Swept off Her Feet (17 page)

He was pretty strong, I thought, as the chair moved underneath me. That took some brawn.

As Sheila, Robert, and I made our way down the stone corridor, Duncan’s sharp tenor began to echo from the kitchen, much like bagpipes but with words. We scuttled in silence until we were safely out of earshot upstairs.

“Now then, Robert, do you need a lift across to the lodge?” asked Sheila, rummaging in her bag for her car keys.

“No, I’m fine walking, thanks.”

She stopped and looked up at him. “It’s bitter out there, you know?”

“Don’t look surprised,” he said. “Just because I live in London doesn’t mean I’ve lost the use of my legs. It’s, what, ten minutes’ walk?”

“You’ll have heard there’s snow forecast for this weekend?” Sheila looked pointedly at both of us. “You want to make sure you’ve provisions—you in the lodge, and you in your car for driving back.” She fastened her scarf round her head, Queen style. “Have you snow chains, Evie?”

I didn’t know what they were. “Er . . . I’ve got a thermos flask?”

“Och!” She exchanged a glance with Robert. “I’ll ask Fraser to check the car over for you before you leave. Right, now, I’ll see you two later.”

I hovered by the foot of the main stairs as Sheila fired up her Range Rover outside, watching Robert rewrapping himself in his many layers.

“So,” I said, “what is it you wanted to show me?”

Robert looked blank, then said, “Oh, nothing. Just thought you needed an escape?”

I felt a flicker of disappointment. But had I really believed that I’d somehow turned around his attitude to Kettlesheer in one afternoon?

“Thanks,” I said.

“That’s us McAndrews. Chivalrous to damsels in distress.” He finally reached his hat, and I couldn’t really linger much longer.

“Well, good night,” I said, setting my foot onto the first step.

“Look at you,” said Robert. “You’ve gone all Vivien Leigh.”

“I have not.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! You have! Look at the way you’re standing—like you’re in a corset.”

I frowned at him. “I am
not
.”

“Oh, hang on.” Robert put a hand on my arm. “I have got something for you,” he said, and reached inside his jacket. “I found it this afternoon in those boxes you moved.”

He handed me a leatherbound notebook, with worn edges and a black ribbon holding it together.

“You mean you went back and had a look through the junk?” I said. I was laying the “surprise” on thick, but I
was
quite surprised. Pleased, too.

“Catriona gave me an earful about getting the decorators into those rooms before the summer.” Robert shook his head. “Well? Aren’t you going to open it?”

I looked up from the notebook. His eyes were searching my face, waiting for a reaction. I didn’t want to say that I was savoring it: feeling the outside first, instead of leaping in.

“Okay. . . .” I undid the grosgrain ribbon, and let the book fall open.

It was a list of furniture with dates and prices and names, noted in flowing handwriting that didn’t seem too bothered about minor details like lines. Tissue-thin invoices were also folded carefully into the pages, with a couple of envelopes.

Violet’s handwriting. Violet’s voice floating through world wars and chauffeured motorcars and flappers and servants and Worth evening gowns, from the lodge to my hands!

“Is this the furniture from this house?” My heartbeat quickened. Provenance made all the difference, as well as giving me some clues about what to look for.

“Yup,” said Robert. “I suppose it was for insurance or
something like that. There are estimates in there and some dates and what have you. Someone probably advised her to take stock after Ranald died.”

“This is incredibly helpful.” I tore my eyes from the columns of mirrors and tables to look at him. “It’s going to speed things up for me so much.”

“Not too much, I hope.” Robert pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt, ready to hike back through the moonlit woods. It framed his angular face, casting his cheekbones into shadow.

“I . . .” What did
that
mean?

“Don’t want you to let your boss think it’s too easy. See you tomorrow.” He winked, then let himself out of the heavy front door.

I hung on to the banister for a long moment, drunk on the sheer unreality of what was happening to me. The castle, this unsettling man, this world full of glamor and wealth where the antiques were real household history, not parched items in a shop. It was like walking into my own imagination, and discovering I could touch it all.

Until Friday, I reminded myself. Just till Friday.

Then I totally indulged myself with an invisible crinoline as I swished my way up the stairs to my four-poster bed, eager to dive into that box of priceless scraps of paper.

The last thing I read before
my eyes finally got too heavy was so romantic I couldn’t sleep for longing to go back in time.

In the top of the box was a stack of postcards, tied with a purple ribbon. They were all of Regent’s Park in London, and began in 1903.

One year since the luckiest accident of my life,
the first read, in strong male handwriting.
I am the happiest man alive, and still the luckiest. Your R.

The next was a different view—of the zoo, this time, a year on.
All God’s creatures are happiest in pairs. Your R.

Each of these cards was a different view of the same park, and were dated June 2 each year, obviously a reminder of the day Ranald and Violet met. My tired eyes filled with tears at the simple, dignified notes from a man obviously not given to gushing sentiment, but clearly head over heels in love with his wife.

One in particular made my chest ache with regret that I’d never meet either Ranald or Violet. It was a card depicting the boating lake and an old-fashioned bandstand.
It makes
me so happy to see my precious girl in the most beautiful place in the world—darling V, never leave me or Kettlesheer, and we will never leave you.
It was dated 1924, not long before Ranald himself would leave both of them forever.

In the morning, the bedside tray was there again, this time, thank goodness, kipperless.

I drew the curtains so I could look out of the window as I ate my porridge. Clouds hung low over the rolling Cheviots in the distance, while nearer the house white sheep moved slowly against the scrubby green fields. The view was spectacular and soothing at the same time, and I could absolutely see how Violet, so used to Park Avenue hustle and glamour, had fallen under the heathery spell of Kettlesheer.

I’d happily have spent the morning poring over Violet’s dance cards and wedding invitations, but I made myself take a closer look at the notebook Robert had brought me. It was
very
useful, if any of this furniture was still here: each piece was carefully listed, with approximate dates of manufacture and any documentation from the estate. It wasn’t as fascinating as the glimpse into her real life provided by the jumbled bills and notes, but now at least I had the cheat codes to the house.

Which gave me more time to spend wandering around the house in search of Violet and Ranald.

With Violet’s notebook, the house seemed to open up. By eleven o’clock I’d successfully located a decent Orpen oil painting of a stag and a couple of “important” chairs, and had decided that I might just take an hour off to show Robert
the beautiful postcards his great-grandparents had exchanged. Maybe a real love story could succeed where plans for a turnip distillery had failed in getting him involved in his inheritance. If he saw how much Ranald had wanted Violet to keep the house, well …

But I’d barely got through the herb garden to the wooded path when my phone rang. It was Alice.

“Why haven’t you called me back?” she demanded. “I’ve left
so
many messages!”

“The mobile reception is weird,” I explained. “My phone only works if I’m standing facing due north or in the—”

But she wasn’t pausing for breath. “How’s it going? Good drive up with Fraser? How’s the castle? Any amazing treasures? How’s your room? Did they give you the four-poster bed with the ghost of the Indian manservant in it?”

“The
what
?”

“But seriously, you should have called me sooner,” she said sternly. “There are things we need to discuss. Important things.”

“Alice, I’ve barely had time to think!” I protested. “I’ve been working nonstop since I got here. Literally. They made me value the neighbors’ heirlooms at a drinks party before I’d even got your coat off. And the house! Oh, my God, it’s the most beautiful, atmospheric—”

“Yes, yes, priceless treasures, yadda yadda. Great. You’re going to make Max a happy man, excellent.” And with that, Alice dropped any pretense at being interested in the McAn-drew antiquities and got to the point. “Rewind to Fraser. Did he say anything in the car on the way up?”

“Yes, he advised me on some excellent-value claret and explained why supermarket wine offers are a massive con.”

It was childish, but I sort of wanted to keep my lovely drive up with Fraser to myself. The two-hour stint where he’d taken over the driving (safe but masterful, especially when passing) and I fed him Fox’s Glacier Mints was the closest I’d ever get to being Mrs. Fraser Graham, and I didn’t particularly want to share it.

“Did he say anything about the ball?” said Alice, ignoring my snarky tone. “And me?”

“Just that you dance like a wounded cow on a hot plate.”

“He said that?”

“No, of course he didn’t. He said you were going to be fine. And that he was looking forward to it.”

“Did he go with you to this drinks party?”

“No. But I’ll tell you who else was there—the son and heir. Although he’s not exactly what I’d have pictured as a laird-in-waiting,” I added. “Why didn’t you mention him?”

“Who? Robert?”

“Yes, Robert.”

“Because I didn’t think he’d be there. He’s usually in London.” Did Alice sound a bit shifty? “Anyway, what do you mean, he’s not very lairdlike? He’s dashing enough.”

“He isn’t! Dashing is . . . horse-riding, and cricket whites, and blue eyes . . .” I realized I was describing Fraser. “Anyway, for your information, the first thing he did was to mistake me for you and give me a massive hug. Does he hug
all
his clients?” I asked. “Even Mum doesn’t do that.”

“He’s an old friend of Fraser’s,” she responded. “And if you want to know the truth, that hug was probably an apology, because last time I saw Robert, he—”

She bit off what she was saying, and huffed. I was intrigued.

“The last time you saw Robert,
what
?”

“Oh, forget it,” she said. “We don’t use ParkIt anymore, so you don’t have to talk up Simplify or anything. But tell me if he says anything about Mum or me,” she added, sounding more like her usual self. “Write it down. And I want to know what his house is like. He wouldn’t let us in at New Year—Catriona was in there, bullying builders. Have you met her, by the way? Bossy girl, black hair? Sounds like she’s constantly eating a huge toffee?”

I thought that was a bit rich, coming from Alice, but I let it go. It might have been jealousy, over either Robert or the tidying-up gig. I wasn’t sure who I’d put my money on in an Alice versus Catriona boss-off.

“I’ve met her, yes,” I said. “And her mother.”

“Hmm,” said Alice darkly. “Has Fraser said anything about Catriona? And Robert?”

“Alice, I’m here to value the furniture, not prepare some kind of dossier on everyone! Ask him yourself—you’ll be seeing him again soon enough,” I said. “When’s your train? Thursday?”

“Yes, Fraser’s meeting me at Berwick station. He wants to get some last-minute practicing in.” I could hear the beginnings of her anxious tooth grind. “I’ve been trying one of those hypnosis CDs you put on before you go to bed.”

“Don’t you think you might be better off actually sleeping?”

“I don’t have time to waste sleeping!” she yelled, so violently that I had to move the phone from my ear.

I lowered my voice—no idea why, since there were just the trimmed box hedges and some flowerbeds to hear me. “Actually, I heard something yesterday that might be helpful. You know the first reel you’re doing? Make sure you start off with
your back to the fireplace—Catriona’s trying to make sure she ends up standing underneath some lucky artifact so Robert’ll have to propose to her.”