Waterfall Glen
Authors: Davie Henderson
| Waterfall Glen |
| Davie Henderson |
| Medallion Press (2006) |
When Kate Brodie inherits Waterfall Glen it seems like the start of an exciting new life. Full of romantic notions, she swaps her dull routine in San Francisco for life as a Highland lady. But the stunning beauty of the glen belies a troubled history and uncertain future, and Kate's imposing new home, Greystane House, is full of disturbing revelations about her family's past. Each portrait on the ancient walls tells an un-nerving story, while the empty rooms echo with rumors of a centuries-old curse that takes on new significance when unsettling events threaten the small community whose fate lies in her hands. The only person Kate can turn to is a man haunted by equally troubling events, a man she has every reason not to trust. Only with his help can she find a way to defend old values against the materialism of the modern world. Only together can they lay their ghosts to rest.
Davie Henderson is a 39-year-old journalist from Dundee, Scotland.
DEDICATION:
To mum and dad, for everything.
Published 2006 by Medallion Press, Inc.
225 Seabreeze Ave.
Palm Beach, FL 33480
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2006 by Davie Henderson
Cover Illustration by James Tampa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Henderson, Davie.
Waterfall Glen / Davie Henderson.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-932815-83-X
1. Scotland—Fiction. 2. Americans—Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6108.E56W38 2006
813′.6—dc22
2005037120
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Table of Contents
K
ATE
B
RODIE WAS WORKING ON A ROMANTIC SCULPTURE
when the brass bell above her craft shop door gave a gentle tinkle. She looked up to see a Western Union messenger approaching the counter with a telegram in his hand.
“Miss Kate Brodie?” the man asked.
Kate nodded, curious. She’d never received a cable before, and had no idea who might have sent one now. She wiped her hands on her jeans, signed the messenger’s clipboard, and had the cable ripped open before he’d even reached the door. It read:
FROM MESSRS ARCHIBALD CUNNINGHAM & CO, SOLICITORS AND NOTARIES, INVERNESS, SCOTLAND. TO MISS KATE BRODIE OF SAUSALITO, CALIFORNIA. IT IS OUR SAD DUTY TO INFORM YOU OF THE DEATH OF MR COLIN CHISHOLM OF GLEN CRANOCH. PLEASE CALL US ON 44 145 3327 166 AS SOON AS POSSIBLE REGARDING THE ESTATE.
SINCERELY - A. CUNNINGHAM.
Kate had never heard of a Colin Chisholm or Glen Cranoch, and knew there must have been a mix-up somewhere down the line. She headed over to the faux antique telephone on the counter to let Messrs Archibald Cunningham & Co know they had the wrong Kate Brodie.
Waiting for the international connection to be made, she looked at the telegram again and indulged in a flight of fancy. She’d been doing that a lot recently. Being the Kate in Kate’s Crafts stopped life seeming empty but wasn’t enough to make it full—not for someone who was 36 and still single—and there were days when the quaint, Victorian-fronted shop seemed as much of a prison as Alcatraz out in the bay. For a few moments Kate allowed herself to imagine the telegram actually was for her …
Then the phone started ringing in far-off Scotland. Kate caught sight of her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror and finger-combed her short blond hair, as if whoever answered would actually be able to see her. The face looking back at her had wide-apart silvery-blue eyes, a thinnish nose with just a hint of an upturn, and a mouth that she wished was a little fuller lipped and not quite so broad. The overall look was pixie cute, and she’d been told more than once that she had a Meg Ryan smile. She smiled wryly now at her flight of fancy, liking the sparkle in her eyes and the sweetness of her mouth—but not the little wrinkles that had recently started accompanying her smiles.
“Archibald Cunningham’s office. How might we be of help?” The voice that rescued Kate from her wrinkles
had a gentle Scottish lilt, and sounded like it belonged to a middle-aged woman.
“This is Kate Brodie in Sausalito. I’ve just received a cable asking if I would call this number, but I think there must have been some sort of mis—”
“Ah, Miss Brodie!” The woman sounded delighted. “We’ve been expecting your call. If you’ll just be holding on for a moment.”
After a succession of clicks a man’s voice said, “Miss Brodie?”
“Yes, but not the Kate Brodie you’re looking for, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of this Glen Cranoch place before, and I didn’t know any Colin Chisholm.”
“Maybe not, but it seems that Mr. Chisholm knew you—or at least he knew about you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He developed an interest in his family tree, and discovered you at the end of the last remaining branch. Something to do with a Varri Chisholm who emigrated to America in the 1920s, I believe. Does
that
name ring any bells?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Kate said. She truly was sorry. Even though she’d known it was all a mistake she was still strangely disappointed to have it confirmed. For a few wonderful moments she’d swapped the confines of her small souvenir shop for a far more exciting place. She wasn’t able to keep the disappointment from her voice as she said, “My grandmother came from Scotland, but I’m
afraid her name was Mary Millar.”
Archibald Cunningham laughed. “Aye, but Chisholm was her maiden name, and ‘Varri’ is the Gaelic way of saying Mary. Your granny likely changed her name when she started afresh in the new world,” he said. “It seems as if your name will be changing too,” he added.
“What do you mean?” Kate asked, bewildered.
“How do you like the sound of Lady Kate of Glen Cranoch?”
Even if Kate had known what to say, she wouldn’t have been able to get the words out because of the sudden hammering in her chest and tightness in her throat. Her hands were shaking, her legs ready to give way at any moment. She eased herself onto her high stool and rested her elbows on the counter, glad of the support.
“Hello? Still there?” Archibald Cunningham asked.
“Yes,” Kate said quietly. “I’m just trying to take all this in.”
“Aye, well I can see how it must come as something of a surprise, right enough.”
Unable to hide the scepticism that followed her initial shock, Kate said, “Forgive me for sounding suspicious, but this all seems too good to be true. I feel sure there has to be a catch somewhere.”
There was more than a hint of irony in Archibald Cunningham’s laughter. “Oh, The Cranoch Estate has more than its share of problems, believe me,” he said. “Some are very real, and others … Well, it’s probably best not to go
into that just now.”
Kate had no idea what he meant by that. Before she could ask the lawyer to explain, he said, “Let’s just say there’s not much chance that you’ll be able to hang on to The Cranoch unless you’re an uncommonly wealthy or resourceful woman.”
“I’m certainly not the first of those things.”
“Well, there’s a buyer who’ll likely pay a good price for the estate if you want to sell it—and my professional advice would be to accept his offer. You’d save yourself quite a kerfuffle, and probably a fair amount of heartache, too.”
“What do you mean, ‘a fair amount of heartache’?”
“I couldn’t really explain in words. You’d have to see Glen Cranoch and Greystane for yourself, then you’d understand exactly what I mean.”
“Greystane?”
“Aye, the ancestral home of the Chisholms,” he told her. “Anyway, if you do want to make the trip across the pond I can get Finlay to meet you at the airport in Inverness.”
“Who’s Finlay?”
“He’s the handyman and ghillie.”
Correctly interpreting the silence that followed, Archibald Cunningham said, “But of course you won’t be knowing what a ghillie is, now, will you?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
“It’s a bit like a gamekeeper. Anyway, Finlay’s an all-round good sort. He’s at your service, along with Miss Weir—she’s the cook and housekeeper—and a dozen
crofters and their families.”