He’d wanted tonight to make her happy and to brighten the depths of winter for her, and he wanted to thank her for pushing him to buy the old But and Ben and willow fields that he’d been renting for years, never fully committing to turning it into the international willow craft school he’d always dreamed of running. At least, not until Beatrice arrived and showed him all the ways it was possible to heal, share and grow.
Beatrice had first heard of wassailing as a child, being from Warwickshire, close to Shakespeare’s Stratford where old customs fed the tourist and theatre industries. She had lived most of her life just down the motorway from leafy Evesham too, with its many orchards where wassailing customs persisted and were reported on the local news each December, but she’d never seen it with her own eyes until tonight.
Up here under the black, starry skies of the Highlands, the custom seemed to have taken on a wilder, more elemental importance. That is if the local young farmers and fishermen were anything to go by. Some of them had really got on board with the whole idea of a winter’s wassail to bless Atholl’s willow fields and christen his expanded workshopping business. Most wore a sprig of holly on their coats or hats and two had come dressed as some sort of nightmarish horse figure, the significance of which nobody was entirely sure of, but had been part of ancient local custom long ago. Seth had thought he could remember his grandfather telling him about it so everyone agreed they’d better give it a go and not risk displeasing whichever impish natural spirits presided over the growing of healthy willows in these parts.
If therehadonce been an ancient tradition of winter wassailing in Port Willow, somewhere along the way the custom had been all but forgotten. The event certainly felt archaic and magical to Beatrice, and she could tell from the look in Kitty’s eyes that her friend felt it too. Beatrice supposed that’s what wine and moonlight, music and dancing can do to pretty much anything; transform it into something ritualistic, something elemental.
The crowd were singing loudly now, having decided they’d offered quite enough booze to the frozen earth and fallow field margins. Between verses they swigged from their cups and bottles, staving off the bitter midwinter’s night chill.
Wassail, wassail, all over the town,
My bread it is white, and my ale it is brown,
And my bowl it is made o’ the sweet willow tree,
With a wassailing bowl I’ll drink to thee.
Under Kitty and Gene’s instruction, the whole village had over many recent evenings crowded into the bar room at the Princess and the Pea Inn to learn the ancient wassailing songs. Gene had assumed more of a supervisory position, humming along in his deep, bassy way, pouring the pints and working the till while Kitty took on the role of folk customs tutor – somehow it felt in keeping with her being the village’s only fluent Gaelic speaker. Yet tonight there were many more carousers up on the hill above the coral beach than just the villagers.
The sounds of their accents and languages mingled in the air now. Beatrice could hear German and something Scandinavian, Icelandic, maybe? It sounded very much like Kitty’s Gaelic to Beatrice’s ears. Some were visiting family for Christmas, some were tourists filling the rental cottages along the Port Willow waterfront for the holidays, and some were crafters drawn to the inn by the opportunity to learn a new skill and meet new friends. There were quiet, respectfully observant Minnesotans, and loud Texans, and many, many Scots from all across the parish – and their voices were all combining now into a heady cacophony.
Just when it was getting too much and some of the fiery torches were puttering out and the youngest of the children were nodding off on their parents’ shoulders, one of the farm lads shouted out that they were leading the party back across the dark meadow and down the hill to the inn for a nightcap.
Beatrice and Atholl watched the crowd slowly departing – the glimmer from phone screens dancing with the flashlights and the candles lighting their way. Kitty’s voice rang out the loudest as they left, wassailing all the way back to Port Willow Bay.
‘Go on, lad,’ Atholl instructed the adoring collie dog by his side. ‘Go’an get some supper at the inn.’ Echo accepted a scratch on the ear before darting off to catch up with the crowd, leaving Atholl alone with Beatrice in the growing silence.
‘We’re not leaving?’ Beatrice asked, not in the least wanting to follow the noisy rabble, content to be anchored to the spot by Atholl’s hands around her waist.
‘I lit the fire in the But ’n’ Ben earlier. Shame to let it go to waste.’ Atholl pushed the door open behind her, letting Beatrice glance in at the cosy scene. He’d cleared the work benches where earlier that day eager students had crafted ambitious willow sculptures under Atholl’s expert tutelage. There was a spruce in its pot in the corner, strung with gold fairy-lights with dainty willow spheres hanging from its branches. He’d laid rugs and cushions on the flagstone floor before the fire, and Beatrice caught a glimpse of a picnic basket by the blazing hearth.
‘Another of Gene’s famous picnics?’ she said, smiling, as Atholl led her into the room, closing out the cold and dark behind them.
‘Aye, just a spot of breakfast.’
‘Breakfast? We’re staying out? Isn’t it a bit chilly for camping?’
‘It’s this or trying to clear the bar at closing time? It’ll no’ be an easy job the night. Besides it’s warm by the hearth.’
Atholl had already bolted the door behind them and walked Beatrice over to the broad stone mantle, gently lifting her coat from her shoulders before taking the opportunity to brush his lips against her temple, then her cheek, making her instantly drowsy.
Dim shushing sounds from the waves on the coral-strewn shore down below the cottage made their way to the couple. The smoke from the fire combined with the mellow smell of the peat burning and the heady, clean natural scent of the willow bundles piled up by the door. She’d come to recognise this as Atholl’s scent too. It was in his very skin.
‘Midwinter’s night at the cottage school is probably a tiny bit nicer than chucking out time at the inn,’ she agreed, reaching up to run her hands over Atholl’s shoulders. As always, the feel of his broad frame left her reeling and Atholl took the hitch in her breathing as his cue to kiss her lips. The pair sank down onto the rugs and coats in the firelight.
‘Longest night of the year, the twenty-first, and probably the coldest,’ Atholl murmured, rolling Beatrice onto her back and pressing his long body against hers, making them both shudder and gasp between kisses.
‘Good, I want a long night with you,’ she said, pulling off Atholl’s top layers, knowing the heat from the flames and from Atholl’s touch would warm her through until morning.
Chapter Four
Up in the Air
Despite the midnight departure time or the Percocet and the Ambien that she’d washed down with a hard seltzer in the airport bar, there was no chance of Nina getting much sleep tonight.
The thing about a seven-and-a-half-hour flight, squeezed into Economy when you’ve long since grown used to the comforts of First Class, surrounded by twelve hungover and chattering Glaswegian bachelorettes in ‘I heart NYC’ t-shirts is, it gives a girl plenty of time to mull things over.
First of all, shortly after take-off, she’d re-read Luke’s letter.
