The Ghosts of Tullybrae House by Veronica Bale Read Free Book Online Page A

photo. “Yes… well, no, actually. It’s Tunstall. But it was MacCombish once.”
    “Oh.” The lady furrowed her brow. “Married?”
    “I was adopted when I was six, and my adoptive parents had my last name legally changed to theirs. But MacCombish was my mother’s name.”
    “I see. Well, it is always good to know something about a person’s family history.”
    “And now I do.”
    The woman nodded proudly. “Aye. Now you do.”
    By the time Emmie left the shop, she had a bag of hand-knit lamb’s wool mittens, a wool scarf in the Stuart colours, a leather bookmark with the Stuart motto embossed in gold Gaelic script, and a tin of organic heather balm.
    At one in the afternoon, she took Lamb’s advice and headed over to the Aviemore Arms for a late lunch. It was a cozy little pub, the décor not dissimilar to any of the pubs back home in Corner Brook. But the creaking, wide-planked floors, the smoke-stained beams, and the distinct scent of centuries-old wood gave the place an authenticity that no New World establishment could fabricate.
    When the barman came to take her order, she asked for the steak and ale pie.
    It was delicious, just like Lamb said. The meat was tender, and the gravy thick, almost buttery. On the suggestion of the barman (a good-looking man, though a little old for her taste, in his mid-forties, maybe), she paired it with a nice, dark half pint of a locally brewed stout.
    As she sat by the open window overlooking the leisurely bustle of the high street, Emmie savoured her meal and enjoyed some more of the book she’d brought along. She felt at peace. Happy. In the whole of her life she never felt like she belonged anywhere. From what she remembered of her childhood before the Tunstalls, she and her mother moved around a lot.
    After the Tunstalls, she felt like an outsider. To be fair to them, they provided her with much-needed stability, and all the love and support they had to give. But she never really felt like she was “one of them.” She was always curious if her brother, Chase, felt the same way, too. He’d been adopted by the Tunstalls also, from a First Nations reserve in the Yukon. She never asked.
    The happiness, though. It was being here in Scotland, being at Tullybrae… it just felt right. Like whatever watered-down Scottish heritage that had made it into her blood was singing now that it had been called home.
    She laughed quietly to herself. A historian’s fancy.
    “Something funny, love?” The barman had come over to see if she wanted anything else.
    “Oh, no. Just thinking to myself.”
    “Pie was okay?”
    “Yes, thank you. It was delicious. Actually, a friend recommended it to me.”
    “Oh, aye? And who might your friend be? I know all the regulars.”
    “Harold Lamb. Up at Tullybrae House.”
    “Ah, yes. Good old Harold.” The man nodded, his full head of salt-and-pepper hair catching the afternoon light from the window. “He’s a top bloke, he is. Been around forever, it seems. And the stout, how’d that go down for you? Not too strong, I hope.”
    “It’s delicious. Stout’s my beer, actually—when I drink beer, that is.”
    “Of course it is. It’s my job to read the punters, guess what their flavour is. I saw you, and I said to myself, ‘Now that lass likes a dark pint. She’s got a bit of the Celt in her, she does.’”
    “Are you reading my mind? I was just thinking something like that.” She clapped her hands together lightly beneath her chin.
    The barman winked flirtatiously. “That’s my secret, love. I’ll take this plate away for you, then.”
    Emmie watched him go, his lithe, trim body gliding effortlessly between the close-packed tables. She smiled a secret, private smile. Too bad she wasn’t looking for a relationship just now.
    When she returned to Tullybrae late in the afternoon, the aroma of roasting meat greeted her like a warm hug. Still clutching her shopping bags, she followed the scent down to the kitchen. There, she