Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Read online

  Maggie nodded.

  "Good. If I didn't know you were enrolled, he might not know either. Yes, he should be in his office right now. I believe he's back from the Continent by now."

  Maggie thanked the woman out of habit and left to go visit the charming young Prof. Craig Macintyre of the Department of Celtic. As she doubled back toward Taylor, passing the sadly modern boxiness of the Regent Building, she looked to her left to see the gothic splendor of Elphinstone Hall and the King's Tower behind it. She would have to check that out next.

  Maggie pushed open the door to the Taylor Building and stepped inside. Taylor housed all of the professors and classrooms for all of the modern language departments. She was not thrilled at the idea of knocking on each office door in turn and so set out first to find a directory. In short order she found herself standing in front of a black reader board which detailed, in white plastic letters, the location of each professor's office. Under the heading 'Mac,' which preceded 'M,' she quickly found the entry: 'MAC NTYRE CRA G 213.'

  As she searched for the stairs, Maggie wondered whether the 'I' in 'Macintyre' had not perhaps followed its brother from the forename off on some whimsical reader-board letter adventure. Arriving quickly, if not a little out of breath, on the third floor by American standards, Maggie set out to find room 213. Her scan of the room numbers painted in black numerals on the wooden doors led her to turn down a hallway marked with an arrow and the words, 'ROOMS 205-220.' As she passed 207, 209 and drew even with 211, she could hear voices coming out of the office ahead of her. Not just voices—an argument. Not sure what to do, she took a tentative step toward 213. The door was ajar. A quick glance confirmed no one else was in the hallway that Monday morning.

  "—n't you threaten me!" a woman was yelling. Maggie instantly recognized the distinctive accent. Southern. The woman, whoever she was, was an American. "I'll go to the police with what I know!"

  "You bloody well won't!" roared back the man's voice, a light Scottish burr rolling over each word. "If you know what's good for you!"

  This threat was followed by a loud crash of something breakable and a high-pitched but unintelligible response from the woman.

  Uncertain what to do, Maggie just stood frozen in the hallway. Maybe she should come back later? Her thoughts were scattered however by the very sudden and very unexpected impact of the woman who had just run out of 213. Maggie was sent reeling backwards, off balance and thoroughly embarrassed. She managed to keep herself from falling, albeit just barely, and looked up at the woman who was picking herself up off the floor. She was about Maggie's age, maybe a year or two older, with long thick banana-yellow hair ending halfway down her back. She seemed to have a pretty face, although Maggie thought it was hidden behind rather a lot of make-up. Her clothes were stylish and looked expensive, especially her shoes.

  "Gosh, sorry about that," Maggie said in her own obviously American accent. "Guess you didn't see me standing there."

  The blond woman ignored her while she fixed her attire.

  "Um, my name's Maggie Devereaux," she extended her hand.

  The woman, apparently satisfied with her appearance, looked at Maggie's hand, winced, and walked past her without a word.

  Nice, Maggie thought, lowering her hand again.

  Then from inside 213 she heard the Scottish voice again. "Get back here! Who the bloody hell do you think you are anyway?!" He finished this last sentence just as he emerged into the hallway to find, to his complete surprise, this pretty young brunette he had never seen before.

  "Maggie Devereaux," she replied to his question with a smile. Then, cocking her head to one side, "Professor Macintyre, I presume?"

  * * *

  "Not that I wouldn't relish the opportunity to look over you," Craig Macintyre was saying from behind the officious little nameplate on his desk, his eyes resting somewhere well below Maggie's face, "but I've already more than enough to do. Besides, I was never notified of having to supervise another student."

  The woman at the registrar's office had been right. Craig Macintyre was young. As he sat before Maggie, leaning back in his leather desk chair in his cramped little university professor office, bookshelves bulging behind him, he could not have been more that 35, 37 at the oldest. His straight brown hair fell stylishly over his clean-shaven baby-face. And although dressed in typical professorial wools and tweeds, he looked more the fashion model than the absent-minded academic. Still, something about him had rubbed Maggie the wrong way immediately. It might have been the argument she had overheard. It might have been his wandering gaze. Or it might just have been her aggravation at the fact that everyone at the entire college seemed to be ignorant of her presence. In any case, assuming she won the impending argument, she would only succeed in securing Prof. Macintyre as her advisor. It would probably not be prudent to start off their relationship by throttling him.

  "I'm sure if you check your records again—"

  "No. No good, lass," he interrupted. "I was never notified and they can't expect me to just drop everything to supervise yet another student."

  "You know, I had the same problem with the registr—"

  "I mean, what am I? The expert on North American schoolgirls?"

  Maggie's eyes narrowed. She had ceased being a girl some time ago. As she looked away from Macintyre's face, which continued to complain about the injustice of a professor being forced to actually teach students, Maggie's gaze landed on a letter sticking out from under some other papers in an overly full 'IN' box on the desk. The words 'Margaret N. Devereaux' jumped out at her from the stationery.

  Laying her finger on the University of Aberdeen crest on the letterhead, she asked sweetly, "What's this?"

  Macintyre stopped his soliloquy long enough to make a noise of surprise in the back of his throat and look at the letter. He pulled it out from under the pile and read it quickly. Maggie couldn't read the words from where she was sitting, but she did notice that it had once been folded in thirds, suggesting it had been mailed—and opened. She also noticed a small brown ringed coffee stain on one corner of the document.

  "Mmphm," Macintyre grunted, not looking up. "I guess I spoke too soon. It appears I was given notice of your arrival."

  He pushed the letter back down the desk roughly. "Damned if I remember ever reading that," he said, as if to himself. "Well, then, I suppose I've had a lot on my mind. I've just returned this morning from the Continent. Amsterdam. Promoting my new article." He smiled.

  Unimpressed, Maggie nodded and glanced down at the letter. She wondered if it was from the same woman who had earlier that morning told her she couldn't study there. It was unsigned.

  "But damn it all!" Maggie's thoughts were interrupted by Macintyre's hand slapping down on the desktop as he shot up from his chair. "How the bloody hell am I supposed to supervise yet another American student on her year abroad in Scotland?"

  He was clearly not really talking to her, but she didn't like being ignored either.

  "I've got my own bleeding research to do and I can hardly get that done if I'm expected to hold the hands of now three schoolgirls."

  Again with the schoolgirls, she thought. This is not going well.

  "First, it was just Kelly. But then they added Annette—" He stopped. His face went ashen and he turned to look at Maggie. "Oh. That's right." He retook his seat. "I'd forgotten about Annette."

  Maggie looked at the professor blankly.

  "Terrible business, that," he continued solemnly. Then a half-smile returned to his face. "Oh well. I suppose that opens a position for you. Lucky you."

  "Lucky me," she repeated back as if to convince herself. She really didn't like this guy.

  "So what will you be studying then, Miss, ah," he looked down at the letter, "Devereaux?"

  "Well, in my grant proposal," she started, thinking that he ought to have read that too since it had been included in her application materials to the university, "I mentioned the article Professor Robert Hamilton published last ye
ar about—"

  "Hamilton?" Macintyre interrupted. "Isn't he at Edinburgh?"

  "Er, yes." Maggie understood the question behind the question, namely 'Why aren't you studying at Edinburgh?' She decided not to answer that one. She expected that Prof. Macintyre had neither the time nor the desire to hear about her familial connections to the area and the other influences which had conspired to bring her to the Highlands. She sufficed it to say, "But the Elphinstone Institute is here."

  Macintyre nodded. He apparently accepted this explanation.

  "In any event," she continued, "Professor Hamilton published an article last year which theorized the existence of a lost dialect of Old Gaelic—one used primarily in religious ceremonies. He had found some references—"

  "Right," Macintyre interrupted again. "I think I remember reading that. So much rot, I thought. Load of rubbish, really."

  Oh great. Who assigned me to this guy?

  "I mean," he continued, more to himself than to Maggie. "What an utterly cheap way to be published. Theorize something the existence of which can never be proved or disproved. If no one ever actually confirms the existence of it, well that's just because it's old and mysterious," he wiggled his fingers in front of his lowered face. "But if by some miracle someone actually finds something even closely related, well then you can claim credit for everyone else's hard work."

  Maggie said nothing, uncertain how to respond.

  "Of course," he added, "that's how it works in the academic publishing world. I should give him credit for the idea really. Maybe I'll publish something next year claiming that both Gaelic and—oh I don't know, French—are descended from an ancient dialect of Martian. I bet I could find some pathetic little publishing house to print that, eh?"

  He had at last returned his attention to Maggie.

  "Sure," she replied blandly. Time to go.

  "So what is it you'd like to do with Prof. Robert Hamilton?" He raised an indecent eyebrow.

  Ignoring this, she replied simply, "I'm not sure yet, but I found the article interesting."

  She elected not to tell him that her intent was to confirm the existence of the dialect. She expected he would only have laughed.

  "Nice to have met you, Professor Macintyre." She stood up and offered her hand to shake.

  "Charmed, Margaret," he said, taking her hand. Then, not releasing it quite soon enough, he added, "Call me Craig."

  "Sure, Professor Macintyre." She extracted her hand and walked out of the office. She could feel his stare on her back and once in the hallway she shuddered slightly in an effort to shake it off.

  She quickly descended the stairs, thankful that she would be conducting her research largely independently. As she approached the door to outside, another student entered into the building, thereby inadvertently blocking Maggie's path. Maggie stepped to her right, just as the other woman stepped to her own left, mirroring Maggie's move. Then, as if on cue, both women stepped in the other direction, again blocking each other's path. As they tentatively leaned in varying directions, both women laughed.

  "Care to dance?" Maggie quipped.

  The embarrassed grin of the other woman blossomed into full smile at the sound of Maggie's voice. Large, strong teeth beamed at Maggie beneath blue eyes and curly straw-colored hair.

  "Are you an American?" the woman asked, her own Scottish accent unmistakable.

  "Er, yes," Maggie replied. "My name's Maggie. Maggie Devereaux."

  "Delighted to meet you, Maggie," the woman beamed. "I'm Ellen." Maggie smiled at the name. "Ellen Walker. Are you studying here this semester, then?"

  "Yes. I'm studying here in the Celtic Department. Old Gaelic dialects and such."

  "Oh, brilliant!" Ellen exclaimed. "I'm in the comparative literature program. Working on my doctoral thesis. I'm focusing on Middle Gaelic and Middle French, comparing similarities in oral narration during the twelfth century."

  "Wow, that sounds interesting," Maggie said earnestly. "I don't know as much Middle French as I should—only those words that worked their way into Middle English, or are just like the Latin."

  It was nice to talk shop.

  "Well, then, I'll have to teach you sometime," Ellen offered. "Are you here just for a semester then?"

  "No," Maggie replied. "The whole year. Then I'll see where my research is at. I'll probably head back to finish up my degree, although I suppose I could stay here, too." Her inheritance had given her far more flexibility in her future plans.

  "Brilliant!" Ellen enthused. "It really is wonderful to have international students here at the college. Just makes it so much more well rounded, eh? The university's made a real commitment to it."

  Then Ellen looked at her watch. "Oh dear, look at the time. I'm late for my seminar. I better run." She frowned at Maggie. "Are you living here on campus then, Maggie?"

  "Eh, no. I'm staying with my aunt and uncle, not too far away from campus."

  "Oh? You've got Scottish blood, do you? It's always hard to tell with Americans. 'Devereaux' hardly sounds Scottish. Well, look, we should get together sometime. I know how difficult it is to get used to a new country. Say," she paused. "Are you free tonight?"

  Maggie had assumed she would be spending the evening with her aunt and uncle, but she supposed there was no reason why she had to. "I think so."

  "Splendid. Look, do you know where 'The Boar and Thistle' is?"

  "Erm, no. 'Fraid not. Is that a pub?" It sounded like a pub.

  "Aye. Right over on University Road, just off High Street. You can't really miss it. Anyway, I'm meeting a couple of friends—other students—for a pint and some dinner around six tonight. Why don't you join us? Everyone's very friendly, one of the girls is even an American, so you two should hit it right off. What do you say?"

  What should I say? thought Maggie. She had just met this woman. For whatever reason her initial reaction was to decline the offer politely and maybe she'd run into her some time again. But then she thought, I came here to meet people and experience the culture, too. Not just to sit in a library and read musty old books. I can do that at home. What the hell. Why not?

  "Sure. I'd love to come. Six o'clock, did you say?"

  "Right. Six o'clock. But I won't hold it against you if you're late." Again Ellen flashed a toothy grin. "But I really must be off now. See you tonight, Maggie Devereaux."

  "See you tonight, Ellen," and Ellen's back disappeared up the stairwell.

  Well, Maggie thought as she emerged from Taylor into the warm autumn mid-morning, she was certainly friendly. I think I'm going to like Scotland.

  Looking down at her watch, Maggie could see that it was ten minutes after eleven already. Too soon to head straight for the MacTary's store, but too late to really do anything else of substance. She looked across at Elphinstone Hall, its gothic turrets rising to the cloud patched sky. Just enough time to scope out the area, she decided.

  Her leisurely gait took her around Elphinstone Hall, to where it connected to another, smaller gothic building tucked away between Elphinstone and the King's College building. As she walked by the outside of this smaller hall, she noticed the plaque on the wall beside the door. Among other useful information stood the words:

  'Historic Collections. Manuscripts and Archives.'

  Maggie smiled broadly. Just enough time to poke her head in and see what it looked like. Maybe she could even get her library card before lunch. She turned from the path and pulled open the door.

  Inside she was greeted by the delightful sight of full bookshelf after full bookshelf, all resting confidently beneath the vaulted stone ceiling of the reading room. Long wooden tables filled the stone-floored hall and the walls were filled with beautiful stained glass portraits of people whose significance Maggie could only guess at. The light from the glass fell across the room in a gentle rainbow, careful not to disturb the dozens of students who were camped out studying. To her immediate left was a desk, staffed by two gray-haired ladies standing under a sign that read, 'INFORMA
TION.'

  "Hello," Maggie said to one of the women. Maggie couldn't suppress her smile.

  "May I help you, miss?" The heavier of the two women stepped forward, her black-framed glasses set firmly on the bridge of her nose.

  "Yes, I'm a new student here. A visiting student, actually. From the United States."

  The woman smiled politely. She had already noticed the accent, of course.

  "I'll be studying Gaelic," Maggie continued. "Both modern and old. Do you have any resources which would be particularly useful? I noticed the sign outside said 'Historic Collections?'"

  The librarian's face showed surprise. Maggie knew that Americans were not generally known for their foreign language skills. Of course, someone from Seattle would have to travel some two thousand miles before she got to anyplace where English wasn't the day-to-day language. However, the old woman's face also showed approval.

  "Gaelic, then?" she confirmed. "Yes, of course, miss. As far as modern Gaelic, the university actually has one of the largest collections of Scottish Gaelic literature in the world. We also boast a rather healthy selection of Irish Gaelic literature as well. And of course, linguistic reference materials—grammars and the like—are also kept by the library. Most of that is housed at the Queen Mother Library across campus."

  Maggie nodded.

  "As far as Old Gaelic—or 'Old Irish' or whatever you like to call it—we have a large collection of historic texts and documents right here in the Historic Collections. We also have several particularly old volumes in an ancient book collection which is housed in the subbasement."

  Maggie's head jerked back, her eyes wide with academic excitement. "Ancient book collection?" she repeated.

  "Aye, miss," the woman was clearly pleased by the reaction, but then added, "although it's of little use unless one happens to know Middle or Old Gaelic. Or at least Scots."

  "How," Maggie began, trying to suppress her excitement, "do I go about looking at the collection? I assume it's not open to the general public?"

  "Right enough," the librarian nodded officially. "Although anyone who really wanted to see it would be allowed to do. But we do keep the door to the subbasement locked. Only faculty and doctoral students—and the library staff, of course—may have a key. They may check out any items they wish, except for a few of the books which are simply too old and too fragile to be removed."