Monarch Of The Glen

This story is inspired by the Scottish TV show Monarch of the Glen. Centred on the fictional highland estate of Glen Bogel. Nestled in the mountains of the cairngorms.

This story uses the setting, theme and some touch points. It is not fan fiction, but a tale of grief and romance, set in a unique landscape.

It's a bit of a slow burn but I hope you enjoy it.

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Connor:

A warm breeze blew through the purple heather as I lay in my prepared position. The wind was steady for once, blowing from the northwest, in a perfect direction. Looking through the scope I scanned for my quarry. The vast heathland spread out before me before it sloped down to meet the loch. Sunlight danced on the still water but not enough to affect my gaze.

Finally, I saw him, 'Big Eric' the Monarch of the Glen, the oldest and most referred red deer on the estate. The stalk had taken most of the day, he'd led me on a merry dance but now I had him in my sights. He looked in fine health for his age. His sixteen-pointed antlers were resplendent on his proud crown.

With the rutting season not far off 'Big Eric' was looking well-prepared to defend his crown. The others in his stag herd were equally well kept, a testament to a fine spring and summer season. Not to mention the care and attention they had received.

My finger rested on the trigger as the sights settled over 'Big Eric's heart. A slow steady breath in, before pausing mid-exhale. I gently squeezed the trigger.

-Click-

"Not today," I whispered in my deep, gruff voice.

I stood and stowed the empty rifle into its padded bag. Pleased with the day's work. Checking my father's battered gold pocket watch I guess it was time to head back. I looked over to the big house on the other side of the loch. There was a glint from one of the top windows.

Maggie had insisted everyone be on time for dinner tonight. Connor McIntyre wasn't the kind of man to disappoint a lady. Especially not Margret MacDonald.

I still couldn't get used to staying at the big house, it just didn't feel natural. But there was no arguing with her. I whistled to Monty, my Black and Tan Gordon setter, and he responded instantly. Trotting to his master's side with a spring in his step and his long tongue hanging out his jaws. I patted his head and made my way down the steep slope.

It was a long walk to the big house but it was easy going on the well-worn paths. After putting Monty in his Kennel and securing my gear in an outhouse. I made my way to the kitchen entrance at the back of the house. Laura would be putting the finishing touches to tonight's meal. Maybe I could enjoy teasing her before washing up.

I was a little disappointed when I found the kitchen empty. I quickly washed my hands, cleaning away the day's grime. I watched the dirty water go down the kitchen drain and smiled thinking of Laura's reaction. If she was here I'd be lucky to escape with just a smack on the head.

Heading through the house to the dining room I felt the usual oppressive feeling. Oil paintings hung all along the wood-panelled walls. MacDonald's of the past whose eyes bore into my soul every time I pasted them. I heard voices behind the thick oak door leading to the dining room. I cursed myself for being late and made sure to quickly give my clothes a once over. I knocked on the door though I had been assured there was no need. Old habits die hard and I don't think I could ever not honour the old ways.

"Finally! Get in here boy. I'm in danger of starving in my own dining room!" Shouted Hamish's gruff and grumpy voice.

Opening the door I saw that they had indeed been waiting for me to start. Hamish the Laird of Glen Bogal and head of the household sat at the head of the long wooden table. His sweet-natured wife Marget sat next to him. There was one other occupant at the table. I stopped in the doorway when I realised who it was. Her long silky brown hair hung down her shoulders. Those beautiful blue eyes looked down at her empty plate. Her rosy red lips were pressed together tightly.

"Beth," I whispered.

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Beth: Two hours earlier.

Having a direct flight from London to Inverness was a godsend. I don't think I could stand the twelve-hour sleeper train. If this was another stupid trick of my father's to force me to visit, at least I could get it over with quickly. I had an almighty fight with the hire car company. They offered me a small-town car when I had insisted on a 4X4. I may have been away for the best part of a decade but some things you just don't forget. The dirt track I had been driving on for the last few miles vindicated my decision. I tried to keep a level head, and not have preconceptions of what would happen when I arrived.

My mother had said father was gravely ill. He'd had an accident of some sort and was desperate to see me. I can't remember Father ever being desperate for anything. Except for bagging 'Big Eric' or perhaps another whisky.

As I turned off the track into Glen Bogel village my heart began to flutter. The old stone-built primary school was still standing. I had been a student there before getting carted off to boarding school. The small stone walls and slate-roofed houses were just the same. It felt like a hole in time. Very little evidence of the modern world was present in the little village. If I worried people would recognise me I didn't have to worry long. It didn't take long to drive through and then I was heading towards home.

'Home' wasn't that anymore, hadn't been for nigh on a decade. With the countless months spent at boarding school and university. It hadn't been my proper home for a very long time. I still remembered every view as I drove up the long gravel driveway. Driving over the bridge of the river Bogle that flowed into the Loch. Through the towering Scottish pine trees and up to the big house.

The 19th-century baronial house had been built on the site of the old castle. Its turrets and old windows were so familiar yet so different to the buildings in London.

My eyes flew to my old bedroom window on the second floor. I saw the ivy underneath hadn't quite grown back. Father cut it down fearing It would prove to be useful a tool for the local boys to climb up. My gaze drifted to another dusty window in the turret but I quickly looked away. It wouldn't do any good to open up those memories.

The gravel crunched as I walked to the main entrance. When I pulled the long corded doorbell it came off in my hand. Some things never change. I knocked on the door hard, knowing the noise would have a hard time travelling through the vast house. I was sure the door was unlocked but couldn't bring myself to enter uninvited.

"Watcha hen, you lost?" said a voice from above.

Looking up I saw a beautiful young woman with curly blond hair. She seemed around my age and was hanging out of an open window.

"I'm here to see Hamish MacDonald if he's still here?" I asked hoping he hadn't been taken to hospital.

Perhaps they had rushed Father to Inverness? Mother hadn't been too specific on the phone.

"Aye, he's here alright hen. Wait a mo and I'll be down," the girl said in her thick local accent, before retreating from the window.

London was a melting pot of hundreds of dialects and accents. But the thick local accent was seldom heard outside Scotland. Any vestiges of that accent had been washed away from my speech at boarding school. Elocution lessons had turned it closer to Received Pronunciation. Posh British according to Frank.

I waited for the girl to come to the door, feeling stupidly conspicuous on the doorstep. Then finally the door opened.

"Sorry you caught me dusting, who shall

I say is calling?" said the girl as she welcomed me into the hall, brandishing a feather duster.

I guessed she was the housekeeper but looked nothing like old Mrs Brown, who had the job when I was a kid. This girl was wearing a tight, low-cut pink top that showed off her impressive assets. Her tanned midriff was showing and she wore a pair of sprayed-on denim shorts. No wonder Father was ill, he must have had a heart attack every time he saw her.

As we walked into the wood-panelled hallway I smelt furniture polish. It was like stepping back in time, nothing had changed in a hundred years. The same ghastly oil paintings of my long-dead ancestors hung on the walls. Long heavy tartan drapes framed the large winds. Familiar Edwardian furniture was dotted about in their usual spots.

"Well, erm," I stuttered trying to answer the girl.

I felt overwhelmed by the experience of being in my childhood home.

"Beth? Is that you? Aww, there's my girl," called my mother's soft voice.

She flowed from the library into the hall wearing a fabulous flowing outfit. Her customary apron was stained with clay and her make-up was understated. I recalled her familiar-smelling perfume as she hugged me tight. When she finally released me I saw a smudge of clay on her nose and tear stains on her cheeks.

"Silly me. Don't pay attention, darling. It's so good to see you, Beth," she said hugging me again. Noting my look of concern at her tears.

"Beth? As in Beth...Beth? Shit sorry hen, I didn't know, I mean. Shit, sorry I shouldn't swear," the girl with blonde curly hair stammered next to us.

"I go by Lizzie now actually and it's my fault I should have said," I said kindly to the girl as she looked mortified.

"Lizzie, I love it, how modern. Laura this is my beautiful daughter Lizzie. Lizzie, this is Laura our..." Mother said trying to find the appropriate words.

"Well, everything actually," Mother said sweetly.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance Miss MacDonald," Laura said bobbing slightly.

"Oh, it's Lizzie please, it's lovely to meet you too," I said.

"How's Father?" I asked remembering why I had made the long trip.

"Oh, I'm afraid he's terrible dear. His usual cantankerous self," my Mother said as she led me towards the library.

"Fraoch eilean!"

A loud cry boomed from overhead and echoed off the wood and stone walls. I looked to the top of the staircase and saw an old man dressed in a tartan dressing gown. He wore a tweed jacket over the top and a pair of black Wellington boots. In his arms, he carried a beautifully hand-tooled hunting rifle with iron sights. The rifle had belonged to his father and I knew it well.

The old man bounded down the staircase with vigour and barely noticed me as he barrelled past. He skidded to a halt in the hallway and turned to look at us.

"Good God Beth, you not married yet?" he asked eyeing me up and down with a questioning look.

"Where are you going you stupid fool?" asked Mother with a disapproving tone.

"Big Eric, he's been sighted. On the ridge, I've got him now," the old man said excitedly and turned to run out of the house.

"Father seems on the mend, goodbye Mother," I said turning on my heels to follow my father out of the house.

"Beth wait!" called my mother behind me.

How could I have been so stupid? It had all been a rouse to get me to come home. Mother had badgered me for years about visiting and I had always managed to get out of it. This was low for her and I felt she had betrayed my trust. Clearly

Father wasn't in any medical danger, this whole trip was a waste of time.

"Beth!... Lizzie!!" shouted Mother as I reached the car.

"He's dying Lizzie!" she called after me, her voice cracking with emotion. I turned to look at her.

Tears were falling down my mother's cheeks. I didn't want to believe her but there was no way my mother would lie about something like this. I stood by the car in shock, unable to move or say anything.

"Come inside dear, I'll explain everything," my mother said softly. She reached out and hugged me tight.

She felt so warm in my arms, so soft and safe and I was immediately transported back twenty years. When my mother would hold me close as I cried over some trivial hurt.

My father had cancer, stage four and incurable. He had been told to get his affairs in order and that he had twelve months at best. The news hit me harder than I thought it would. That sounds callous but I hadn't spoken to him for years and didn't realise how much I still cared for him.

I spoke with Mother for the rest of the afternoon. My father was leaving the whole estate to me in his will. Father had stipulated that I was his soul heir and that the estate was mine to look after. I didn't know what to say but I knew I didn't want it. I had assumed the estate would go to the nearest male heir, my cousin Furgal.

I had never dreamed that my father would leave everything to me. Not after all that had happened. Mother left me in my bedroom for a few hours to digest everything. The feeling of being overwhelmed engulfed me and I sobbed into my pillow until dinner.

I was summoned to dinner by Laura who wore a sympathetic smile as we walked to the dining room. My parents were already seated. Father hadn't gotten far from the house before he had lost interest in hunting Big Eric. It was always the way, he had dreamed of bagging him for years but in truth, I don't think his heart was in it.

He sat dressed in his finery at the head of the table and seemed most aggrieved that I had kept him waiting. I kissed Mother on the cheek and sat opposite her at the long dining table.

"Finally. Now we can have some bloody food I'm starving," grumbled my father.

"How's the PT business?" he asked taking me by surprise.

"I wouldn't know Father I'm in PR," I answered ready for the inevitable repartee.

"Oh of course PR. How silly of me. Who are you working for now? Some grubby politician perhaps? Or maybe some dam airhead musician," my father said trying to needle me.

Getting a rise out of people was a favourite hobby of his and he excelled at it.

"Just ignore him dear," said my mother, ever the diplomat.

"I'm just taking an interest in her career," Father said with a satisfied smile.

"It's going well actually, thanks for asking," I said trying not to let him get to me.

He had always disapproved of my career choice. Not that he ever told me what career would have satisfied him. It was then I noticed that there were four spaces set at the table. Mother hadn't mentioned anyone else was visiting. Perhaps they had finally allowed the staff to eat with them and this was for Laura.

There was a knock at the door.

"Finally! Get in here boy. I'm in danger of starving in my own dining room!" Shouted Father in a gruff and grumpy voice.

The door opened and I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach as a ghost from my past walked in. Conner stood in the doorway and stared at me. He seemed as shocked as I was.

"Well, don't dawdle boy get in here. You're letting the cold in," my father said flapping his arm at Conner.

Connor strode around the table and sat at the empty seat next to me. I could smell his musky aftershave that transported me back in time. Back to happier times, when we shared our teen years, Connor, Jamie and me.

"Well, boy. How's the herd doing I saw Big Eric from my window," My father asked, oblivious to my and Connor's reaction to each other.

"Er, good. A number of the doe's have calfed and they all look in fine health," Connor spoke in his deep gravelly tones.

"And you remember Beth of course," my father said as an afterthought.

"It's Lizzie now dear I've told you," said Mother sternly before smiling at me.

"Yes of course. Miss MacDonald," Connor said with a nod to me.

He could barely make eye contact and the tension in the room was palpable.

"Where is the dam dinner!" Roared my father, breaking the tension.

"It's here you old goat. If I hear you shouting at me like that again I'll chuck it on your head," shouted Laura as she brought in the first two plates.

My father looked at her grumpily but I could see a smile twitching at his lips. Laura placed a plate in front of my mother and then me. Haggis stovies with neeps and carrots, my father's favourite. Just the sight and smell of this dish transported me back to being a little girl again.

Throughout the meal, I kept stealing glances at Connor. He looked weather-beaten and careworn. Lines etched his face and his eyes looked like they had seen a lifetime of experiences. My mind flashed to the last time I saw him. Running behind the taxi as it took me to the airport. That memory still hurt.

My father talked about news from the village and asked Connor about the estate. Mother tried to steer the conversion to me and my life but my father wasn't interested. Connor barely looked at me and I could tell he was uncomfortable.

"If you'll excuse me I have a few last things to do before turning in," Connor said when we had finished eating. I felt his penetrative gaze as he glanced at me.

"Oh I thought we might open a bottle of brandy," Father said disappointed.

"The doctor said you're not supposed to drink with your pills," Mother said wearily. It sounded like this was a statement often repeated.

"Another time," Connor said as he bid my parents good night.

Before he reached the door he turned to me.

"It's lovely to see you again Beth," he spoke tenderly before leaving.

"Poor boy, it's probably the anniversary," Mother said almost absentmindedly.

I sat confused. The anniversary of Jamie's death was two months away. I should know I ball my eyes out for the week leading up to it each year.

"His father died. There was a fire at the gatehouse. Connor was working the far range and wasn't back in time," Mother said at my confused expression.

"Dam shame, was a good man," said my father in a rare show of sympathy.

When I had left Glen Bogel all those years ago Connor lived with his father in the gatehouse. Old Pat McIntyre had been the estate's ghillie, looking after all the game. The salmon in the river Bogel, the grouse in the heather, and of course the herd of deer. I had known Connor since childhood. We had gone to school together before my parents sent me to boarding school.

My happiest childhood memories were the summers we spent together. Running through the woods and the heather, Connor, my older brother Jamie and me. The three musketeers, the three amigos, kids being kids. I used to weep on the train ride back to school every September. Then Jamie died and everything changed. I packed my bags and fled to London.

The image of Connor chasing the taxi resurfaced in my mind. Losing his father like that would have killed Connor inside. They had a very strong relationship and I knew he must be hurting.

I excused myself from the table and said goodnight to my parents. On my way up the staircase to my room, I felt the eyes of every portrait staring at me. A chill ran down my spine. As I lay in bed I couldn't help thinking of Connor. Those feelings I had buried for years bubbled back to the surface. I cried for the first time in years.

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Connor:

My head was still reeling when I finally went to bed. I lied when I said I still had work to do. Instead, I went for a walk by the loch to try and clear my head. Thoughts and feelings long forgotten swirled in my mind. Seeing Beth again had felt surreal, like a dream made manifest.

But it shouldn't have, she was Hamish's daughter and he was dying. For some reason, I hadn't imagined seeing her here again. Perhaps I had gotten too used to life without her.

Laying in bed I couldn't sleep and just lay staring up at the ceiling. Needing a drink I made my way to the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor. The cool night air felt good on my bare chest. I was only wearing shorts in case I bumped into someone.

As I reached the bathroom the door swung open revealing Beth. She wore a silk nightgown that clung to her curves, hinting at her perfect body beneath. She wore thigh-high tartan woollen socks that left an inch of creamy skin between them and the hem of her nighty. Her dark brown hair was loose and fell in gorgeous waves down her shoulders. I felt my jaw drop.