The Island House (15 page)
Katherine MacAllister’s expression softened at the distress Freya could not quite hide, and the girl saw the librarian was younger than she’d first thought. Close up, Katherine’s skin was
unlined, and there was only a little gray in her hair—it was the manner that made her seem middle-aged, and the clothes.
“Would you like, that is . . .” Katherine’s tone was tentative.
She wants to tell me about him,
but Freya could not tolerate the compassion in the woman’s eyes. She spoke over the librarian. “Thank you for your help. I have all I need for the moment.”
Freya’s table had too many books on it. Geology, history, theology, biography—even short-story anthologies—and each volume related to the far Northeast of Scotland as well as Findnar. It would be the work of months to absorb even some of the facts, but facts took Freya away from confusion, for a while.
It all felt so familiar. Taking notes, organizing topics, grouping references for further study—she’d always liked research, liked grazing when she could not be sure what she wanted to find but trusted
something
to jump off the page.
The library was a solid building and, absorbed in her work, Freya had not heard the rattle of rain on the windows. She looked up from her notes only when the street door blew open and then shut with a crash. A rubbish basket fell over in the gust. It rolled into a leg of her desk, strewing its contents around her feet; surreptitiously Freya picked up an apple core from the floor. Hers, it had strayed from the upturned bin. You weren’t supposed to eat in the library, several notices said so.
Rubbing her eyes, she bent to tidy the debris and registered the library clock. “Bugger!” It was close to seven. She didn’t want to be caught on the open water of the strait at evening, not if more rough weather was on its way.
Freya shut down her laptop and unplugged her phone. She grabbed an armful of books. Hurrying to the counter, she hit the bell, and then again; a moment or so passed before the door to the back office opened.
“Miss Dane, I thought it might be you.” A slight quirk of the lips.
Freya said breathlessly, “Sorry to trouble you, Miss MacAllister, but I have to go.”
Katherine said, pleasantly, “It’s very Australian, isn’t it?
Bugger.
An expression of anything from outrage to mild disappointment, or so your father used to tell me.”
Avoiding the invitation to offer a response, Freya made a stack of the books she’d chosen.
“I’ve only dipped into a few of these—so much fascinating material. Perhaps I might take a couple, though I don’t have a library card, of course.”
“I can make out a temporary slip, or you can join online. It will not be a problem; we know where you live.” The librarian actually smiled as she moved the books to her side of the desk.
Perhaps she’s only got so many smiles and doesn’t like to use them up,
thought Freya, but she chuckled politely. “You do. But there’s a few too many to fit in the pack tonight—very hard to choose.”
Katherine nodded briskly. “If I may advise . . .” She worked through the books Freya had selected, frowning slightly. “
Annotated Annals of the Parish of Portsolly and Perrin Bay,
by the Most Reverend Andrew Gibone, DD, MA Cantab. An interesting man.” The book was impressively large and bound in sober calfskin, and Katherine was actually enthusiastic as she said, “Dr. Gibone had a passion for the ancient records of this region. He taught himself to read the runic inscriptions, of which we have a number in the area, and farther north, too, of course.”
Lady, you don’t know the half of it,
thought Freya.
“He posits a controversial theory as to the origins of Compline House, though nothing has ever been proven. Not even by your father—though he certainly tried. Dr. Gibone believed the building stands on pre-first-millennium foundations.”
Freya said, politely, “That old? Fascinating.” She leafed through the front of the book and saw the date of publication: 1842. The book had last been borrowed in September 2011;
Bet it was you, Dad.
She caught Katherine’s glance, and they
both stared at the date stamp; Freya resisted the urge to touch the page.
The librarian cleared her throat. “And this will be useful,
Early Religious Foundations of the Scottish Peoples.
Sir Neville Buchan, privately printed in 1903, as you see. Less elegant in style, but he was schooled by his mother, a redoubtable woman. They were the lairds of Findnar then, and in fact your father bought the island from his descendants. An extremely old family.” Katherine brushed an invisible speck from the binding. “The Buchans owned much of Portsolly itself once as well as Findnar, though they are sadly declined now. The male line only has one childless descendant and, should he pass without issue, the original family will be extinct.”
Freya touched the gilded title of the book; it must have been expensive to produce. “I think I’ve met him. He’s certainly ‘declined.’ All the way to the lower primates, I’d say, maybe even the invertebrates.”
Katherine raised her brows. “Robert Buchan?”
Freya opened the book so the librarian could scan the bar code. “Yes.”
“Was he very rude to you?”
Freya nodded. “He was.”
Katherine shook her head. “I am sorry for it. Young Robert has led a disappointed life, and some cope better than others with that, though that is no excuse for bad manners. There was always a strain of . . . shall we say, odd behavior in that family; too much intermarriage between cousins. Debt and death duties were a considerable problem—Robert’s father died without a will—and selling the island became a necessity, or so I believe.”
Katherine cleared her throat busily, picking up another of the books. “Now, I would also recommend
Island Life in Scotland: Recollections and Folk Memories from a Bygone Age
by Elspeth Arlott.” She stroked the worn cloth as if it were a friend’s hand. “Miss Arlott never married but retained each one of her faculties
until a very advanced age. I remember meeting her when she was an old, old lady. She had great natural powers of observation and would have made a fine journalist. Of course it was not permissible for women of a certain class to have careers in those days, such a waste.”
Giving the book a final affectionate pat, she passed it to Freya, who stowed it with the others. “Thank you, Miss MacAllister,” Freya said. “I’d better be on my way.”
Katherine smiled brightly. “Please call me Katherine. After all, I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Dane.”
Freya felt her eyes filling and turned away.
If he talked to you, why didn’t he talk to me?
She mumbled, “Freya. Please,” and made a business of closing her pack.
The librarian made a final, hopeful bid. “And don’t forget, you’re free to charge your phone and laptop at any time—we were always happy to help Dr. Dane in that regard.”
The library door stuttered and banged open. Katherine hurried to close it. “So very annoying. The council keeps promising to fix the catches and the locks before winter but . . .”
The air from outside smelled of rain. Freya extended her hand to the librarian. “Good-bye for now.”
Katherine shook it and did not let it go. “Perhaps it is a little late to go back to the island tonight?” She seemed genuinely anxious. “I would not trust the strait on an evening like this.” Quickly, as if she might wish to take each word back having used it once, Katherine said, “I should be pleased to offer you a bed.” Perhaps Freya looked startled, because Katherine plunged on, though her color rose. “I’d enjoy to pass on my memories of your father while they are still fresh, if you would like that. The past is a fragile thing.” The librarian’s face was briefly undefended. She was lonely and proud—and dignified.
Freya was touched. She paused; was she ready for this? “You’re sure it wouldn’t trouble you?”
A minute adjustment of the Peter Pan collar and Katherine was
back in control. “I should not have suggested such a thing if it were at all inconvenient. It is past time I closed anyway.”
“Were you staying open just for me?”
Katherine broke in over Freya’s confusion. She’d brightened up considerably. “I shall meet you at the street entrance—please be sure to leave nothing behind.” Katherine Wallace MacAllister marched through to the back office, flicking off blocks of lights as she went, heels tapping on the linoleum.
Freya hurried out to the street, then she stopped; she hadn’t brought a change of clothes, and after her exertions at Findnar and in the boat, she felt grubby, not to mention gritty.
“Is something wrong?” Katherine was unfurling an umbrella against the spatters of rain.
Freya shrugged on her pack. “No. Well, nothing serious, just that I’d kill for a shower and I don’t have clean clothes.”
The librarian laughed quite merrily. “Och, we shall find you something. But it will be a bath. Shower rooms, I’m afraid, are scarce in these parts. Come along.”
Katherine stepped out briskly, and Freya hurried to catch up. She was soon concentrating so hard on not panting—as the gradient of the street got steeper and steeper—that she forgot to be concerned about spending the night in the house of a stranger, a stranger who knew her father better than she did.
K
EEL
C
OTTAGE
was the last house at the top of a narrow street and looked to the east. Katherine saw where Freya was looking. “Yes, there’s your island—we used to wave to each other.” Unaccustomed confidences, once voiced, are dangerous things, and the librarian laughed a little nervously. “Well, we said we did; just a silly joke. Much too far to see, of course.”
The librarian unlocked her house in the milky evening light. She waved her guest ahead as she flicked the inside lights on.
“Why, hello, little mother. And how are your babies this evening?” A tabby cat with white feet and moss green eyes wound her way in and out of Katherine’s legs, mewing. With a quick glance toward Freya, the cat led them toward the back of the cottage, tail in the air.
In a basket beside the Aga stove were four kittens. Ears still folded flat and eyes tightly closed, they were only a few days old. Their mother jumped in among them and began to lick each squeaking infant from nose to tail.
Katherine knelt beside the basket lined with plaid and stroked the kittens with one gentle finger. “Such a very clever girl. What handsome babies you have.” The tenderness moved Freya sharply.
The librarian felt Freya’s glance. She stood, brushing her knees vigorously. “I shall just get Ishbelle something to eat. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
There was a table with two chairs. Freya sat. “She needs her strength, feeding babies,” she observed.
The cat rubbed against Katherine, gazing into the face of her
mistress as she tied on an apron. The muttering purr ramped up a notch. “Have patience, child. There.” She placed a bowl beside the cat in which were heaped morsels of fresh fish. Both women watched with pleasure as Ishbelle devoured the food before a leap back into the center of the basket; she stepped around her squirming children and settled on one side, nudging her frantic kittens until each one found a nipple.
Katherine sighed and turned to her guest. “A sweet sight, though what I’m going to do when it comes time to give them away . . .” She shook her head, denying the thought. “The guest room is upstairs, and so is the bathroom. I shall run you a bath.”