by Annie Dyer
I’ve almost stayed long enough to be able to leave when I see him. He wasn’t at the dinner, I’m sure. I would’ve remembered. The man in the three-piece suit is dressed in slacks and a button down, his black hair slicked back, his stubble thicker, almost scruff.
He’s serious and formal, even with a band who are anything but, and he’s watching just like I am.
“Who’s he?” I find Murray whose hand is on the waist of his girlfriend, a forty-year-old blonde who was kind enough to take my cocktail from me and swap it for water.
“Isaac Everleigh.” Murray knows everyone. That’s his job. “Aide to the Prime Minister.” He looks at me, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. “He’s a kingmaker.”
I nod and step back, still watching the man whose name I now know. “Ambitious?”
“Very. William Goldsmith’s friend from Cambridge, although I’m yet to find out what Everleigh studied. Or how it was financed.”
“What do you know about him?”
Murray turns and looks at me. “You realise you’ve asked me more about Everleigh than the Prime Minister?”
“Because the Prime Minister is a puppet. We both know that.”
There’s a soft laugh, more of a barely audible chuckle, from Murray. “The question then is, who’s the master?”
I don’t answer because Isaac sees me looking at him. He doesn’t smile or offer a toast, he sips his drink instead and regards me.
His gaze is sharp, probing. I’m a species he’s read about but doesn’t want to approach.
Wise man.
Chapter Five
Morning doesn’t bring fresh air. Everything is claggy; the atmosphere thick with more storms and the promise of lightning that is late to strike. Clouds hang low and the tips of the mountains are shrouded. I know my head will feel thick until the storms have cleared and rather than entertaining the remainder of our guests over breakfast, I want to crawl back into bed with a book and my balcony doors open. When the rain starts again, and the thunder shouts, I want to be outside, soaked, feel the relief of the cool air.
I dress appropriately for breakfast with the guests who have stayed with us overnight, a simple summer dress that I’ve had for more years than my mother cares to remember. It’s yellow and bright, the way I want to feel today, determined to push away the storm clouds.
Simple hair, simple make-up. Breakfast and the absolute minimum of conversation before I can find a quiet spot and watch the storm and feel my head finally clear. Food is being served in the sunroom, the tables laid out formally. Ben is there, sitting in the window with Micky, looking serious and deep in conversation. He notices me, or shows he notices me, giving me a nod that tells me our conversation begins and ends here.
Longing tugs inside my chest and I wonder if someone is unravelling my heart thread by thread. It’s too long since I’ve known Ben. We’ve both grown up and I keep telling myself that he’s not the same person, but it isn’t making whatever it is go away.
I sit down at the opposite end of the room, next to my mother’s prized palm plant. It’s still early and most of the dozen guests who’ve stayed haven’t risen. I sit with my back to Ben, knowing if I don’t I’ll keep staring over, my eyes metal to a magnet.
The sky is seven shades of grey; wisps of dark cloud hovering around the peaks. I could look at the scene forever and if I was ever imprisoned here, it wouldn’t be a hardship.
“May I join you?” The accent is crisp, English, but not as perfect as that of William. There is a regional accent, Devon or Cornish maybe. I turn my head and see Isaac Everleigh, his height looming over me.
“Of course.”
He gives me a little nod or maybe a slight bow depending on how I interpret it and sits down. His skin is swarthy, dark. The sort of tone that just has to look at the sun to be tanned in two minutes, and his eyes are melted chocolate. The thick stubble that was on his jaw last night has been tamed, although there’s still a shadow.
“I’m not sure how you like to be addressed.”
“Blair is fine. How about you?”
“Isaac.”
Isaac. It’s a name loaded with history and promise.
“We haven’t properly met before. I’m afraid I know very little about you.” For some reason I’m rankled.
“I always think that’s a good thing. I work for William as an advisor.”
“What do you advise on?”
“International relations. I try to help him navigate treacherous waters.”
He elicits a smile. “There’s no water between us and the South.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t treacherous. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to discuss policy and future trade deals this early in the morning. Can we talk about something less boring?”
He’s completely playing himself down but his tone tells me this is for real. He’s bored with it, maybe like I am. Or maybe he’s better at disguising his motives.
“What would you like to discuss?”
“Books. Tell me what you like to read?”
Romance. Usually with a kink. Maybe reverse harem or definitely BDSM, and not always with the man as the dom.
“Daphne Du Maurier. Jamaica Inn is one of my favourites. I like the classics, but prefer the children’s: Alice in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, Narnia. What about you?”
He stifles a laugh. “What do you really read? When you’re on holiday, you know, to switch off?”
My smile is now genuine. “More contemporary novels. How about you?”
“Crime. Hardboiled detective. I’d like to say I spend my time on the beach reading Victor Hugo or Dickens, but I prefer something I can enjoy more. And I always fancied being a detective.”
His hair isn’t as styled as last night. There’s a natural wave to it that was muted with gel before, but now it’s loser, as if he’s been running his fingers through it.
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “I kind of fell into politics.”
No one falls into politics.
“What would you recommend for breakfast?”
“The full Scottish.”
He laughs, his eyes shining and grin wide. “No English alternative?”
“Why have second best?”
We’re both laughing now.
A dense roar of thunder clatters overhead and I hear the rain. We stop laughing and instead look outside at the battering rain and the maelstrom. The loch is black, a nightmare of depths and mysteries, and the mountains close in, guardians.
“This is something else.” Isaac is spellbound by the storm. Lightning flares, reflecting across the water, sharp stems of light illuminating the sky. Night looks to have fallen and yet we are here eating breakfast.
“It feels as if it’s the end of days.”
He smiles, still captivated by outside.
“I love to go outside when it’s like this. Just for a few minutes. Especially in summer when it’s so warm.”
He pushes his chair away. “Let’s do it. Let’s go outside.”
I frown at him, but stand up anyway. “It’s unconventional.”
“Who gives a shit?”
Then it’s me who’s laughing because I know this feeling only I don’t get to express it, yet he does. He can.
I lead him to the side door that takes us out of the sunroom and to the rockery that leads to the shore of the loch. The rain pelts us mercilessly as soon as we step foot outside. It’s heavy and cool and hard and within seconds I’m drenched.
Our laughter is drowned by the sound of the water and the rain, the thunder almost continuous. Isaac’s hair is soaking, water dripping down his face and his shirt is see-through already. The material of my dress clings to every curve and I wish I could kick off my shoes and head down to the loch, sink in the water and feel nothing around me apart from what is meant to be there.
“This is incredible.”
“Don’t they have storms like this in England?”
He doesn’t say anything, instead he turns away from the loch to look at the castle, its turrets bright against the blackened sky.
“No. Not like this.”
And I don’t know what he’s meaning with his words. Later, I’ll think about them. In months to come, they’ll still be with me.
A figure emerges from the door. Ben. The rain saturates him immediately but he doesn’t step back in, or come towards us.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, watching the loch or us or the lightning and we’re all quiet.
Looking at each other.
None of us knowing what to say, or maybe we do know and they simply aren’t allowed to use the words.
The rain eases and we head inside, all immediately to our different rooms. I leave a trail of water behind me, glistening along the floors towards my suite. Maybe people see me, the woman in the yellow dress whose material was moulded to her curves, but I don’t notice. Brightness is starting to filter through, as if it has won this battle.
Another day has begun and my head is clearer. The pressure has gone, somehow.
For now.
Elise sits prettily in our lounge, legs folded under her, reading a book that’s written in French. I’m almost positive she can’t actually read it; in French classes at school she was almost always needing extra help and never sat an exam in it, so she’s either had extra tuition as an adult or she’s trying to look more intelligent than she actually is.
“What’re you reading?”
She looks up and smiles softly, holding the book so I can see the title: Les Miserables. “I’m really enjoying it.”
Does it have pictures? The words are on the tip of my tongue, waiting to flow off and into her ears, but I’m not that spiteful.
“Good. I think I’ll stick with romance though. Besides, it isn’t like I’m overflowing with the real life being wooed off my feet.” I sit down next to her, almost dropping.
Elise shakes her head and puts down her book. “There isn’t even a rumour about who you might be seeing in the press.” She runs her finger through her hair. “One of the glossy magazine did an article on your previous suitors but I think they were just filling the pages.”
I’ve lived with this since I was old enough to start dating. “Was there a similar article about my brother?”
She flushes, again prettily. “Not this week.”
He refuses to be anywhere in public with her. Outdoor fucking is acceptable though, it appears. My brother’s standards are questionable.
I rest my head back against the sofa and look around the room, so entirely normal. The grandeur is saved for where the visitors see. Here it’s meant to be like a normal home.
“You think he’s using me, don’t you?” Elise says, her eyes fixed on me as if I’m about to give away crucial information.
“I know my brother. He likes sleeping with pretty girls.” She’ll take the compliment and preen.
“I think I mean more to him than that. We have known each other forever, Blair. We’ve practically grown up together.”
I could feel sorry for her because she’s becoming another of his groupies, hoping for a crumb of his attention. I don’t, because she seen enough of what Lennox’s like and if she has her heart broken, I’ll struggle to sympathise.
“He’ll marry someone with a title.” He’s said as much. Commoners can make perfect queens, our mother is proof of this, but that isn’t what Lennox wants. He wants a wife who has history within her family, preferably English because in his mind he’s going to be the one to reunite the North and the South through peace treaties and trade deals and free movement of people.
“I think he’ll marry for love. He’s not as cold-hearted as you think.”
She giggles and it goes through me, finger nails on a chalk board. I don’t need to know anything more about my brother’s sex-life.
“Elise, you haven’t been on a date with him. He keeps you hidden.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s never seen with any women.” She doesn’t sound worried. In her head she will have already justified all of this. “And we’re getting closer. He’s telling me more about him and how he’s feeling.”
Lennox can be an open book. He tells me how he feels or what he thinks but it doesn’t mean anyone is any more special than the person he told before.
“Has he talked about Isaac Everleigh?” I decide to change the subject.
Her eyes narrow. “A little. He’s William’s friend, isn’t he?”
I nod. Wait.
“He’s mentioned Ben a lot. Apparently Murray was against him being appointed but your father overruled him.”
This was no surprise. “What else has Lennox said about Isaac and Ben?”
She picks up her book but doesn’t look at it. I hear footsteps heading towards the door and wonder if the book really is for show, but I’m not sure who for. Lennox wouldn’t care for French literature. He barely reads unless it’s the news or a policy.
“He’s talked more about William. I think he’s keen for the two of you to get on. Just think, you could be the wife of the leader of England and I could be queen here. Think what that would do for peace.”
I stand then move away, head to the window. Elise is all shiny darkness and flickers of zinc and chips of gold. There have been times while we were growing up that she was closer to me than family; my confidante and friend, the person I trusted more than anyone and the one who was my anchor.
She lies on the sofa with her book, eyes glazed over and I’m sure she’s waiting for someone, that this is a scene.
“Do you remember Madame Beringer at school?” The atmosphere is too thick, potent. I want to diffuse it, like normal.
“The mad French woman whose husband pushed her round the hypermarket in a shopping trolley?” She puts her book back down. “I caught her smoking out of the window once in the storeroom between two classrooms.”
“The boys used to say she didn’t have underwear on and she wore short skirts on purpose.”
“The boys were probably fantasising about it being a reality. She was pretty attractive.” She had been, all big breasts and neat dark hair. “I know Lennox had a real thing for her.”
Elise’s expression changes and I see jealousy, which isn’t green, but yellow. Fear.
“My brother had a thing for most attractive women, Lise. Don’t stew yourself over a teacher we had ten years ago.”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t.”
The door opens and Lennox enters, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, looking like he’s been working out.
Elise immediately sits up, holds her book, smiles.
Lennox doesn’t notice. He’s looking at me. “Did you see William at breakfast?”
I half-smile. I know my brother too well. “No. I was down early. I saw Isaac though.”
He shrugs. “I’d hoped you had chance to speak to him.” He glances at Elise and I can see he wants to speak to me without her being there, probably about William and some grand plan he has.
“Isaac’s influential on William. What do you think of him?”
Nothing. I think nothing about Isaac because if I do it would be dangerous.
“He’s intelligent and secretive. Like most good politicians.”
He nods, joins me at the window, ignores Elise who’s watching us. I feel for her, because at this moment she’s as much of an outsider as the lone tree on the small island in the loch.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” His voice is low and we’re conspirators, just like when we were teenagers or children and it was the two of us, because nobody else understood.
“I was going to go for a ride. Make the most of being free.” Tomorrow I was down to visit a school and give a speech on female empowerment. Murray had offered me the services of a writer for the occasion, but as he was male, I declined.
“Can I join you?”
“Always.”
And my big brother is there in front of me, sm
iles and dimples and hair that’s too long, half a foot taller than I am but still he is just my brother.
Elise coughs. We both look at her and she smiles.
“It’ll be a gorgeous day for a ride.” Her eyes are on Lennox.
“It will. Leave in half an hour?” He looks at me.
“Sure.”
He gives me a half hug and leaves, in a rush as always. Full of energy.
Les Miserables is dumped on the floor and Elise looks up at me with brown eyes that are as miserable as the book.
“I’m sorry.” I know she wanted him to ask her to go with us.
She stands. “I know you are. I know you can’t be anything fucking else, Blair, because you’re royalty and you can’t – and won’t – let anyone else in. You’ll both die fucking lonely.” She walks out, the book abandoned. Its French words unread.
I should follow her, offer some reassurance, but the Elise who would’ve listened to those words is not there anymore. Instead it’s someone I don’t know.
We were caught in the rain on our way back, ending up galloping along paths that were full of deep puddles and going across a stream that had swollen with the rain. Lennox was running late to leave to head to Glasgow, so I take both horses back to the stables, the rain starting again. I’ve just finished, full of mud and the countryside, debating whether or not to traipse back through the castle and risk the wrath of my mother and our housekeeper – who’s arguably scarier – by dirtying the floors.
There’s a shower block for the stable hands and trainers, usually loaded with fresh but thin towels. No one cares; this is a place for the horse hearted, so politics and Egyptian cotton are left indoors.
Only one stall is being used so I have my pick, choosing the one at the end where I know the water pressure is good. I discard my jodhpurs and t-shirt which is soaked, finding spare joggers and a hoodie to pull on once I’ve rinsed off. My title is just a word on the wind out here. You need hooves to be a king.
Hard water bounces off my skin, in my face, dripping through my hair, down my back and over my breasts. It’s a relief, this feeling of water, heat. Just to feel something simple.
