14. Piper
Chapter fourteen
Piper
The solicitors have their work to do, but sitting still has never been one of my talents. While they trace trusts, corporations, and whatever other legal nightmare has swallowed Glenhaven Castle, Mrs. MacLeod agrees to show me more of the castle.
By late afternoon, my notebook contains twelve pages of observations, four pages of questions, a list of urgent repairs, and several increasingly indignant notes about alterations someone inflicted upon the place during the twentieth century.
One partition wall is particularly offensive. Someone has blocked half an original stone arch with plasterboard, and I would like their name.
Murphy followed us everywhere but now he tires of climbing stairs.
He's been following Mrs. MacLeod and me faithfully from room to room until, somewhere around the west gallery, he looked at me with quiet accusation and flopped dramatically onto an antique rug.
"You have no work ethic, Murphy." He sighs, loudly.
Mrs. MacLeod excuses herself for some tasks.
After she goes, I catch sight of someone at the end of the upper gallery.
Just for a heartbeat. Tall. Looking like the figure I saw outside last night.
Wrapped in what looks like layers of dark grey cloth drifting around them despite the complete absence of wind.
The face, if there is one, is hidden beneath a deep hood.
I blink.
Then the figure is gone. Not walking away. Just gone. I hurry down the gallery. Maybe they went into a room. But there’s nothing. No open doors. No footsteps. No place anyone could have disappeared.
I remain there longer than I care to admit, listening. But there’s nothing. Not even the groan of old floorboards settling.
By the time I head downstairs, I have almost convinced myself it was a curtain, a trick of the dim light, or one of Glenhaven Castle’s shadows stretching itself into something more interesting.
I find Tristan exactly where I knew I'd find him.
The library. A fire crackles softly despite the mild afternoon. A silver tea service waits on the low table between two leather armchairs. Fresh scones fill the room with the scent of butter.
"It smells good in here. And my feet hurt. May I join you? And did you plan this?"
"I confess I did …
He looks at me.
“You appear unsettled, Piper.”
The accuracy of it catches me off guard.
“Oh, well, I thought I saw someone in the upper gallery.”
His hand stills on the teapot.
“What sort of someone?”
“Tall. Hooded. Very committed to dramatic entrance and exit.”
His expression becomes unreadable before he lowers his gaze and pours my tea.
“Glenhaven has a talent for shadows.”
It sounds like an explanation. It doesn’t feel like one.
I turn my attention to him as he pours the tea. As he reaches for the teapot, sunlight slips through the tall windows and catches on the large ring he always wears.
The stone flashes once—deep red beneath the black. Then his hand moves back into shadow.
“Family ring?” I ask. “It’s stately.”
His thumb passes over it almost unconsciously.
“Something like that … Piper, I assumed you'd be hungry," he says, handing me a cup of tea and gesturing towards the scones. "I assumed you'd eventually remember you hadn't eaten since breakfast and you’ve been quite industrious."
"I hate that you're right."
I laugh as I sink into the chair opposite him. Murphy glances at me then walks directly past me. And without hesitation, settles at Tristan's feet.
Tristan scratches behind one golden ear without interrupting the pouring of his tea.
"I believe I've been adopted."
"Yes. Or manipulated."
"I don't appear to mind. I hope milk is acceptable. And two sugars."
"You remembered."
"You mentioned it last night."
"And you actually remembered. That's disturbingly attractive."
His hand pauses for the briefest instant above his own cup. Then he calmly resumes stirring.
"I shall try not to let it become a habit."
I grin over the rim of my teacup.
"Well, it looks rather good on you."
His expression remains perfectly composed. Only the faint warmth in his eyes betrays him. I think he might like a little flirtation.
"So. Any news from Duncan yet?"
"Not yet. It’s only been hours, Piper. How fares Glenhaven Castle under your studies?"
I pull my notebook from my bag with unmistakable enthusiasm.
"Oh, you're going to regret asking."
I flip to the first page. “The east guest rooms have plumbing old enough to qualify for their own archaeological study. The conservatory roof has two active leaks. Someone blocked an original arch in the west corridor, and I would like permission to be personally offended.”
“You have it.”
“And the servants’ staircase squeaks in seven different places.”
"It has done so since 1938."
I stop.
"You know the year?"
He pauses then says, "I recall my grandfather telling me. He said the carpenter apologized to my grandfather about it but never fixed it."
"Of course you remember." I laugh as I continue turning pages.
“The wallpaper in the blue room is peeling.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is.”
“I’ve always found it cheerful.”
“It depicts dancing pheasants wearing crowns.”
“They are well-executed pheasants. I've always admired their confidence and style."
I burst into laughter.
"I cannot believe you're defending royal pheasants."
"I've known them a considerable time."
"You’re impossible."
I pull out my tablet.
“Your internet is horrible, by the way. I created a hotspot today for all this,” I say.
"I have no idea what you just said." His eyes narrow with polite caution. "Should I be concerned?"
"Probably."
I tap the screen.
"I've made a few Pinterest boards. I want to show you."
"I'm afraid I don't know what those are."
"They're collections of ideas. Inspiration, design styles, restoration ideas, that sort of thing."
"I see."
I scoot my chair closer and turn the screen toward him.
His eyes narrow with polite caution.
“These are ways to add modern necessities without making an old castle look like an airport lounge.”
“I find that distinction reassuring.”
He studies the first collection with complete seriousness. Natural stone. Warm oak. Soft green walls the color of Scottish moss. Brass lighting. Comfortable furniture. He says nothing for nearly a minute.
Finally he says, "I like the windows."
"But the windows aren't changing."
"Excellent."
I sigh, and swipe to the next collection.
"This is a kitchen board of ideas."
His expression changes immediately.
"The kitchen?"
"It needs to function better."
"It functions."
"It functions for 1892."
"I've always considered 1892 underrated."
"It has one electrical outlet."
"I've seldom required more."
"You don't even own a toaster."
"I've survived using the oven."
"You don't own a microwave."
"I've survived. Not sure what it is anyway."
"You don't own a dishwasher."
"I..." He pauses. "...possess Mrs. MacLeod."
I lower the tablet.
"You did not just compare your housekeeper to a dishwasher."
"I confess that was poorly phrased."
He actually looks faintly embarrassed.
"I shall apologize."
"To Mrs. MacLeod?"
"Immediately."
I shake my head, laughing.
"I don't know how you've managed to make six words sound like a constitutional crisis."
"I'm gifted."
"That, Lord Sinclair, is the first arrogant thing you've said since I met you."
"I'll endeavor not to make a habit of it, lass."
I swipe to another board.
"Now, this one is my favorite."
He leans forward slightly. Rich woods. Scottish textiles and tartan plaids. Deep blue. Leather. Books. Elegant reading lamps. Nothing flashy, everything comfortable yet stylish and inviting.
He studies it quietly, then says, "That feels like Glenhaven."
The words make me smile.
For a little while we simply look at the images together. It's strangely pleasant.
"Oh," I say. His attention returns to me. "Tomorrow morning someone from Sky is coming."
"Sky?"
“To assess the internet situation.”
His expression darkens as though I have announced an invading army.
“Nothing is being drilled into six-hundred-year-old stone without permission,” I add. “They’re looking. Giving a quote, that sort of thing. You do need good internet here, Tristan, even if you look confused.”
“I know what the internet is.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
I fold my arms as the expression on his face says we don’t need it at all.
"I’m not sure how you can exist here without it."
"I choose not to participate."
"You choose not," I stop, "...to participate?"
"I find books considerably less argumentative. And more interesting. And more truthful. I write notes instead of email. I've been living quite comfortably without it, lassie."
I stare at him.
"You really are two centuries behind."
"I object."
"On what grounds, sir?"
"I'm only one century behind."
I laugh so hard I nearly spill my tea. He watches me over his cup. There it is again. That look, quiet and warm. Looking like my laughter has become one of his favorite sounds.
When it finally subsides, I sigh happily.
"I've spoken with Martin."
"And?"
“He doesn’t have concrete answers yet, either. He still believes my purchase is legally valid.”
“But?”
“But he also believes your occupancy rights are valid, which is apparently the legal equivalent of two trains occupying the same piece of track.”
“A vivid description.”
“I’m trying not to picture the collision.
I trace one finger around the rim of my cup.
“Do you mind if I keep documenting what I find while the solicitors untangle this?”
“Documenting?”
“Condition of the castle, history, previous alterations. Nothing removed. Nothing painted. No royal pheasants harmed.”
“I appreciate the assurance.”
“The conservatory roof should be stabilized before the next serious storm. Only emergency work, and only if we both agree.”
He considers me for a moment.
“That seems reasonable.”
“I can be reasonable.”
"I suspect it’s time for some of these repairs, like the roof leaks and the plumbing… But if or when you do not own the castle, you realize the work can’t continue."
I sigh. I might not own Glenhaven Castle. But I’m here, and I don’t want to be idle. I’d love to continue planning until I can’t. I feel conflicted about all of this … I glance toward the windows where the late afternoon sun paints the gardens gold.
“You asked why I restore old places. I like figuring out what someone tried to cover up.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“In buildings,” I add. “Mostly.”
“An important qualification.”
“New walls over old arches. Cheap paneling over carved wood. Carpet over wood or tile. Windows bricked up because someone decided daylight was inconvenient. Every generation changes things, but not every change deserves to survive.”
“And you decide which do?”
“I investigate. The building usually makes a fairly convincing argument.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“So you don’t wish to remake Glenhaven?”
“No.” I look around the library. “I want to know what happened to it. I love the stories in the buildings. The story of each place, why it was built, by whom, the history, what happened in the house and around it." I look around the library. "Every place remembers something."
I take a sip of tea as he watches me and then continue.
"The people who built it. The people who loved it. The people who left. My job is never to erase that. It's to uncover it."
His gaze doesn't leave mine.
"So..." I continue, "I was wondering."
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow..."
I hesitate just long enough to choose my words.
"I'd like to spend some time in the village."
"The village?"
There’s nothing unusual in the words, but the warmth leaves his expression.
“Yes, for my studies. Library, parish records, anyone willing to talk about the castle.”
“People in Glenhaven are not always eager to discuss the castle with strangers.”
“I’m charming.”
“You are persistent.”
His gaze settles on me for a moment too long.
“Lass, curiosity can attract attention in places where people have survived by avoiding it.
"Well, I'd like to keep talking to you. About what you know and remember and what records you might have as Lord of Glenhaven Castle."
His eyebrows lift slightly.
"You've lived here your whole life. You are a walking primary source, Tristan."
"I've never been called that before."
"I want stories. All of them. The family, your family and ancestors. The castle. People in the strange portraits, the music room, how the gardens were developed, you know, everything!”
He says nothing.
“I have a feeling you know far more about this place than you intend to tell me, Tristan.”
“I know a great many things I do not intend to tell you.”
I smile, lean back, and take a bite of the scone as Tristan looks at me.
“Good. I enjoy a challenge.”
The tea has long since grown cool. Neither of us seems to notice. Or care.
Somehow, without either of us intending it, afternoon tea has become less about the tea, and more about finding reasons to linger just a little longer in each other's company.