Christmas Wedding on a Scottish Island

Chapter 1

ONE

‘I just think you should have more flowers.’ Matty Campbell turned to his fiancée Heather with adoration in his eyes.

‘More?’ She looked back at the screen, where the local florist had sent her some photos of the bouquets, buttonholes and floral arrangements for the tables that she had designed for their wedding, which was taking place in two weeks’ time.

The gentlemen had thistle and white rose buttonholes, and Heather’s bouquet was white roses, tied with a ribbon.

Her bridesmaids – her five sisters – all had the same.

‘These are the final designs and quantities, sweetheart.’

‘I mean, the flowers… aren’t they a big part of the day?

’ He raised an eyebrow. Matty had just come in from a run, and he leaned down to kiss Heather on the tip of her nose.

She nestled her head into his torso as he stood beside her, but he chuckled and stepped away.

‘I’m so sweaty. Let me have a shower, and then we can get cosy. ’

‘I like your man sweat.’ Heather deliberately nestled her face closer into Matty’s damp vest. He wore understated but expensive sportswear: the kind that felt lovely to touch, and featured a small, subtle logo.

Today, since it was December in Scotland, it was navy blue jogging bottoms and a matching vest made of some kind of technical mesh that released your sweat.

He’d taken off a matching hoodie when he came in.

Matty was a lawyer, and so, most of the time, he either wore well-cut suits and shirts with cufflinks, or, when he was being casual, dark jeans and fitted cashmere jumpers that showed off his fit physique.

He was tall, auburn-haired, with blue eyes.

He tended to be clean-shaven, though Heather liked it when he took an occasional break from work and let his beard grow out to a stubble.

‘Ha. I have no idea why, you strange but lovely girl.’ Matty shook his head with a smile. ‘I’m very lucky that I smell right to you, I guess.’

‘You are.’ Heather took in a long breath, burrowing her face in his strong body. ‘Do I smell right to you?’

‘You smell like sunshine, all year round.’ Matty smiled down at her. ‘But, you know, I’m serious about the flowers. I just want you to have as lovely a day as you can. I know you’ve dreamed about the big white wedding since always. If it’s a question of money, I’ll pay.’

‘Oh, that’s so sweet. Flowers are a big part of the day. But not as big as us officially committing to each other. And joining our families.’ Heather Balhennie looked up from the florist’s website at her husband-to-be.

Matty hugged her to him again. ‘I just think it all looks a bit… I dunno. Minimal.’ He ran a hand through his curly auburn hair.

‘I love the white roses, but I feel like we could have really big, opulent ones. You know those? My mother has them delivered from some company or other. I could find out the name of the firm for you, if you like.’

‘Well, I like the ones we have. I think they’re nice…

don’t you like them?’ Heather turned her face up to his, a little worried.

‘Remember, we chose white for all the wedding flowers because it’ll look nice with the bridesmaids’ dresses, which are sage green.

And then we’ve got the Balhennie and the Campbell tartans for the table runners and the long windows. Traditional but elegant.’

The Balhennie tartan had a red background with a green and yellow stripe, and the Campbell tartan – there were many, but the one that Heather favoured – was blue and green with a dark blue stripe.

‘Right. I just wonder if we need more… and those roses, they look a little small…’ Matty continued.

‘We have my bouquet, the bridesmaids’ bouquets, rose and thistle buttonholes for the gentlemen, the flowers for the tables. Isn’t that enough?’ Heather thought it was endearing that he cared so much about the wedding flowers, but she was also a little confused about why he was going on about it.

‘I don’t know. Shouldn’t there be, maybe, some kind of arch, or other display, or something?

’ Matty frowned. ‘I just want you to have the wedding of your dreams. I feel like you should be festooned in flowers. What is it that they do at weddings in Italy? Or Greece? Don’t people pin money to the bride’s dress?

Kind of like that, but… I dunno. A flower maiden.

You should walk down the aisle through roses a foot deep. ’

‘You’re silly.’ Heather took his hand. ‘Wouldn’t all the thorns rip my dress?’

‘They’d be de-thorned, obviously. By a team of professional de-thorners.’ Matty kissed her hand.

‘Matty… we’re having our wedding at my uncle James’s castle. Not many people get to do that, surely? It’s going to be a really lovely day.’ Heather squeezed her fiancé’s hand. ‘We have enough flowers. I promise.’

‘No… I know. I’m just nervous about the whole thing, I guess.’ Matty shrugged. ‘I could do with a coffee. D’you want one?’

‘No thanks. Matcha only, remember?’ Heather watched him as he walked over to the kettle, took it to the tap and filled it up, placing it on top of the large range cooker. ‘I’m being healthy. I want to glow in the photos.’

‘You always glow, baby,’ he chuckled.

She was sitting at the kitchen table at the Balhennie Inn, her family home. She’d lived there all of her life, and she was going to miss it when she moved out to live with Matty.

The Balhennie Inn was a fixture on Skye. It was a large stone farmhouse-style building which had stood for hundreds of years; it had once been a gatehouse for Balhennie Castle, which had housed the head of the Balhennie clan since before the days of the Crusades.

Nowadays, the Inn was still on Balhennie land, but the castle no longer used the Inn as a gatehouse. It had become an inn in Victorian times, when the new wealthy middle class had started to take an interest in tourism, and visiting castles and ruins in romantic locations had become popular.

The Inn stood in a generous garden full of fruit trees and Heather’s mother Catriona’s vegetable garden. One wall of the Inn was covered with ivy, and pink roses grew up the side of a wooden trellis around the imposing front door.

Heather had grown up learning how to tend the vegetable garden with her sisters and under Catriona’s watchful eye: how to train runner beans up the V-shaped trellises her father, Angus, had built out of bamboo; how to pile earth over the potatoes as they grew; how to harvest bunches of sage and oregano and dry them in bunches, hanging upside down in the kitchen.

A burn – the Scottish word for small river or stream – ran alongside the garden, and Heather and her sisters had loved paddling in it every summer.

But as well as being part of the physical landscape, the Inn had always been a place dedicated to the community.

In the past, storms had sometimes cut off power for large parts of the island: when that happened, Angus and Catriona made sure that all the neighbours gathered at the Inn.

When the local school needed new equipment for the playground, the Balhennies raised money with a village fete.

The Inn had been the venue for book groups, bridge and canasta evenings, fundraisers and celebration dinners.

Matty didn’t live on the Isle of Skye; he had a big apartment in Glasgow, which was where they were going to move initially, though Heather had told him that she wanted a house for when they started a family.

He’d agreed. A house with a big kitchen, a fireplace, somewhere in the Scottish countryside, with a garden and room for a dog. A home.

Heather had always wanted her own family.

She’d seen her children in her dreams – two girls and a boy.

The boy had Matty’s dark auburn curls. The girls had thick blonde hair like her.

She’d always been a vivid dreamer, intuitive, grounded in her feelings.

She’d always seen her future in a house with trees in the garden, a stream at the bottom of it.

She saw herself grow old there. She was happy.

‘What are you nervous about?’ she asked, kindly. ‘Everything’s mostly organised now. And then, before you know it, I’ll be standing in front of you, looking up into your eyes, pledging myself to be your wife for always. That’s exciting, isn’t it?’

‘I know. You’re wonderful, and you and your mum have been amazing in organising everything. And of course I’m excited, honey. I can’t wait to marry you… It’s nothing. It’s okay.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘Just big day nerves.’

‘Are you okay? Do you have another headache or something? I can get you some aspirin.’ Heather reached for her handbag.

‘Hm. No, I don’t have a headache. I just…’ Matty trailed off.

‘What? Getting cold feet?’ she joked, but Heather had begun to feel anxious over the past few days.

Matty was acting strangely: he was distant and quiet, and he’d cancelled their date the night before last. They’d been supposed to go to a dance class to prepare for their first dance at the wedding, but Matty had cried off at the last minute with a headache.

The kettle started to sing, and he lifted it off the range with a tea towel, pouring the hot water into a cafetière in which he’d just spooned some ground coffee from a jar.

Matty picked up his phone, looked at the screen, scowled and put it down again.

Heather watched him cautiously. He’d been secretive with his phone recently – putting it on silent, taking it with him even to the bathroom and being touchy about answering it when she was around.

It was the third time today that his phone had buzzed and he’d looked at it only to scowl and ignore it.

The night before, someone had called him four times through the night, with the last call at 1 a.m. He hadn’t answered any of them and blamed it on spam sales calls, but Heather could tell that something was up.

‘Who’s that on the phone? Another spam message?’ she asked, deliberately casually.

‘What? Oh. Yeah.’ He looked away, drinking his coffee.