Chapter 13 Tilda #2
“Jamie’s taken the estate in hand. He’s working on the regeneration of the peatlands and a rewilding project. It’s his life’s work, turning it into something that’ll outlast us all.”
There’s a warmth in his voice that takes me by surprise. His eyes soften and he looks off into the middle distance, one hand spread wide on the table, the other cradling the bowl of his glass.
“I’ve read a lot about rewilding. It’s really interesting to see what a difference it can make to the ecosystem.”
“I suspect Jamie would have a field day talking your ear off about it all.” He looks at me, an almost smile ghosting his lips as he cocks his head slightly. His tone is almost casual as he carries on. “You could come if you wanted to. I have to head over to Loch Morven to sign some papers soon.”
“Oh.” My heart does a strange sort of skip that I feel under my ribs. “That would be lovely. I mean… only if you’re sure? I wouldn’t want to—”
“I am sure.” He looks at me steadily. “I don’t say things unless I am.”
He pushes his chair back from the table, walking around the back of my chair to the stove. I feel the air shift as his body passes mine.
“Would you like some more?” He lifts the pan from the side of the Aga.
I nod, surprised I’m hungry. “Please.”
He spoons some more onto our plates and sits back down with a rueful expression. “I always over-cater.”
“Ah,” I say, twirling spaghetti onto my fork. “I don’t really cook much. It’s nice to be fed.”
“I was teasing when I said that about your terrible lunch.” His eyes crinkle as he half smiles.
I sip my drink. “I’m a hopeless cook. And by the time I get in from gardening work, I’m usually too tired to bother, so I end up throwing some pasta in a pan.”
“And adding scrambled eggs.” His mouth curves. “Maybe I should try it.”
“I wouldn’t.” I laugh.
Somehow that breaks the awkwardness. Finn surprises me by tossing pieces of leftover pancetta to the dogs, even Flora, who sits down by his side, looking up at him with a hopeful expression.
“You’ve forgiven her?”
“For what?” He reaches down, running a hand over her head.
“Chasing seals, stealing sausages, running through the middle of the stillroom when Malcolm left both doors open last week…”
“She did?” He laughs at that. “Funnily enough, Malc didn’t mention that. He’s got a soft spot for her… and for you.”
“He’s a nice man.”
“Doesn’t suffer fools gladly.” Finn gets up and clears the plates, putting them into the big white Belfast sink and running hot water.
“He’s not the only one,” I venture. “Would you like me to help?”
Before he has a chance to answer, I stand up and take a cloth from the rail of the Aga, ready to dry the dishes as he washes them.
“I thought you’d have had a dishwasher.” I watch as he scrubs the plate, his big hands making it look tiny.
“I do.” He runs the plate under the hot tap and passes it to me. “But it’s hardly worth it when I’m cooking for one.”
“You cook like this every night?”
I wipe it the plate before putting it down on the oak worktop.
“Most nights. It gives me time to think.”
It only takes a couple of moments for him to wash up. I watch as he carefully wipes around the sink and the taps, leaving it spotless. It seems a weird contrast to the comfortable muddle of the kitchen.
“So why are you here?” he asks finally.
The silence stretches. The quiet between us feels weirdly charged, so I grab for the first thing that sounds like a joke.
“Because my tyrant of a boss insisted I had to leave my cottage in the middle of a storm.”
“Very funny. I mean really here.”
“To sort the cottage.”
He raises his eyebrows as he looks at me. We’re standing by the sink, only a couple of feet apart. I’m holding a tea towel and he’s towering over me, muscled arms folded over his chest. Not that I am noticing the arms, of course, because he’s my tyrant of a boss and I’m—
“So why aren’t you sorting the cottage?”
I drop the towel, heat prickling in my cheeks.
“I don’t need a lecture,” I say sharply.
“I had no idea the place leaked like a sieve, or I’d have done something before now.
And I’m trying to get the place sorted but it’s a bit difficult when I’m coming home from work exhausted, and it turns out I can’t even buy DIY stuff or paint on the island and—”
He puts both hands up in protest. “I wasn’t lecturing, I was asking. If you’re here to sort out the cottage, why on earth take a gardening job?”
I press my lips together and he looks at me, not speaking, his head cocked slightly to one side in query.
“I thought you were having a go.” I walk back over to the table and sit down. He follows, pulling in the chair opposite, and picking up his glass.
“Just interested.”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have all night.”
Outside the rain has slowed to a steady thrum on the windowpanes. I twist my glass on the tabletop and think before I look up at him.
“I’ve avoided coming here since… since my dad died.”
Finn goes very still, his glass halfway to his lips as something flickers across his face.
“I knew I had to come and sort the place out at some point and put it on the market, but I’m not very good at getting round to things. Anyway, I—well, life sort of got in the way and then I ended up having to find a place to stay and it seemed like the perfect opportunity.”
“That makes sense. Taking a job here doesn’t.”
I blurt it all out. I explain how Jack ripped me off, how I impulsively threw the business at him and walked away from everything. He listens, chin resting on his hand, and doesn’t interrupt.
“So, then I was here with nothing, and the job came up and… here we are.”
“Lucky for us.”
I look over at him and frown in surprise.
“Was that a compliment?”
He gives a brief nod and laughs. “It was an acknowledgement of work well done. So far.”
“I’ll take that.”
There’s a comfortable silence. He refills his glass, the wine catching the lamplight as it pours. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“Your father.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Gordon was a good man. One of the best I’ve known.”
My hands spread flat on the table. “You knew him?”
He’s looking at his glass now, not at me. “I did. He taught me a lot about whisky.”
I huff through my nose, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“His knowledge was—” He stops, shaking his head slightly. “He was instrumental to this place. To me.”
The warmth in his voice when he talks about my father makes something twist in my chest. I feel my shoulders tensing, my jaw tightening.
“Right.” The word comes out clipped.
Finn glances up, his brow furrowing as he looks at me. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were—”
“It’s fine.” My voice is tight. “It’s—” I gesture at his glass. “That’s what you do here, isn’t it? Make the stuff that ruins lives.”
His face shutters closed. “I’m sorry?”
“Whisky. Alcohol.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, in typical Tilda fashion. “You spend your whole life making a product that destroys families. That turns people into—” I break off, my throat tight.
Finn sets his glass down carefully. “Into what, Tilda?”
“Into people who choose a bottle over their children.” My hands are fisted on the table now, my temper rising. “You dress it up as heritage and craftsmanship, but at the end of the day it’s no different to cheap vodka from a corner shop.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I push my chair back, needing distance. “You make something that ruins lives and you sleep soundly because you tell yourself it’s not your responsibility what people do with it.”
“It’s not.” His voice is measured, but there’s steel underneath. “I don’t force anyone to drink it. The whisky I make is designed to be savoured. Respected. What people choose to do with it – that’s their choice, not mine.”
“And when those choices destroy everything?” I’m standing now, my voice shaking. “When someone’s father chooses whisky over his family, over his daughter, over everything that should matter – whose fault is that?”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Tilda—”
“No. You said he was a good man, that he taught you about whisky. Well, he taught me about whisky, too.” My voice cracks.
Finn stands too, moving around the table towards me. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” I back towards the doorway. “I understand that this place, this industry – people like you – you enable it. You make it beautiful and call it tradition and heritage and meanwhile families fall apart.”
“That’s not what this is.” He’s close now, his voice low and intense. “Gordon—your father—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp. “Don’t tell me about my father. I know, I know all too well.”
I can see the conflict warring in his dark eyes. For a long moment he looks down at me, his chest rising and falling as he takes in a breath.
“There’s more to the story,” he says eventually. “Things you don’t know.”
“Like what?” I challenge him. “What could possibly make it better? Make it okay that he—” My voice breaks again, and I hate that he’s seeing me like this, seeing me fall apart.
Finn’s hand lifts as if he’s going to touch my face, and then he drops it by his side. “I can’t—” He stops, a muscle flickering in his cheek. “I don’t know the whole story.”
He’s looking at me with such intensity that I can’t look away. “If you really want to know who Gordon was—”
“I know who he was.” I’m standing there, squared up to a man who is a foot taller than me, my jaw rigid.
But even as I say it, there’s a doubt creeping in.
Susan’s words to me when we first met. The warmth in Finn’s voice when he spoke about my father.
The way Malcolm had mentioned him that day in the garden.
We’re still standing close, the air thick between us. His hand lifts again, hovering near my face. “You’re wrong about the whisky,” he says quietly. “Wrong about what we do here, but—” His thumb brushes my cheek, so briefly that I might have imagined it. He shakes his head slowly.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. His eyes looking down on me are dark and unreadable, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Finn—”
“You should get some sleep.” His hand drops and he steps back, deliberately putting space between us. “It’s been a long day. You’re tired.”
I bite my lower lip and nod, suddenly exhausted.
“Goodnight, Tilda.” He turns away, moving to the sink, gripping the edge of it with both hands. His huge shoulders are rigid and his back tense.
I stand there for another heartbeat, my cheek still tingling where he almost touched me, my heart hammering.
Then I turn and walk out, climbing the stairs to the rose-papered bedroom.
Upstairs, I lean back against the closed door, letting out a long, slow breath. The fire he lit crackles gently in the grate, and the room is warm and cosy – completely at odds with the storm of emotions churning inside me.
If you really want to know who Gordon was…
I press my palms against my eyes. Part of me wants to storm back downstairs and demand answers but the look on Finn’s face told me he wouldn’t say more.
I run my hand down my cheek, feeling the heat where his thumb brushed over my skin, remembering the war in his eyes between stepping closer and stepping back.
I change into my oversized T-shirt and climb under the heavy blankets, and then I hear footsteps.
My heart leaps as the doorhandle turns, and I look across to see Flora, her claws clicking on the wooden floorboards.
He’s delivered her to me, knowing she’d want to sleep with me.
I hold my breath, wondering if he is going to come in, too, but then I hear the footsteps continue down the corridor, and the scampering of the spaniels that follow. A door closes quietly.
I exhale shakily and pull the blankets up to my chin, my heart banging loudly in my chest.
This is going to be a very long night.