Chapter Text
The clatter of Esther Wakefield's typewriter filled the newsroom, a rhythmic counterpoint to the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights. Her fingers flew over the keys, weaving a tale of the Loch Ness Monster, or rather, the various theories surrounding its existence. It was her bread and butter, this little column for the Highland Herald, “Echoes of the Past,” where she explored the myths and legends that clung to the very highlands of Scotland.
“Some believe Nessie to be a surviving plesiosaur,” she typed, her brow furrowed in concentration, “a relic from a prehistoric era. Others suggest it is nothing more than wind-swept waves, playing tricks on the eye. Still others….” She paused, searching for the right word, the right turn of phrase. “...whisper of ancient, powerful spirits, bound to the loch, guarding its secrets for eternity.”
She leaned back, rereading the paragraph with a critical eye. It would do. The Reverend Wakefield, bless his heart, had always said she had a way with words. It was due to him that she even had the job. Mr. MacLeod, the owner and editor, held the Reverend in such high esteem, so when the old man suggested Esther might be a good fit to write the folklore column, MacLeod had agreed without a second thought. And she was grateful. Truly. But Esther often felt her employment was less about her qualifications and more about the good vicar's faith in her abilities. Therefore, she always strived to do her utmost best, desperate to prove herself worthy of something more.
The shrill ring of the telephone on her desk cut through the quiet hum of the newsroom, breaking her concentration. She reached out to pick up the receiver. “Highland Herald, Esther Wakefield speaking.”
“Esther, love! It's me, Rob. Are ye busy?” His voice was warm and familiar, causing something to stir within her heart at the mere sound of it.
“Not too busy to talk to you, Rob,” she replied. “Just finishing up my wee column about Nessie and her supposed cousins.”
He chuckled. “Nessie's cousins, eh? Is that what you're calling them now? Always trying to make a name for yourself, aren't ye, love?”
“Someone has to keep the myths alive. Besides, it pays the bills.”
“Aye, that it does. Listen, I was wondering… are you free for dinner tonight? I managed to… acquire… a particularly fine salmon. Thought we could grill it up at the glen.”
Esther's heart did a little skip, her smile unwavering. “Salmon, you say? And grilled, no less? I think I can manage to tear myself away from Nessie's cousins for that.”
“Aye?” She could hear the smile on his face, and it did things to her heart.
“Aye,” she echoed. “What time?”
“Six o'clock? I can pick you up,” he offered.
“Perfect. I'll be ready.”
“Oh, and did you hear?” Rob asked.
“Hear what?”
“That new distillery just opened up outside of Drumnadrochit. They plan on having a launch party next weekend, what do ye say to going?”
“That sounds like fun,” Esther replied. “Roger won't be in town next weekend, so I shouldn't have any conflicting plans. We should go.”
“Excellent!” Rob exclaimed.
A throat cleared nearby, and Esther stopped listening to whatever else her boyfriend was saying as she turned to see Agnes MacDonald, a recently widowed woman and the receptionist that Mr. MacLeod had hired last year, hovering by her desk. Esther put a hand up, gesturing for Agnes to wait a moment.
“Rob, darling,” she said into the telephone, “I'm going to have to run. Agnes needs me for something, and Mr. MacLeod gets rather impatient if we keep him waiting. Six o'clock it is, then?”
“Aye, six o'clock. I'll see you then, love.”
Her heart fluttered. “Goodbye, Rob.”
She replaced the receiver and turned towards Agnes, offering an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, Agnes. What can I do for ye?”
“Actually,” Agnes said a little nervously, “there's a young woman here tae see you. A Miss Fiona Graham? She says it's urgent.”
Fiona?
Esther frowned in bewilderment. She adored Fiona Graham, they'd grown up together and have always been close friends, but she couldn't recall making plans to meet for lunch today, as they often do. “Fiona? Did she say what it was about?”
Agnes shook her head, her face etched with worry. “No, dear. But she looks… well, she looks quite distraught. As if she's been crying.”
Esther felt a sudden, inexplicable knot form in her stomach. “Right, Agnes, thank you.” She took off her glasses, placing them onto her desk. “I'll be right out.”
A prickle of unease ran down Esther's spine as she sat at her desk for a moment. Fiona wouldn't come all the way to the newspaper if they didn't have any plans to meet for lunch, not unless something was truly wrong. But what could be so urgent? What had Fiona so distraught?
Esther stood and straightened her tweed skirt, taking off her glasses and placing them on her desk. As she walked towards the reception area, she tried to calm her nerves, telling herself it was probably just a minor inconvenience. Whatever it was, she could handle it.
She saw Fiona Graham sitting awkwardly in one of the lobby chairs, her face pale and blotchy. The moment their eyes met, Esther knew. Something terrible had happened. Fresh tears streamed down Fiona's face as she stood up.
“Fiona, what is it?” Esther asked, her voice a bare whisper. She reached out, taking Fiona's trembling hands in hers. “What's wrong?”
Fiona swallowed hard, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, Esther… I… I don't know how to say this.”
A cold dread washed over her. “Say what?”
Fiona took a deep, shuddering breath. “It's… it's the Reverend. He… he passed away, Esther. About an hour ago.”
The words hit Esther like a physical blow. The air rushed from her lungs, leaving her breathless. Her vision blurred, and the sounds of the newsroom faded into a distant hum. No. It couldn't be. The Reverend was… he was fine. He was fine yesterday.
“No,” she managed, her voice barely audible. “No, you're mistaken. He… he was just…”
“I'm so sorry, Esther,” Fiona sobbed.
She stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. “No… no, that can't be. He was fine yesterday. He was… he was just… fine. We… we had tea in his study and he was…”
“I know, I know.” Fiona stepped forward and embraced her friend, running a soothing hand up and down Esther's back. “It was quick, they said. Peaceful, at least. I wanted to call you, but the lines here were all busy. So I came as fast as I could.”
Esther clung to Fiona, her mind reeling. An hour ago? Just an hour ago, the Reverend Wakefield was alive, and now… now he was gone. The man who had taken her and Roger in, raised them as his own, showered them with love and guidance… gone.
“How…” Esther choked out, pulling back to look at her friend's tear-streaked face. “How did it happen?”
“Something with his heart, they think,” Fiona said, her voice shaking. “Mrs. MacIntyre found him… in his study. He was doing some reading. The book was still in his hands, but she said he wouldn't wake up.”
Esther closed her eyes, a wave of nausea washing over her. The study. Surrounded by his books, his beloved books filled with history and lore. It seemed fitting, in a way. But no amount of fitting could ease the crushing pain.
A sob escaped her lips, and Esther covered her face with her hands. Grief, raw and sharp, sliced through her. She thought of the countless evenings spent by the fire, listening to the Reverend read stories, his voice a comforting balm. She thought of his dry wit, his endless patience, his unwavering belief in her. He was more than just an adopted father; he was her anchor, her guide, her rock.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Fiona pulled her into a tight embrace. “He was a good man, Esther. A good, good man. He loved you and Roger dearly.”
They clung to each other for a long moment, two women bound together by grief and shared loss. Finally, Esther pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
Then, it hit her.
Roger. Her brother. Did he even know?
“Does… does Roger know?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Fiona nodded. “Aye, I got off the phone with him before I left the house. He's on his way back from Oxford now. He'll be here soon, Esther.”
Relief washed over Esther, followed by a fresh wave of sadness. At least she wouldn't have to face this alone. She had Roger. They had each other. And they both had Fiona.
She opened her eyes, the shock beginning to give way to a dull, aching grief. “Thank you, Fiona. Thank you for coming. For… for calling Roger for me. And for… for being there… when it… when it happened.”
“Of course,” Fiona said.
“I… I need to go home,” Esther said, her voice hollow. “There are… there are things to do… arrangements to be made...”
Fiona nodded, understanding in her eyes. “Take your time, Esther. I'll be at the house. You can come whenever you're ready. We can make the preparations together… if you'd like?”
Esther nodded, unable to speak. The thought of facing the house without the Reverend, without his gentle smile and wise counsel, was almost unbearable. She couldn't do this alone. She needed Roger. And they both needed Fiona, now more than ever.
“Thank you, Fiona,” she whispered.
Fiona squeezed her hand. “I'll see you soon.”
Esther watched as Fiona walked away, her shoulders slumped with grief. She stood there for a moment longer, the bustling newspaper office fading into a distant hum. The world had tilted on its axis, leaving her feeling utterly lost and adrift.
She knew she had to tell Mr. MacLeod. With a heavy heart, Esther walked back towards his office and knocked on his open door.
“Ah, Esther,” he said, looking up from a stack of papers. “Do you have the article finished already? I wasn't expecting it until the end of the day, lass.”
“Actually, Mr. MacLeod…” Esther began, her voice barely above a whisper. She explained what Fiona had told her, the words tumbling out in a rush of disbelief and pain.
Mr. MacLeod's jovial expression crumbled. He rose from his chair, his face etched with genuine sorrow. “Oh, Esther, my dear girl. I am so sorry. Reginald was a fine man, a pillar of the community. This is… this is devastating news.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Go home, Esther. Take all the time you need. Don't worry about the paper. We'll manage. And know that you have my deepest condolences. Both you, and Roger. If there's anything, anything at all, that I can do, please don't hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod,” Esther choked out, tears welling in her eyes again. “I appreciate that.”
She gathered her things in a daze, the half-finished article on the Kelpies lying forgotten on her desk. The echoes of the past seemed to mock her now, reminding her of the past she shared with the Reverend, a past that was now irrevocably gone.
As Esther walked out of the newsroom, the usual hustle and bustle seemed muted, distant. She felt as though she were moving through a dream, a nightmare from which she couldn't wake up.
The drive to the house was a blur. She barely registered the familiar streets, the familiar faces of the people she saw. Her mind was a maelstrom of grief and disbelief. When she finally reached the house, its familiar facade seemed alien, untouched by the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls.
Fiona opened the door before Esther could even get out of the car, her eyes red and swollen, but her expression resolute. She waited for Esther to get out of the car before she approached, obviously wanting to give her friend some time to prepare herself.
Wordlessly, Fiona pulled her into another hug, and Esther collapsed against her dearest friend.
They spent the afternoon in a haze of sorrow and activity. Calling townsfolk and making a list of what arrangements needed to be done for the funeral. They didn't dare speak about sorting through the Reverend's belongings. Fiona knew it was far too soon to touch on that subject, knowing both Esther and Roger would need time to mourn together before they sorted through their father's belongings.
The worst was when Esther had to call Rob, informing him she couldn't make it to dinner and explaining the reason why. Her boyfriend offered to come over to the house, to cook the salmon for both her and Fiona so they didn't have to worry about anything except the funeral arrangements, but Esther didn't want him to see her in such a state. He was worried about her, and Esther couldn't really blame him. She felt a little guilty for pushing him away, but Rob was understanding, as always. However, he told Esther that he would stop by tomorrow to make sure that she was alright, and Roger as well.
Hours later, long after Fiona had gone to bed in one of the rooms upstairs, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway brought Esther back to the present. She rose from the chair, where she had been nursing a dram of whisky, and glanced out the window of the Reverend's study. Esther saw Roger emerging from his car, his face pale and drawn. She immediately set her whisky on the desk and rushed to the front door, throwing it open before her brother could even reach the porch.
He saw her, his eyes brimming with tears, and rushed forward, wrapping her in a tight embrace.
“Oh, Roger,” she said, her voice cracking.
He sniffled into her hair, fingers trembling as they wrapped tightly around her. “I don't understand,” he murmured, voice filled with emotion. “I just talked to him over the telephone.”
Esther clung to him, her own tears flowing freely. “I know, Roger. I know.”
They stood there for a long time, just holding each other, siblings united in their grief. Crying for the loss of their adopted father, the man who had given them a home and a family. Crying for the last family they had left in the world, aside from each other. Crying for the future that now seemed so uncertain, so empty without his presence. The weight of their loss was a heavy burden, a silent promise that life would never quite be the same again.