But instead of translating, the taller of the two women pointed at the scrawl and exclaimed, “Elspeth Dunn! That’s a name I haven’t heard in quite some time.”

The other nodded. “She left years ago.”

“Seo a-nis is her house. She still owns it, doesn’t she?”

“The family does.”

I had no idea what I thought I’d find at my mother’s old house. Bits and pieces of the past? I only knew I had to go. “Where is it?”

And, can you believe it, they looked me up and down! The publican smirked. “It’s more than a stroll, miss.”

Miss? Really.

“I’m no stranger to walking,” I’m afraid I said, somewhat stiffly. “If you can please point me in the right direction.”

“It’s out towards Peinchorran.” He leaned on the table. “I can sell you a map and a compass. And an umbrella.”

I took him up on the map—marked for her house in pencil—and the compass. Right now I’m hunched in the doorway of the post office, finishing this letter to you and wishing I’d also taken him up on the brolly. The rain is still coming in fits and starts, but there’s no car to take me down to her house. A bit over eight miles. We’ve done close to that before! I’ve changed into my oxfords and intend to attempt it. My mother has a house on the Isle of Skye. Rain or no rain, I plan to find it!

Margaret

27 August 1940


Dear Maisie,

I’m crossing my fingers and mailing this to you care of your mother’s old address on Skye, as it’s all I have. With luck, it will find its way to you.

From the moment we met, you’ve been wondering where you came from. The wheres and hows and whys of Margaret Dunn. Just be chary. Not that every father is a skiver like mine, but I don’t want you to be disappointed. I’ve heard you talk about who your father could be. An earl? A general? Basil Rathbone? You didn’t have “island crofter” on that list.

But isn’t that what searching for the past is? Surprising, shocking, perhaps even a wee bit scary. We never know what we’ll find. But I know you need to at least look. You’ll never know if you’re on the right course for your life until you see the course that has brought you to where you are today.

You wondered if we were rushing things, if we could trust the way we felt. My sweet lass, I wouldn’t push you into anything you’re unsure about. By all means, consider as long as you wish. But answer me this: The moment you said “yes” and took my hand, what were you feeling?

For me, I felt as if my heart would jump straight out of my chest, and I’ve kept ahold of that. Every time I start to remember standing chest-deep in the water off Dunkirk, not knowing if the planes would miss me, not knowing if I’d ever make it onto a ship, I’d think of your hand in mine and then any worries would melt away. Of all the things in the world right now, the way I feel about you is the one thing that I do trust.

Take care and write me as soon as you can.

Love, Paul

Beagan Mhìltean, Skye

Friday, 30 August 1940


Dear Paul,

I did set off to look for Seo a-nis that same rainy day I arrived. Which, in retrospect, was a bit of a mistake. Much of my walk there was cross-country (though, I do admit, this was probably due to my poor map-reading skills more than anything else). And it was no flower-strewn Borders path. I went up and down rises, across desolate stretches, with no one but sheep for company. Although I had my oxfords on, they were no match for the mud of Skye. I don’t know how many times I had to hop back to extract a shoe. I’d brought my suitcase (though any sensible person would’ve left it back in town), because I thought to change into something dry once I arrived, though I soon saw what a fruitless idea that was. My suitcase was soaked straight through. I tucked the whole in the lea of a crumbling stone fence to come back for later. I still haven’t found it.

I finally passed an old man walking a dog towards Portree (at least I think so; I swear, the compass must be defective). He reassured me that I was on Peinchorran and pointed the way to Seo a-nis. He said it was the only thing along that edge of the loch and I couldn’t miss it. He was right.

It didn’t look as if anyone had been in the cottage in decades. It’s one of those white, lime-washed buildings you see all over here, with two up and two down, and a chimney on either end. A real slate roof, though many of the tiles had fallen over the years. The shutters were nailed tight and boards stretched across. I tried the door, but it had warped and wouldn’t budge a hair.

Next to the cottage was an older one, a low stone building with a rotted thatch roof. Beyond that, a tumbled fence marked off an overgrown garden, nothing much more than thistles at this point. Everything was quiet, apart from the waves crashing against the shingle and the bleating of distant sheep.

The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. I thought to walk down to the beach, to see if I could find any other sign of life. As I skirted the side of the house, I sent up a roosting flock of something feathered from the half-thatched building. I turned the corner and, oh, Paul, I froze.

The whole back of the cottage, the side facing out to the sea, glowed with colour. It was like an Italian fresco, caught in the Hebrides. The lime-washed wall was covered with whorls and curves of paintings, some straight out of the Gaelic legends and lullabies Mother would rock me to sleep with. Selkie women slipping from their sealskins on the beach. A ring of fairies dancing around a shuddering green flame. A woman dressed in rose petals on top of a crag, her tears running down to the sea. The pictures merged and overlapped. A couple waltzing. A bowl of oranges. A pink pearl gleaming within an open oyster. Then images I knew could have come only from the last war. An ambulance hurtling past an explosion, while rows of boys marched by. The driver of the ambulance leaned out the window, his face tilted towards the loch, and I swear there was a gleam in his brown-green eyes.

“She painted all that,” said a voice behind me. “During the Great War, when she was waiting.”

The woman was small and neat, with black eyes as sharp as a crow’s. Behind her, an ancient truck rumbled.

“I heard that someone in Portree was asking after Elspeth Dunn.”

All I could do was nod.

“And those fools sent you here.” She tightened a shawl over her shoulders. “You’d better come with me.”

She reached for my arm, but I stiffened. It had been a long day.

“Och, you have Elspeth’s spirit. She always had a set to her mou as a lass. I see the same in you, Margaret Dunn.” I must have shown surprise, because her eyes softened suddenly and she smiled. “I’m your gran. I’ve been waiting for you.”

And here I thought she didn’t speak a word of English, any more than she could read or write it. I’d always dismissed her as my Skye gran, too busy on her croft to visit us in Edinburgh. But that didn’t mean she didn’t care. I told you she wrote letters in Gaelic to my mother every month for as long as I could remember. But, Paul, Mother wrote Gran every week, letters covered with crisscrossed lines, telling Gran every step I took, every dream I had, every wish I made before bed. And photographs! My first day of school, my missing front teeth, my tenth birthday, my Confirmation, all taken with Mother’s old Challenge folding camera. Gran has kept all of the letters in a kist at the foot of her bed, with the pictures tacked inside the lid. Although she was far from Edinburgh, she was never far from us.

I’ve been this week at my gran’s house, meeting a family I didn’t know I had and walking the burns and crags, thinking of you. I can’t help but think of all the rambles you and I could take here. You’d help me sort through this all, then you’d take my hand, and I’d feel as safe as I did when I said “yes” to you in Plymouth. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Love, Maisie

London, England

16 August 1940


Dear Sir or Madam,

Many years ago, a woman named Eve Hale, née Graham, lived at this address with her husband and daughter. I do not know if they still stay there or if they have moved from Terre Haute, but I would appreciate any information you could supply. I have been out of touch for some years and would dearly like to find them. Eve is the sister of an old friend of mine.

If you have any information about their whereabouts, can you please contact me? You can write to me at the Langham Hotel, London. I thank you in advance.

Sincerely, Mrs. Elspeth Dunn

Chapter Seventeen

Elspeth

Ste. Geneviève, Paris, France

April 28, 1916


My Sue,