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Authors: Allie Mackay
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a breath. “The maid’s name was Margaret MacDonald,” she revealed, her voice dropping. “She was a local lass, born right here in the shadow of Ben Hope and Ben Loyal. Fair, she was, with a head of dark curls and a bright, dimpled smile. Not a day passed that she wasn’t smiling or laughing. Until”—she paused, her eyes glittering in the lamplight—“she caught the laird’s eye.”
“He seduced her.” Cilla already knew. “Then he sent her away pregnant.”
“Aye, so it was,” the housekeeper confirmed. “But the only place he sent her was into a hidey-hole behind the bricks of one of the chimneys.”
“He walled her up?”
Honoria nodded. “Word was put about that she jumped off a cliff, heartbroken over the death of a local gallant who’d lost his life at Culloden. But she started appearing not long thereafter, and the truth came out.”
Cilla swallowed. “Her body was found?”
“Aye, it was. But not till repairs were done on the chimney in the early 1900s.” They’d reached the top of the main stair, and the housekeeper turned to look at her. “The laird confessed the deed on his deathbed, though he didn’t have the breath to reveal where he’d put her.”
“That’s horrible.” Cilla shuddered as they began descending the stairs. “Is she still seen?”
“Not these days, and there’s little chance of her appearing again, so you needn’t worry.” Honoria’s pace turned brisk, her tweed skirt swishing. “Your Uncle Mac was the last soul to see her.”
“Uncle Mac?” Cilla couldn’t believe it. “He’s the greatest skeptic there is.”
“He wasn’t when he was three years old.” Honoria stopped on the landing. “He just doesn’t remember seeing her,” she said, her mouth quirking. “He was ill with a fever and she sat on a chair in his room for a week, watching over him and singing to him until he recovered.”
“She was worried about him and wanting to help.” The idea squeezed Cilla’s heart. “Not being able to have her own babe, she tried to nurture other ones.”
“That’s what we believe, just.” Honoria peered back up the way they’d come, her gaze on the shadows at the top of the stairs. “She only ever showed herself if a child of the house fell seriously ill. Once the danger passed, she’d leave. Your uncle was the last child reared at Dunroamin. Now, with the residents all being of a certain age, we suspect she’s found her peace.”
“Or she’s moved on to look after little ones elsewhere?” Cilla’s voice hitched on the words.
Margaret MacDonald’s story put a different spin on ghosts.
She sympathized with the heartbroken serving girl.
“I hope she’s well. . . . Wherever she is.”
“Ach, she’ll be feeling better than me with my knees e’er aching from traipsing up and down these stairs.” Honoria dusted her jacket sleeve, all business again. “Come now, and we’ll sit you down in front of the library fire and you’ll have a cup of tea to warm you.”
“That’d be nice,” Cilla lied, certain she’d soon need the loo again if she had to drink more tea.
What she needed was a hot shower and a bed.
But when she opened the library door a few moments later, rather than book-lined walls and tables spread for tea, it was a teetering assortment of all manner of containers that greeted her.
Plastic buckets, old pitchers and jugs, and even seed trays and empty tin cans filled the doorway, each unlikely item crammed so tightly together she couldn’t see anything but darkness beyond the towering pile.
“Yikes!” She jumped when a broken-handled casserole pot rolled off its perch and tumbled forward, nearly conking her on the head before it bounced onto the carpeted floor with a dull thud. “What’s all this?”
“Not the library.” The housekeeper was right behind her. “That’s the closet where we keep buckets and whatnot to catch the drips from the roof.”
“The roof leaks?” Cilla couldn’t believe
“He seduced her.” Cilla already knew. “Then he sent her away pregnant.”
“Aye, so it was,” the housekeeper confirmed. “But the only place he sent her was into a hidey-hole behind the bricks of one of the chimneys.”
“He walled her up?”
Honoria nodded. “Word was put about that she jumped off a cliff, heartbroken over the death of a local gallant who’d lost his life at Culloden. But she started appearing not long thereafter, and the truth came out.”
Cilla swallowed. “Her body was found?”
“Aye, it was. But not till repairs were done on the chimney in the early 1900s.” They’d reached the top of the main stair, and the housekeeper turned to look at her. “The laird confessed the deed on his deathbed, though he didn’t have the breath to reveal where he’d put her.”
“That’s horrible.” Cilla shuddered as they began descending the stairs. “Is she still seen?”
“Not these days, and there’s little chance of her appearing again, so you needn’t worry.” Honoria’s pace turned brisk, her tweed skirt swishing. “Your Uncle Mac was the last soul to see her.”
“Uncle Mac?” Cilla couldn’t believe it. “He’s the greatest skeptic there is.”
“He wasn’t when he was three years old.” Honoria stopped on the landing. “He just doesn’t remember seeing her,” she said, her mouth quirking. “He was ill with a fever and she sat on a chair in his room for a week, watching over him and singing to him until he recovered.”
“She was worried about him and wanting to help.” The idea squeezed Cilla’s heart. “Not being able to have her own babe, she tried to nurture other ones.”
“That’s what we believe, just.” Honoria peered back up the way they’d come, her gaze on the shadows at the top of the stairs. “She only ever showed herself if a child of the house fell seriously ill. Once the danger passed, she’d leave. Your uncle was the last child reared at Dunroamin. Now, with the residents all being of a certain age, we suspect she’s found her peace.”
“Or she’s moved on to look after little ones elsewhere?” Cilla’s voice hitched on the words.
Margaret MacDonald’s story put a different spin on ghosts.
She sympathized with the heartbroken serving girl.
“I hope she’s well. . . . Wherever she is.”
“Ach, she’ll be feeling better than me with my knees e’er aching from traipsing up and down these stairs.” Honoria dusted her jacket sleeve, all business again. “Come now, and we’ll sit you down in front of the library fire and you’ll have a cup of tea to warm you.”
“That’d be nice,” Cilla lied, certain she’d soon need the loo again if she had to drink more tea.
What she needed was a hot shower and a bed.
But when she opened the library door a few moments later, rather than book-lined walls and tables spread for tea, it was a teetering assortment of all manner of containers that greeted her.
Plastic buckets, old pitchers and jugs, and even seed trays and empty tin cans filled the doorway, each unlikely item crammed so tightly together she couldn’t see anything but darkness beyond the towering pile.
“Yikes!” She jumped when a broken-handled casserole pot rolled off its perch and tumbled forward, nearly conking her on the head before it bounced onto the carpeted floor with a dull thud. “What’s all this?”
“Not the library.” The housekeeper was right behind her. “That’s the closet where we keep buckets and whatnot to catch the drips from the roof.”
“The roof leaks?” Cilla couldn’t believe
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