Greyfriars House

by Emma Fraser

Genres: Gothic; Scottish & Highlander; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Secrets will be uncovered....

An epic, sweeping drama about a family with secrets and a house shrouded in mystery, Greyfriars House is perfect for fans of Rachel Hore, Kate Morton, Kate Riordan and Tracey Rees.

On a remote Scottish island sits: Greyfriars House.

1939

Nine-year-old Olivia Friel is delighted to be spending the summer at Greyfriars House, a place where her parents, their family and friends are always happy. But this year there's an underlying tension that Olivia doesn't understand. Then one night she sees something she's not meant to, and accidentally lets slip a devastating betrayal.

1984

Charlotte Friel gets a call from her ailing mother, asking something she's never asked before: for Charlotte to come home. There are things Olivia needs to tell her daughter before it's too late, secrets to be shared about forgotten relatives and a mysterious house.

Left reeling by recent events, Charlotte is unsure what path to follow. But eventually her curiosity, and a desire to escape her own life, lead her to Greyfriars House.

Will she find the answers she needs to make peace with the past?

Release date: January 25, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

The house looms behind me, grey and forbidding in the moonlight. From the turret window a light flickers so briefly I can’t be sure I saw it. Ever since I arrived on the island I have had the sensation I am being watched, that someone wants me gone. But I no longer trust my senses. There is so much that is strange about Greyfriars.

It is very still. As if the island is holding its breath. I move towards the shore. What my great-aunt has told me so far has shaken me. And there is more to come. More secrets to be revealed. I am not sure I can bear to hear them.

As I pick my way along the rough path I think regretfully of the torch left behind in the porch. But I persevere, wanting to put distance between me and the house. The moon and stars provide just enough light although every now and again scudding clouds obscure them and I am momentarily plunged into darkness.

I continue through the trees, innocuous in the daytime, but in the shifting darkness as sinister as watching sentinels. Then at last I am in the open again, the sea, glittering in the moonlight, stretching in front of me. I suck in lungfuls of salty air and my pulse slows.

A rustle comes from the copse behind me and my heart kicks as I whirl around. Something has moved within the shadows. I think of the ghostly presences my mother told me about, then immediately dismiss the thought with an impatient click of my tongue. The only ghosts are the ones in my head. Some placed there by Georgina, others of my own making.

Tiger has run off and I can hear the cracking of branches as she sniffs amongst the piles of rotting leaves. A shape swoops over my head and I smother a cry. A flutter and a flash. It is just the owl that roosts in the eaves, returning with a mouse trapped in its beak.

It isn’t just the house that unsettles me, or the two women within, it is me, the way I feel inside. Untethered and adrift. A boat without an anchor at the mercy of the wind and tide.

I’d told myself I’d come here to find answers although I knew, deep down, I was fleeing from the world, my grief, my guilt, from having to make a decision about the rest of my life.

Tiger growls. She has emerged from the bushes and is standing in front of the copse of trees, her ears up, her tail rigid behind her. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I know she is there before I see her. The figure emerges from the shadows, her face hidden. I have seen her before. Edith sleepwalking, I’ve been told. I no longer believe it.

I stood on the narrow pavement in front of the Old Bailey as cameras pointed in my direction, their flashes almost blinding me. The questions came thick and fast.

‘Miss Friel, how does it feel to have won your first murder trial?’

‘Look this way, Miss Friel, and smile!’

‘Did you know you’d be creating a precedent when you agreed to take on this case?’

‘I didn’t win on my own, gentlemen,’ I said with a nod in the direction of Giles who was standing next to me, his hand on my back, uncomfortably close to my backside. I shifted slightly, not enough so anyone would notice, but enough to ensure Giles had to remove his hand.

But the win was truly all mine. Even if I was only junior counsel, it was me who’d established Mrs Curtis had called 999 no fewer than thirty-four times, not one call of which resulted in any action by the police. Not even so much as a caution. It was me who harassed the hospitals, ferreting out each report of Susan Curtis’s repeated attendances. It was me who presented the jury with enough evidence to bring in a not-guilty verdict.

Giles hadn’t wanted to take the case. Not just because he didn’t care about the Mrs Curtises of this world and it was pro bono, but also because he was sure we would lose and he didn’t like to lose.

Neither did I.

But the moment I’d met Susan Curtis, and seen how downtrodden and defeated she was, I’d cared. And when I’d heard her story, I’d seen a chink – a possible line of defence – and I had known I could get Susan off.

‘Miss Friel, how does it feel to know that someone is guilty but yet do everything in your power to have them released back into society? Do you not think people should pay for their crimes?’

All eyes turned towards the speaker of the last question; a journalist from the News of the World whom I loathed. As soon as the trial was over we’d hustled Susan into a taxi – understandably she’d no desire to face the journalists – and now thwarted of their prey they were determined to get their tuppence worth from me.

‘Happily the jury agreed with me that if Mrs Curtis hadn’t defended herself with the only means available to her, her husband would have almost certainly killed her and quite possibly their son.’

But the journalist wasn’t finished. ‘Don’t you think you might have just given any woman unhappy with her marital situation carte blanche to do away with her husband, knowing that she has every chance of walking away scot-free?’

I held his gaze, trying not to reveal my contempt. ‘I hardly think Mrs Curtis has walked away scot-free, as you put it. She’s spent over a year in prison, separated from her son. And I doubt the events of that night – or the months and years before, when she was beaten on a regular basis, terrified every time she wouldn’t survive – will ever leave her.’

‘Now, gentlemen,’ Giles said, stepping forward before I could say any more, and he knew me well enough to know I had a great deal more to say. Furthermore, he had let me have the limelight long enough. ‘This, as you know, was an unusual case…’

As the reporters turned their attention to the great Giles Hardy, I slipped back inside and went to the robing room where I removed my robe and wig. Despite eyes gritty from lack of sleep after weeks of poring over evidence and witness statements into the early hours, I was still buzzing. When I was confident that the reporters had gone I left the Old Bailey and headed back to Chambers.

I hurried along Fleet Street passing the offices of the major newspapers, weaving my way through the tourists irritatingly blocking the pavement as they stopped to take photographs of the Old Cock Tavern, before turning right into Chancery Lane.

Even after ten years I still got a thrill walking through the Inns of Court. Off the main tourist route it was a rarefied, separate part of London – almost a little village in itself. I loved the sense of history in each stone, knowing I was walking in the footsteps of the Knights Templar, Oliver Cromwell and Thomas More. I had worked hard to earn the right to be part of it, and now, with the success of the Curtis trial, everything I had ever wanted was within my grasp.

I was smiling to myself as I crossed the quad in front of the offices of Lambert and Lambert. A man stepped in front of me, blocking my path. There was only time for the briefest moment of recognition, the tiniest shiver of fear, before he pulled back his fist and slammed it into my face. My spine jolted as I hit the pavement.

My head spinning, I scrambled to my feet. All I could think of was that no one must see me. But it was too late. A crowd had already gathered, a barrister I knew restraining the man who’d hit me. A woman clutched my arm.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’

I raised my hand to my cheek and winced. To my relief it didn’t seem to be bleeding. ‘No. I’ll be okay.’

‘How can you do what you do and still live with yourself?’ My attacker was struggling to release himself from the grip in which he was held. I recognised him now. It was Alfred Corrigle. He’d been in court all through Simon’s trial. Simon had been accused of raping Alfred Corrigle’s daughter, Lucy, and against my better judgement I had defended him. Successfully.

‘Do you know my daughter tried to kill herself?’ Alfred’s face was contorted, droplets of spittle flying from his mouth. He looked a far cry from the neatly dressed man who’d been in court. He lunged towards me. Instinctively I stepped back.

‘Is she okay?’

‘No thanks to you, you bitch! How would you like it if it had been your sister or your daughter on the stand?’

‘I was only doing my job.’ Even to my own ears, my words sounded feeble.

‘Your job! Letting people go free so that they can rape again. I don’t know who is worse – the monster who raped my daughter or you for what you did to her on the stand. He did it to someone else, you know. She told Lucy. She was trying to decide whether to take it to court but there isn’t a chance in hell of that now. Not after what you did to my Lucy.’ His voice caught and he began to sob, awful wrenching heaves that shook his shoulders. It was one of the most terrible sounds I’d ever heard.

‘I think I should call the police,’ someone said from the crowd that had gathered.

‘No. Please. Let him go.’ All I wanted to do was get away. Besides, I could see he was no longer a threat. He was a broken man. Moreover, he had a point. I’d gone after Lucy with a ruthlessness that had surprised even me.

As Alfred Corrigle stumbled away I lifted my briefcase from the ground, gave the crowd a weak smile and with as much dignity as I could muster, headed towards Bloomsbury.

 

I had never been so glad to close the door of my small flat behind me. I was still shaking so badly it had taken me several attempts to fit my key into the lock. Not bothering for once to remove my shoes so they wouldn’t spoil the cream carpet, I collapsed into an armchair.

I sat for a while thinking about what Lucy’s father had said. Had Simon really raped before? There had been no mention of it in the evidence the Crown had passed to me before the trial. But then if the woman had withdrawn her complaint, it could easily have slipped them by. Or the woman had been lying. Although I couldn’t think of a reason why.

I stood to get myself a glass of water and noticed the red light on the answerphone was blinking, telling me I had a message. It was probably Giles or John checking I was all right. No doubt they’d heard. News travelled fast around the Inns of Court. Although I had no wish to speak to anyone I pressed play. But it was Mum who’d left a message.

‘Charlotte. It’s me, Mum. You were on the television. Well done, darling! I’m so glad you managed to get Mrs Curtis off.’ There was a long pause and I thought she’d rung off but just as I was about to put the phone down, she spoke again. Her voice more hesitant now. ‘Charlotte, could you come home? As soon as you can? There is something I need to tell you.’

There was nothing more. I stared stupidly at the receiver in my hand. Mum had never asked me to come home – let alone as soon as I could. Something was clearly badly wrong. But what? I took a deep breath to slow my pounding heart. There was no point in speculating. I glanced at my watch. If I hurried I could make the last flight from Heathrow to Scotland.

 

It was after eight when, with a fist-sized bruise on my cheek and a tightness in my chest, the taxi dropped me outside Mum’s house in Edinburgh. I hadn’t phoned Mum to let her know I was coming. There had only been time to pack a suitcase, take a shower and change, before the taxi tooted to let me know it was waiting. As it was I’d only just made the flight to Edinburgh by the skin of my teeth.

I let myself in and called out to Mum, but there was no reply. The house was eerily quiet. Mum usually kept the radio on.

Tiger, Mum’s latest rescue dog – a mix of terrier and other unidentifiable breeds – flung herself at me, running around in circles, barking, her tail wagging so fiercely her whole body swayed from side to side. I went to the kitchen to look for Mum. It was the place she spent most of her time.

Everything in the kitchen was as it had always been. The same grey flagstones on the floor, the same kitchen units, the same familiar blend of Handy Andy, lavender furniture polish, and tea. But there was no sign of Mum at her usual position at the kitchen table, a book or crossword in front of her.

The band of tension around my chest tightened.

I retraced my steps into the hall and to the sitting room. I opened the door. Mum was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep and covered by a throw. I sucked in a breath. She’d always been petite but now she looked tiny, child-sized in her make-shift bed. Her skin, almost ashen in colour, was stretched over her cheekbones, her hair sticking up in tufts. There was an unnatural flush on her cheeks and her breaths came in small, shallow, rapid puffs. Although it was the middle of summer, the gas fire was on and the room was suffocatingly hot. A carafe of water and a glass, together with a bottle of tablets, sat on the small table that had been moved from its usual position and placed within easy reach. A musty aroma – a mixture of perspiration, stale air, and alcohol rub, along with the dusty smell of pills, permeated the room. Despite the cloying heat, a chill swept across my skin. Mum had always been a fresh air fiend, so fastidious about her appearance.

Tiger slipped in behind me and before I could stop her, jumped on top of Mum and lay down in the space behind her legs.

Mum’s eyes flickered open. When they focused on me, the sweetest smile crossed her face.

‘Charlotte! I didn’t expect you to come tonight!’ She stretched as if nothing was wrong. ‘I must have nodded off. What time is it?’

‘Almost nine.’

‘That late!’ She tossed aside the throw covering her and pushed herself into a sitting position, not quite managing to hide a grimace of pain as she did. Very gingerly she lowered her legs to the ground and straightened her back.

Tiger, roused from her position, rearranged herself on Mum’s lap. Mum rubbed her under the chin and took a sip of water from the glass on the table. She peered at me over the rim, her gaze sharpening. ‘What have you done to your cheek?’

I had forgotten about the large bruise just below my eye. I’d thought I’d covered it with make-up but at some point I must have rubbed the foundation off.

‘I hit myself with my racquet playing tennis.’ Thinking on my feet came easily to me. Experience defending abused women had taught me the ‘walked into the door’ excuse was only ever believed by those who chose to believe it.

Although Mum didn’t look convinced, she didn’t challenge me. ‘Have you had tea? Something to eat? You are much too thin…’

‘Never mind me. What’s wrong, Mum? I can see you’re not well. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She had tried to, I realised. I thought of the blinking light of my answerphone, the missed calls from her I’d meant to get around to returning but hadn’t and a tsunami of guilt washed over me.

‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you were in the middle of an important case. But you’re here now and that’s all that matters.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

Mum patted the sofa. ‘Come sit next to me, Charlotte.’

I lifted the tossed aside throw from the sofa and folded it, placing it back within easy reach for her. Mum wasn’t quite quick enough to hide her smile. My obsession with tidiness had always bemused her. When I sat down next to her, Mum took my hand. ‘I have seen a doctor. Several actually.’ Her voice wobbled and she waited a beat or two. ‘You’re going to have to be brave, we both are.’

The creeping dread I’d been feeling since I’d listened to her message on the answerphone solidified and the tight band across my chest became a physical pain. ‘How bad, Mum?’ I whispered, my mouth dry.

Mum took a deep breath and tightened her grip on my fingers. ‘I’m dying, Charlotte. I wish I wasn’t but I am and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.’

Mum had cancer. She’d found a lump in her breast months ago but had done nothing about it until Agnes, her old friend, alarmed at how much weight Mum was losing and how exhausted she seemed all the time, had insisted she go to the doctor. Even then it had taken Mum several more weeks to make an appointment. Tests had followed, taking more time, until, when finally a diagnosis of cancer had been made, it had already spread to Mum’s lungs and her bones. I knew enough to realise that when cancer had spread to other organs the prognosis wasn’t good.

Even as I was trying to absorb what Mum was saying my mind had been racing ahead.

‘There must be something they can do. ‘

‘Oh, Charlotte! Believe me when I say there isn’t. ‘

‘Why didn’t you see a doctor earlier? What’s the name of the consultant you saw? Have you had a second opinion?’

‘Charlotte! I’m not a witness on a stand.’ For a moment, the Mum I knew was back. Her voice softened. ‘A second opinion would make no difference. No amount of treatment will change the outcome. You’re quite right. I should have seen a doctor earlier, but I didn’t.’ The pain in her eyes, I knew, was for me.

‘But enough about me. How are you?’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘You must be thrilled with the result of the trial! I’m so proud of you.’

Proud of me? Proud of her only child who didn’t return her calls, who hadn’t come to see her mother in months? If I’d visited more often I might have noticed she was unwell and forced her to go to the doctor sooner. Then there might have been no need for this conversation.

‘Mum, we haven’t finished talking about you…’

‘Not tonight, Charlotte. There are things we need to discuss, things I have to tell you, but that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight I want to enjoy having my daughter home.’

‘But…’

She gave me a look, one I knew well. Once Mum had made up her mind there was no shifting her.

‘You look exhausted,’ she continued, frowning.

‘It’s just that I’ve been impossibly busy. Nothing a holiday won’t fix. Now that’s an idea! You and I could go to the coast for a couple of weeks – to a hotel – or a cottage if you prefer?’ As if taking her away for a few days could make up for all the times I hadn’t spend with her.

‘It’s a lovely thought, but if you don’t mind I’d rather stay here. I don’t have much energy these days.’

‘I’ll do everything. I’ll book us somewhere lovely, pack for you, I’ll even hire a more comfortable car.’ Mum disapproved of my BMW roadster. ‘We’ll take Tiger. You won’t have to do a thing. I’ll take care of it all.’

Mum squeezed my hands. ‘Perhaps in a while, when I feel a little stronger. Now, please, just for tonight, let’s talk about other things.’

Mum refused to say any more about her health. Instead she asked about my journey and whether I’d seen Princess Di and if I thought her second child would be a boy or a girl. Princess Diana dispensed with, she asked me about work.

I lied and told her it was all good.

 

Later, back in my old room which remained exactly the same as it had been the day I left for university, I lay awake, my thoughts whirling as I tried to absorb what Mum had told me. She was only fifty-four. It was impossible that she could be dying. Images spooled through my head; Mum and me in London, Mum applauding when I graduated, us in the library where Mum worked, me reading a book, looking up to find her eyes on me. Her quick smile, how she’d always put me first, made me the centre of her world.

Another childhood memory popped into my mind. Mum reading to me from Winnie-the-Pooh, a favourite when I was very small. I couldn’t remember the title but I did remember one particular quote. Winnie asks Piglet what day it is and when Piglet replies, It’s today, Winnie!, Winnie-the-Pooh tells him today is his favourite day. I made her read that story to me over and over again. Then as I grew up, I forgot about it. Tomorrow became my mantra. I’d do it all tomorrow. See Mum, take a holiday, treat her.

I had been too busy thinking about the next day to make the most of the one I was living, and along the way, I’d forgotten what was really important.

Now there would be too few tomorrows. Not enough todays.

 

The next morning, having barely slept, I was up as soon as it was light. I showered quickly, peeked in Mum’s bedroom to find her still sleeping so tiptoed downstairs. Tiger fetched her lead and looked at me imploringly. I took my Sony Walkman from my handbag, put my headphones on and took her out and into the grounds of the Astley Ainslie Hospital. When we returned I made some toast and spread it with marmalade before setting a tray with a china cup and saucer and a pot of Mum’s favourite Earl Grey.

Mum was awake but still in bed when I entered her room. ‘I was just going to get up and dressed,’ she said when she saw I had brought her breakfast.

‘I thought I’d spoil you for a change.’ I set the tray on her dresser and moved to help her sit up, but she rebuffed me with an exasperated shake of her head. I waited until she’d settled herself against the pillows, before placing the tray on her lap.

‘But what about you, have you had breakfast, Charlotte?’

‘I’ll get mine in a little while.’ Not that I felt like eating.

‘In that case, why don’t you keep me company while I eat,’ she said as I hovered over her.

‘Will I open your curtains?’ I knew I was fussing, but couldn’t help myself.

Mum nodded, popping a tiny morsel of toast into her mouth.

‘Right,’ she said briskly, pushing aside her tray. ‘I’ve made a start sorting out my affairs.’

‘Mum! That can wait.’

‘No, Charlotte. I have to do it while I still have the strength. I’ll feel better knowing everything is in order. Now sit down. Your pacing about is unnerving.’

Obediently I perched on the end of her bed.

‘There is so much I need to tell you. I hardly know where to begin.’

‘What sort of things?’

Mum sighed. ‘I received a letter. Perhaps that’s as good a place as any to start. Open the drawer in my bedside table and get it out for me. It’s right on top.’

I did as she asked.

‘I think it’s best if you read it yourself,’ she said, when I held it out to her.

Mum’s name and address was written in fountain pen in the sort of elegant writing that used to be taught in school. I smoothed out the good quality sheet of paper inside.

It was headed Greyfriars House.

 

Dear Olivia

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me after all these years. You may well be equally surprised to learn that I have thought of you often. As has Edith.

We would like you to come to Greyfriars House as soon as you can. We have a great favour to ask of you. I shall explain everything when we see you as it is not something that can be put in a letter.

I imagine that you will be reluctant to come and I should not blame you. But do. I beg of you. Before it is too late.

We have no phone so telegram your reply. Greyfriars is still only accessible by boat therefore I shall have to arrange for someone to bring you across.

Your aunt,

Georgina.

I read it twice more before I looked up. ‘Aunt Georgina, Mum? You have an aunt?’ I’d always believed that I was Mum’s only living relative. Her parents had died during the war and Mum, like me, was an only child. ‘And who is Edith?’

‘Edith and Georgina were my mother’s sisters.’

‘How come you’ve never talked about them?’

Her brow knotted and for a moment she seemed far away. ‘I’ve not seen or heard from them in years. Not since you were a baby.’

‘What do you think they want from you now?’

Mum sank against the pillows and I was struck anew at how pale and thin she was. ‘That’s just it! I can’t imagine what they want, after all this time. It’s not as if either of them have ever shown any desire to have anything to do with me – or you. Although at one time I believed them fond of me… or at least I believed Georgina fond of me.’

‘I don’t understand, Mum. What is Greyfriars? A nursing home?’

She shook her head. ‘Greyfriars House has been in our family for generations. My grandfather bought it as his hunting lodge.’ She closed her eyes and smiled. ‘We used to go there every summer when I was a child – right up until the war. I wish you could have seen Greyfriars and how it was back then.’ When her eyes flickered open, they were shining. ‘I’ve never forgotten a moment of that last summer, perhaps because it was the last time I remember being truly happy as a child.’ She took a shaky breath and the light in her eyes dimmed. ‘The war changed everything – people, places. Nothing, and no one, was ever the same afterwards.’ Mum looked so sad I ached for her.

Although I had been born only a few years after the war had finished, it had always seemed so far away – almost inconceivable – and nothing to do with my generation. We were much more concerned with the cold war and the prospect of being nuked into oblivion by twitchy-fingered politicians. Mum had never spoken about her experience during the war, and to my shame, I had never asked.

‘We’ve never really talked about so many things, have we, Charlotte?’ Mum said, reading my mind. She sighed. ‘So much I never told you.’

‘Tell me now, Mum,’ I urged her.

That was when I learned about Greyfriars.

Olivia gave a loud whoop as she jumped from the boat and turned to take in her first sight of Greyfriars. It was every bit as wonderful as she remembered. Almost three times the size of their London house, and with a turret, which was to be her bedroom this summer, its pale sandstone glowed in the sunlight.

Too excited to wait for Mother and Father, she ran through the arch in the rhododendrons that shielded the garden from the nearby mainland and across the springy, clover-scented manicured lawn, past the summer roses and towards the front door where the servants were waiting to greet them. Stopping just long enough to say a quick hello, she scampered past them, across the polished floorboards of the hall and up the wide jewel-blue-carpeted mahogany staircase. She couldn’t wait to see the turret room again and make it her own. They’d been coming for the summer for as long as she could remember, which, given she was only nine, wasn’t really that long when she thought about it. But she’d always loved the turret room and, finally, Mother had decided she was old enough to have it.

She raced along the first-floor corridor to the end and then up the narrow windy steps to the turret room. Her room! For the whole summer!

It was circular, with one half of the circle taken up by windows. Father had told her they’d once been tiny but his father had replaced them when he’d built the house, with these big ones that let the light in and allowed anyone looking out to see almost the entire front and side of the island. She gazed with delight around the room, noticing the pink-flowered quilt on the enormous four-poster bed and the tiny posy of pale pink peonies in a crystal vase on the dark wood bedside cabinet. Once she had her books and puzzles on the shelves, it would be truly perfect. Especially since she wouldn’t have Nanny breathing down her neck morning, noon and night telling her what a young lady could and couldn’t do.

This year, Nanny wasn’t with them. Olivia was to go to school after the long holiday and Nanny had gone to another family to take care of their children. She was supposed to have come to Greyfriars before going to the other family but her mother had become unwell and Mother had given her some time off to visit her. It was difficult imagining that Nanny’s mother could still be alive – Nanny surely wasn’t that far off going to join God herself. Olivia couldn’t help but be glad Nanny wasn’t here – even if it wasn’t nice to wish someone’s mother unwell.

She had a whole week before the first guests, Aunt Georgina and a few friends, were to arrive. Kerista might be an island but there was so much to do; miles and miles of it to explore, croquet on the lawn, or bathing on their private beach. There was even a yacht to take them to Oban or to the other islands and Mother had promised they would go for a sail on her once Aunt Georgina and the others arrived. Then, later on in the summer, more guests were expected and with everyone gathered, there was to be a party.

Eager to re-explore the island, Olivia ran down the narrow, curling steps that led from the tower to the first floor, and along the corridor, passing her old nursery and the ballroom where the final dance of the summer would be held. She scooted down the next flight of stairs and into the morning room where Mother, Father and Edith were taking tea.

‘Might I go outside?’ she asked Mother.

‘As long as you are back in time for dinner.’ Mother barely glanced up from her conversation with Aunt Edith, but Father smiled at her and nodded. Mother and Father were different at Greyfriars. The London Father was usually sombre and distant but the Greyfriars Father laughed and swam with her and seemed to cast off his mournful air along with the smog they’d left behind in London, and usually, freed from her charitable obligations, Mother spent more time with Olivia.

If only Aunt Edith hadn’t been there then Olivia would have had Mother and Father all to herself. Aunt Edith was nice enough, if a little bossy. She was always telling Olivia to tidy her hair or change her dress when it only had a tiny stain on it, but then Aunt Edith was a nurse and Mother said nurses had to be bossy.

Grabbing a slice of cake, Olivia scooted back into the entrance hall, narrowly avoiding a servant carrying a tray, and let herself out into the bright sunshine – and freedom.

 

Over the next few days, she would spring out of bed as soon as she heard the servants moving around the house, pull on her skirt and blouse, and, stopping just long enough to thrust her feet into wellington boots, would leave the house, returning only when she was hungry or when she’d had enough of her own company. But for most of the time the island was her kingdom.

With no one else to play with she’d become adept at creating her own games. Last summer she’d imagined herself a member of the Jacobite army as they’d marched south towards England. Alternatively she’d been Flora MacDonald, hiding Prince Charles from would-be captors, at other times she was the Lady of the House, whose husband had gone off to fight alongside the Pretender and who would watch for him from her bedroom window. (The latter game had lasted only the tiniest part of an afternoon. There was little fun to be had staring out of a window, no matter how forlornly.)

Today she’d gone down to the west side of the island. Here, although there were as many trees as on the other sides of the house, they grew oddly, not as strongly as the others and leaning in one direction as if they were a corps of ballet dancers bending at the waist. Donald, the ghillie, said they grew like that because of the prevailing wind coming from the direction of Balcreen, which was just across the water.

On this side of the island, Kerista was quite wild; the sea always more turbulent and the shore barren, with fat, glistening rocks instead of sand. Olivia far preferred it to the other side.

There was a small farm a little distance away, with a row of cottages where Donald lived with his wife. The other cottages were used by the extra staff who were employed for the summer. The miniature farm had a hen house and a couple of cows which one of the maids milked twice a day, sometimes letting Olivia help.

The hens wandered freely down here and suddenly Olivia had an idea. What if she could teach them to swim? She caught one and waded out, laying her in the water. But she flapped her feathers in Olivia’s face and squawked back to the shore.

‘What are you doing?’

Olivia looked up to find a girl, of about ten or eleven, with long curly hair and wide brown eyes looking down at her.

‘I’m teaching the hens to swim.’

‘Hens can’t swim,’ the girl scoffed. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Maybe because they haven’t been taught!’ Olivia fired back. She stood up. ‘I’m Olivia Friel. Who are you?’

‘Agnes MacKay. My mother’s your summer cook. Usually I stay with my grandmother in Balcreen when Mam’s working, but Granny’s not feeling well, so I’ve come here for the day.’

‘Do you want to play?’

Agnes nodded.

‘Let’s pretend the hens are our navy. I’m the admiral and you are my sailor.’

‘I should be the admiral,’ Agnes protested. ‘I’m older than you.’

Olivia thought about arguing but then Agnes might not play with her. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘we’ll both be admirals.’

They got to work. Agnes was quick on her feet, stronger than Olivia, and more used to catching hens. Agnes showed Olivia how to tuck her dress into her knickers and persuaded her to take off her shoes, telling Olivia that her bare feet would grip the rocks better. They did but not much. The girls kept slipping on the seaweed-covered rocks and soon they were both drenched. Neither of them cared. Olivia couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun, although sadly Agnes was no more successful than Olivia at creating a navy out of the hens.

They had been chasing after a hen that would not, no matter how hard they tried to persuade her, stay in the sea, when Olivia felt a shadow fall over her. She looked up, shading her eyes against the sun, to find Donald, his gun cracked open and over his arm, towering over her. Surprised, her grip on the hen slackened and her reluctant sailor flapped away, squawking with indignation.

‘What are you doing, miss? Agnes?’ The ghillie had a furrow between his brows Olivia could have slipped a pencil between.

She stood up, and, although she only reached as far as his hip, decided to brazen it out. She stared up at him, doing her best to mimic the haughty look she imagined a lady would give her subject – the same one Mother gave her whenever she was in the wrong.

‘We are trying to teach the hens to swim, but they are being very disobedient.’

His mouth turned up at the corners. ‘It’s clear you’ve spent too much time in the city, Miss Olivia. Hens can’t swim. Never have been able to and never will. It’s lucky for them you never drowned them. Best to leave them be.’

‘They are our subjects and our navy,’ Olivia insisted. ‘We are their commanders. How will they go into battle if they can’t swim?’

Donald laughed and to her annoyance ruffled her hair. When he turned to Agnes he looked much more disapproving. ‘Agnes! You should know better. The last place the pair of you should be is down at the shore on this side. There is a nasty riptide and you could drown, just like the little girl, and then what will your mothers do? They’ll mourn you forever and into eternity. Is that what you want?’

‘What little girl?’ Olivia asked.

‘Why, the little girl who drowned in this very spot a good many years ago. Some folk believe that she’s lonely and wants company so whenever someone comes down to these rocks she reaches out her arms and tries to pull them in so they will stay with her. I imagine that the company she’d like best would be another little girl around her age. So, mark my words, stay away from this bit of the island. If you want to play in the water, go down to where the ladies and gents swim. There’s a nice slope to the shore there.’

When he started back towards Greyfriars Olivia and Agnes scurried after him and fell into step beside him, Olivia doing a little hop skip and jump to keep up.

‘Tell me about the little girl,’ Olivia demanded. ‘What was her name? Did she live here all the time or did she only come in the summer like me? Does she come into the house? Her ghost, I mean? Or does she stay in the water? Is she a mermaid now?’

Donald rubbed a hand across the greying stubble on his chin. ‘All right then, I’ll tell you, but don’t go repeating what I say to anyone else – especially the grown-ups.’

Agnes nodded so energetically Olivia thought her head might come loose from her neck.

‘We promise.’ Olivia spoke for them both.

Donald waited until they were all perched on rocks before he began.

‘It was many, many years ago, long before I was born or even my father or his grandfather. The house as you see it wasn’t built yet. There was only the tower. It was in 1745 – the family were supporters of Prince Charlie. Do you know who he was?’

‘Of course. He was the rightful King of Scotland – or so many people believed. My governess told me about him. She said he was called the Young Pretender because he had no right to the throne,’ Olivia said.

‘Aye, well, all that is in the past. All that matters is that the family who lived here supported him. But to do so was against the law. Even worse it was treason!’ He smacked his lips together as if the very thought of treason thrilled him. ‘Any how, that doesn’t have much to do with my story except to say, the family was hiding out here. The clan chief who owned Stryker Castle over on the mainland supported the Jacobite cause as did many of the highland Scots. Now Lord Farquhar’s estates were in the borders but Lord Farquhar thought it unwise to leave his wife, Lady Elizabeth, and their daughter, Lady Sarah – they only had one child – there alone while he went off to fight alongside Prince Charlie. All this happened just before the battle of Culloden.’

In her head Olivia was conjuring up images of a lady dressed in plaid – her long hair which, when worn loose, would come almost to her bottom. Just like the lady she’d pretended to be!

‘Lady Elizabeth would have gone with him if she could,’ Donald continued, ‘but she knew if her husband was captured the King’s ar. . .