didn’t reveal—Rebecca made their excuses, explaining they should return home.
“I hope to see you again,” Sophie said. “We could show you around.”
“That would be great,” said Berta as she got up.
Before they left, Sophie asked another question. “Do you like Celtic music?”
The girls didn’t know how to answer that one.
“You know: bagpipes, drums . . . ”
“Sophie plays the bodhránin a band,” explained Mary, “and her brother’s the drummer. They’re brilliant.”
“The Highland Celtic Festival begins on Sunday,” Sophie said. “This year it’s in Beauly, and we’ll be playing.”
Berta shot Rebecca an excited look. “That sounds great.”
“So we’ll see you there?” Sophie asked. Her excitement was contagious, and Rebecca smiled. Despite the interrogation, she liked Sophie.
“Sure,” she said. “We’ll see you there.”
Back at the cottage, the girls put their tired feet up and relaxed. They were dozing when they heard the doorbell. Reluctantly, Berta roused herself to answer it.
“Hello, love.” Mrs. Munro had a foil-covered plate in her hands. “I made you some haggis so you can try a typical Scottish dish.”
Rebecca, hearing her landlady’s voice, joined them in the foyer. Berta was holding the plate, not knowing what to say. “Thank you,” she finally managed.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” added Rebecca.
“Oh, it’s no bother, darling.”
Since Mrs. Munro didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, Rebecca invited her in, suspecting that what she really wanted was a look around the place to make sure her renters were taking good care of it. Fortunately, that morning they had taken time to clean the kitchen and pick up the clothing they had scattered about.
Mrs. Munro discreetly glanced around and looked satisfied.
“Would you like some tea?” Berta asked.
“Oh, well, if it’s not too much of a bother . . . ”
They sat in the parlor, the girls on the floral sofa and Mrs. Munro in a matching side chair.
“And your other friend?”
“She’s in Inverness with Rory.”
“They make a nice couple, don’t they? I could tell from the moment I saw them there was something special between them. I may be old, but I’m not blind yet. So, tell me,” she said, changing the subject. “What did you do today?”
“We went to the monastery,” Berta answered.
“Ah, of course.”
“Then we went to the library,” said Rebecca. “And at the coffee shop we met a couple of girls from town.”
“I see. Whom did you meet?”
“Sophie,” said Berta, “and Mary.”
“I know at least four Sophies in Beauly; it’s a popular name. But if she’s about your age, it could only be Sophie MacLeod. Was she a redhead?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. A nice lass,” Mrs. Munro said. “Her friend is Mary Campbell. They’re inseparable.” She appeared pensive a moment before adding: “Such a shame about William and the children . . . ”
Berta and Rebecca looked at each other, uncomprehending. But they didn’t ask and focused instead on sipping their tea.
Mrs. Munro was disappointed at the girls’ lack of interest in the story. She fidgeted in her floral armchair, like a puppy with a bone hanging just out of reach, and finished her tea. Then she launched into the unfortunate story of the family MacLeod, whether her audience wanted to hear it or not. Mrs. Munro didn’t have many opportunities like this to talk, and the fact the girls were foreigners was extra incentive to do so. After all, they would leave soon and forget all about it. “I met William and Elisabeth MacLeod when they first came to Beauly,” she began.
Berta yawned, and Rebecca discreetly elbowed her while attempting to stifle her own.
“They were newlyweds and looked so much in love. They met in Kirkcaldy just after William had come from the Isle of Skye to work in the Seafield mine. Poor dear . . . ”
Mrs. Munro paused a moment, and Berta masked another yawn behind
“I hope to see you again,” Sophie said. “We could show you around.”
“That would be great,” said Berta as she got up.
Before they left, Sophie asked another question. “Do you like Celtic music?”
The girls didn’t know how to answer that one.
“You know: bagpipes, drums . . . ”
“Sophie plays the bodhránin a band,” explained Mary, “and her brother’s the drummer. They’re brilliant.”
“The Highland Celtic Festival begins on Sunday,” Sophie said. “This year it’s in Beauly, and we’ll be playing.”
Berta shot Rebecca an excited look. “That sounds great.”
“So we’ll see you there?” Sophie asked. Her excitement was contagious, and Rebecca smiled. Despite the interrogation, she liked Sophie.
“Sure,” she said. “We’ll see you there.”
Back at the cottage, the girls put their tired feet up and relaxed. They were dozing when they heard the doorbell. Reluctantly, Berta roused herself to answer it.
“Hello, love.” Mrs. Munro had a foil-covered plate in her hands. “I made you some haggis so you can try a typical Scottish dish.”
Rebecca, hearing her landlady’s voice, joined them in the foyer. Berta was holding the plate, not knowing what to say. “Thank you,” she finally managed.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” added Rebecca.
“Oh, it’s no bother, darling.”
Since Mrs. Munro didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, Rebecca invited her in, suspecting that what she really wanted was a look around the place to make sure her renters were taking good care of it. Fortunately, that morning they had taken time to clean the kitchen and pick up the clothing they had scattered about.
Mrs. Munro discreetly glanced around and looked satisfied.
“Would you like some tea?” Berta asked.
“Oh, well, if it’s not too much of a bother . . . ”
They sat in the parlor, the girls on the floral sofa and Mrs. Munro in a matching side chair.
“And your other friend?”
“She’s in Inverness with Rory.”
“They make a nice couple, don’t they? I could tell from the moment I saw them there was something special between them. I may be old, but I’m not blind yet. So, tell me,” she said, changing the subject. “What did you do today?”
“We went to the monastery,” Berta answered.
“Ah, of course.”
“Then we went to the library,” said Rebecca. “And at the coffee shop we met a couple of girls from town.”
“I see. Whom did you meet?”
“Sophie,” said Berta, “and Mary.”
“I know at least four Sophies in Beauly; it’s a popular name. But if she’s about your age, it could only be Sophie MacLeod. Was she a redhead?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. A nice lass,” Mrs. Munro said. “Her friend is Mary Campbell. They’re inseparable.” She appeared pensive a moment before adding: “Such a shame about William and the children . . . ”
Berta and Rebecca looked at each other, uncomprehending. But they didn’t ask and focused instead on sipping their tea.
Mrs. Munro was disappointed at the girls’ lack of interest in the story. She fidgeted in her floral armchair, like a puppy with a bone hanging just out of reach, and finished her tea. Then she launched into the unfortunate story of the family MacLeod, whether her audience wanted to hear it or not. Mrs. Munro didn’t have many opportunities like this to talk, and the fact the girls were foreigners was extra incentive to do so. After all, they would leave soon and forget all about it. “I met William and Elisabeth MacLeod when they first came to Beauly,” she began.
Berta yawned, and Rebecca discreetly elbowed her while attempting to stifle her own.
“They were newlyweds and looked so much in love. They met in Kirkcaldy just after William had come from the Isle of Skye to work in the Seafield mine. Poor dear . . . ”
Mrs. Munro paused a moment, and Berta masked another yawn behind
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