Trevor leaned over to kiss me on both cheeks. “Good New Year, sis.” His eyes shone with the force of his affection, and I returned the sentiment, blinking back a sudden wash of tears that stung my eyes.
Jock reached out to wrap an arm around my waist, and I laughed as he pulled me into a hug. Then the whole party broke into song, as was the tradition, singing Robert Burns’s folk tune, “Auld Lang Syne.” Miss Witherington, of course, did not know the words, and she looked around at us in bewilderment, likely having difficulty understanding as we all sang it in the heavy Scots dialect as it was intended. I smiled at her in commiseration, but she either didn’t want my sympathy or, more likely, simply wanted another chance to demonstrate her dislike of me, for she shot me one of her withering glares.
When the song finished, everyone hurried out into the large two-story entry hall, crowding down the steps, and peering over the railing to see below. The front door was opened with great ceremony by the Rutherford butler, letting the old year out, and welcoming in the new. This was swiftly followed by the arrival of our cousin Rye, standing before the door with gifts tucked under his arms. A cheer went up at the sight of him, and he smiled rather shyly, unused to the attention. It was a nice change, as their usual first-footer, Jock, was quite the braggart, playing up the part for all it was worth.
Uncle Andrew and Aunt Sarah stepped forward to invite Rye into their home, but as they did so, another figure appeared beyond Rye’s shoulder. A hush fell over the assembly as the figure stepped forward into the light, showing us his bright red hair and coarse clothing splattered in mud and a dark red substance I knew from experience must be blood. It was a young man, and his eyes were wide and very white in his grubby face.
He moved forward, forcing Rye to shift to the side. Several people gasped as the redhead crossed the threshold of Clintmains Hall at the same time or just a little before Rye’s foot touched the marble floor of the entry.
The hall began to buzz with murmurs of shock and dismay. A harmless tradition first-footing might be, but most Scots were superstitious enough that they had no wish to test its validity. At least, not if they were given a choice. But it was too late. What was done was done. The suspicion was laid. Perhaps Rye’s foot had crossed the threshold first, but perhaps it had not.
“But what if they crossed at the same exact time?” the woman behind me wondered. “What happens then?”
No one seemed to have an answer for her, but from the tense atmosphere that had suddenly spread over the hall, I knew no one believed the outcome could be good.
“I mun’ speak wi’ Lord Buchan,” the young man gasped to Uncle Andrew. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. He was less than twenty years of age, his body still awkward and coltish, and extremely self-conscious. When he glanced up and realized the entrance hall was filled with people staring down at him, he flushed a fiery red that almost matched the hair on his head and the blood splashed across his linen shirt.
Worried the lad needed serious medical attention, I pushed past several of the people standing in front of me on the stairs still flustered by the man’s appearance. But as I got closer, I could see that most of the blood was dried, and from the quantity it was clearly not his own, or else he would not still be standing.
Just as I was about to say something, Lord Buchan appeared out of the crowd to the left of the front door. “Willie, what is the meaning of this?” His eyes flicked up and down the young man’s form. “What has happened?”
The young manservant’s name startled me for a moment, for I couldn’t help but think of another Will—a friend who had died so recently, and so horrifically. But this Willie’s words swiftly recalled me to the present.
“It’s Dodd,” he replied with wide haunted eyes. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Someone behind us gasped in horror, and the agitated murmuring began again.
The Earl of Buchan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dead? What do you mean? How?”
“He’s been shot. Oot by the ole abbey. But that no’ be all.” Willie shook his head, still breathing heavily. “The graves. One o’ ’em was dug up.”
One lady actually shrieked at this pronouncement, and the people in the back of the room and on the balcony above who couldn’t hear young Willie demanded to know what he was saying.
“Dodd, the ole caretaker at Dryburgh House, has been shot,” one man in the crowd hollered. “And a grave at the abbey’s been disturbed.”
More voices were raised in dismayed shock, and I turned to look at Trevor, who moved forward to stand beside me, a sick feeling entering my stomach. He met my eyes with the same knowing look of dread.
“Dug up?” Buchan spluttered, clearly having trouble grasping the implication.