Chapter 7
Clementine
Soup for When Everyone Is Watching You
I’m crouched in the manor’s attic, my hands coated in dust, rummaging through an old trunk that smells like stale air and forgotten family secrets. Inside, I find yellowed letters, sepia-toned photographs where no one ever smiles, and a completely crushed felt hat.
I lift it carefully, as though it might bite me, and discover an old leather-bound journal underneath.
I open it delicately.
The ink has faded, and the handwriting is elegant but difficult to decipher.
March 1, 1894. Today, he had the first stone laid.
I frown.
The first stone of what?
The manor, probably.
I turn a few pages, trying to make out the words in the dusty light filtering through the attic window.
That’s when a voice echoes up from downstairs.
“Clementine?”
I jump so violently I nearly drop the journal and smack my head against the edge of the open trunk.
“Ow! Damn it!”
Grimacing, I rub the sore spot on my scalp.
My heart is pounding.
Please tell me this isn’t happening again.
Not another intruder.
Or a sheep.
Or both.
“Clementine! Are you here?”
This time I recognize something in the voice.
A strong Scottish accent.
A cheerful tone.
And definitely female.
I scramble to my feet, glance around for a potential weapon, and finally grab an old broom leaning against the wall.
Most of the bristles are gone, but the wooden handle is solid.
Great.
I’m now armed with a broom because apparently the candelabra wasn’t pathetic enough.
I head down the attic stairs gripping the broom handle like my life depends on it.
My footsteps echo on the wooden steps.
I reach the second floor, then continue down the main staircase, still clutching the broom.
At the bottom, standing in the entrance hall, is a young woman with her hands on her hips and a huge smile on her face.
I really need to start locking the front door.
She has dark red hair cut into a bob, bright green eyes, ripped jeans, and an oversized wool sweater.
She watches me descend the staircase with my broom and immediately bursts out laughing.
A real laugh.
Loud.
Contagious.
“You walk around carrying a broom?” she asks between fits of laughter.
I stop at the foot of the stairs, slightly out of breath, the broom still raised.
“Who are you?”
She shakes her head, making her gold hoop earrings sway.
“Seriously? You don’t remember me?”
I stare at her, searching my memory.
Something about her smile.
The way she tilts her head.
“Ailsa?”
She throws her arms into the air triumphantly.
“Bingo! You remember!”
I slowly lower the broom, still stunned.
“Ailsa Campbell?”
Her grin widens.
“In the flesh.”
I stand there with my mouth slightly open, trying to reconcile the image in my mind—a little girl with red braids running barefoot through fields—with the woman standing in front of me.
Ailsa crosses the room and hugs me before I can react.
She smells like oat milk soap and coffee.
“How long has it been?” she asks. “Fifteen years? Twenty?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I admit as I gently pull back.
She takes a step away, hands on her hips, and studies me from head to toe.
“You haven’t changed much. Still a redhead. Still incredibly French.”
I can’t help smiling.
“And you’re still just as... loud?”
She laughs again.
“Absolutely. Some things never change.”
I prop the broom against the wall, trying to reclaim what little dignity I have left.
“How did you know I was here?”
Ailsa shrugs.
“The whole village knows. A French woman taking care of the haunted manor? That’s been the number-one topic of conversation for two days.”
I let out a deep sigh.
“Of course.”
“And Ewan told me you’d arrived. I figured I’d come say hello.”
She gestures broadly around the hall.
“And apparently you now live in a manor where your primary defense system is a broom. I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or concerned.”
I fold my arms.
“Actually, I’m staying with Mrs. MacLeish. And as for improvised weapons, let’s just say I’ve had... a few incidents.”
“Incidents?”
“A sheep. Upstairs.”
Ailsa’s eyes widen.
“Hamish struck again?”
“Does literally everyone know that sheep?”
She bursts out laughing.
“Hamish is a local legend, sweetheart. If you saw him in the manor, you’ve officially been adopted by Glenfield.”
I roll my eyes.
“Wonderful. Exactly what I’ve always dreamed of.”
Ailsa wanders over to the console table in the hall and studies the trinkets displayed there before turning back to me.
“Do you remember when we used to play around here? We were six or seven. You were visiting Ewan’s father, and I followed you around like a puppy.”
I nod slowly.
The memories return.
Blurry.
But there.
“We used to play in the fields. Pretend we were explorers.”
“And I swore I saw a ghost near the manor,” Ailsa adds with a nostalgic smile. “You laughed right in my face.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“Because you were making things up. You also swore you saw a unicorn swimming in the loch.”
“It was possible!” she protests, laughing.
We fall silent for a moment, childhood memories drifting between us.
Then Ailsa breaks the silence.
“So? Is it true? Is the manor haunted?”
I sigh.
“No. But everyone seems convinced otherwise.”
“What stories have they told you?”
“Several versions. All completely different.”
Ailsa nods.
“That sounds like Glenfield. Everyone has their own version. The one I heard was that the couple were madly in love, but their families opposed the marriage. Sort of a Scottish Romeo and Juliet.”
I frown.
“Mrs. MacLeish told me it was an arranged marriage that ended badly.”
“And Old Angus will probably tell you the woman was a witch and the husband killed her out of jealousy.”
I stare at her.
“Seriously?”
“Glenfield loves stories. The more dramatic, the better.”
I shake my head in frustration.
“How is anyone supposed to know what really happened?”
Ailsa shrugs.
“We don’t. And honestly? I don’t think anyone wants to know. The mystery is usually more interesting than the truth.”
A flicker of irritation rises inside me.
I need facts.
Clarity.
Not contradictory legends.
Ailsa studies me carefully.
“You look stressed.”
“I’ve had a complicated day.”
“Tell me.”
I let out a long sigh.
Then I give her the condensed version.
Hamish.
Cameron McGregor.
The gossip.
Maggie McGregor sending her grandson to recruit me by force for tea.
Ailsa’s eyes go wide.
“Cameron McGregor came here?”
“Yes.”
“And you had a drink with him at the pub?”
I stare at her.
“How do you know that?”
She smiles.
“My mother told me. Who heard it from Moira MacTavish. Who probably heard it from someone else. You get the idea.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I can’t do a single thing discreetly in this village.”
“Welcome to the Highlands, sweetheart.”
I lift my head.
“I need to decompress. Do you want to... I don’t know, stay for a while?”
Ailsa beams.
“Of course. What do you want to do?”
I think for a second.
“Cook.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Cook?”
“Yes. It relaxes me.”
Ailsa nods slowly.
“Okay. I remember you loved it, even when we were kids. You were always pretending to make feasts out of mud and dandelions.”
I laugh despite myself.
“It was fine cuisine.”
“Without question.”
We head into the kitchen.
The room is enormous, with a long solid wood table in the center, a stone fireplace, and cupboards that appear to date back another century.
I open them one by one.
They’re packed with old dishes, aging utensils, and blackened copper pots.
Ailsa settles onto a stool beside the table.
“You’re really going to cook here?”
“Why not? Everything still works. At least... I think it does.”
I test the stove.
It’s old and massive, but when I turn the knobs, I hear the faint hiss of gas.
After searching through a drawer, I find a half-empty box of matches and light a burner.
A blue flame springs to life.
“It works,” I say with relief.
Ailsa laughs.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
I pull a notebook from my bag—the one where I write down recipes.
Opening to a blank page, I write at the top:
Soup for When Everyone Is Watching You
“What’s that?” Ailsa asks.
“My recipe notebook.”
I show her the page.
“They all have weird titles?”
“They aren’t traditional recipes.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate before answering.
“Every recipe is tied to an emotion. A moment. It’s... personal.”
Ailsa gives me a strange look, and for a moment I brace myself.
I rarely talk about this hobby.
“That’s amazing!” she blurts out.
The sincerity on her face is unmistakable.
I shrug, embarrassed.
“It’s just for me.”
“You should do something with it.”
I immediately shake my head.
“No. It’s personal.”
She doesn’t push, but I can tell she isn’t convinced.
I gather the groceries I bought after leaving the pub: fresh vegetables, dried herbs, and bouillon cubes.
I start peeling vegetables.
Without being asked, Ailsa gets up and helps.
We work in comfortable silence, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of knives against the cutting board.
“So,” Ailsa says while slicing a carrot, “what’s Cameron McGregor like?”
I sigh.
“Do we really have to talk about him?”
“Absolutely. This is fascinating.”
“Why?”
“Because Cameron never has drinks with strangers. Especially not at the pub. Not in front of everyone.”
I look up.
“So?”
“So it means something.”
“It means I gave in to social pressure because I didn’t want him coming back to bother me.”
Ailsa laughs.
“If you say so.”
I toss the vegetables into a pot, add water, bouillon, and herbs.
The scent begins filling the kitchen.
Warm.
Comforting.
Ailsa inhales deeply.
“That smells incredible.”
“It’s just soup.”
“No. It’s your soup.”
I stir slowly, letting the flavors blend together.
Ailsa leans against the counter with her arms folded.
“You know what they say about the couple from the manor?”
“That they haunt the place? Yes. I’ve heard.”
“But do you know why?”
“No. And nobody seems to agree on the details.”
Ailsa nods.
“That’s true. But one thing everyone agrees on is that they never really left this place. Not even after they died.”
I roll my eyes.
“Probably because they died here. That doesn’t mean they’re haunting the manor.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they were so attached to it they couldn’t leave.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I focus on the soup.
Ailsa changes the subject.
“How long are you staying?”
“A week. Maybe less if I finish the inventory quickly.”
“And after that?”
“I go back to Paris. Back to work.”
“Do you like your job?”
The question catches me off guard.
I stop stirring.
“It’s... complicated.”
“That sounds like a disguised no.”
I sigh.
“It’s more like, I’m good at what I do, but I’m not sure it actually makes me happy.”
Ailsa nods slowly.
“I understand.”
We talk about everything and nothing while the soup simmers.
Eventually it’s ready.
I fill two bowls and hand one to Ailsa.
She takes it, inhales deeply, then tastes it.
Her entire face lights up.
“Good Lord, Clementine!”
“What?”
“This is incredible!”
I shrug, but I can’t stop the smile.
Ailsa takes another spoonful and closes her eyes as she savors it.
“Seriously. You should open a restaurant here. Or at least sell your food. Glenfield doesn’t have anything decent besides the pub.”
I immediately shake my head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t live here. I’m just passing through.”
Ailsa looks at me with a strange expression.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“I think you have a real gift, and it would be a shame to waste it.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I lower my gaze to my bowl.
Maybe some roots are worth exploring.
Even the ones you didn’t choose.
No.
Absolutely not.
I’m not about to start making ridiculous plans.
Me?
Opening a restaurant here?
That’s absurd.
Completely absurd.