The Highland Murders

Caitriona

The smell of fresh bannocks and parritch drifted up the stairs from the kitchens, stirring Caitriona MacTavish easily from her restless slumber. The night had been long, though the peat fire had offered a reassuring warmth from its place in the hearth. Caitriona stubbornly pulled the covers tighter about her, as her stomach gave a sudden grumble in protest; it had been well over twenty-four hours since she had eaten. Now, the delicious smells of food, and the ignorable hunger, were enough to lure her out of the comfort of her bed sheets, even though the day ahead would be just as burdensome as the night before had been.

The estate would be continuing its preparations for the wedding, no doubt, to the displeasure of most of the household at Taigh a' Chnuic . Just the other evening, in fact, Cait had been about to walk through the doors of the parlor when she caught a pair of elderly housemaids in the midst of a very hushed conversation.

"- an' the Mrs. MacTavish not yet cold in her grave! May God rest her soul," she had heard Mrs. FitzGibbons whisper angrily, before she quickly crossed herself and lit the last of the tallow candles in the spacious room. The other chambermaid, Mrs. Graham, carrying a taper in Mrs. Fitz's wake, tsk'd incongruously before adding her own two-pence.

"Aye, but the puir lassie hasna got a choice! Ye ken same as I she's no got the way about her. No. It's no my place to say, but wi' Milord gone and the Mrs. right in her grave-" here, she too crossed herself quickly, murmuring God rest her soul before continuing, "-marriage was the only way, no? If not for her own selfish reasons, then for the sake of the bairns."

Caitriona had almost seen Mrs. Fitz's shoulders stiffen slightly in disagreement before she begrudgingly replied.

"Aye, just so. All I can say is it's luck has gotten her a man with a good name and property. It's Miss Caitriona I'm worrit for..." And that was all Cait had wanted, or needed, to hear.

Now, she stretched her legs luxuriously beneath the sheets, feeling the pleasurable strain of working muscles after hours spent laying down. Another pang of hunger got her finally out of bed. Draping her wool cloak about her shoulders, she walked to the window, where the frost of early autumn framed the panes and the sky was endlessly gray against the stark green of the rolling hills before her. Taigh a' Chnuic (Hill House), named so by the surrounding landscape, boasted two-hundred acres of hilly farmland equipped with milking and dairy sheds, stables, a hen house, acres of crop, and plenty of pasture for the livestock. The estate had been home of the MacTavishes of Dunardy since the first of Clan Campbell settled into the Highlands.

From the third-story window, Cait was able to see her brothers down below, play-fighting with blunted swords. As usual, Malcolm's curly, black hair was in his face, tongue out in concentration as he met Alexander's smooth cuts with his own frenzied jabs. At thirteen, he was tall for his age, lanky despite days spent in the stables with the master-of-horse, and as clumsy as a new-born foal. Alexander, the oldest son, was seventeen, and fought with a fluidity that trumped his younger brother's efforts ten-fold. Where Malcolm poked at any spot that came available, Alex fought with surety and grace, although he seemed all too eager to be done with the whole charade. Cait was almost certain he would retire early to enjoy a second breakfast in the dining room with her and the rest.

Sure enough, when Cait entered the warm dining room a few moments later, Alexander was already seated at the head of the table, plate piled high with steaming bannocks, a fresh bowl of butter right beside him. He looked up upon her arrival, giving a muffled grunt in greeting through his mouthful of food.

"Mornin', dearest!" Mrs. MacFarlane, the head housekeeper, exclaimed, as she set a bowl of parritch beside Alex and refilled his glass of steamed honey milk. Cait merely nodded politely, knowing that if she tried to speak now her voice would be hoarse from disuse. As she was seating herself at her place, Malcolm came bolting in, nearly knocking over the dining chairs in the process. There was a smear of dirt across his face, and his hair was tousled. As he tried to reach for a bannock, Mrs. MacFarlane slapped the back of his hand smartly, with a click of her tongue.