Swept off Her Feet (18 page)

“She’ll be so lucky,” scoffed Alice. “Did they tell you how many people will be dancing? Hundreds. Imagine the National Lottery balls set to accordion music.”

“Not in the
first
reel,” I said. “The one with just the eight of you.”

“The one with . . .” There was a pause. “What?”

“The Reel of Luck, the opening one. You and Fraser, the McAndrews, Sir Fergus and Lady Jockstrap or someone, and Catriona and Robert.”

The line went silent, and I wondered if maybe Fraser had been keeping this minor detail to himself, so as not to terrify her too far in advance.

“But it’ll be
fine
,” I went on hurriedly. “I mean, isn’t it better if you have loads of room? You won’t be knocking into people. And it’s right at the start of the evening, so you’ll be sober. Well, soberish. You’ve got to have dinner here first with the McAndrews. And oh, my God, Ingrid’s got the
actual
placement arranger from the
actual
table. . . .”

Alice still wasn’t saying anything, and that was a very unnatural state of affairs.

“Anyway, no one will be looking at
you
,” I said, desperately trying to fill the silence. “They’ll be staring at Robert McAndrew. Why didn’t you tell me the really romantic stuff about the ball? And the proposal tradition? And the heir? Like Cinderella but in tartan . . .”

A sudden image of Robert McAndrew sprang into my head, leaning against the hall fireplace, his white tie undone and his hair tousled—

—in a very London style. I frowned. Try as I might, I couldn’t make Robert’s face go historical; it stayed sharp-cheekboned and wry. Too modern.

Helpfully, imaginary Fraser appeared behind him, resplendent in muttonchop whiskers. Fraser through the ages was much easier to conjure. This one was actually in military uniform, not unlike Ranald’s—

“You’re doing that fading-out-of-reality thing,” said Alice sharply. “Come back. Come back now.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just . . .” I sighed happily. “Totally in love with this house. Apparently someone proposes every year, and they’re allowed to get married in the Kettlesheer chapel. I still reckon there’s a secret passage from the house. . . .”

I paused as imaginary Major Fraser Graham dropped to one knee in front of the miniature cannon in the hall. There was a slight blurring as to whether it was Alice or me clasping her hands above him, but whoever it was was wearing a flattering Empire-line gown.

“In fact,” I said, remembering what Sheila had hinted at over dinner, “you might think about getting your own proposal face ready, because—”

“Rewind to this reel. How long is it?” asked Alice in a strangely metallic tone.

“I don’t know. But if no one botches it up, the whole ball is declared lucky and engagement rings pour forth. Didn’t hear what happens if it is botched up. I assume you’re not thrown from the turret or anything. Oh, and you’re piped in by a piper! A real Scottish piper!”

“Jesus. Bagpipes.”

“Shut up, it’s like a connection to the spirit of the place, calling out to the wild warrior McAndrews of old. And—”

“Right, now you just sound mad,” said Alice. “Evie, I’m going to have to go.”

And then she was gone.

Weird, I thought, checking that we hadn’t been cut off by Kettlesheer’s ever-fluctuating reception. No, I still had three bars. Honestly. Alice took time management to the most outrageous lengths.

I dropped my phone back into my bag and checked again that the little parcel of postcards was still safely in there. I tingled at the prospect of showing Robert, and watching his reaction. I surprised myself by how tempting that felt, but what a strange squirm my stomach gave.

But Duncan intervened, as usual. As I glanced back, I saw him at the drawing room window, waving some kind of brass instrument at me, pointing and making
How much?
gestures.

I ought to get back and find this table. Might as well get a cover story for my trip to the lodge.

I knew Max would demand to know if I’d got into the dining room next time I spoke to him, so I decided to make that my priority. My quick flick through Violet’s notebook of furniture had revealed pages on the dining room; there were bound to be some notes on the side tables, chairs, and so on.

I marched purposefully into the house, only temporarily distracted by the mahogany hall stand: now that I’d held faded notes sent through the local post, my eye was caught by the Kettlesheer postbox set in the side, with the times of day that letters would be collected and delivered by the servants. I
paused, my hands on the lid, trying to feel the gossip and the intrigue, but all I sensed was emptiness.

I sighed, and dragged myself away.

As I approached the dining room, I could hear voices coming from within, but this time they were raised so high even I couldn’t imagine them into spectral diners.

“No, not there! Douglas, that is an
antique
, not a hay bale, lad!”

I peered round the door.

Ingrid seemed even more birdlike than usual, standing next to the hulking Jacobean serving table, with Sheila in a navy-blue cashmere cardie on one side and Janet glaring at everyone on the other, clipboard clasped to her bony chest. They looked like the oldest, least compatible Scottish girl band in history.

Meanwhile, Fraser and an equally strapping blond lad—whom I took to be his brother, Dougie—were grappling with the dining table that dominated the room, manhandling the extension under Duncan’s loud but vague directions.

“Pull it out, yes, that’s it. . . . Your end now, Douglas, very good. . . . Ah, Evie, just the girl!”

He stepped away, causing Dougie to drop the table leaf with a strangled roar, and bustled over to the door, beaming all over his red face.

“What do you reckon?” He patted the table. “Nice bit of mahogany, isn’t she? Seats nearly sixty, with everyone budged up.”

“I hope we won’t be ‘budging up’ on Saturday,” said Janet, in a tone that I think was meant to sound jovial but came out peevish. “I will be wearing a crushable fabric.”

“You’ll be fine, Janet,” said Ingrid hastily. “Look, we’ve
worked out the seating plan—here, you’ll be near an end, plenty of space.”

“Oh! Next to Innes Stout! How . . . lovely.” Janet reached for the pencil hanging round her neck. “I might have to have a look at that. . . .”

“Ingrid wanted to check we’ve got everything shipshape for the grand dinner,” Duncan went on as I took in the sideboards crammed with crystal goblets of various sizes and enough crockery to accommodate the whole Border Regiment and friends. Enough for a royal party. “And I’m following Janet’s list of items to be moved out of the way. Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you to step in—Fraser and Douglas have kindly volunteered.”

“Have
been
volunteered,” muttered Dougie.

“I only came round to check about the wine for dinner,” said Fraser cheerfully. “If I’d known we’d be shifting furniture, I probably wouldn’t have worn my suit.”

I took a moment to appreciate the fact that Fraser was indeed wearing a smart gray suit—he’d taken off his jacket and loosened his tie but still looked like the ideal city wine merchant, one who’d tell you all about the Chablis, and then carry it inside for you. Dougie closely resembled Fraser in countryside mode—square jaw, broad shoulders, thick blond hair—but in jeans and a Rennick Young Farmers rugby shirt, and with more of an attitude. More what I’d had in mind for Robert, actually. More . . . heirlike.

Whereas Fraser had tamed his hair for work, Dougie’s fell into his eyes, and when he pushed it aside I noticed he had a black eye.

Rugby? Riding? A fight? I mentally put Dougie in a big white poet’s shirt and breeches, and found it worked surprisingly well.

“Would you like to cast your expert eye over it?” Duncan suggested.

For a second I thought he wanted me to inspect Dougie’s injury, then realized he was talking about the table.

I felt all eyes turn to me, waiting for the slick routine Max would have wheeled out—Fraser especially seemed keen to hear me hold forth. I swallowed. The table was, without question, something special. The sheer scale of it was beyond anything I’d ever seen before, but I couldn’t say much until I’d had a proper look. And then checked in Violet’s notebook.

“I need to get underneath and, you know . . . Maybe I should come back later?” I looked over at Ingrid, Sheila, and Janet.

“No, we’re done,” said Ingrid, then undermined herself immediately by adding, “We
are
done, aren’t we, Janet?”

Janet glanced at her clipboard. “Yes, it looks as though we’ll manage for glassware. So long as Mhairi follows my instructions for the cleaning this time.”

“I didn’t realize you were such an expert on housework, Janet,” said Sheila pleasantly.

“I’m an expert on instructing staff, Mrs. Graham.” Janet ticked off several things, peered at a candelabra, and scribbled a note. It looked very much like the “important typing” I did when Max walked in on me playing solitaire on the office computer.

I caught Fraser’s eye, and he made a funny mock-alarmed face.

“Chaps, if you wouldn’t mind applying your biceps to a few items in the hall?” inquired Duncan, sweeping his hand toward the door. “After your good self, Mrs. McAndrew?”

Ingrid flashed me a quick smile, then stepped out. There
was some almost imperceptible jostling between Sheila and Janet about who should be next through the door, and I was left alone in the gloomy dining room.

Well, not quite alone. Various strapping McAndrews smoldered down at me from above the paneling. It was an imposing room even without the long table and the carved marble fireplace. Golden sconces punctuated the bits of the wall that weren’t decorated with ancestral portraits, and the view from the long windows revealed the rolling greenery of the parkland around the house. I picked up a wineglass and marveled at the weight in my hand. My eyelids drooped as I reached for the memories of candlelit dinners and—

A clock struck the half hour, as if someone were impatient to get me focused on the table.

I slid over to the door and closed it, then sank onto the nearest chair and turned the notebook’s sprawling pages, replacing the letters and receipts, until I found an entry for the dining table. And then my jaw dropped.

This wasn’t just a good dining table. This was . . . something else entirely. …

I looked again at Violet’s
handwritten entry, to be sure I’d got it right.

Dining table, Thos Chippendale, circa 1760, see original letter of commission from Kirkland McAndrew, enc.

I looked at the table, then looked at the notebook again. My heart gave an unhealthy lurch in my chest.

It couldn’t be. Surely?

Practically no undiscovered furniture made by Thomas Chippendale himself still existed—if this provenance was accurate and not some family hearsay, it was worth a
fortune
. Even if it had been made by a craftsman, based on a design from Chippendale’s book of patterns, it was still worth a lot of money.

But if it was original, Max would hyperventilate. Commission would run into the tens of thousands. He’d actually fainted over Geraldine Hardwick’s Fabergé egg, and I didn’t think that was entirely for her benefit.

I spread my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the texture of the wood vibrate under my touch. I loved dining tables: they absorbed the happiest memories. How many
Christmases, marriages, homecomings from battle and from the Empire, had been celebrated here?

The cobwebby fireplace faded from view as I pictured a dinner-jacketed Ranald at the head of his table, soft candlelight glowing in the polished wood as he stole a glance at his energetic young wife. Violet at the opposite end, her white throat blazing with Tiffany diamonds, drawing out a shy neighbor’s conversation about the day’s fishing on the—

My daydream broke with an imaginary needle-off-the-record scratch. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t
feel
anything in the table: all the warmth was in my head.

This table, which must have had hundreds of hands touch it since it was delivered, was completely still. It
looked
right: the chair held me in a way that was comfortable but straight-backed, and the legs and inlay of the table seemed authentic. But I couldn’t
feel
anything.

Maybe it was just out of my league. I’d never seen anything as valuable as this before.

I slid off the chair and crouched underneath, trying to make out what I could of the underside, where any bodging would be more obvious. That was another of Max’s dubious tips: “Get on your knees and have a look at the bottom.”

The light in the room wasn’t good, but I noted the lighter wood, the neat joinery, the right marks. All present and correct. The wood was old. The shapes were right. And yet …

Max would know, I thought, taking photos as best I could. He was pretty good at telling repro from the real thing. He’d seen everything in his time, and in places you wouldn’t expect. But I wanted him to say it was the precious real thing. I wanted this to be Duncan’s lifeline to keeping Violet’s home in the family.