Fiona (21 page)

I must wake
every fifteen minutes or so during the night, curling closer and closer into myself to escape the cold. Finally, I decide I've slept enough, and I open my eyes to a foggy, freezing-cold morning. It feels as if my fingers and toes have frozen together, and I stretch them carefully as I stand. There's no one in sight, no cars on the road, so I walk along it.

Cars start to appear as the sun rises higher in the sky, around midmorning. I retreat into the edge of the woods and keep walking parallel to the lane. I imagine those cars are full of families heading to church or to Sunday lunch. That thought makes me feel even more alone.

Right on cue, I hear my mother's voice in my head.
You'll be fine, hen
, she coos.
You'll find your way home soon
.

It does nothing to comfort me, and I do my best to ignore it.

The road meanders through the hills. I pass fields of shaggy Highland cows, farmhouses and ruins of old churches and abandoned cabins, lakes so still that they reflect the cloudy sky and the mountains that rise above them as clearly as a mirror. It's beautiful here.

The sun disappears behind a blanket of clouds in late morning, taking the relatively mild temperature with it, and does not come out again. The wind grows wilder, more vengeful, and finally, the clouds give way and snow begins to flutter down. It falls harder and harder, until it begins sticking to the ground, and I'm crunching it underneath my boots. It pelts me, making me blink every few seconds as water drips from my eyelashes down my cheek. Soon I feel as if I'm trapped inside a frozen cocoon, as if the snow has captured me, is keeping me from the world outside.

I try to keep my disoriented eyes on the road, as if it can reassure me. But I don't know where I'm going. I barely know where I am. I need to get someplace warm soon, or I don't even want to think about what could happen to me in these conditions.

It must be late afternoon when I come upon a cluster of houses and stores. I see it a few hundred yards in the distance, and I speed up until my half-numb feet are nearly at a jog.

I've figured out what to do: I'll call Hex and ask her to get
me a plane ticket home. I know she doesn't have that kind of money on hand, but she's Hex—she'll figure out a way.

As I draw closer to the village, I realize I recognize these shops. I'm in Perthton. The village near Dunraven Manor.

Suddenly, an idea—a crazy idea—begins to form in my mind.

My lips are on the verge of a smile when a voice calls out, making me stop in my tracks.

“Fee!”

I turn around to see Gareth walking toward me. I stare at him, hardly believing he's really there. But it's certainly him, in his heavy black coat and work boots, a concerned frown on his face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he gets closer.

He doesn't answer. Instead, as soon as he reaches me, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a hug.

I'm so surprised that, for a short moment, I don't hug him back. But finally I reach my arms around his waist and let myself lean into him. I don't realize how much I needed this until now.

He steps back but keeps his hands on my shoulders. “Where have you been?” he asks, reaching up and plucking a leaf from the tangles of my hair.

“I couldn't—I had to run.” I don't even know where to begin, and he must see the frantic confusion rising within me, because he squeezes my shoulders before I can continue on.

“Here,” he says, looking around. “Let's get inside.” He takes my hand and gently pulls me into the pub on the corner. He points me to a booth in the back, away from the crowd near the bar, and goes up to order us something.

There's a roaring fire a few feet away, and I can't help but sigh as I start to thaw out a bit.

I think of the fireplace in the pub I waited in the first day I arrived in the Highlands. Where I met the boy with firelit red-brown curls and pale green eyes for the first time.

I shove that memory aside and look around to discover that most of the people in this tiny place are watching me. I don't blame them. I must look frightful, with my red hair even messier than normal and my face streaked with dirt.

Gareth walks over to me with two tumblers of whisky and a bowl of almonds, and I watch as the women in the pub shift their attention from me to him. Evidently, they like the way his muddy-brown hair glints in the firelight. Or maybe it's his broad shoulders that catch their eyes.

I remember what happened in front of the fire in his cottage and blush down at my drink.

“Drink up,” Gareth says, nodding at my whisky. “It'll warm you up a bit. And then why don't you tell me everything that's happened, from the beginning?”

So I do. I tell him everything, from my suspicions about
Blair to our strange argument that she denied ever having and on through the horrible events of the past few days.

Gareth listens to it all without interrupting. I try to read his expression, but all I can see is attentiveness.

When I'm finally done, I tell him, “Now it's your turn. Why are you here? Were you out looking for me?”

He takes a long sip of his drink before answering. “The whole house is out looking for you, in all the nearby villages,” he says. “Albert lent me a car, said you might be here. He said he took you here once? Anyway, I'm supposed to call as soon as I find you.”

“You can't tell him,” I say quickly, but he holds his hands up.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to.”

“Do you believe me? That Blair is orchestrating all this?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He takes a deep breath before finally saying, “I don't think you're crazy, Fee.”

I close my eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. Because everyone—Mabel, Albert, Charlie, the doctor—
everyone
has spent the last few days doubting me. I can't stop thinking about that look in Charlie's eyes, the pity as I told him about my mom's schizophrenia, the sorrow as he ascribed that disease to me as well.

But Gareth believes me.

I reach across the table, and he takes my hand in his and squeezes it. “We'll figure it out, Fee. We'll figure something out.”

I nod, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. Finally, when I get myself under control, I have to ask him, “Why do you believe me?”

He brushes his thumb back and forth across the back of my hand. “Because I know you. And the woman I saw running away that night from the stables—I don't know if she was you. I mean, I don't think she was you,” he says in a rush.

“Who do you think she was?”

“I don't know, but I'm certain I would have recognized you.”

“Do you think it could have been Blair?”

“I don't think so,” he says with a small frown, trying to remember.

I pull my hand from his and bury my head in my arms. “She set it all up so perfectly,” I groan.

“Why do you think she hates you so much?” he asks. There's a careful tone to his voice that makes me look up, and when I do, I see that he can't meet my eyes.

“Because of Charlie,” I whisper, though I can tell he already knows.

“You like him,” he says.

I can't lie. Not to Gareth. Not when he's the one person in the world who's stood by my side. “I love him,” I admit.

He meets my eyes and nods once, quickly. “I'll get us another round. Be right back, okay? And then we can make a plan.”

I nod, my eyes brimming with grateful tears, and settle back into the booth as he heads for the bar. I eat the rest of the almonds and finish my drink and let the burning warmth from the whisky and the fire spread through me. I'm safe.

When I look back toward the bar, though, Gareth isn't there. I search the crowd, and he's definitely not among them.

I stand up, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of my stomach. I walk past all the patrons, through the door, and back out into the cold. And find Gareth on his cell phone.

“Just hurry,”
he says before hanging up and turning around to come back inside.

As soon as he spots me, I start running. “Fee!” he calls out, but I'm into the woods before he can catch me.

He'll go for the car now and try to track me down. I keep running, deeper into the woods but still following the road as closely as I dare toward Dunraven Manor. It's a couple of miles away, and I know Gareth will overtake me soon. But if I stay far enough from the road, hidden in the dense trees, maybe he won't see me.

Evening is falling, and there are plenty of cars zipping by. I don't stop to look for Gareth's. I just stumble along as best as I can, pushing my way through the scratching, searching trees. The whisky and the fire have brought some feeling back into
my feet, and I feel the blood pumping through me, warming me, as I run faster.

I'm out of breath with a painful stitch in my side by the time I finally reach a tall stone wall. The edge of the Dunraven Manor property. I climb over the wall as quickly and quietly as possible, then sprint for the manor house. I know every camera in the trees is pointed at me, but I don't care. I want them to know that I'm here.

Once I'm inside that house, I'll be safe. I hope.

Sure enough, before I'm less than halfway to the house, someone behind me yells, “Stop!”

I whirl around to face the same guard who found me the first time I came here. He recognizes me just as I recognize him. “What are you doing here?” he asks gruffly. “You need to leave.” He grabs my arm and starts dragging me off.

“Wait,” I say, pulling my arm from his grasp. “You have to let me inside. I have to see the Cavendishes.”

He frowns at me, the wrinkles deepening in his weathered face. “Then you can call and make an appointment. But you're not getting anywhere near them tonight.”

He starts dragging me off again, but I stand my ground.

“My name is Fiona,” I say. “I'm Moira's daughter.”

He stares at me, his brow furrowed. “I don't understand,” he says after a stretch of silence.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish are my grandparents. And I need to see them. Now.”

He drops my arm and takes a step back. “Is this a joke? I've never heard anything about Moira having a child.”

Maybe my grandparents really never knew about me. Either that or they were too ashamed to tell anyone. “I was born in Texas. My mother raised me until she committed suicide. My mother was their daughter, and I'm their granddaughter.”

The guard blinks, then looks from me to the manor house and back again. “Well . . . I suppose we'll see what Mrs. Drummond has to say about this,” he says, stumbling over his words.

“Thank you,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

We walk in silence, glancing at each other out of the corners of our eyes every so often.

The housekeeper is standing outside the front door, watching us walk up.

“You're the girl who was here last month. The trespasser,” she says once we're close enough to hear. “I thought it was you on the security camera. What's this about?” she asks the guard.

“She says she's their granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” Mrs. Drummond says with a laugh. It fades when she sees the serious look on my face.

I tell her who my mother is, but she still looks confused.

“I'm sorry,” I say, taking one step closer to her. “But could you please just talk to them? Ask them if they'll see me?”

She wrings her hands in worry but finally nods. “Wait here,” she says.

The guard stays with me, and we wait in silence until Mrs. Drummond comes back. Her expression is so grave that for a moment I'm sure they've refused to meet with me.

But instead, she gives me a small nod of assent. “They'll see you,” she says somewhat uncertainly. “But you have to understand, they're very old, and not well. If this is some kind of joke, or a trick—”

“It's not,” I say, looking her right in the eye. “I promise.”

She studies me for a moment, then gestures toward the door. “Come with me.”

We climb up a grand staircase, the railing matching the gold filigree details on the walls. There is nothing medieval about this manor house—it's only a couple of centuries old, and well planned. No twisty staircases or uneven floors to be found.

As we climb, I try to wrap my head around that the fact that this is where my mother grew up. She knew every inch of these elaborate rooms, was familiar with every piece of antique furniture, knew the story behind every portrait lining the walls. This was her home, where she had her family. The one she left behind without a second glance.

I think with a quiver:
Maybe I shouldn't be here
. I don't know anything about these people, except for that it's quite possible they don't know about me. Or maybe it's that they don't want to know me. My mother ran away from them as quickly as she could, as soon as she got the chance. Why would they help me?

Even if they don't help me, I still want answers. And this is the only way I'm going to get them. That determination propels me up the last few steps.

Mrs. Drummond knocks quietly on the door in front of us. “Come in,” a very strong, clear voice calls out. My grandmother?

We walk into another ornate room, with a large fireplace, one of the grandest grand pianos I've ever seen, and so many portraits of kilted men along the walls that it's as if they're covered in plaid wallpaper.

And then I see them, my mother's parents, sitting on a curved Victorian sofa in the middle of the room. Mr. Cavendish reads a newspaper—Charlie's newspaper—and Mrs. Cavendish is writing something on a small lap desk. A letter. Mr. Cavendish looks up when I walk in, but she keeps writing.

They are both small, smaller than I thought they would be given my mother's willowy height. Mrs. Cavendish's hair is coiled into an elegant bun, and Mr. Cavendish wears a well-tailored three-piece suit, as if they've decided they must dress to match the opulence of their home. Tentatively, I step closer,
examining their faces for familiar traits, anything that might remind me of my mother. Or myself.

Mr. Cavendish's mouth has dropped open at the sight of me. “Your hair—” he chokes out. He turns to Mrs. Cavendish, and she finally looks at me. “She has Moira's hair.”

They both stare at me, as if marveling at my long red curls, and I awkwardly shift from one foot to the other.

“That will be all, Mrs. Drummond,” Mrs. Cavendish says. Mrs. Drummond nods and slips back out the door, leaving me alone with them.

“Well, girl,” my grandmother says finally, her voice dry. “What do you have to say for yourself?” She sets aside her lap desk and crosses her hands together, studying me. Everything about her breathes elegance and refinement, even though she wears only a simple gold wedding band and no makeup. It's the way she moves, her posture. My mother had that same gracefulness.

“Let's start at the beginning,” Mrs. Cavendish says, surely noticing that I'm too overwhelmed to speak. “You claim to be our granddaughter.”

“Y-yes,” I stutter out.

“Moira never had a child.”

So they never heard about me. Which means I need to start with the hardest part. “My name is Fiona. My mother, Moira
Cavendish, gave birth to me in Austin, Texas, about seven years after she left yo—after she left Scotland. She raised me there until she . . . she died when I was twelve.”

I pause, watching them, waiting for their reaction.

They look at each other, solemn and sad. They knew she was dead. “Did Lily tell you?” I ask.

“Lily told us, yes. About her suicide,” my grandfather says slowly, and I can hear the grief in his voice, still so fresh after all these years. “But she never mentioned anything about a daughter.”

Why? Why would Lily try to hide me from them?

“Lily was always keeping us in the loop on Moira's life in the States. Why wouldn't she tell us about you?” my grandmother asks, echoing my thoughts, her left eyebrow arching.

Was that lie, that omission, part of an old promise to my mother? Did Lily think she was somehow protecting me from the Cavendishes? Or was she keeping me from them for some other reason? What secrets had she been hiding?

“Suppose what you say is true,” my grandmother continues. “What mother would commit suicide when she had a young daughter to raise? Who could be that irresponsible?”

“She was sick,” I say. “With schizophrenia. Didn't Lily tell you that?” I ask.

My grandparents glance at each other again. “We know of
the family illness,” my grandfather says finally, his voice much softer than his wife's. “My aunt suffered from it as well.”

“We raised Moira to be stronger than any illness,” my grandmother says, her voice cutting in over her husband's.

I straighten my shoulders, staring at this hard woman in shock. “Schizophrenics can't help their actions,” I say slowly, trying to make her hear me. “Not without medication.”

“And was she on medication?” my grandmother asks, delicately arching an eyebrow again.

“No,” I admit.

She nods, receiving the answer she expected. “This is all ridiculous. A ridiculous fairy tale spun by a poor American who thinks she can strike it rich by preying on our sympathies. We won't fall for it.”

I stand up, furious. “I don't want your money.”

I see now how stupid I was to come here. These people—or at least this woman—would never lift a finger to help me, especially not if I told them I was currently being accused of having the same “family illness” as my mother. I'm wasting my time.

My grandmother stands at the same time I do, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in her pale pink skirt suit. She is short, only coming up to my shoulder, but she stares me down with plenty of authority. “Any money that you might have been after
wouldn't have gone to you anyhow. All of our fortune will go to the poor Moffat children, the ones who truly deserve it.”

“The Moffats?” I say, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

She quirks that eyebrow up again. “Yes. Lily was like a daughter to us, much more loyal and obedient than Moira ever was. She stayed near, always visited,” she adds, and her voice breaks slightly, revealing the hurt underneath. “Lily was our family, and her children are our family, too. You are nothing but a fraud. A mistake.”

Her words sting, but I brush them aside. Their money—their considerable fortune, this house, everything—is going to the Moffats.

Because they didn't know that they had a granddaughter.

Of course. That's why Lily never told my grandparents about me. She probably passed it off to my mother like she was just keeping her promise to her, but really she wanted my inheritance. The newspaper was failing, and if she wanted to keep the castle and her fancy lifestyle, she needed money however she could get it.

So why bring me here, mere miles away from my grandparents' home? It doesn't make sense.

I don't say another word to the Cavendishes. I can't. Instead, I flee the room, running down the staircase and out into the entry hall. I need to shift my focus back to Blair.