“Hello again, Mrs. Blair,” she said, stepping into the stone-vaulted space, part of the cellar of the original castle. A wide addition to one side spilled light from tall windows onto a large oak table where the housekeeper, the cook, and a kitchen maid worked.
A man sat at a lower table in the corner eating cold ham and cheese; he stood as they entered. A grizzled fellow with gray hair and beard, dressed in brown jacket and trousers with a swath of plaid draped over one shoulder, he grinned. “Sir!”
“Angus MacDonald! Good to see you.” Gavin clapped his shoulder. He had known Angus for years; the man had marched in the Regiment of Foot under Elinor’s father and later came to work for his Cameron kin. There was no more reliable man.
“Sir, I will be taking Miss Elinor back soon as yer visit is done.”
“No need to wait for me, Angus MacDonald,” Elinor said. “I have work to do that could take hours.”
“Ach,ghosts and such,” Angus said, shaking his head.
“Ghosts?” Mrs. Blair looked alarmed.
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Bee,” Gavin said.
“I wish you could send those awful things out of this house!”
“We intend to try, Mrs. Blair,” Elinor said.
The housekeeper stared. Gavin smiled at Elinor’s serenely confident air. The lass was smart, stubborn, passionate. None knew that better than he.
“Well, I do not want to be here when you try! They are misbehaving lately. We should all leave this house tonight,” Mrs. Blair retorted.
“Perhaps Miss Cameron’s plan will be effective. Shall we talk further?” He gestured toward the door. “Mrs. Blair, please bring tea to the library.”
“So,” Gavin Stewartsaid later, as they sat over a tea tray. “I recognized Braemore in your story.”
“It was part of the inspiration.” Elinor blushed to think he saw that.
“The rest was from your research? How is that effort?”
“Going well, thank you.” She poured more tea into the cup he lifted in silent request. They sat over a steaming teapot, china cups, small cakes, and tiny sandwiches of jam or cheese. That Mrs. Blair had remembered her love of rowanberry jam was just the warm welcome she needed. She added another measure of sugar to Gavin’s tea, knowing he took it strong and sweet.
“Your lectures continue?” she asked.
“The next session begins in January. I am planning a series on the events leading to the Declaration of Arbroath in 1320.”
“So interesting.” The conversation felt painfully polite. She yearned to sit close, ask about his health, his plans, and if he was happy. Uncertainty hung in the air. In a far corner of the library, Mrs. Blair sat with needlework, a silent chaperone.
“I saw you in one of my lectures last year,” Gavin said.
Elinor paused, a morsel of cake on her small fork. So he had noticed. “The subject interested me. Cousin Gilbert was attending the series. He escorted me.”
“A fine student. What was the subject?”
“I—do not quite recall.” She had not paid attention. She had only wanted to see him. But she saw a twinkle of amusement in his hazel eyes.
“Miss Cameron, we are skirting the issue at hand.”
Startled, she set down her cup. “Issue?”
“The hauntings.”
He used to call her Elinor. “Tell me, what happened that you sought advice? Your nature is to forge through a problem rather than admit a need.”
He huffed. “True enough. I intend to sell Braemore. An interested party requires proof that ghostly activities have ceased.”
“I see. A shame to sell it! I wish I could buy it—I would welcome ghosts!”
