within earshot of the Hebridean Sea. The distant crashing of waves mixed with the cries of the gulls, and he had slowed the wagon to inhale deeply.
“Ow! Fook,” Hunter muttered, slumping once more and pressing his elbow to his side. He’d forgotten about his injury, even if it was healing well. Anxious now to bathe and change and hopefully see Helena, he clucked the horses onward.
At the tall cast-iron gates, he paid the lad who’d tagged along to return the wagon to Askaig, grabbed his bag, and—taking a deep breath of preparation—turned to the distillery.
The place was a bustling hive of activity, and he couldn’t help the way his face split into a grin as he strolled along, observing everything and breathing in the sweet honeyed air.
A month ago, he knew nothing of whisky distilling, except how the final product tasted.
Now, thanks to those long hours on the train and conversations with Helena, Hunter felt confident that he could at least bullshite his way through a discussion on germination, kiln temperature and peat, or types of barrels.
Which was good, because as the workers began to notice his presence, the whispers began.
Eventually someone was going to figure out who he was, and want to start a conversation.
Och, aye, and here it comes now.
An old man, one shoulder stooped with a sharp nose and sharper eyes, hobbled toward him, wiping his hands on a towel tucked in his belt.
His sleeves were rolled, his hat pushed back on his head, and there were sweat trails on his face despite the cool breeze.
Hunter glanced at the building behind him.
Oh, that must be the kiln, where the barley was smoked. Perhaps he could see—
But since the old man was hobbling toward him in determination, Hunter put down his suitcase, propped his hands on his hips, and smiled welcomingly. As if he had every right to be here. As if he knew what the shite he was doing.
“Hullo,” he called when the man got close enough, his hand out. “Are ye the Master Distiller?”
The man stopped in front of him and shook his hand with an abrupt nod.
“Och aye, so yers th’ Lickfold laddie, eh?
Thought ye’d bin tappin’ aboot wi’ th’ bonnie wife an’ a gill in yer haund!
Weel, ye’re no sae daft-lookin’ as we feared.
Bruadarach is gey chuffed tae hae ye. C’mon ben, we’re aye ready tae gie ye the grand daunder.
Agus chan eil fios agad a-riamh, is dòcha gum bi mi dèidheil ort! ”
Fook.
Hunter stared.
With the older man watching him expectantly, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket as though an apple might help, and instead found his fingers curling around the tiny silver spoon. Perhaps the thing’s magic was linguistics related?
He’d been raised in the Highlands, but even he only understood every third word. Lickfold laddie and Bruadarach were obvious, but the rest? But the old man was standing there, still shaking his hand, waiting eagerly. So he plastered on a smile as other workers drifted closer.
“Sorry, friend, could ye run that by me again?”
The old man sighed, rolled his eyes, and tried again, emphasizing each word deliberately. “Thought ye’d bin tappin’ aboot wi’ th’ bonnie wife an’ a gill in yer haund. Chuffed tae hae ye. C’mon ben, we’re aye ready tae gie ye the grand daunder. An’ ye ne’er ken, I’ll mebbe graw t’lick ye!”
That…didn’t help.
Apparently the magic spoon was a shite translator.
Wait—lick me?
Hunter was beginning to panic, and it must’ve been obvious because—to his great relief—a younger man stepped forward and doffed his cap.
“Beggin yer pardon.” He cleared his throat and jerked his thumb at the old man.
“Angus says ye’re the Big Man himsel’, and we figured ye’d be showin’ wi’ the lady an’ a dram or two.
But ye made it, so fair play. We’re dead keen tae hae ye, and we’ve the stills gleamin’ for yer looksee. He mebbe e’en grow t’like you.”
Oh, like me. Well, that part at least was a relief.
Hunter glanced between the two men, then winced and took a guess. “Ye expected me to arrive with Helena, but now ye’re ready to show me around?”
The younger man’s face split into a grin. “Grand, ye’re wi’ us now. Ah’m Johnny White, Second Stillman here. This fine beast beside me is Angus McGillicuddy—folk ken his nose from Bowmore tae the bloody mainland. Head Distiller he is, an’ we’re fair lucky tae hae him.”
Johnny White was the second in command, Angus McGillicuddy was the Head Distiller—very famous for his…nose?
Right.
Either Hunter was going to have to learn to speak Angus, or this was going to get old fast. Still, he grinned and offered his hand again. “Verra pleased to meet ye, Johnny.” He nodded respectfully to the old man. “Angus. I’m looking forward to getting a tour of the place.”
Angus’s wrinkled face split into a grin and he jerked his head toward the kiln.
“Och aye, ye’ve had yer lugs filled wi’ tales o’ Bruadarach these mony a year, eh?
Reckon yer feet’re twitchin’ tae clap een on it proper, och aye.
Wis yer ain guid natterin’ that gied us the bones, so ye’ll be keen tae tak a keek ‘roon. We’re chuffed tae bits ye’re here tae see whit yer braw heid’s conjured, y’ ceannard. ”
Hunter blinked. “Cunnard?”
That didn’t sound good.
Johnny grinned. “Ceannard. Gaelic for headman.”
Ah. Right. Well. “And…and the rest of it?” His grin locked into something approaching a rictus, Hunter switched his gaze back to Johnny The Translator.
The younger man pushed his hat back to scratch his head.
“Angus says ye’ve heard no’but stories fer years, we’ll wager, an’ now ye’re champin’ tae see it wi’ yer ain eyes.
Twas your clever schemin’ set the whole thing up, so course ye’re keen tae walk it yersel’.
We’re real pleased tae hae ye here, headman. ”
Essentially: It was your idea in the first place, and since you’ve never seen it in person, you’re likely anxious for a tour.
Oh.
Hunter hid his wince behind another smile.
These men all believed he was the reason for their success—he, who last month didn’t know how many times barley had to be soaked or how to make peat smoke in exactly the right way.
They didn’t realize that it was really Helena and her brilliance who had built such a successful distillery.
And he wasn’t going to let her down now.
Hunter exhaled and nodded. “I’d like that, and I’m right happy to help however I can.”
The gathered men nudged each other and looked approving as Angus nodded eagerly.
“We’ll set ye tae the barley, right enough—on th’ floor wi’ the malt turnin’, aye? Nothin’ like gettin’ th’ haunds mucky tae ken the soul o’ the dram. We’re aye short a back or two.”
Now both Angus and Hunter turned expectantly to Johnny, who nodded firmly.
“He means we’ll be puttin’ ye tae work flippin’ barley on th’ malting floor. S’good fer the soul, gettin’ yer hands in it. An’ truth be told, we’re no’ ones tae turn down a strong back.”
Right. Shoveling grain, and they needed the help—and it wasn’t like Helena could do it.
Helena. The mere thought of her twisted his gut, but he couldn’t rush to her side, not when she had hired him as a husband in the first place to get these very men on her side.
Well, Hunter had never turned down hard work. “I’m looking forward to it, lads. Treat me the way ye’d treat a brand-new apprentice—”
Angus scoffed, “Och—”