Waterfall Glen (13 page)

“You’ll just be doing what anyone in your situation would do,” Finlay said.

“And most people wouldn’t even shed a tear,” Miss Weir added.

“You must think it unforgivable that I’m feeling sorry for myself when I stand to gain something, and you and
Finlay stand to lose your jobs and home.”

“We’d think less of you if you didn’t cry at all, Kate Brodie,” Miss Weir told her, “or if the tears were just for yourself.”

Kate had reached for Miss Weir’s hand, and for Finlay’s. Clasping them in her own, she’d said, “I meant every one of the words I said to Mr. Cunningham, about how I’ll hang on to Glen Cranoch unless I can’t keep it any longer. I want the two of you to start thinking about ways to turn this place around, to make it pay. I’m not even talking about making a profit; I’m not interested in making money, just making the estate break even.

“But I want you to think about something else, too—about where you’d go and what you’d do if I am forced to sell The Cranoch. Archibald Cunningham told me it would be a case of ‘when’, not ‘if’. Deep down, I know that he’s almost certainly right.” She paused after that, as if needing time to gather her thoughts, or just her composure, then said, “I’ll go around to the crofters tomorrow and ask them to attend a meeting so I can say to them what I’ve said to you: ask for ideas—and tell them to start thinking about a future outside the glen in case we can’t come up with any.”

“Between us I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Miss Weir had said. She’d squeezed Kate’s hand and, at exactly the same moment, Finlay did the same thing. They’d all smiled at each other unconvincingly before turning their attention without enthusiasm to the lovely meal Miss Weir
had prepared. For once even Finlay just picked at his food.

Now, in the chapel the next morning, Miss Weir said, “You can’t take the weight of the world on your shoulders, lass, or it’ll crush you.”

“But I’m the Lady of The Cranoch, so I have to take the weight of this little part of the world on my shoulders.”

“If I was you, I’d just take the money.”

“If I do, I’m going to feel like a second Lady Carolyn.”

“Lass, I don’t think you could possibly be any less like Lady Carolyn.”

“I’d be responsible for a second clearance, just the same.”

“No, not just the same. Somehow I couldn’t see you burning crofters’ cottages around them and selling them into servitude.”

“Still, the bottom line is that the crofters will have to leave their homes and the glen and face an unknown future.”

“The future’ll take care of itself,” Miss Weir said. “As for the present, the best thing you can do is go back upstairs and lay your head down in that four-poster bed.

“Then, when you wake up, you can go around the crofts like you said last night.” Miss Weir put a reassuring hand on Kate’s shoulder and said, “We’ll all work together, everyone in the glen, like we always do and see what we can come up with, okay?”

Kate nodded. On an impulse she hugged Miss Weir before doing what she was told: going back upstairs to bed.

I
T WAS ALMOST NOON WHEN
K
ATE WOKE UP, AND
F
INLAY
and Miss Weir were having lunch by the time she made it down to the kitchen.

Finlay offered to go around the crofts with her, but there was a rod and bait box outside the kitchen and she guessed he’d been about to set off on a fishing trip. She didn’t know how much longer Finlay would have the chance to enjoy an afternoon casting in the still waters of the lochan or the fast-flowing little river in the hanging valley above it, so she smiled her thanks and said she’d manage on her own.

After a cup of tea, some small talk, and a big salmon sandwich, Kate set off down the steps and the stony track that wound around Castle Crag to the glen below.

She was halfway down the crag when she noticed something from the corner of her eye: a little cloud of dust blossoming on the dirt track at the far end of the glen. Seconds later the more substantial shape of an approaching vehicle appeared in its midst. The dust cloud died away as
the driver parked near the old church—still too far away for Kate to make out what kind of vehicle it was, let alone tell anything about the person who got out. Rather than visiting the cluster of whitewashed cottages at the foot of the crag as she’d intended, Kate kept on walking. She was curious about who had just driven into the glen and why. Besides, she was glad of an excuse to delay knocking on the crofters’ doors with bad news.

By the time Kate reached the first abandoned farm township she could tell that the parked vehicle was some kind of little van.

A little further on, she saw that it was a fawn-colored camper and the driver, who was looking at the old church now, was a man. Even from a distance there was something unmistakably masculine about his build and bearing—tall and broad-shouldered, with a long-legged gait and no roll of the narrow hips.

As Kate walked and watched, she saw the man hesitate at the door of the church, then turn his back on it and walk towards the first cluster of ruined cottages. He stood perfectly still for a very long time when he got there. Kate sensed he was trying to decide whether to enter the nearest cottage, but that something was stopping him.

Finally turning away from the blackened building, he walked down to the lochan and along the water’s edge. Every so often he crouched down, reached for something around his neck and raised it to his face. He seemed to be taking pictures: the Yeoman Holdings snooper Finlay
had seen the other day, Kate guessed. Her curiosity turned to a mix of disgust and anger. At first she wondered if it was Tony Carling himself, but as she drew nearer she saw that this man was slimmer, and that his walk didn’t have any suggestion of an aggressive swagger about it. One of Carling’s minions, she decided.

The man crouched on one knee again, not just pointing and shooting as Kate did when snapping a picture, but obviously taking great care with the composition. He hesitated, and Kate thought he’d spotted her. But when he lowered the camera it was to look up at the sky. Kate looked up to see what was of such great interest, but all she saw were clouds. Then she realized that he must be waiting for the clouds to move in or out of the shot.

He stayed crouched like that for at least a minute, camera cradled in his left hand, right elbow braced on his knee, before finally firing off a shot and getting to his feet.

Kate was close enough now to see that the man was about the same height as Tony Carling, but lean and rangy. He wore stonewashed jeans and a faded blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons undone, over a plain white T-shirt. He was so caught up in taking photographs that Kate sensed he wasn’t aware of her approach.

The man seemed a little startled when he finally noticed Kate. He acknowledged her with a nod of the head, but Kate didn’t nod back. She prided herself on being able to turn strangers into friends with just a smile, but the memory of her last meeting with a representative of
Yeoman Holdings was still fresh in her mind, and she didn’t feel like giving this one a smile. She was close enough now to see that the man’s thick, dark brown hair was neither straight nor tightly curled. His tanned face had high, hard cheekbones planing into a clean jawline that couldn’t be called weak or heavy, below a mouth that was a little closer to broad than narrow. As Kate looked into his hazel brown eyes her heart skipped a beat and she had to work hard not to return the smile he gave her. He was like a sort of less rugged version of Tom Berenger, she thought. She had to remind herself that this man worked for Tony Carling, that he wanted to turn the crofters out of their home, and Glen Cranoch into a—

She couldn’t bring herself to think about it any more, so instead she just said, “Can I help you?” in the most unhelpful of voices.

“I’m looking for Glen Cranoch,” he said. He had less of an accent than Finlay, but was unmistakably Scottish all the same.

“You can’t wait, can you?” Kate said.

The man’s friendly smile gave way to one of bemusement, and he said, “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t even wait until you actually own the place, can you? What are you taking pictures of: where the ski-lifts will go, or some sort of fast-food concession, maybe? Wouldn’t a McDonalds or a Pizza Hut look great over there?” She pointed to the shingle beach at the end of the lochan, beside the abandoned church.

“I’m afraid—”

“How can you look at all this,” Kate said, turning away from him to take in the hills rising up on either side, and the two crags in the distance, “and not feel ashamed at what you’re going to do to it?”

Pointing to the cottages at the foot of Castle Crag she said, “Because of you and your friend Tony Carling, the people in those little white houses are going to be forced out of homes their families have lived in for generations. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I’ll bet you’re just broken-hearted.” Kate shook her head in disgust. “How can you sleep at night?” she asked him. “If I was a man I would throw that camera of yours into the water and run you right out of the glen.”

“So much for Highland hospitality,” he said.

“You’re going to destroy the place I love and dispossess the people who’ve become my friends: what do you expect me to do, throw my arms around you and welcome you with a hug?”

“A hug would be nice.”

For a moment Kate seriously considered slapping him, but settled for saying, “I’m glad you find this funny.”

“Funny peculiar, not comedy funny. I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”

Kate had calmed down, but not enough to stop herself from saying, “The misunderstanding is if you and Tony Carling think I’m just going to give you the glen on a plate.
I’m no Lady Carolyn.”

The man was about to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

Guessing what had gone through his mind, Kate said, “Go on, at least have the guts to say what you were just thinking: Tell me that I’m no lady, right out.”

“At least give me credit for having the good manners not to say it.”

“I’ll credit you with a cold heart, or at best a callous indifference,” Kate told him.

The man looked a little thoughtful at that, perhaps even a little hurt, as if her words had hit home.

Kate was puzzled by that. A man with a cold heart or a callous indifference wouldn’t have been hurt by what she’d said.

“I think I’ve maybe come to the wrong glen,” the man told her.

“You’re damn right you have. Still, it’s an easy mistake to make,” Kate said bitterly. “They’re ten-a-penny, as your bully-boy buddy said. Why don’t the two of you go and find another one to trash.”

“Are you from Greenpeace or something?”

“What?” now it was Kate’s turn to look confused.

“You know, Greenpeace. Don’t kill the whale, the Rainbow Warrior, that sort of stuff.”

“Why do you say that?”

“From your accent you’re obviously not from these parts, but it’s also obvious that you care pretty passionately about
them. I wondered if you were maybe some sort of activist.”

“No, I’m not some kind of loony activist.”

“I never said ‘loony’.”

“No, but it’s what you were thinking, right?”

He smiled. “It’s quite funny, you seem to have an uncanny knack of knowing what I’m thinking, but you obviously don’t have the slightest clue who I am.”

“I might not know who you are, but I know exactly what you are. Finlay’s told me all about your little meeting the other day.”

“Finlay?”

“Yeah, you know the little old guy you probably laughed at when he stood up to you. The guy who played the bagpipes on the beaches at Normandy. It’s the only time he’s ever left this glen, and now he’s going to have to leave it for good because of you.”

“Look, I think you’ve got me—”

“You’re not fit to lace up his boots,” Kate said angrily.

This time her words really seemed to hit home, because the man said, “You’re wrong about everything else, but you’re probably right about that.”

Kate thought that the man suddenly seemed much older. The boyish smile was gone so completely now that she found it hard to imagine she’d ever see it again. Moments earlier he’d joked about Kate knowing exactly what he was thinking, but now she didn’t have the slightest idea what lay behind the troubled look in his hazel-colored eyes. Suddenly she found it a little harder to be angry with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I feel strongly about this. I don’t know if there’s a law of trespass in this part of the world, but I really think you should leave.”

“You sound like you own the place.”

“For the moment, I do.”

He looked taken aback. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect? What did Tony Carling tell you about me? No, wait, don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.”

“I’ve never met this Tony Carling or even heard of him, and I’m sorry if I’ve strayed somewhere I shouldn’t have, into the middle of a feud between neighbours or something, but I couldn’t see any other way to get where I wanted to go.” Looking around, he added, “And even if I could have seen another way, I’d have wanted to come this way. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, and I thought it looked like the most tranquil, too.”