Here lies Henry Mildmay, knight, and Mary, his wife. He died the last day of May, 1576; she, the sixteenth day of March, 1589. They left two sons and three daughters.’ ”
Berta looked at her friend and pursed her lips. “How sad.”
“It must have been so hard,” Rebecca said. “People dying young, from war, sickness, and malnutrition.”
They entered the church, passing under a Gothic arch. Gray clouds and patches of blue sky were easily visible for lack of a roof. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and illuminated the sanctuary with a warm light. The girls turned their faces upward to absorb its heat until it disappeared again a short time later.
Next, they visited the local library, a graceful building from 1903. They examined it thoroughly, inside and out, since there was little else to do. When they tired of that, they decided to find a coffee shop Rory had told them was good.
They found it without much difficulty on High Street and sat at the only empty table in the popular shop. A variety of delicious-looking baked goods and snacks filled the display case. A small sign indicated the shop also offered haggis. They decided to eat a little something before having coffee. Curious about the haggis, they asked the girl behind the counter.
“It’s a sausage dish,” she explained, “mixed with onion, flour, herbs, and spices.”
“What kind of sausage?” Berta wanted to know.
“Sheep. Heart, lungs, stomach . . . the pieces that often get thrown out.”
The expression on their faces told the waitress they wouldn’t be ordering the haggis, and she suggested a vegetarian sandwich. The girls opted for that, which they enjoyed with some aromatic coffee and cookies. They were finishing dessert when they saw two girls enter the shop. One had carrot-colored hair and the other was a blonde.
Berta and Rebecca exchanged looks; the blonde was the same one they’d seen at the river locked in a steamy embrace the day before. After ordering their beverages, the newcomers sat at Berta and Rebecca’s table. With one side free, it was the only one with any space available. The intrusion caught them by surprise. The new arrivals had scarcely greeted them with “hello” when they struck up a conversation.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the one with orange hair.
Rebecca smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, we all know each other here. Plus, with that tan . . . That’s not the product of the Scottish sun.”
“We’re from Barcelona.”
“Mmm. Spain, sun . . . ” She sipped her soda and added: “Are you staying in Beauly?”
“Uh-huh. We’ve rented a cottage from Mrs. Munro.”
“On Riverside Drive?”
“That’s the one.”
“Are you staying long?”
“Three weeks. We just got here two days ago.”
“And what brought you here? We don’t see many tourists in Beauly.”
Berta, who had been quiet until then, responded with a wide grin: “Love.”
Their eyes widened.
“Oh, yeah?” The redhead seemed intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Well, really it’s our friend Lola who dragged us here,” explained Rebecca. “Her friend Rory lives here.”
“Rory MacDonald?” the blonde inquired.
“No . . . ” Rebecca tried to remember Rory’s last name, but the redhead beat her to it.
“Rory Elliot?”
“Yes, him.”
“Rory Elliot is your friend’s boyfriend?” the blonde asked, surprised.
They nodded, and Rebecca said, “More or less.”
“Rory’s a cool bloke,” said the redhead. “He was in school with my brother, and they’re still good mates. I think he’s teaching in Edinburgh now.”
“He is,” Rebecca said.
“By the way, my name’s Sophie”—the redhead pointed to her friend—“and this is Mary.”
After the introductions and chatting about what the foreigners had done in town—which wasn’t much, but which did include a session of spying on Mary and the hot guy with the copper-colored hair, a detail they
Berta looked at her friend and pursed her lips. “How sad.”
“It must have been so hard,” Rebecca said. “People dying young, from war, sickness, and malnutrition.”
They entered the church, passing under a Gothic arch. Gray clouds and patches of blue sky were easily visible for lack of a roof. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and illuminated the sanctuary with a warm light. The girls turned their faces upward to absorb its heat until it disappeared again a short time later.
Next, they visited the local library, a graceful building from 1903. They examined it thoroughly, inside and out, since there was little else to do. When they tired of that, they decided to find a coffee shop Rory had told them was good.
They found it without much difficulty on High Street and sat at the only empty table in the popular shop. A variety of delicious-looking baked goods and snacks filled the display case. A small sign indicated the shop also offered haggis. They decided to eat a little something before having coffee. Curious about the haggis, they asked the girl behind the counter.
“It’s a sausage dish,” she explained, “mixed with onion, flour, herbs, and spices.”
“What kind of sausage?” Berta wanted to know.
“Sheep. Heart, lungs, stomach . . . the pieces that often get thrown out.”
The expression on their faces told the waitress they wouldn’t be ordering the haggis, and she suggested a vegetarian sandwich. The girls opted for that, which they enjoyed with some aromatic coffee and cookies. They were finishing dessert when they saw two girls enter the shop. One had carrot-colored hair and the other was a blonde.
Berta and Rebecca exchanged looks; the blonde was the same one they’d seen at the river locked in a steamy embrace the day before. After ordering their beverages, the newcomers sat at Berta and Rebecca’s table. With one side free, it was the only one with any space available. The intrusion caught them by surprise. The new arrivals had scarcely greeted them with “hello” when they struck up a conversation.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the one with orange hair.
Rebecca smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, we all know each other here. Plus, with that tan . . . That’s not the product of the Scottish sun.”
“We’re from Barcelona.”
“Mmm. Spain, sun . . . ” She sipped her soda and added: “Are you staying in Beauly?”
“Uh-huh. We’ve rented a cottage from Mrs. Munro.”
“On Riverside Drive?”
“That’s the one.”
“Are you staying long?”
“Three weeks. We just got here two days ago.”
“And what brought you here? We don’t see many tourists in Beauly.”
Berta, who had been quiet until then, responded with a wide grin: “Love.”
Their eyes widened.
“Oh, yeah?” The redhead seemed intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Well, really it’s our friend Lola who dragged us here,” explained Rebecca. “Her friend Rory lives here.”
“Rory MacDonald?” the blonde inquired.
“No . . . ” Rebecca tried to remember Rory’s last name, but the redhead beat her to it.
“Rory Elliot?”
“Yes, him.”
“Rory Elliot is your friend’s boyfriend?” the blonde asked, surprised.
They nodded, and Rebecca said, “More or less.”
“Rory’s a cool bloke,” said the redhead. “He was in school with my brother, and they’re still good mates. I think he’s teaching in Edinburgh now.”
“He is,” Rebecca said.
“By the way, my name’s Sophie”—the redhead pointed to her friend—“and this is Mary.”
After the introductions and chatting about what the foreigners had done in town—which wasn’t much, but which did include a session of spying on Mary and the hot guy with the copper-colored hair, a detail they
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