Chapter 41
Two days after returning home, Phoebe and Aila set out in a horse-drawn cart for the village of Broadford and Strathail Distillery.
Phoebe’s thick, fur-lined black cloak helped buffer against the cool, early-November morning.
The missing sun and gray clouds left the browning grass in a dull light.
And as they crossed over an old, creaky bridge, the water of the Inner Sound on their right seemed more silver than blue.
She had left early enough that she didn’t have to explain to Lucia, her parents or Egan where she was going, since she had no desire to do so.
Falcon had impressed upon her that Missions are to be discussed only with fellow operatives.
They passed the noisy bustle of the cattle market with its haggling buyers and sellers, the smell of hay and manure, and the frustrated mooing from Highland coos.
A short while later, Phoebe gazed up at the majestic Ben na Calliach.
Villagers refer to the hill as the old woman, because of its shape.
But Phoebe couldn’t recall the dull light ever falling on it in such a shadowy, foreboding manner.
An hour later, just after passing the quiet parish church, they arrived at a large, reddish stone building overlooking the Broadford River, carrying signage for Strathail Distillery.
The man who rushed out to greet them had a full head of graying hair, neatly pulled back, and a pleasant countenance.
He also had Aila’s smile and clear complexion.
He hugged Aila and then her maid introduced her father, Master Fitzroy.
After Fitzroy ordered a distillery worker to feed and take care of their horse, he turned to Phoebe.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mistress Dunbar. Aila sent one of the Dunbar kitchen lads yesterday with the message that you are interested in Strathail whisky.”
Phoebe smiled with appreciation at Aila.
“Depending on the price, I’d first like to purchase a single cask to start with and see how it is received by our clan,” Phoebe said, turning to Aila’s father. Why spend the coin upfront before determining if the Dunbars liked it or not?
“Our whisky is the finest in the Highlands, and I have no doubt you will be pleased,” Fitzroy said.
He then led them on a brief tour of the well-managed modern distillery, explaining the cooking of the grains, the fermentation and distillation process, then the aging in their charred oak barrels.
Phoebe asked apropos questions during the tour, then towards the end of their conversation, keeping her tone casual, Phoebe chose her words wisely.
“I gather Walter Hawley, a lieutenant general of the British Army, is interested in investing in your distillery. You may very well get a visit from him soon.”
Fitzroy’s eyes widened, his expression brightening, seemingly impressed and taken aback.
“Why, he was just here yesterday, Mistress. However did you know? He’s planning a sizable investment, and he ordered a few casks of our single malt forty-year-auld whisky, which I am delivering later this week. Do you know the gentleman?”
Phoebe’s head spun at Fitzroy’s answer, excitement and dread alike mingled in her chest. But she didn’t want word getting back to Hawley that she was inquiring about him.
“I’ve never met the gentleman. A redcoat I encountered in Birmingham spoke of Hawley’s investment. But do be careful—there have been highwaymen robberies in these parts of late. I hope your delivery wagon doesn’t have to travel too far,” Phoebe said, in a slightly bored matter-of-fact tone.
“Thankfully, no. The lieutenant general is letting the gray manor on Bayview Crest. It’s the biggest property not too far off the main road.
I imagine the British Army is paying well for him to afford it, even though it needs work and he has no wife or children to support.
It belongs to the auld Lord Melville, who moved to Edinburgh years ago.
But then I don’t like to gossip, Mistress,” Fitzroy said, a rueful grin reddening his cheeks.
A short while after Phoebe and Aila left the distillery for home, the main dirt road forked. Phoebe took note of the wooden sign, labeled Bayview Crest, pointing in the direction of the less-traveled road.
“Aila, can you turn toward Bayview Crest for a short detour? I’m curious about the gray manor your father mentioned.”
Surprise flashed across Aila’s features, but nonetheless she guided the horse onto the side road.
The speed of their wagon markedly slowed because of the unevenness of the road. Their surroundings notably quieted, to where one could hear the wind against gnarly branches of pine trees and the echoes of their creaking wagon.
Up ahead, a gray English-style stone manor came into view to their left.
Darkened clouds had started to drift overhead causing sinister shadows.
A chill caused Phoebe to pull her cloak closer.
The two-story building, with close to fourteen windows, two broken, was utterly unkept.
Overgrown bushes, brambles, and tall yellow grass crawled up its sides like snakes.
It raised the hairs on the back of Phoebe’s neck.
Aila must have sensed it too. “There’s something evil about that manor, mistress.”
“I feel it too. Let’s turn around,” Phoebe said.
As Aila turned the wagon around, Phoebe spotted two men with flintlock muskets, perhaps guards, emerging from the spindly trees at the rear of the manor and running straight into the barn.
Her eyes were drawn to the unusual number of familiar tall crates stacked near the barn’s door.
Loud voices drifted from the barn, but the exact words were muddled by the distance.
A rotund middle-aged English officer emerged from the building.
He marched straight into the front door of the manor, carrying a dangling horsewhip in his hand, a half-smoked cigar imprisoned between his teeth and lips.
Malicious lines on his features looked engraved.
He wore a blood-red uniform. Phoebe ground her teeth as the fire of hatred sprang up her body, burning her like a bitter sickness from the inside out.
She loathed the color red. She’d never met Hawley before, but her gut and the countless Jacobite pamphlets she’d read of his extreme cruelty told her she was looking right at him.
Aila guided the horse back onto the main road. The clopping of a horse’s hooves towards them made Phoebe lift her gaze. Her heart stopped. Recognition hit her stomach like a punch. The red coated rider stopped in the middle of their path, forcing Aila to pull on their reins.