Swept off Her Feet (11 page)

“Alice,” said Sheila.

The skin on my arms went goose-bumpy.

“It’s the highlight of the evening, and all eyes will be on them,” she went on in her clipped accent. “Sir Hamish and Lady Morag obviously have years of experience. You and Duncan should be fine, Ingrid, and if you’re not, then I only have myself to blame, a-ha-ha.” The tinkly laughter stopped. “But it’s a great deal of pressure for a newcomer.”

At that point, I had to stop myself from jumping up and telling the miserable old cow that Alice would, in fact, be the best dancer she’d ever had the pleasure of having her shins raked by; but that would mean giving away my hiding place, and possibly some insider info—and Alice clearly needed that more than ever. So I clamped my lips shut.

“She’ll be
fine
,” said Sheila Graham, to my relief. “Fraser’s organized a run-through at our house on Thursday.”

Janet glanced toward the end of the room, and I thought she’d seen me, but her gaze traveled to the door opposite where I was sitting. She seemed satisfied that no one had come in, because she raised her voice to a normal level.

“Does she know what a responsibility it is, though? Being part of the Reel of Luck? I mean”—pause for modest effect—“I’m the
last
person to be superstitious, but it would be such a shame if no proposals happen because a poor wee girl misses her cue, through no fault of her own. Apart from total inexperience, of course.”

I blanched. The scene was already unfolding in my mind’s eye. The hush. The shocked faces. The awkward arrival of the First Aid stretcher …

“Och, Janet, you’re making problems where there are none,” insisted Sheila. “I’ve met Alice, she’s a fine strong girl, and Fraser’s been reeling since he could walk. And for heaven’s
sake!” She snorted. “If no one got married because someone muffed the first reel, then we’d be wall-to-wall spinsters. Have you seen how much wine gets put back before the horn sounds?”

“Well, far be it from me, but I’ve spoken to my Laura, and she wouldn’t mind stepping in.”

“Laura hasn’t wanted to dance with Fraser since they were at school,” said Sheila firmly. “And that was fifteen years ago.”

Janet smiled, but without showing her teeth, which were presumably grinding. “Well, we’d all like the reel to be particularly lucky this year. Even if there is someone
English
in the eight!”

“Och, dear,” mumbled Gordon. “English in the eight. Dilution!”

I dropped my head into my hands. Well, that was
that
for Alice! Inexperienced, not Laura Learmont, and now . . . English.

Through the gaps between the furniture, I could see Ingrid had been fiddling with her pen and Post-it notes, but now she could contain herself no longer. “I’m English,” she squeaked. “And Robert’s half-English! And Duncan might as well be English—he grew up in Manchester!”

“You’re Scots now, dear,” said Janet, patting her hand. “And the heir to Kettlesheer’s a Scotsman through and through, regardless of where he grew up.”

I wasn’t sure that was the point Ingrid was making.

The Ball Committee agenda moved on to matters pertaining to the dress code, and—now firmly trapped under the table until they left for lunch—I listened, so entranced by the details
that I barely noticed my leg going to sleep. Okay, not by the Portaloo dilemma so much, but by the serving of breakfast at three in the morning, and who would divide up the dancers into sets, making sure no crashes occurred.

Even the lack of Internet was quite romantic, I told myself. It was nice not to be checking my phone every other minute. This castle was like a lost time bubble of Edwardiana, and I was getting to live in it for a few days.

There was a gentle tapping on the window behind me. I ignored it. The wooden frame of my four-poster bed had tapped and cracked all night because of the cold; the first few taps had made me sit bolt upright in terror, but it had gone on all night and I’d gradually tuned it out.

“Now, after last year’s entirely avoidable contretemps with Katie MacDonald, I am proposing a dress inspection team at the door,” said Janet. “In my experience, spaghetti straps and a vigorous Duke of Perth reel are
not
a family-friendly combination.”

The tapping continued.

I glanced behind me, and jumped. Robert was standing outside the window. He must have been in the flowerbed, because his eyes were just visible over the windowsill. He was wearing a thick peacoat and a woolly hat—not the usual Barbour jacket and flat cap beloved by Fraser—and he still looked frozen.

He mouthed something at me, and waggled his fingers. He was wearing red-and-blue stripy wrist-warmers.

What?
I mouthed as Janet began to list the types of dresses to which she would refuse entry: inadequately anchored strapless, above ankle level, anything in animal print, anything in potentially flammable material (Gordon’s suggestion) …

Robert waggled his fingers again, then got out his iPhone, showed it to me, and mimed typing on it.

I still had no idea what he was on about. I raised my hands apologetically, and he boggled in mock despair at my slowness, making the corners of his dark eyes crinkle.

I turned to a new page in my notebook and scribbled,
Can’t talk—the Ball Committee is in the middle of a meeting.
I held it up toward the window.

Robert mimed horror, then jabbed away at his phone and held it up. He had one of those fancy scrolling apps that sent the message large across the screen.

That’s why I’m out here. Dad says you need the Internet? I have broadband in the lodge.

I gave him a thumbs-up sign, then grabbed my pen again and wrote,
Thanks! I’ll be right out.

Robert’s head disappeared from view, and I focused my mind on how I was going to sneak out now without being detected. There was a fair distance between me and the nearest door, and it wasn’t open.

“Fraser will be coming on Thursday, with a hundred cases of champagne to start chilling—he’s arranged for the flutes to be delivered at the same time, and some special ice sculptures, which sounds fancy.” Sheila looked up from her notes. “Now, Gordon—what’s happening with the piper?”

“I’ve sent off for special high-visibility bands for the ends of his pipes to prevent any accidents in the dim lighting,” Gordon began, and went into a health-and-safety spiel about “having people’s eyes out” but I tuned that out, enchanted by the romantic image unfolding.

Champagne! And a piper! I leaned forward instinctively to hear more, and in doing so managed to dislodge something
on top of the console table. I could hear it rolling, then, frozen with horror, watched it drop in front of me.

It was the bloody cricket ball, no longer balanced on the presentation square of turf.

It crashed to the floor with a resounding crack, and rolled some way down the carpet toward the couches. My armpits prickled as the whole Ball Committee leaped out of their seats as one, looking round for the source of the noise.

“Ohmigod! What was that?” Catriona gasped as her Jack Russell was catapulted onto the sofa. She made a grab for him as he started barking right at me. “Stay! Stay, Nipper!”

“Is that the ghost?” Ingrid squeaked. “Duncan keeps talking about a ghost!”

“There
is
no ghost, Ingrid,” said Sheila.

“Now, that is what I
mean
, ladies!” insisted Gordon. “We need to cover this place quite literally in plastic wrap or else face the consequences of loose antiques!”

The dog’s neck had gone all bristly and it was growling. Oh, God. Any minute now it was going to
launch
itself at me.

I was about to come crawling out with my hands up, but Sheila’s voice cut through the twittering. “Calm
down
. It’s probably just old Carlisle turning in his grave at the thought of Janet making the lassies wear cardigans. Now, if no one else is going to eat it, I’m going to have the chocolate biscuit. . . .”

Any genteel shock about ghosts was instantly forgotten as the committee members squabbled over the two good foil-wrapped biscuits in the selection, and I grabbed the opportunity to slide out from under the table and scuttle toward the door.

Outside, the air had taken an even chillier turn, and I hugged Alice’s coat tight around me as I gazed at the wuthering landscape around me. The sky was a washed-out gray-blue and even the box hedges seemed pinched. Robert was on the phone, several windows down from the committee meeting. He was deep in conversation, and I hung back, not wanting to interrupt.

“No, I can’t get back till Monday earliest,” he was saying. “I’m sorry, but it’s a family commitment. And I’m on holiday, all right? I don’t need to say where. . . .”

He turned round and saw me. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “E-mail me the details and I’ll try to look at them tonight. Okay, cheers.”

I walked self-consciously down the steps, trying not to slip on the moss clinging to the ancient stone. Under different circumstances, I’d have indulged in an imaginary jaunty cloche and an imaginary Daimler waiting for me at the bottom, but Robert’s expression nipped any flights of fancy in the bud.

“Why didn’t you just come in?” I asked. “You don’t need to lurk around in your own flowerbeds, surely?”

“What were
you
doing under a table?”

Touché.

“I was inspecting the dovetail joints.” I could feel myself turning red.

He glanced at me, amused. “I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t come in because I don’t have a spare hour to talk about kilts, and to be honest, I don’t like Catriona’s dog.” He pointed across the gravel drive toward a path into the woodlands around the castle. “And Nipper doesn’t like me.”

“Probably senses the competition,” I said as we set off down the drive at a brisk march. Robert had long legs, but then again so did I.

“There is no competition. Catriona’s made it clear to both of us that we’re equals in her affection. I might even be slightly behind. You have a dog?”

“No,” I admitted. “We had a cat, Cleo. Mum never forgave her for shedding. Fish only after that.”

Robert laughed. “Round here, if you don’t have a dog, you might as well have a tattoo saying, ‘I’m disreputable.’

“Has Janet tried to bully Major Muirhead into checking that the men in kilts have come adequately underdressed? There’s always one Young Farmer who slips through her net.”

“Do you mean—oh!” I squinted, unsure if he was teasing me, and not wanting to look stupid. “I thought that whole. . . .
no pants
thing was just a rumor put about by the English.”

Robert lifted his eyebrow. “Alas, no. Janet was all for getting one of those mirrors on a pole, like the bomb squad used to use for checking under cars, but Mum drew the line.”

My mouth dropped open with genuine shock.

“Joke,” said Robert. “You really will believe anything, won’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” I protested, flustered. “My social life rarely extends to dress codes beyond ‘No sneakers, please.’ Anyway, we didn’t get to the men,” I went on, picking up my pace. “She was more concerned about the ladies.”

“Any new rules I should know about?”

“Cardigans. She’ll be applying cardigans to girls who turn up with exposed clavicles and visible tattoos. Your mother has been deputed to scour Rennick’s charity shops for appropriate cover-ups.”

“Janet would like to go back to the old days when girls were only allowed to wear black or white and tiaras,” said Robert.

“Why not?” I said. That sounded gorgeous, a ballroom full of monochrome and sparkle. “I don’t get to wear my tiara enough as it is. You’ll be in your kilt, I assume? I mean, I know you’re putting up a fight, but it
is
a kilt occasion.”

Robert made an
Ugh
noise, and motioned me off the main drive and onto the footpath that led down into the woodlands. “I’ll be wearing a pained bloody expression.”

“Is that that knife you stick down your sock?” I asked innocently.

“No, it’s—” He stopped, then tilted his head to check if I was serious.

“Joke,” I said. “Duh.”

Robert let out a little huff of acknowledgment. “The only thing I’ll be sticking down my sock is a tiny flask of brandy,” he said. “And that’s because the local shop’s out of cyanide capsules.”