Chapter 26 #2
I tried to imagine him as a child, curled in one of these massive chairs, lost in adventure stories while rain lashed the leaded windows. It was both easy and impossible to reconcile that boy with the confident man who now stood before me.
We continued through the castle, up narrow stone staircases to tower rooms with views that stretched for miles across the Highlands, down to the kitchens where Patrick introduced me to Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper who had known him since birth and treated him with the fond exasperation of a woman who had once changed his diapers.
“And you’ll be wanting tea in the Blue Room, I expect,” she said, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. “I’ve put out some scones and sandwiches.”
“Wonderful, Mrs. Ferguson. Thank you.” Patrick smiled at her with genuine affection.
As we climbed back upstairs, I began to understand something fundamental about Patrick—this place, with its history and permanence, was a core part of who he was.
It explained his steadiness, his responsibility, his connection to tradition.
The castle wasn’t just a possession; it was an inheritance, a legacy, a trust.
The tour ended in Patrick’s study, a warm room paneled in dark wood, with a large desk positioned to look out over the loch.
Unlike the more formal spaces, this room felt deeply personal.
Photos crowded the shelves and desk—Patrick with his kids, a younger Patrick in graduation robes, and several of a pretty woman I assumed was Shannon.
One photo caught my eye—Patrick as a teenager, standing between a distinguished-looking couple. I picked it up, studying their faces for traces of the man I knew.
“My father’s nose,” Patrick said, coming to stand beside me. “My mother’s eyes.”
“When did they die?” I asked softly.
“Da first, when I was twenty-five. Lung cancer—both of them were heavy smokers. Mum followed eight years later. Same thing.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard the old grief beneath it. “Shannon died less than a year after that.”
I set down his parents’ photo and picked up one of Shannon. She had been lovely—fair and delicate, with a gentle smile. “She was beautiful,” I said.
Patrick nodded, his expression soft with memory. “She was.” He took the photo from me and set it down, then cupped my face in his hands. “But now you’re here. With me.”
When he kissed me, I felt the weight of all those losses, all that grief, and the miracle that we had found each other despite it—or perhaps because of it.
Later, as the afternoon faded toward evening, we sat by the fire in his study, nursing glasses of whisky from the castle’s private cask. Patrick had grown quiet, his expression troubled as he stared into the flames.
“There’s something else,” he said finally. “About the castle.”
I waited, sensing this was important.
“When my parents died, my older brother Malcolm wanted to sell Eidheann. Said it was a money pit, that we should take the cash and invest it.” Patrick’s jaw tightened. “We had a massive row about it.”
“You have a brother?” I was surprised; Patrick had never mentioned him.
“A brother and a sister,” Patrick said.
The pain in his voice was raw, compounded by regret. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his.
“After our fight, my sister and I bought him out,” Patrick continued. “I couldn’t let it go. This place... it’s all I have left of them. My parents, my ancestors, even Malcolm in a way.”
Eidheann wasn’t just a family home or a status symbol. It was a physical manifestation of his determination to preserve what mattered, even when it would have been easier to let go.
It made me love him more.
The next day dawned clear and bright, the mist burning off to reveal a landscape painted in vivid greens and purples. Patrick had arranged a small family gathering—a casual lunch on the terrace overlooking the gardens. I was terrified.
“Just a few people,” he assured me as I tried on and discarded the third outfit I’d packed. “My sister Nora, a couple of cousins, and Shannon’s parents, Robert and Margaret.”
I froze, a sweater halfway over my head. “Shannon’s parents?”
Patrick’s expression was apologetic. “They live nearby. They helped care for the little ones after Shannon died. I couldn’t not invite them.”
My stomach clenched with anxiety. Meeting Patrick’s family was nerve-wracking enough, but Shannon’s parents? What would they think of me, the woman who had stepped into their daughter’s place? Would they resent me? Judge me?
“They’re good people,” Patrick said, reading my expression. “They just want to meet you.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
By the time I descended the grand staircase to the entrance hall, several people had already arrived.
Patrick stood talking with a striking woman who shared his height and coloring—his sister Nora, I assumed.
Two men who looked to be in their thirties hovered near a table laden with drinks—the cousins, probably.
And standing slightly apart, a silver-haired couple watched the proceedings with quiet dignity. Robert and Margaret Allen. Shannon’s parents.
Patrick spotted me and crossed the room, taking my hand. “There you are. Come meet everyone.”
Nora McCrae enveloped me in a warm hug before I could prepare myself. “Thank God someone finally got through to him,” she said, loud enough for Patrick to hear. “He’s been impossible since—” She stopped herself. “Well, for a long time.”
She was tall and willowy like her brother, with the same blue eyes and auburn hair. Her smile was open and genuine, instantly disarming my nervousness.
“Patrick says you saved your company from corporate raiders,” she continued. “And you have four youngsters? God, I can barely manage my two.”
“Nora’s children are hellions,” Patrick supplied. “Absolute terrors. They take from their mother.”
“More likely their uncle,” Nora shot back, winking at me. “Don’t believe a word he says, Theresa. I was an angel as a child.”
“She set fire to the east wing when she was twelve,” Patrick stage-whispered.
“It was a small fire!” Nora protested. “And it was an experiment for school.”
Their easy banter calmed me, and by the time Patrick introduced me to his cousins—James and Alistair, both lawyers in Edinburgh—I was actually enjoying myself.
Then we approached Robert and Margaret Allen.
An elegant couple in their sixties. Robert was tall and distinguished, with the kind of bearing that suggested military service. Margaret was petite and fair—I could see Shannon in her delicate features and gentle eyes.
“Robert, Margaret,” Patrick said formally. “This is Theresa Carideo.”
I extended my hand, hoping they didn’t notice it was shaking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
Robert took my hand firmly. “Likewise, Mrs. Carideo. Patrick has spoken highly of you.”
Margaret simply nodded, her expression polite but unreadable.
The lunch that followed was a strange mix of awkward and warm.
Nora kept the conversation going, filling me in on embarrassing stories from Patrick’s youth.
James and Alistair debated Scottish politics with good-natured intensity.
Patrick occasionally squeezed my hand under the table, a silent reassurance.
Robert contributed occasionally to the conversation, his manner cordial if reserved. Margaret remained largely silent, watching me with those gentle eyes that revealed nothing of her thoughts.
When the meal ended, people drifted into small conversational groups. I was helping Mrs. Ferguson clear the plates when Margaret approached me.
“Would you walk with me in the gardens?” she asked. “It’s lovely this time of year.”
My heart jumped to my throat, but I nodded. “I’d like that.”
Margaret led me down a winding stone path through gardens that had been tended for centuries.
Spring bloomed all around us—rhododendrons, bluebells, and early roses creating splashes of color against the old stone walls.
We walked quietly for several minutes, the only sound being the distant calls of birds.
I tried to imagine what it felt like for her—seeing her daughter’s husband with another woman, in the place her daughter had once called home. The thought made my throat tighten.
“Shannon loved these gardens,” Margaret said finally, her voice soft but steady. “She used to bring the babies out here when they were small. Even in winter, she’d bundle them up and let them run wild.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“She was our only child,” Margaret continued. “We had her late in life, after we’d given up hope of having children at all. When she died...” Her voice faltered slightly. “Well, we lost more than just our daughter. We lost some of ourselves.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, the words wholly inadequate.
Margaret waved my sympathy away. “Patrick was devastated too, of course. He’d already lost his parents.
Then Shannon.” She shook her head. “He became a ghost. Going through the motions of life but not really living. He buried himself in his work. Thank God he had Mrs. Kowalski to manage the children.”
We paused beside a small stone bench overlooking a reflecting pool. Margaret sat, patting the space beside her. I joined her, heart hammering in my chest.
“About a month ago, Patrick came to see us,” she said.
“He sat in our living room and talked about you for an hour.” Her eyes, so like Shannon’s, searched my face.
“He talked about your intelligence, your courage, your love for your family. I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t seen since Shannon died. I think it was hope.”
Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them back.
“I loved my daughter,” Margaret said, her voice stronger now. “I always will. But Patrick deserves to live again. My grandchildren deserve a mother who’s truly there.” She paused, looking directly into my eyes. “And your children deserve a father in their lives.”
“I’m not trying to replace Shannon,” I whispered.