Chapter 16 Tilda
TILDA
The week slips away quickly. Morning after morning I wake up, head outside with a coffee and tell myself I’ll keep an eye on the time, but the weather is on our side and it’s easy to lose track.
My stomach is the only reliable clock, and around noon we wolf something down in the kitchen – Finn with paint under his nails, Georgia’s printer spitting out graphs, and me with soil ground so deeply into my hands I don’t think they’ll ever scrub clean.
The roofers have arrived at the cottage, and despite my protests, it was pretty clear that living there while they do the work was going to be impossible.
So, I make up for it by working until long into the evening.
There’s something satisfying about falling into bed every night so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and waking up the next day to do it all over again.
Flora’s claimed her spot in front of the Aga and the spaniels have accepted her as one of the pack. I’ve stopped jumping in panic when I hear the heavy tread of Finn’s footsteps in the courtyard, and I’m beginning to believe Georgia when she says his bark is far worse than his bite.
I hope she’s right, because we’re leaving the island, despite my misgivings. I’m pretending I don’t hate the ferry, sitting in the back seat with the dogs, while Finn bumps the Land Rover down the ramp and I duck my head to avoid being spotted by Dave, AKA, Mr Wedding Dress.
The sea is rough and the ramp jolts underneath us, making my stomach drop. Georgia doesn’t seem to notice, chatting away at nineteen to the dozen about her plans for the social media conference she’s attending.
“It’s all about the story,” she says, as I sit back with relief as we make it back onto solid ground. “We’ve got it all. Small batch whisky, artisan made—”
There’s a grunt from Finn.
“You are an artisan,” she continues, undeterred. “And all tied to the island. We’ve got so many unique points of difference that can make us stand out. People are loving the reels I’m doing about the garden progress. Next stop we need to watch you working from grain to barrel.”
“I draw the line at doing Tik Tok dances.”
I snort with laughter and Finn catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, his expression disapproving.
“Nobody’s asking you to dance,” Georgia says, patting him on the arm as if he’s a recalcitrant bear. “But we can position Benruar in a way that works. It’s not for everyone. It’s rare, it’s clever, like you,” she says with a winning smile.
“Attempting flattery is going to get you nowhere,” Finn growls.
“Cask sales to collectors, personalised bottlings, high income, low volume,” she continues. “That’s what we’re aiming for. I think this conference is going to be amazing.”
“Or you’ll be stuck in a mid-range hotel on the outskirts of Glasgow eating crappy Danish pastries and drinking bad coffee for eight hours straight.”
Georgia rolls her eyes and turns back to look at me. “Are you excited to see Loch Morven?”
My stomach flips over in panic and I try to smile. “Yes, I can’t wait.”
“I haven’t been for ages. You’ll love the gardens, they’re so gorgeous. And Rory and Jamie are so nice.”
“You haven’t spent enough time there,” says Finn, but he’s almost smiling at the prospect of seeing his brothers.
I half-envy Georgia. I’ve been on the island for weeks and the idea of the anonymity of Glasgow streets, and the bustle of the shops feels quite appealing.
But another part of me has grown to love the changeable weather of Benruar and the beauty of the rugged island landscape.
Just yesterday morning we stood in the courtyard and watched an eagle soaring overhead.
I sit back and close my eyes, the movement of the truck lulling me into half-sleep.
I hear a door slam and open my eyes what feels like a second later.
“Okay,” says Georgia, reaching in to give the dogs a pat. “Behave you three,” she says, waggling a warning finger. “And you two,” she adds with a laugh.
I rub my eyes and look outside. We’re at the station where Georgia’s catching the early train to Glasgow for her conference. I wish her luck and wave as Finn helps her out with her bags, carrying them across the car park to the little stone station entrance.
“Right,” he says a moment later, “do you want to stay there with the dogs, or…?”
I climb out and sit down in the passenger seat. The butterflies in my stomach are now doing some sort of tap dance in work boots, and I feel a bit sick.
“Is it far?”
“Just around the corner.”
He means that in Highland terms, I realise.
We drive through sheep-dotted countryside for miles, winding our way through the countryside with the mountains dark against the horizon.
Eventually, though, we slow up and I spot a discreet dark blue sign on a post next to a cattle grid as we take a left past some fir trees.
The single-track road is smooth and well-kept in complete contrast to the bumpy track down to the distillery.
I wind down the window and catch the smell of pine sap in the air.
“Is this it?”
“Part of it.” He shoots me a sideways look as if gauging my reaction.
I steeple my fingers. “I can’t…” I pause, trying to sound casual, as if I visit country estates on the regular, “see the house?”
“Oh, it’s still three miles from here.”
“And that’s all part of the estate?” I wave an arm, looking out at a stretch of moorland that seems to reach out for miles. In the distance there’s a pine forest which clings to the side of a steep hill.
“All part of the estate.” He nods.
We keep driving, through the moor and then up through the wooded road, flanked on either side by tall pines.
And then as we crest the hill I gasp, because Loch Morven looks magical.
Dark green hills rise on either side, their slopes planted with a mixture of pine and pale silver birch, the leaves flickering like spinning coins.
The loch itself is a mirror of pale grey. And the castle—
“It looks like a fairytale.”
“Or a nightmare,” Finn says drily.
It rises pale against the trees, the turrets and towers softened by centuries of weather, a scattering of chimneys pointing up towards a pale grey sky. It looks like the set of a film. I half expect a battalion of colourful knights on horseback to appear with jousting poles and flags.
“You didn’t say it was so—”
“Excessive?”
I turn my head and see a nerve flicking in Finn’s cheek.
“You’re not a fan.”
He shakes his head, only once. “I told you already. I got the fuck out of here at eighteen.”
“I wondered if that was the place or the people.”
“Very observant.” Finn slows the car to a halt, stopping on the single-track road before the driveway slips down towards the castle itself. “One person, to be exact.”
“Your father?”
He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “He was an unpleasant man. A drinker.”
I look at him sharply, but his expression gives nothing away.
“That surprises you, given my choice of career.”
We’re still at a standstill, looking down at the castle ahead of us.
“It does.” I flip down the mirror and check my appearance as a wave of anxiety hits.
“You’re fine,” Finn says curtly. “Nobody stands on ceremony here, despite appearances to the contrary.”
I want to ask him more about his father, but his face is closed. He glances away, passing a hand through the tangle of dark hair, and takes a long breath before he starts the engine again.
“Let’s get this over and done with.”
We drive through huge arched gates and into an immaculate gravelled courtyard and my nerves are forgotten in a wave of excitement at the sight of the gardens.
A curvy red-headed woman in a scruffy, striped jumper is wandering across the lawn with two spaniels gambolling at her feet. Her hair is coming loose from its knot, and she’s holding a laptop under one arm. Finn winds down the window as she approaches.
“There you are. You can save me from myself.”
Finn climbs out of the car, and she kisses him on both cheeks.
“Edie,” he says, reaching down to pat the dogs. “I take it the writing isn’t going well?”
“Hideous,” she groans, and peers through the car at me. “Oh, you must be Tilda.”
I climb out, feeling shy.
“So lovely to meet you. I haven’t a clue about gardening, to be honest, but luckily Jake’s here to give you the low down.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “Should we kiss? Shake hands? I’m never very sure.”
I shake her hand with a smile, and she leans in for a kiss, missing my cheek and kissing me on the edge of my ear.
“Oh god,” she says, pulling away, her face flushing scarlet. “I’m so sorry. Finn, please forgive me.”
He’s smiling at her with a surprisingly fond expression. “Tilda, this is my sister-in-law, Edie. I have a suspicion you might get on.”
Edie gives me a conspiratorial smile. I have to admit she’s not what I would have expected from a duchess, not that I have much experience of the aristocracy.
“Okay. Do you want tea first? Coffee? Or Jake’s there—Jake, this is Tilda,” she calls across the lawn, where a tall fair-haired man in a fleece is wielding a pair of loppers.
“Coffee? Garden?”
It’s so beautiful that I don’t hesitate. “I’d love to see the garden first, if that’s okay?” I look at Finn who raises his hands in a gesture of agreement.
“It’s your party,” he says, turning to open the car. “I’ll take these three for a run with the other dogs if Jake wants to give you the grand tour.”
“You’ll be thrilled to have someone to talk to who actually knows what you’re talking about,” says Edie as Jake strides over to join us.
“I love the way it looks but I’m pretty hopeless,” she adds to me.
“I can’t even keep a spider plant alive.
Come on,” she says, hooking Finn by the arm.
“We’ll take these lot for a run and you can tell me all the gossip. ”