The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (8 page)

“Her,” Emmie nodded. “A little girl named Clara. She’s supposed to be mischievous, but I couldn’t say from experience. Lady Rotherham said she died in the seventeen-eighties.”

“Is there any historical documentation to show that these people actually lived here?”

“Of course you’d ask that, Ewan,” Dean joked. “C’mon, dude. She’s just told you she’s seen a ghost, and you want to know what kind of a paper trail there is?”

Ewan shrugged.

“Provenance is important,” Emmie agreed solemnly. “Of course, they know who the sixth Countess of Cranbury is, when she lived and when she died and all that. Although there is nothing concrete which proves that’s who the ghost is.”

“If you can even prove there is a ghost in the first place,” Adam put in.

“True.”

“And the girl?” Ewan pressed.

“Yep. They do have a record of a little girl by the name of Clara dying on the property. Or, at least, she is the only recorded child’s death, so that’s why they think it’s her.”

“What did she die of?” Famke asked.

“Tuberculosis.”

They all nodded and murmured in unison. Historical diseases like tuberculosis, syphilis and the bubonic plague were all ones with which the crew was familiar.

Famke sat back in her chair. “I wonder why they would not have told us that in the debriefing. We should know about what kinds of diseases have been recorded.”

Ewan took a sip of his beer. “Now, Famke. You’ve been in the field long enough to know that people who
aren’t
in the field have a funny way of deciding what information is and isn’t important to share.”

Adam nodded. “Her ladyship is only interested in the bones at the bottom of one grave. That’s the one what’s gonna make Stannisfield Films happy. We find that, it’ll make for a good television show.”

“Is that the murder?”

Adam levelled a serious look at Emmie, more serious than she would have though him capable.

“Murders, love. Plural.”

“More like a massacre,” Ewan corrected.

She looked from one to the other. “Massacre? What massacre?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Ewan put a piece of his shepherd’s pie into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “There’s supposed to have been a dispute between clans that was settled in these parts. Nearly a dozen men slaughtered in ambush.”

“I heard a hundred,” Adam challenged.

“You did not, you wanker. It was a dozen, or thereabouts.”

“I didn’t know that,” Emmie reflected. “Lady Rotherham talked of murder, and the victim was supposed to be buried on the property, but I thought it was only one.”

“Oh, if the stories are true, then it’s a hell of a lot more than one. The disturbance the technician found with the ground penetrating radar certainly corroborates the legend.”

Emmie suddenly felt unwell. Her palms began to sweat, and her skin felt clammy. “What clans were they?”

Ewan laughed, failing to detect the wobble in her voice. “I’m sorry to tell you, lass, but we don’t know. I know this is probably going to eat away at your historian’s curiosity, and I’m sorry for that. But there’s nothing recorded. Not one scrap of written account—or not one that survives to this day, anyway. All that we have is legend passed by word of mouth. That, and now this disturbance.”

Adam raised his arm to the waitress, who was on the other side of the room, and caught her eye. He made a circling motion with his finger.

“’Nother round, love,” he said through a mouthful of chips.

“Your girlfriend is one lucky woman,” Sophie drawled when a gob of chewed-up chip fell onto his plate.

“She counts her blessings every night,” Adam parlayed, stretching his arms above his head languorously.

Emmie forced a laugh with the others, though her hands still trembled in her lap. Tales of murder, mayhem and mass disease always piqued her interest. But never before had she been so overwhelmed by a story that it affected her physically. Especially not a story that was nothing more than a vaguely recalled legend which might not even be true.

This story, though, this particular massacre…

She couldn’t say what it was, exactly. But it frightened her.

“EMMIE, SWEETHEART! YOU
certainly took your time about calling.”

Emmie was tucked away in the alcove under the grand staircase where one of the manor’s three landline phones were plugged in. It was an eighties-era dial-up, ivory plastic with a spiral cord, which stood on an antique cherry wood pedestal table. A padded walnut armchair was placed next to it. Emmie sat in the chair, with her knees pulled up to her chin, and her fingers winding nervously around the phone cord which was misshapen from decades of fingers pulling at it.

“Sorry about that, I’ve just been busy is all.”

“Why aren’t you calling from your cell?” Gratuitous concern laced Grace Tunstall’s voice. It was one of Emmie’s pet peeves about her adoptive mother: Everything out of the norm was a reason to fret. That Emmie never voiced her dislike of this particular idiosyncrasy required a conscious effort.

“It’s just logistics.”

“Are you sure? Do you need us to send a new phone over for you? We got Chase a Samsung last week.”

“That’s a tablet, not a cell phone,” Ron, her adoptive father, barked from the background.

“How come he can talk through it then?” Grace barked back.

“Really, it’s not necessary,” Emmie insisted. “My cell still works, and even if it didn’t, I can buy a new one here.”

“So why are you calling from a landline?”

She took a breath, willing herself to remain calm. “Because calls home are included in my living arrangements, and it’s just easier to put it on Tullybrae’s phone bill directly, instead of expensing my cell bill at the end of the month.”

“All right. If you’re sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“So tell me all about your big adventure. Have you had a chance to take any pictures of the house yet? Your dad is dying to see the place.”

She sounded so excited. And so genuine. Whatever Emmie’s personal reservations were about her adoptive parents, she couldn’t say they didn’t love her. She felt bad that she hadn’t called sooner.

“It’s beautiful. Better than the pictures Camille sent over before I left.”

“Camille?”

“Lady Rotherham.”

Grace glowed with pride. “Look at that. My little girl on a first-name basis with the British upper crust. That’s going in the monthly newsletter.”

“Oh, no. Don’t, please. It’s no big deal.”

Grace clucked her tongue. “Now honey, I’ve got a daughter that’s a curator all the way over there in Scotland. If that’s not fair bragging rights, I don’t know what is.”

Emmie was already getting that itchy, squirmy need to end the call. She had never been quite at ease with Grace’s fawning, and the thought of being plastered into the church newsletter made it worse. She changed the subject. “How is Chase doing in his new job?”

“Oh, you know your brother. He could charm garden gnomes and grizzly bears into following him home if he had a mind to. He’s already Mr. Popular out there in Toronto.”

“I’ll bet.”

She could just picture her brother in the big city, swanning around all the night clubs and upscale patio bars in a swanky suit, letting loose after a fast-paced day at the office. The rich, honey colouring and the jet black hair of his Aishihik heritage on his biological father’s side, combined with the crystalline blue eyes of his French-Canadian mother, always had women drooling over him everywhere he went.

“You’ll never guess,” Grace continued. “He got rid of his truck. And he’s found himself a girlfriend.”

“About time. So Carly’s gone, then?”

“Gone, gone, gone. Can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of that one. Far too young. Twenty-two, Em. Twenty-two, and two children from two different fathers.”

“Yes, yes. I know.”

“This new one’s a few years older than him. Gillian, he called her. She’s an account manager at a marketing firm, apparently. On the up-and-up. And she’s got a condo of her own in the Distillery District… whatever that is.”

“Stop it,” Emmie warned, good-naturedly.

“Stop what?”

“I hear that tone of yours. He’s just met her. Don’t go planning the wedding yet. Give it a year at least before you get your hopes up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about—what’s that, dear?—Oh, really, Ron!” Grace blew a pained sigh into the receiver. “Your father wants to know if the pubs are as great as they’re made out to be—Yes, I heard you, and no I’m not repeating what you
actually
said.”

Emmie laughed. “Go easy on him. You can tell him that I’ve been too busy to do a real pub crawl, but the two I’ve been to so far have been top-notch. If not better than anything back home, then at least as good.”

“You hear that, Ron? Em says you’re a cretin, and you wouldn’t know a good pub if you fell down drunk in one.”

“How the hell would I hear if she said that? You’re on the damned
phone
with her, woman.”

“You’re evil,” Emmie told Grace.

“I hope you’re not spending all your time in bars, sweetheart.”

“You don’t need to worry. It was just to eat both times.”

“Mmm hmm. Are you getting enough to eat?”

Emmie’s foot began to tap impatiently. “Plenty. Lamb takes good care of me.”

“Lamb?”

“He’s the butler here. A really nice old man. You’d love him.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And how is the work going?”

“It’s just a lot of cataloguing and researching right now. Nothing terribly thrilling— Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s a crew here filming an episode of Digging Scotland. They have a team of archaeological excavators out in the east field. And there’s a camera crew, too, that shows up every once in a while.”

“Is that so?” Grace’s pitch rose a notch. “What channel’s it going to be on? I’ll have to watch it, see if I can find my little girl.”

“Don’t try too hard. I’ve been avoiding the cameras. Plus, the excavators told me I’d have to sign a waiver for the producers to use any footage with me in it, and I’m not going to do that.”

“Oh, Emmie! Such a shrinking violet. What are they digging for?”

“They—they’re digging… for…”

Emmie’s throat suddenly constricted, and she couldn’t get the words out. Didn’t want to get the words out. Like what was beneath that field was not everyone’s business. Not yet, anyway, not until the episode aired at least.

“Just… you know, household stuff. There were outbuildings on the property at one point. So they’re looking for artefacts. To tell them how people lived back then, you know?”

“You make sure to keep us in the loop. Let us know if they find anything really extraordinary.”

“I will. So… anyway, I’d better go. The long-distance must be costing a fortune.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” Grace’s disappointment was audible. “Well, sweetheart, you take care of yourself out there. Make sure you’re getting enough to eat, and drinking enough water. Are you sleeping well?”

“I’m sleeping great. Everything’s great. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“And you’re not working too hard?”

“No, I’m not. I promise.”

“Okay, then. I guess, good bye. Don’t wait so long to call next time.”

“I won’t.”

“All right. You take care, Em. I love you.”

“Love you too… Mom.”

Emmie cradled the receiver and slumped against the backrest. For a long while she sat, staring into space.

“Pardon me, Emmie,” came Lamb’s soft voice from around the corner.

Startled, she leaned forward and poked her head out of the alcove. The old butler was standing off to the side, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“What’s up?” She gave him her best disarming smile.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, but I’m making hot chocolate and biscuits. I wondered if you wanted some.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Lamb hesitated, his feet shifting indecisively.

“Tell me to mind my own business,” he said, “but I was wondering if I might ask you something.”

This was unlike Lamb. Emmie raised an eyebrow. “Of course you can ask.”

He fidgeted, clasping his hands in front of him, and fiddling with his wrinkled fingers. “It’s only that… well… and I know this is none of my affair, but it sounded like you were uncomfortable calling your adoptive mother ‘Mom.’ I probably only noticed it because you did say you were adopted. And, well, I was curious.”

Emmie was touched. His concern for her never ceased to warm her heart.

“That’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it. You’re right, I guess. I’m not sure I’m really okay with calling them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad.’ When I came to live with them, Grace invited me to call her ‘Mom,’ and I didn’t have the heart to turn her down. She wants so much to be a real mother to me.”

“And that makes you uncomfortable?”

Emmie tilted her head. “It… it doesn’t feel natural, you know? I came to them when I was six, so it’s not like I grew up knowing her as ‘Mom’ until that point. Ron, he’s better about it. I don’t often call him ‘Dad.’ Neither does Chase, come to that. We usually just call him ‘Ron.’”

Lamb nodded, contemplating. He was a man of few words. But then, he didn’t need many words. He was one of those rare individuals, she was coming to understand, whose silence spoke volumes.

“You’re a sweet man, Lamb. I probably say that too much, and I’m sorry if I’m making you uneasy. Tell me to stop if I am.”

He inclined his head, his white hair catching the glow of the wall lamp behind him. “I suspect it’s much like your mother. Your adoptive mother, that is. It may make you uneasy to receive her open and unabashed affections, because it is no’ something that feels natural to you. But you would certainly be sorry if she ever ceased to offer them.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Grace loved Emmie with her whole heart. And just as Lamb was not entirely comfortable with Emmie’s display of affection for him, it would hurt terribly if Grace ever stopped telling her that she loved her.

“I’ll be off to fix that hot chocolate, then.”

“Thank you,” Emmie echoed, after he’d left.

Later, when she was full of warm milk, cocoa and sugar, Emmie climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She made no attempt to change out of her wool slacks, shell-pink blazer and wedge heels, into her pyjamas. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the photograph of her mother.

It was the only photograph she had, the only one her real grandmother had given her before she passed away. After she passed, Emmie was too late. Her grandmother, her last living blood relative that she knew of, died three months before the Tunstalls found out. By that time, all her possessions had been sold, given away, or destroyed.

Ron and Grace had tried. For Emmie’s sake, they tried desperately to recover something. Anything. But there was nothing left to recover. Every last piece of evidence that proved her mother had existed at all, had been on this earth, was gone. Except for the photograph that smiled back at her. And, of course, Emmie herself.

“Am I like you at all?” she asked the image. “On the inside, I mean? I don’t think I look like you. I’ve tried so many times to find the similarities between myself and your face, and I never can. Sometimes, I think it might be there in the smile. Other times I don’t see it.”

The woman continued to smile enigmatically from behind her glass frame.

“Do I look like my father? Do you even know who he is? Does he know I’m alive? Is
he
alive?”

They were all questions she’d asked the photograph before. There were no answers this time. Just like every other time.

“Did you even care about me?”

Every now and again these stirrings of self-pity would surface. Emmie never had anyone she could talk to about it. Chase was the closest option, but even he couldn’t empathize. Not truly. He’d come to the Tunstalls as an infant. He didn’t have the six years that she did of knowing another life, another existence.

Chase was also in touch with his birth family. He’d found them when he was eighteen. It hadn’t been the reunion he’d hoped for, but it was something. He learned the story of his conception from his mother, the daughter of a CN Rail engineer. When her father was transferred to an outpost in the Yukon, he dragged his reluctant, teenaged, city-reared daughters with him. Bored by the lack of entertainment, Chase’s mother, then fourteen years old, had made her own entertainment with the local Aishihik boys. Chase’s relationship with his mother now was strained, polite, distant. But it was there.