Page 57 of Laird of Twilight
James sipped again. “For its delicate flavor, I suppose.”
“And because it is the fairies’ own recipe, or so they say.” He lifted his glass in salute. “An old tradition. The difference in any good whisky is in the water, and where the particular barley was grown, and so on.”
“It’s very good stuff, and the legend makes it richer.” The whisky warmed like fire, and yet soothed him down to his very inner spirit, somehow. “Your cousin would be a wealthy man if he made more than small batches, and sold this.”
“Legitimately?Tcha!The taxes would be so high there would be little profit left. My cousin does well enough exporting his other whiskies. I suspect he could never make enough of this particular potion to meet demand, once news got around. The legend forbids profiting from the recipe, and the ingredients are too rare. Fairy dew, they say, is necessary for the fairy brew.” He winked. And wobbled slightly on his heels, steadying himself.
“Fairy brew,” James said thoughtfully, studying the glass. “It seems potent.”
“Oh aye! TheDaoine Sìthknow how to make a gooduisge-beatha!”
“Dow-in shee. Uisge-beatha.”James attempted the Gaelic, which seemed safer than talk of fairies brewing whisky—among their other talents, he thought wryly. “My sister has good Gaelic, learned from our nanny. I did not pick up much myself,”
“You had a Highland nanny in Edinburgh?”
“I was born in Perthshire, and spent some time in the Highlands there, and at Struan with my grandparents when they acquired the estate.”
“Then you have a Highland nature, for all your Lowland years.”
“I suppose so. Mr. MacArthur, do you truly believe in this business of fairies?”
“I do,” the older man said firmly and took a long swallow.
“My grandmother mentions you in her manuscript. She was impressed with your knowledge of fairy lore, and devoted many pages to your stories.”
“Did she, aye?” Donal MacArthur carried his glass and the bottle toward the fireplace and sat in a threadbare brocade chair, indicating the other for James. “Well, I am honored. We were friends, I like to think, and I am pleased to be in her book.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Struan, a good lady and a friend to the weavers of Kilcrennan.”
“To Lady Struan,” James echoed. “She also mentioned Niall MacArthur.”
“My son. Elspeth’s father.”
“So I understand. A painting of his hangs in the library at Struan House.”
“The fairy grove, aye. He painted that just months before he disappeared.”
“Disappeared? May I ask...what became of your son, sir?”
MacArthur drank, refilled his glass, poured more into James’s own. “He was lured by the charms of a fairy lass.”
“Some women can enchant a fellow.” James thought of Elspeth.
“And some are of the fairy ilk themselves.” MacArthur sighed. “Niall would roam the hills to make his drawings—he was gifted, that lad—and he worked at the weaving too. One day he went out with his drawing box, and never came home again. He went over to the fairies.”
Unsure how to respond, James sipped. Perhaps MacArthur embellished the account to hide the shame of a young man abandoning his family. He had a small daughter, and presumably a wife or lover, who Donal termed a fairy lass. “His disappearance must have been tragic for your family. I am sorry,” he said carefully.
“Sad, aye, but he is enjoying his life where he is. One can lose all sense of time and duties in the fairy realm. One day there could be a year for us. A week, seven years. I know this, myself.”
James tipped his head, skeptical, remembering something he had read in his grandmother’s pages. “So Miss MacArthur never knew her father?”
“Never saw him but in dreams. She has a gift, you know. The Highland Sight.” He tapped his forehead.
“So she tells me,” James replied.
“It is strong in her. Some say it is the gift of the fairies.” The old man sighed again. “Mrs. Graham and I have raised her to be a proper young lass, and so we allowed her to go to Edinburgh for her debut and to attend parties with her cousins and so on. But the lass decided she dislikes the city. She prefers to be here, weaving the cloth. She is a brilliant weaver. But to be honest, sir,” MacArthur added, leaning forward. “I would prefer to see her married, and happy—and away from this place.”
“She seems determined to stay.”
“Do not give up your suit, Struan,” Donal said. “You offered marriage in return for the situation that kept her alone with you?”
