MacFarlane's Lantern

©2024 Kimberly Hein-Beardsley

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While some historical events in this novel are purported to be based on true events, certain details, characters, and timelines have been altered for dramatic purposes. While inspired by purported real historical events, this work is ultimately a fictionalized interpretation of those events.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35095-533-0

For my family and my guides. Thank you for your love, support, and faith in me.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 1

For the hundredth time, I ask myself, Why am I doing this? I check my reflection in the dark, oak, floor-length mirror, smoothing my hands down the front of my black pants suit. I mean, I don’t even remember the guy and now I am stuck representing the family at his funeral.

I grab my phone and check my emails, praying there are no fires to put out at work. No new messages. Granted, it is only 7:15 a.m. back in Chicago, so I am sure the email flurry will begin as soon as the shop opens. I toss my phone and room key in my purse and head downstairs.

Standing outside the inn near the shimmering shores of the south end of Loch Lomond in Balloch, Scotland, I place my hand to my chest to still the palpitations. I breathe deep to calm my anxiety, lifting my face to the warmth of the sun. I just have to get through today and then I can fly home tomorrow and get back to work. A Prius zooms around the corner, the driver going so fast that I step back for a moment, thinking he is going to come right up on the sidewalk. My heart jumps as he slides into the only available parking spot in front of the inn.

The Uber driver steps out of the car and I see that he is a young man, with tousled light brown hair and an infectious smile. I find myself grinning in return, despite my momentary panic over his driving. As he comes around the car, I take in his appearance. . . jeans and a Monty Python t-shirt. I like him already.

Aye, Miss, ye order th’ Uber? the driver asks with a notable Scottish brogue.

Yes. That was me.

Oh! Yer American! His face lights up. Where ye headed?

Arrochar Parish Church.

Aye? Ye here fer th’ funeral?

Yes, actually I am.

So. . . He looks me over. Ye must be Alexander’s kin. He opens the back passenger door for me. I’m sorry fer y’loss.

I hesitate. Uh, yeah, I am. Thank you. How did you know?

The young man gives me a small smile. Och, weel, ‘tis a small town and Alexander was weel loved in these parts.

I climb into the car and settle into the seat. Within moments, the narrow road has me clinging to the door handle.

The driver snakes through town and then onto the road along the banks of the water. He swerves, narrowly missing a cat as it darts across the pavement and into the brush. Oh, hurry little one!

Whoa! Any chance you can slow down just a bit?

Och, nae worries miss! I’ve ken this road since I was a wee lad.

I feel the panic rising and try to distract myself by looking out the window to take in my surroundings. The loch is really beautiful, I murmur. The glassy water creates a perfect reflection of the dark hills towering over either side.

Aye. ’Tis a rare pleasure t’ see the sun. Usually quite dreich this early in May.

The car jerks as he skims around a bend in the road. I stifle a cry.

He slows down just a tad. So, where are ye from, miss?

Oh um. . . Chicago.

Ooh, gangsters!

What? What year does he think this is? Gangsters?

"Oh aye. . . Elliot Ness, Al Capone. . . The Untouchables is a brilliant movie!" He swerves around a tight corner.

I agree, that’s a really good movie! I grip the door handle a bit tighter. Not many people would immediately think of that when they think of Chicago, though. Do you like movies?

A huge smile lights up his face in the rear-view mirror. I love movies!

Well, this is fortuitous. . .

That means lucky, he finishes.

I burst out laughing. "Tombstone! One of my faves!"

He nods his head. Mine as weel! Val Kilmer was amazin’ as Doc Holliday!

I agree! You’re a daisy if you do!

Aye, ye ken yer movies! I’m impressed! His eyes meet mine in the mirror. M’name is Alastair, by th’ way. Alastair Brodie. Figure we should introduce ourselves properly if we goin’ to be intimately quotin’ movies and all. He winks.

I laugh. Liz. Liz Langley.

Pleasure to meet ye, Miss Langley.

Please. I hold up a hand. Call me Liz.

Very well, Liz! Nice to make yer acquaintance!

Yours as well!

We settle into a comfortable silence and I close my eyes, feeling some of the tension ebb from my body. Adjusting to his driving, I find the slight rhythmic swaying as we round the bends in the road almost begins to lull me to sleep. Yet, the nagging hope remains that I can wrap this all up quickly, as I really need to get back home.

A few more turns and, before I know it, Alastair is saying, We comin’ up on th’ church, Liz.

I look out the window and see a loch stretching out to my right, yet it doesn’t look like the one we had just been zooming along.

Aye, that’s Loch Long, Alastair says in response to my unspoken question.

We turn into a drive on my left and I notice the church for the first time. Arrochar Parish Church looks like something right out of a movie set or novel, standing proud and strong, facing the loch. The iron gate, with the gravel drive up to the church; grave markers on either side of the path. Tall, narrow, stained-glass windows flank the heavy, dark door. It makes for a solemn, yet picturesque image with the hill rising up behind the church.

Alastair parks the car and opens his door to come around and help me out. I’ll stay and pay me respects t’ Alexander.

People are milling about outside, engaged in hushed conversations. A few pause as I climb out of the car. One woman elbows the man beside her and inclines her head in my direction.

Geez. Does everyone know about me?

Alastair nods. Aye. Yer quite th’ curiosity. Alexander’s great-granddaughter from America.

I look around at the small gathering. What am I doing here? Um, do you know which one is Colin Kilpatrick?

Aye, that be him right over there, talkin’ with th’ vicar.

I follow Alastair’s gaze and see a tall, dark-haired man who looks to be about my age talking with an elderly gentleman in clergy robes. He catches my eye and excuses himself.

So, this is Colin. I take him in as he approaches, dressed in a black suit with a white, collared shirt, and no tie. With his dark hair and equally dark eyes, he could have stepped out of a James Bond movie. I control my urge to look around for an Aston Martin. Colin walks toward us, his eyes never leaving mine. I get a tingling on the back of my neck. There is something familiar about him, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

Ms. Langley, I believe? His Scottish brogue much softer, not as pronounced as Alastair’s. His voice as dark and smooth as his looks.

Yes. I shake his hand, hoping he doesn’t notice mine trembling.

Thank ye for coming. There is a pew down front for the family. Come. I’ll show ye to your seat. He takes my elbow and begins propelling me to the doors of the church. Alastair hangs back and I glance over my shoulder at him.

We make our way through the heavy church doors and proceed down the aisle. There are maybe a dozen or so people already seated, and a few of them begin to put their heads together and whisper as Colin leads me down front to the first row of pews. I feel on display and find the sensation unsettling. A kind looking gray-haired woman comes bustling over to me.

Oh, dearie! She takes my hand in hers. I’m so sorry for y’loss, lass. The woman looks at me with tears in her eyes.

I cast a questioning glance at Colin.

Ms. Langley, Colin says, this is Mrs. Agnes Campbell, Alexander’s cook and housekeeper.

A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Campbell. But, please, call me Liz.

Thank ye so much for comin’, my dear. She releases my hand.

I look to the front of the sanctuary and don’t see a casket, but an urn instead. For some reason I just assumed Alexander would be buried someplace. I slide into the pew and sit down, Mrs. Campbell sitting next to me, leaving Colin on the aisle.

The service is both a solemn and celebratory affair. The pastor says a few words and reads a scripture passage. Then a few members of the congregation who knew Alexander well stand and share. There are tears of mourning interspersed with fond memories and a few humorous stories. Clearly, this community was his family. Colin chooses not to join in the sharing of memories. I lean back to glance at him over Mrs. Campbell’s head. His eyes are fixed on the front of the church, his expression unreadable.

After the service, the pastor takes the urn and walks over to me. A feeling of dread runs down my spine.

I look to Colin and Mrs. Campbell as the pastor hands me the urn. Colin says nothing, a mildly challenging look in his eyes, while she nods her head encouragingly. Not sure what else to do, I take it.

As we file out of the church, Colin touches my arm and leads me away from the others coming out. We are doing the reading of the will right now back at Alexander’s house.

I can get a ride back to town with Alastair then.

Colin seems taken aback. As his closest family here, I would have expected ye to want to be there for the reading.

Oh, well. . . of course. If you feel I should be.

He stares at me for the length of a heartbeat, eyes searching mine, and then nods. I will meet ye there in a few minutes. I have some details to take care of. Do ye want a ride with Mrs. Campbell?

Oh, no. I’m sure Alastair can give me a ride.

Colin raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, before moving off.

I sigh and glance around. Alastair is talking with some older folks a few feet away from me. I head over to him. He pauses his conversation as he sees me approach.

They want me to go to Alexander’s house for the reading of the will. Can I bother you for another lift?

Aye, tis nae bother!

It is a short ride back toward Loch Lomond, and within minutes Alastair slows the car down and we turn off the main road and head up a steep gravel drive. Peering out of the car window, I see a two-story cobblestone structure come into view. The manor is rectangular, with twin oak doors on the front, flanked by windows on either side. The upper-level windows follow the style of the ones below. It looks like it has been here for a few hundred years. Duh, it probably has.

Heart palpitations. I press a hand to my chest to still the flutter.

I open my Uber app to pay and tip. Thanks for the ride, again, Alastair. It was really nice to meet you.

Ye as weel, Liz! Maybe we’ll see each other again whilst yer here. He smiles and hops out to open my door. He catches me off guard by putting a hand on my shoulder. The simple comfort of it eases some of my tension. I am really sorry for y’loss, Liz. He gives me a gentle squeeze and releases me.

I take a slow deep breath and stand there in the driveway for a few moments watching Alastair descend back down the rustic road. No longer able to delay the inevitable, I turn toward the front door and force my leaden legs to walk up the steps.

A heavy-looking doorknocker hangs in the middle of one door. A crest on it bears the words, This I’ll Defend. I knock a couple times and take a step back, waiting. After a few moments, the door swings open.

Oh, my dear, Liz. Please come in. Mrs. Campbell gestures me into the hall. They will be doin’ the reading of the will in here, though ye are the first t’ arrive.

I follow her through the entrance hall and turn into the first room on the left, which appears to be a library or study. At one end of the room, toward the front of the house, is a large wooden desk, sunlight cascading across it from the floor to ceiling front window. Piled high on the dark, obviously well-used desk are stacks of papers and books, nearly engulfing the surface. Facing the desk are two worn leather armchairs, smaller versions of the high-backed chair behind the desk. The walls of the room are lined with bookshelves, except for the stone fireplace anchored at the opposite end of the room, which gives the room a cozy feel. The book lover in me itches to grab a volume and curl up in one of the two comfy-looking chairs in front of the fire.

Feel free t’ sit down, Liz. I’ll be back in a wee moment.

I wander over to the desk and trail my fingers across the top. I take care as I set the urn down on the lone empty corner of the desk, unsure of what else to do with it. In between the piles is a large paper with lines and notations all over it. I bend over for a closer look and it appears to be a family tree. The year 1306 jumps out at me. I wander across the room and take a seat in front of the fireplace, though the flames do little to calm my nerves. Why am I here? I need to get home.

I see ye found your way just fine.

I jump and turn to see Colin leaning against the doorframe.

Yes, Alastair just dropped me off.

Another eyebrow raise. Ye and Mr. Brodie seem to be getting along very well.

Yeah, he seems like a really nice guy. Colin’s expression is unreadable. I search for something to say. So, how do you know Alexander?

In a fluid motion, he straightens and walks over to take a seat in the chair opposite me. Alexander and I have worked together for years. I was helping him with some genealogy research he had been doing.

Yes, my mom told me that he was really into family history.

Colin shifts in his chair and rubs his chin for a moment. It was more than just a hobby. It was his passion. He loved this land and was proud of his clan. Colin gazes around the room. His heart and soul were in this place.

So now what will you do? Sell it? I blurt without thinking.

Colin gives me a look that could freeze icicles on the spot. This was his home.

Nice move, Langley. Real tactful. Maybe I should leave now.

There is a knock at the front door and Colin rises to answer it. He returns with a gentleman I recognize from the funeral. Liz, this is Mr. Grant, a solicitor from Balloch.

Mr. Grant comes forward and reaches out his hand to shake mine. Please, call me Miles. His grip is firm, hands rough and weathered. Not what I would have expected from a lawyer type. There is something attractive about him, despite him being probably a couple decades older than me and Colin. Yep, mid to late fifties,