Chapter 9 Finn
FINN
The spaniels bark at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside.
“You two can wait here,” I say, reaching down to give them each a stroke on the head before I brace for the inevitable.
Georgia shoots me a look from the kitchen table. “Want me to handle this?”
“I’ve got it.”
I push a hand through my hair and head outside, bracing for impact.
“Morning,” says Jim, the island taxi driver, with a brief nod. He opens the door, and the American couple climb out of the back seat. They’re in matching baseball caps with huge cameras bouncing on their chests. The woman has a bumbag strapped to her waist.
“Let me get my phone out of my fanny pack,” she says, fiddling with the zip. “I want to record this for my Instagram followers. This is the real Scotland,” she says, beaming at me.
I hold out my hand. The smell of her perfume is overwhelming.
“So good of you to fit us in at such short notice,” says the man. “I’m Drew Campbell and this is my wife, Dee-ann.”
“How do you do.” I set my internal countdown. This is what we have to do to make the business work, I remind myself. “Very nice to have you here.” I stretch my mouth into what I hope passes for a welcoming smile.
Georgia, who has followed me outside, gives them a huge smile and shakes their hands enthusiastically. “It’s lovely to have you here. And all the way from Arkansas?”
“All the way. But my husband is a Campbell, so we’ve got Scotland in our blood. We’ve been to visit the graves of our ancestors up in Inverness already this week and next week we’re visiting Edinburgh to see the castle. My ancestor was stationed there, you know.”
It never ceases to amaze me how much American people know about their ancestry, when I’d rather forget most of my relatives ever existed.
“Fascinating.”
Georgia shoots me a warning look.
“So, Finn is going to show you around the distillery himself and tell you the story of Benruar. And then we’ll have a tasting in his private office.”
My head jerks up.
We’ll—what?
Georgia beams at me with a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.
I narrow my eyes and say nothing.
“A working distillery,” Drew says as we walk down towards the stillroom, his arms flung wide. “This is it!” He takes a deep, over-exaggerated breath and stops dead in his tracks. “You can smell the authenticity.”
I don’t point out that the authenticity he can smell is coming from Tilda.
She’s bent over a planter, shovelling manure.
Her curls have escaped their tie and sweat glints at her temple.
She wipes her forehead with her wrist and reaches for her bottle, taking a long drink of water.
The line of her throat catches the light.
I look away too late. Christ. I need to focus.
Since the water incident I’ve been keeping her at arm’s length or perhaps I should say hose’s length.
It hasn’t helped. She’s not said a word to me since, but I can’t seem to stop noticing her.
The way she hums when she’s working, and the determination with which she does it.
I’ve always appreciated people who take the time to hone their craft, and it’s clear that Tilda takes a real pride in her work. I tell myself that’s all it is.
Dee-ann clutches her iPhone to her chest. “We’ve done Islay, the Orkney Islands, Shetland, but this is the dream. It’s so picturesque.”
“Not like Glen Mhor,” says Drew, who has started walking again. “I didn’t come all the way to Benruar to see high tech touch screens.”
I give a nod of acknowledgement.
“And here we are now being shown around the distillery by one of the Fairfax family.”
I stiffen slightly. “Kinnaird,” I say, correcting her because I can’t help myself.
“Kinnaird?” She looks at me in confusion and then turns to her husband. “But—”
“No way,” says the man, loud enough that Tilda looks up from her shovelling.
Our eyes meet for a split second across the courtyard. There’s something in her expression I can’t read – curiosity? Judgement? Amusement?
She looks away first, trying to pretend she’s not listening, but I’m still watching as she swipes at her forehead with the back of her arm again, leaving a streak of dirt across her flushed cheek.
She leans on the spade, then reaches again for her water bottle from its place on the wall beside the wheelbarrow.
I force my attention back to the Americans.
“Are you related to the Kinnairds of Loch Morven?”
My jaw tightens and I feel my shoulders lock.
I should lie. I could pretend I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about and change the subject.
But the weight of family history hangs around my neck like a bloody millstone and there’s no escaping it, not even with several miles of open sea between me and the estate.
“My brother is the duke,” I acknowledge as quietly as possible.
“No way,” says the woman, stepping back and putting both hands to her cheeks, dropping her phone in the process.
I bend and pick it up, handing it to her.
“So, you’re Lord Kinnaird.”
“She’s an expert on the Scottish aristocracy,” Drew explains proudly. “There’s nothing Dee-ann doesn’t know about it.”
I refrain from pointing out if that was the case, a quick Google search would have unearthed the unfortunate facts of my birth, but it’s too late now. They are practically fizzing with excitement.
“Unbelievable! We’re literally shaking hands with—you’re practically royalty!”
I glance across at Tilda, who is looking straight at me. Her brows arc upwards and she cocks her head slightly, making it very clear she’s heard the whole thing. There’s a challenge in her eyes or maybe it’s mockery. With Tilda, it’s hard to tell.
And then she turns away, picks up her spade, and starts shovelling muck from the wheelbarrow as if her life depends on it.
I go through the motions in the stillroom and give them a tour of the stone warehouse where the barrels are kept, where Malcolm steps in and does his thing, tapping the barrel we keep for that purpose – not that visitors know that – and letting them taste the cask strength spirit with a few drops of peat water from the stream to open it up.
Then we head back to my office, which Georgia in her infinite wisdom has requisitioned as a tasting room. My pristine desk has three bottles of malt and an array of glasses laid out. They sniff, swirl, and close their eyes as if they’re in church.
“This,” says Drew, reverently, “is history in a glass.”
“My sister-in-law called this a bonfire in a silk dress.”
“Your sister-in-law should be writing your label notes with descriptions like that. You should give her a job.”
I huff out a laugh. “She’s got her own writing to do.” I’m not going to tell them she’s a bestselling author, or I’ll set off another domino track of effusive delight.
“So how did you end up here in Benruar? Family connections?”
“Yes and no. I started in the stillhouse when I was eighteen, washing the floors, turning the malt. You don’t see what you’ve made for years. I’m thirty-five now, so this here is the first whisky I touched, start to finish.”
Dee-ann presses a hand to her heart. “That’s incredible, isn’t it Drew? To wait such a long time, that’s true devotion.”
It’s not devotion, it’s the job. But I nod. “It takes patience.”
They taste again, murmuring about peat levels and marine influence. I’m quietly impressed by their knowledge.
“And you’ve even tied in heritage landscaping,” says Dee-ann, gesturing to the window. I follow her gaze. “Tell me what your gardener is up to. I’d love to have a chat with her and take some footage for my YouTube report.”
A second later I’m, somehow, outside and I’ve been lined up next to Tilda for a photograph.
“Closer!” Dee-ann waves us together. “You’re too far apart!”
Tilda shifts towards me, reluctantly. The soft cotton of her sleeve brushes against my bare forearm and I feel it like static.
She smells of fresh sweat, roses, and hard work.
For a second the noise fades – the Americans’ chatter, Georgia’s cheerful directing, everything – and all I can focus on is the warmth of her body beside mine, the way she’s holding herself stiff, the way her chest is rising and falling rapidly.
She’s as conscious of this as I am.
“Perfect!” Dee-ann clicks away.
Then Tilda steps away quickly, putting deliberate distance between us. I feel the absence of her warmth more than I should.
“So, you’re working together?” Drew beams at us as Dee-ann takes a series of photos with her iPhone and again with her camera. “That’s cozy,” he adds with a theatrical wink.
“We’re working to restore the original planting schemes here at Benruar,” I say, clearing my throat. “Tilda, our head gardener, is the expert. I bow to her superior knowledge.”
It’s not even a lie. She is an expert. I’ve been watching her work all week – not that I’d admit it – and the transformation is already remarkable.
She shoots me a narrow-eyed glare that only I see but slips effortlessly into character. Even annoyed with me, she’s professional.
“I’m restoring the borders, and once I’ve done with that, I’ll be doing some work towards renovating the kitchen garden.”
“And keeping the authentic feel, of course,” I add, getting into character.
“That’s so important.” Drew puts the case back on his camera lens. “Places like Benruar are the heart and heritage of the whisky industry.”
“That’s what we’re hoping.” I look at the jumble of distillery buildings, and Malcolm and Arran in the distance, carrying in a load of fresh barley from a pallet.
“You’re doing a good thing,” says Dee-ann, surprising me by putting a hand on my arm. “Not everyone wants all the razzmatazz that they offer at Glen Mhor.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I say grimly.
Back at the house, a taxi bumps up the drive.
Dee-ann has wandered through the gardens with Tilda, who has taken her on a tour, explaining what she is planning to do over the next few weeks before the inspection.
Drew is wandering around the courtyard in a happy daze, with two bottles of our twenty-five-year-old malt tucked under his arm.
If we could get a few visitors like that every day we’d cover the wage bill twice over.
“Lord Kinnaird himself pouring us a dram. I’ll be telling this story at the 19th hole of the golf club for years.” He chuckles and shakes my hand again. I reach out instinctively, aware that if his arm slips, he’ll smash several thousand pounds worth of vintage malt on the gravel.
Five minutes later and they’re safely in the taxi, waving from the window, and promising to let us know when their YouTube video goes live.
The courtyard goes quiet again. Tilda folds her arms and looks at me.
“Well, your lordship,” she says sweetly, “as your head gardener, if it’s alright with you, I’ll get back to work.”
I fix her with a stare. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She lifts a brow. “Don’t point out that you called me your head gardener in front of witnesses who practically bowed at you?”
I grit my teeth. “Tourists.”
“Head Gardener to Lord Kinnaird has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Finn.”
“As you say, m’lord.”
She salutes me with her trowel and heads back to the garden, ponytail swinging, and her careless laughter still hanging in the air. I watch her disappear through the gate and something tightens in my chest.
I left Loch Morven to escape the weight of one legacy, and yet somehow here I am on Benruar, fighting to uphold another. Sometimes it feels like a curse.