16. Piper in the Village
Chapter sixteen
Piper in the Village
The following morning arrives wrapped in silver mist. Scotland, I've decided, doesn't really wake up. It slowly remembers it's morning.
Tristan is not at breakfast this morning, but his warning from last night follows me out the door.
“Do not believe everything anyone tells you. I’ve found villages possess an unfortunate tendency toward embellishment.”
“You mean gossip?”
“I was attempting to be diplomatic.”
His mouth had twitched.
“I suspected you might.”
Tristan arranged my transport. Liam MacLeod drives Murphy and me down to the village with instructions to return for us in the late afternoon. Instructions that are apparently Tristan’s rather than his.
“Does he always organize everyone’s movements?”
Liam’s mouth shifts as though he is suppressing a smile.
“Only when he’s worried. My mother does the same. Very good at arranging things. And being worried.”
“Is he worried?”
Liam looks toward the castle in the rearview mirror.
“He didnae say.”
Liam points out where to start, where the library is and helps Murphy out of the car.
The village is everything I'd hoped for. At first.
Narrow stone streets. Flower boxes overflowing with lavender. The tiny bakery whose warm scent drifts halfway down the lane. A butcher, a florist, a second-hand bookshop with uneven windows, and a café so small I'm fairly certain the tables were designed for people significantly shorter than me.
Charming and scenic.
But the longer Murphy and I walk, the more I notice the pauses.
Conversations soften as I pass. Faces turn toward me, then toward the castle above the village. People look or pretend not to notice me but they do. Everyone knows who I am.
More unsettlingly, everyone seems to have been expecting me.
Murphy is oblivious, convinced every person exists solely to admire him. To be fair, the evidence supports his theory.
"Oh, look at him!"
"He's beautiful!"
"Can I pet him? What’s his name?"
He accepts the attention with the quiet dignity of a celebrity accustomed to public affection.
Our first stop is the little café. Mostly because coffee is one of my love languages. The woman behind the counter smiles the moment I walk in.
"You're the American, aren’t you lassie?"
News travels quickly.
"I suppose I am. I mean, yes, I am."
"I'm Maisie."
"Piper."
She pours coffee before I even finish ordering.
"I've apparently bought Glenhaven, or not. There’s some legal issues."
"You've met Lord Sinclair yet?"
"I have."
"And?"
I smile into my coffee.
"He's ... not what I expected."
"No?"
"He cooks."
Maisie blinks. "He cooked?"
"For me."
A long pause. Then she laughs so hard she has to set down the coffee pot.
"Oh, I'd have paid good money to see that, lassie."
"Why?”
Her smile turns strangely knowing. “Because His Lordship does very little without meaning to. I've known him nearly twenty years … He comes in every Thursday."
Every Thursday?
"He comes to the café?"
"Orders tea, always Earl Grey, same table, same time, and brings a book."
The image of dignified Lord Tristan Sinclair quietly sitting in this tiny café every Thursday somehow delights me beyond reason.
"For how long?"
"Oh ... usually for an hour or so."
"And people just..." I gesture vaguely, "...leave him alone?"
Maisie smiles. "Yes."
"Does everyone know him?"
"Everyone. Or at least they know of him. He’s the laird, you see."
The way she says it makes the title sound less inherited than permanent. Before I can ask another question, an elderly gentleman at the next table clears his throat.
"The castle treating you kindly, dearie?"
"Yes, I think so."
The elderly gentleman studies me over the rim of his teacup.
"So you're staying at Glenhaven Castle, then?"
"I am. At least for a while."
He nods slowly. "Then you'll be wanting to listen to the house."
His eyes drift toward the window, where the castle sits high above the village, half hidden by morning mist.
"My grandmother used to say Glenhaven Castle remembers everything. The good, and other things."
"What other things?"
The old man gives the smallest shrug.
"Oh ... A long time ago, long before my grandfather's grandfather, there were difficult years."
"What happened?"
His gaze settles on mine. "I expect Lord Sinclair will tell you what he thinks you should know."
He rises slowly from his chair.
"Every old place has some ghosts. But some old places still have teeth," he says, his eyes lifting once more toward the distant castle.
Then, as though he'd said nothing unusual at all, he reaches for his walking stick, and leaves. He says, "Enjoy your coffee" as the door closes behind him.
For a long moment I simply sit there.
Finally Maisie places another biscuit beside my cup. "Don't mind Angus."
"He tells that story to everyone?"
"No, only the people he thinks should hear it."
Before I can ask what that means, she's already serving another customer. I suspect she would tell me no more anyway.
From there I wander to the village bookshop. Its owner, Mr. Fraser, is approximately eighty, wonderfully opinionated, and deeply suspicious of electronic books.
"They've no smell. I like the smell of paper."
I ask about Glenhaven Castle. His eyes drift toward the window. "It's older than memory. The Sinclairs built it. Every generation altered something and … concealed something else.”
“I’d like to find those pieces.”
Mr. Fraser studies me. “You might. But know that questions open doors, Miss Monroe, and not every door was meant to be opened.”
Then, he adds more quietly, "If the castle decides you're listening and likes you, it might reveal secrets."
I smile. "I like that."
"It's true." He says it so matter-of-factly that I can't decide whether he's joking.
The village library proves equally fascinating. Maps. Photographs. Land records. Parish registers. Most are exactly what I'd hoped to find.
Until...
I begin looking through old photographs.
One catches my eye. It’s a harvest festival and judging by the clothing, perhaps from the early 1960s.
Children are running through the square.
There’s a brass band. Villagers laughing.
And near the edge of the picture ... a tall man stands speaking with the minister.
Dark coat, perfect posture, grey eyes fixed beyond the camera.
Tristan.
No. The picture was taken in the early 1960s. The man appears no older than thirty.
It cannot be him. My fingers tighten on the photograph. The resemblance must run strongly in the Sinclair family. An uncle, perhaps. His father. Someone with the same full mouth and impossible posture.
I take a picture of the photograph. Then I write two words in my notebook.
Ask Tristan.
I look again. The photo is over 60 years ago.
The librarian notices my expression. "Interesting photograph, isn't it? His Lordship donated that collection himself.”
“When?”
“Some years ago. He likes local history.”
By the time Murphy and I leave the library, my notebook notes are plentiful.
Facts. Questions. Sketches. Observations. Three different people have described Glenhaven Castle as "watching over the valley." Two referred to Lord Sinclair simply as "the laird." One little girl asked if Murphy was "the castle dog now."
I rather hope he is.
As Murphy and I wander back toward the square, an elderly woman steps out of the florist carrying a basket of fresh heather.
She slows when she sees me.
“You’ll be Miss Monroe, then?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze moves briefly toward the castle.
“You’re staying with His Lordship?”
“We’re sharing the castle while the solicitors sort things out.”
“Then mind what he tells you, lassie.”
I smile.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Her expression loses its warmth.
“If Tristan Sinclair tells you to be afraid, lass, believe him.”
I wait for her to explain. But she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles with unexpected warmth at Murphy and gently pats his head.
"Take care of her, boy." Murphy's tail gives a single, solemn wag.
"And when Lord Sinclair tells you not to do something, you’d be wise to listen."
She turns and continues down the street, disappearing as though she'd merely commented on the weather.
I stand there for another moment and Murphy nudges my hand.
"Helpful," I mutter.
He sneezes.
"I agree. Mysterious old ladies should be required to finish their thoughts."
On the way back toward the square, I notice a tiny antique shop tucked between the florist and the bakery.
I slip in as the bell above the door jingles softly.
Inside are shelves crowded with old books, silver, tartan scarves, brass compasses, carved boxes, and enough interesting objects to keep me occupied until Christmas.
A small leather case catches my eye. Inside rests an antique fountain pen. The nib is beautifully engraved. The barrel is polished walnut. It’s elegant and understated. Exactly ... Tristan.
"Looking for a gift?" the shopkeeper asks as I look at it. “For the laird, perhaps?”
“Yes. He looks like a man who considers email a personal insult.”
“Then that’s the right pen, lass.”
Without another thought, I buy it. Before I can conduct a sensible internal debate. Which is concerning. I have known Tristan Sinclair for only days, and apparently, I’m already buying him objects that match his personality.
As the little box is wrapped in dark green paper, I find myself smiling.
It's ridiculous. And yet, I can already picture the look on his face. The smile that reaches his eyes.
Outside, Murphy nudges my hand impatiently.
"All right. Liam should be here shortly," I scratch behind his ears. “Let’s go home and find Tristan.” I look up toward Glenhaven Castle rising above the trees. Then laugh softly to myself.
I didn’t say return to the castle.
I said go home and find Tristan.
I look up toward Glenhaven rising above the trees, its towers half hidden in mist.
Somewhere inside, a man is waiting for me. And I’ve bought him a gift.