The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (3 page)

The corridor at the bottom of the stairway led to a main, central hallway, with several closed doors down the length. Some had windows looking into the hall, but those windows were unlit. Peering through, Emmie could see that one or two had windows to the outside as well, but the dust on them was so thick that not much of the fading evening light made it through.

“There’s plenty of old items in there,” Lamb noted when she paused and leaned close to the glass. “Mostly just pantry rubbish, cooking pots and skillets, jugs, crates, flatware—those kinds of things. But if you’re interested in researching them, too, I’ll fetch the keys. Just say the words.”

“Yep. I’ll be knee deep in all this stuff eventually.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

The last door on the right led into the kitchen. It was the only lit room, besides the corridor itself. A cozy glow warmed the windows that looked into the central hallway. The unpainted plaster walls were tiled to about waist height, with old-fashioned orange tiles arranged in a subway pattern. The wooden countertops were easily a century old, and an authentic Victorian range stood unused in the corner farthest from the door. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls, and from a suspended pot rack over the counter beside the romantic black range.

A solid work table dominated the centre of the room, at which sat two wooden stools painted a cheery sea green. Two placemats had been set out, with empty drinking glasses, forks, spoons and knives. Each placemat also had a small plate with a slice of whole-wheat bread. A crock of butter waited in the middle of the table, along with a utilitarian, but still antique-looking set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers, and a ceramic water pitcher.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She pulled out the stool that faced the back wall of the kitchen, and sat down.

“It was no trouble. I would have been doing this for myself anyway, if you hadn’t been here.”

Lamb hobbled over to a modern stove where a pot of venison stew was simmering, and began ladling the thick, brown liquid into bowls which had been laid out on the sideboard next to it.

Emmie watched his hunched shoulders thoughtfully. “You know, I sometimes forget that this is a way of life for people.”

“What is?”

“Eating dinner at the table.”

“You don’t eat at the table?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I mean, we used to when I was a kid. Grace—my mom, that is—would always have dinner ready for us, and we’d sit down and eat as a family. But then, when I went away to university, I got into the habit of eating on the go, or eating in front of the TV. I don’t ever really bother with the formality of dinner anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Lamb offered. “I didn’t mean to assume.” He shuffled back to the table with two steaming bowls of stew.

“Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be doing it again.” She paused, and added shyly, “I’m happy to
have
someone to eat dinner with again. It gets kind of lonely eating in front of the TV all the time.”

Lamb sat carefully on his stool, and once he’d set the bowls down, he placed his palms on top of the table. He stared intently at his spotted hands.

“I’m… happy to have someone to eat dinner with again, too.”

His awkward honesty warmed her heart. Grinning to herself, Emmie tucked her spoon into the rich stew, pulling up a mound of chucky potatoes, carrots, celery and venison. Leaving the conversation at that, she popped the spoon into her mouth.

“My God, Lamb, this is amazing,” she moaned once she’d chewed. “My compliments to the chef.”

He nodded, and brought his own spoon to his mouth with a shaky hand. “Is there anything in particular you like to eat for breakfast?”

“I hope you don’t think it’s your job to cook for me.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Maybe not, but I do. I’d prefer to pull my weight around here—although if the rest of your cooking is anything like this, it’ll be hard to resist.” She shook her head decisively. “No, we’ll take turns. How ‘bout this: for this week, why don’t you take breakfasts and I’ll take dinners? Next week we’ll switch.”

He considered her proposition. “If you’re sure. What about lunch?”

“Actually, I often forget about lunch,” Emmie admitted. “I get so involved in what I’m doing when I’m working that sometimes I go all day without even a snack. It’ll probably be best if we just fend for ourselves for lunch. I can’t be relied on for that.”

Lamb frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you no’ eating lunch. You’re thin as a rail as it is.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” She laughed lightly. “Tell you what: I promise to try to remember to eat lunch, if it makes you happy.” When he agreed and went back to his bowl, she changed the subject. “So… I meet Lady Rotherham tomorrow.”

“Oh, aye?”

She hesitated, pushing a chunk of soft carrot around with the edge of her spoon. “Any words of advice? I’ve only talked to her a few times over the phone.”

Lamb finished chewing a piece of venison. “I imagine she’s much the same in person as she is on the phone.”

Then, oddly, he jerked his shoulder and scowled.

“You okay?” Emmie ventured.

“Oh, quite. Just a
nagging
ache,” he responded rather forcefully. “I’m sure you have nothing to concern yourself with, where her ladyship is concerned. She’s personable enough. It was her particular instruction that you be well looked after in your time here.”

“That’s nice of her.” She popped the disintegrating carrot into her mouth. “It’s just that this is my first real job in the field. I want to make the right impression.”

“You’ll do fine.” Lamb jerked his shoulder again, but said nothing.

Emmie watched him briefly, wondering about the strange mannerism. Was it a tick?

Or perhaps it was a ghost, begging for a bite of supper.

She laughed to herself at the notion, picturing the late Lord Cranbury himself standing over the old butler’s shoulder.

EMMIE PASSED A
rough night in her new bed at Tullybrae House. From an unknown location somewhere near the stairs, the wind was finding its way in. It whistled through the empty rooms, a hollow sound that prevented her from drifting off. At times, she wondered if Lamb was having the same trouble sleeping, or if the male quarters were more insulated.

When she did manage to sleep, she would periodically wake to find herself shivering. Every time she got up to search for her blankets, there they’d be, in a rumpled heap below the footboard.

Five bloody times this happened.

If those things alone hadn’t been enough to make any night unbearable, her dreams had been plagued by a strange, high-pitched giggling. Like that of a child. By the time her alarm clock went off at seven thirty, she could have sworn she’d only just nodded off.

The bed made a metallic creak when she stumbled out of it. Emmie yawned heavily, then pulled open the bedside drawer for her toiletries.

With the pearl-pink, faux silk bag tucked beneath the crook of her arm, she yanked her fleece robe from its hook on the back of the door, and stuffed her arms inside the plush sleeves. Last, she slipped her manicured toes into a pair of terrycloth slippers, before she trundled off to the remodeled bathroom.

Having made a scouting tour of the servants’ quarters last night before turning in, Emmie had confirmed that, like most houses of this period, the servants’ quarters were divided into male and female wings. A long time ago there would have been a door separating the two which (she imagined fondly) a dour-faced head housekeeper had once kept firmly bolted and the key secured in a starched pocket. Neither the door nor its lock remained, though.

The male wing, too, had its own washroom, which suited her fine. Emmie liked Lamb immensely, but something about the idea of sharing a shower with the octogenarian Scot butler she’d just met seemed a little queer. Both his bedroom and his washroom were separate from hers, and on the other side of the house.

When she reached the bathroom, she shut the door and twisted the brass cabin latch above the handle to lock it. The shower in her bathroom was a repurposed clawfoot tub. It had probably been at Tullybrae for the last century… like everything else around here, including Lamb. Giving in to her historian’s curiosity, she searched the tub for a manufacturer. None could be found, but she did find a model identification number beneath the nickel-plated faucet.

The rolled lip of the tub indicated it, too, had been mass-produced. She clucked her tongue sadly. A less coveted antique, probably. But still worth a check. She made a mental note of the location of the model number for later research.

An oval-shaped metal curtain rod had been bolted to the ceiling in a more recent decade. To keep the water in, Emmie had to pull a series of mismatched curtains, three of them, around the circumference of the tub. To her relief, the strong odour of new plastic suggested that
they
were not antiques.

She fiddled with the handles at the head of the tub. One final twist, and water gushed loudly from the mounted shower head. It, too, was new by the looks of it. A small lever on the underside would adjust the flow. Emmie tested out the four different positions, deciding on a powerful, steady stream. She needed the water drumming into her head to wake her up.

The water was hot. It felt good biting into her shoulders and the back of her scalp. With her hands dangling loose at her sides, she stood for a while, letting the water pound into her tired bones. When she’d loosened up enough, she shampooed and conditioned her hair, scrubbed her body vigorously with a loofah and her favourite watermelon bath gel, and washed her face with a cleansing milk. The familiar scents swirled inside the shower’s vortex of steam, providing a measure of comfort.

Once she was done, Emmie turned the knobs smartly, and stepped onto the cheap bathmat at the base of the tub. She reached for her towel which she’d hung on a peg beside the door, and rubbed herself dry. The mirror over the worn marble sink was steamed up when she approached it, so she made a swipe with her hand. The glass made a satisfying squeak beneath her palm.

She then set up her personal care products and plugged in her flat iron and blow dryer. Today, she decided, she would straighten her hair so that it hung like corn silk to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She made quick work of getting ready, slapping on her skin care products, applying a restrained amount of makeup, and styling her golden hair. When she was done, she padded back to her room in her bathrobe and slippers, pajamas draped over her forearm. Her makeup, toiletries and appliances she left in the bathroom. Now that she knew the space was hers alone, there was no need to carry her personal effects to and fro each time.

By eight thirty she was dressed and bounding down the servants’ stairs by the rear corridor to the kitchen. She felt much more alert, and excitement about her first day on the job had put a spring in her step. The heavenly aroma of a home-cooked breakfast quickened her pace.

“Baaaacon,” she drawled when she entered.

Lamb stood over the stove with a spatula in one hand. A full-length apron with green and white stripes protected his brown sweater vest and slacks.

“Good morning, Emmie. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thanks,” she lied. “Here, let me help you.”

The plates, cups and saucers were visible within the glass-front cupboards, which were painted a creamy yellow. Before Lamb could protest, she got to work setting the bare table. He tossed her an appreciative nod before flipping the frying meat.

“Forks and knives are in there,” he offered, pointing, when Emmie started opening drawers.

“Is there anything else I can help with?”

“No, no. You just sit down. Bacon’s the last thing.”

Turning the contents of the skillet onto a square of paper towel, Lamb patted the grease before sliding the ten russet strips onto a platter waiting on the sideboard. He flipped a switch on the stove to turn off the element, picked up the platter, and brought it to the table.

“What’s this?” Emmie asked, inspecting the other items on the platter.

“Black pudding and haggis.”

Lamb fetched a china cake plate stacked with brown toast. Balancing it in the crook of his elbow, he grasped a waiting tea pot with one hand, and a coffee pot with the other. Emmie rose to help him, but he shook his head.

“I can manage. You stay put.”

“I’ve never had black pudding and haggis before,” she said hesitantly, sitting back down.

“They have a bad reputation across the water, I’m given to understand. But many people like them when they try it.”

Gingerly, Emmie helped herself to a portion, and took a test bite of the haggis first. It was… different. Not quite what she was expecting, but not terrible, either. The black pudding was next. It too was unusual, but far from inedible.

“Well?”

She licked her lips, considering. “If I can separate what it
tastes
like from what it
is
, I don’t mind it at all.”

The old man chuckled. “You mean the offal? If you can eat steak and kidney pie, this is no’ much different. But instead of steak, it’s oats.”

“What about sheep’s stomach?”

“There’s no stomach in it. Haggis is simply cooked in a sheep’s stomach.” When she searched the sideboard behind him for the offending item, he smiled. “You won’t find it. This here comes out of a can. Best haggis I’ve had that wasn’t homemade.”

“What about the black pudding? That’s blood, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Aye, it is. Would you like something else, then?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. You know, it really is kind of tasty. Thanks for making it.” She took another bite to demonstrate. It actually was quite good. Salty and rich, with no hint of the metal tang one might expect from something made with blood.

“Would you like coffee or tea?” he inquired. “I made both.”

“Coffee, thanks.” Emmie reached for the pot, and poured. She held the pot up and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Tea for me, please.”

“I had the Starbucks every day on my stopover in Glasgow. It was okay. Not the same as home, though. I knew I’d miss Tims, but I didn’t expect to miss it this much.”

“Tims?”

“Tim Hortons. Our beloved national coffee emporium.”

“The name—does it mean anything?”

“It does, actually. He was a hockey player for our Toronto team, the Maple Leafs, through the fifties and sixties.” She paused, adding sadly, “He was killed in a car accident, in the end.”

“That’s a shame,” Lamb said earnestly.

“It is. Sad story of drinking and driving and not wearing a seatbelt. A sorry way to end for a national treasure.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was before my time.”

“Things needn’t happen in our lifetime for them to affect us,” he answered sagely.

“I suppose you’re right. I should know, being a history nerd and all, shouldn’t I?”

They ate in silence for a time before Lamb picked up the conversation again.

“I expect you’re looking forward to meeting her ladyship. When does she arrive?” He bit firmly into a triangle of buttered toast.

“About ten.” Emmie’s voice crackled, her nerves jangling at the mention of her employer.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he assured her.

“I hope not. Do I look all right?” She chafed her hands against her wool skirt. It was an above-the-knee piece which she’d matched to a pair of black tights and her black peep-toe booties. A black knit top with three-quarter-length sleeves brought out the chunky necklace of turquoise stones she’d chosen to complete the outfit.

“Oh, aye, fetching,” he answered vaguely. Only the telltale warming of his pale cheeks gave him away.

When they were done, Emmie helped Lamb with the dishes—the “washing up,” as he called it. It was a literal thing. There was no dishwasher at Tullybrae House. They completed the chore in amiable chatter. Once they were done, he noted a few of the chores that awaited him, and suggested that Emmie retreat to the library to wait for Lady Rotherham.

The library was a beautiful room, stately yet modest. It wasn’t half the size of some of the libraries she’d seen in the mansions and castles of Europe, yet the dark wood shelving and the marbled fireplace gave it a quiet grandeur that made her feel very comfortable. A quaint bay window gave her a view of the manicured lawn and hedged gardens at the rear of the house. Beyond them, the Highland hills nudged a slate grey sky.

“Not a soul out there for miles,” she whispered.

Once she’d had her fill of the scenery, she left the window to browse some of the titles on the lower shelves. All of the books were hard-cover, and the majority of them were leather-bound. They were probably centuries old. Books were a particular weakness for Emmie. There was something about the smell of old books, and the feel of their weight in her hands. It was euphoric. Words put to paper by writers who’d lived and died long ago. Hopes and dreams recorded in ink for future generations to read.

Carefully, she tilted one book off its shelf and gripped its leather cover in her hands.

“The Works of the English Poets with Prefaces,” she read, “Biographical and Critical, by Samuel Johnson. Volume the Twenty-Seventh. London: Printed by A. Strathan, seventeen ninety.”

She sat down on the green velvet settee in front of the hearth. Victorian era, she noted for future reference, carved walnut or maybe alder, cameo back. Delicately, she turned the pages of the book, with no more than a fingertip to the edge of each frail sheet. Her eyes scanned words upon words that had been written more than two hundred years ago. She was so absorbed in the book that she jumped when Clunie leaped his fat body up onto the cushion beside her.

“Oh, hello. What have you been up to this morning, handsome fellow?”

She scratched behind his ears and under his chin. Clunie responded with a rich, warm purr and a sideways flop into her thigh.

With the contented house cat settled beside her, and the thrill of history in her hands, Emmie spent nearly half an hour reading. The chime of the doorbell brought her back to the present.

Her stomach churned as she reshelved the book and walked swiftly to the front door. She arrived at the same time as Lamb, who had a can of furniture polish tucked into the crook of his arm and a dirty rag in his hand. Deftly, Emmie plucked the workaday items from his grasp and slipped them into a nearby vase.