The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

‘Good morning, Toddy.’

  ‘Good morning, sir. It’s a fine day after all that rain,’ he replied, laying both The Times and The Telegraph beside his side plate. ‘There’s porridge and tatty scones this morning,’ he added, placing the toast rack on the table alongside the silver teapot.

  Tor lifted up the pot and poured himself a cup before replying. He should have left the whisky alone after that first glass but he’d forgotten both the time and the possible hangover as he puzzled over what must be the worst Scottish menu he’d ever seen. She wasn’t Scottish so it wasn't her fault, he’d said to himself as he’d flung the ripped card into the Aga and closed the door. She wouldn’t know about farmed salmon and the benefit of a nice piece of freshly caught trout with the taste of the wild still lingering in its plump flesh. And as for Clootie pudding; he’d never met anyone that actually enjoyed eating it. It was reminiscent of all those Christmases long past where he’d been told to eat what was in front of him or go hungry and, being as stubborn then as he was now, he’d chosen the latter. His parents weren’t to know he’d learnt very quickly to keep both the cook and the butler on his side so that there was always a slab of chocolate cake waiting for him in the pantry. As he’d grown older, the cake had changed to thick sandwiches and a pot of coffee on the Aga for those evenings he’d crawled home in the middle of the night, or should that be stumbled?

  ‘I haven’t had a tatty scone since June retired,’ he said, scraping the bottom of his bowl clean before making room for the plate Mr Todd had ready for him. His eyes widened at the sight of the large lightly browned potato cake mounted with a perfectly fried egg with the yolk just the way he liked it. There was even a pile of crispy bacon layered like a train track and pots filled with mushrooms, maple syrup and ketchup.

  ‘You just wait until you’ve tasted this. June was a fine cook but this is something else.’

  ‘Well, it certainly looks good enough to eat,’ he said, picking up his fork with gusto. ‘So how’s she getting on then, this, er, Miss Smith is it?’

  ‘She certainly knows a thing or two about cooking that’s for sure. She’s game too; I’ll have to give her that. She was up at the crack of dawn gathering the eggs when I’ll bet she doesn’t know one end of a chicken from the other.’

  He joined him in a laugh as he sliced his bacon before assembling the perfect mouthful of bacon and scone, dipping it in his egg yolk and finally adding just a drizzle of syrup.

  ‘The hens are still laying then?’

  ‘Aye, twelve perfectly formed ones this morning. She’s using the rest in a cake for afternoon tea.’ he added. ‘You’re mother’s invited Colonel Romforth.’

  ‘Oh God, has she? Thanks for the heads up, man. I’ll happily leave them to their own devices, so. Tell her I’m fishing, will you, if she asks.’

  ‘Trout?’

  ‘Trout, although I’m not promising. They haven’t been biting much lately.’

  He placed his knife and fork in the centre of his plate, his gaze shifting from the tall dignified man dressed in sombre grey and out through the tall leaded windows recessed into the brickwork. He loved the view from the front of the castle, the outstanding Sound of Kerrera drawing his eye across to Mull and the Morvern Hills beyond. But he loved the view from the back the best. The rolling lawns pulling away from the shingled paths for as far as the eye could see. The neat flower beds bare but for the odd early daffodil and snowdrop brave enough to poke their heads through the still hard ground. He could even see the loch in the distance through the trees against the backdrop of Ben Cruachan’s shrouded peak towering over the neighbouring hills. It was here, with nature all around, he’d first discovered his interest in fungi.

  It had all started with one mushroom bloom he’d found nestling beside the net of his football goal, a mushroom he was determined to eat for his supper until his father took him aside and explained about the dangers of eating just any old random fungi. They’d sat together in the library pouring over the many photographs his father had found in one of the books that used to belong to his own father, a keen botanist. It was here he’d learnt how to recognise a mushroom he could eat and one that could kill.

  His world from that day became narrower, his vision tunnelled inwards to life and the world that happened underfoot. He started to crawl around on his hands and knees in the shrubbery, much to the annoyance of his mother and all the trousers he holed at the knees. But he didn’t care. His football was long forgotten. His football posts relegated to one of Jock’s shed’s until they were finally donated to the local school.

  All he was interested in was right here in his back garden and, apart from the odd fishing trip with his father or trouser buying trips to town with his mother, his life was a journey of discovery. A degree in microbiology was a given, a doctorate in mycology with a dissertation in mould and its uses in medicine, a must have. An honorary fellowship at Edinburgh University was an honour but anything that took him away from his microscope for even one second was a hardship he was determined to avoid. There was life outside his obsession. He went on the odd drinking forage into Oban and Edinburgh but, now in his thirties with his mates all partnered off, the calls to beer were few and far between. There were women; like-minded scientists where long discussions late into the night sometimes ended in a bedroom romp but oftentimes didn’t.

  His mother was worried about him: she wanted grandchildren but not only that, she thought him lonely.

  Was he lonely, his eyes landing on a sliver of orange just peering its nose out from the long undergrowth? Were there times when he’d like the feel of another presence in his bed, someone to chat to as well as to cuddle? If that was loneliness then, yes, he was lonely. His gaze stilled, his attention now focussed on a flap of wing just visible through the arch leading to Jock’s vegetable patch and all thought left him, apart from just one.

  ‘Did you say she collected the eggs this morning?’

  ‘Aye?’ his voice questioning.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He stood up, tossing his linen napkin on the table before hurtling towards the door. ‘I’ll bloody kill her. Toddy, get the shotgun. The chickens are out and there’s a fox...’

  Chapter Six

  ‘But I didn’t know...’

  ‘But you should have known. Which planet was it exactly you were born on, Miss Smith? Obviously one that doesn’t have foxes perchance? We lost the whole stock last fall, probably to the same blighter, which is why we have a top of the range chicken coop with reinforced wire fences set into concrete footings. Our chickens are the safest in the whole of Scotland, that is until some stupid English twit comes along and forgets to close the bloody door.’

  He was absolutely livid. She could see it in the way he wouldn’t even meet her gaze and the way his hands were fisted on probably the largest shotgun she’d ever seen, but that didn’t give him the excuse to be rude.

  ‘That’s racist…’

  ‘What? You’re English, aren’t you? What’s racist about calling a spade a spade? You can call me a Scot if you like, I certainly won’t take offence,’ he said, with a slight softening in his manner, so slight you’d barely notice. ‘In fact I’d take it as a compliment.’

  They were standing head to head in the middle of Jock’s vegetable patch with everyone available from Mary, the two cleaning women from the village and Mr Todd in addition to Jock trying and failing to round up hens that didn’t want rounding. The fox, thankfully, had disappeared into the undergrowth after a couple of shots over his head but he was probably only waiting until their backs were turned before continuing on his rampage.

  ‘It’s the law of nature anyway,’ she added, heading to the left to try and herd off the largest bird, obviously the ring leader.

  ‘What’s the law of nature exactly?’ he snarled, joining her in trying to manoeuvre her into a corner between the shed and the manure pile.

  ‘Well, he must be hungry.’

  ‘Hungry? Are you mad, woman or simply deranged? It wo
uldn’t be quite so bad if he just killed the one but he doesn’t. He never does. A fox will kill the lot if he gets the chance, sometimes up to thirty in a single frenzied attack. He’ll just leave the bodies and walk away for us to find later. Law of nature, my foot.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ She waved her arms, directing the now flapping chicken towards him. ‘So why didn’t you just shoot him then?’

  ‘Because, Miss Smith that would make me as bad as him. It’s March, breeding season. He probably has a pile of cubs hidden away somewhere and, despite what you might think of me, I’m not a murderer,’ he ended, missing his footing and landing on his back with a large thump and an even larger expletive.

  They both turned to watch the chicken strut away in the opposite direction with a flick of its tail feathers.

  ‘This is useless, we’re getting nowhere.’ He scrambled to his feet with a frown as they both watched Jock and Mr Todd herd the smallest, a pretty bantam with pale golden feathers in completely the wrong direction.

  ‘What do they eat?’ she asked, holding up her hands to ward off any roars coming in her direction. ‘Apart from scraps that is. If we could just lure them back…’

  ‘Lure away, Miss Smith. There’s a bag of chicken pellets in that bin over there.’ He pointed to the black dustbin beside the shed with the pointy end of his gun. ‘I’m going to enjoy watching this.’

  ‘You could help?’ she mumbled, grabbing a handful before heading towards a large fat orange bird and throwing a pellet in her direction.

  ‘Come on boy, time for lunch.’

  ‘Er, since when did you ever know a boy to lay an egg, Miss Smith?’

  ‘Shut up, and why you can’t call me Tansy like everyone else, I don’t know,’ she hissed.

  She made the fatal mistake of taking her eye off the chicken while she turned to look at him. He was laughing now, his head rolled back, exposing a column of thick neck. And suddenly she wondered if the rest of him was as brown or was it just because he spent so much time outdoors? Her eyes, glued to his throat, didn’t spot the chicken peer across at the pellet before taking a cautious step.

  Tansy was more interested in the breadth of his shoulders under the thin sweater he must have worn down to breakfast and what might be underneath than in some irritating, badly behaved hen. She was more interested in the lock of hair that had curled up across his forehead and suddenly a picture of a little boy, a lonely little boy running wild in the grounds with grubby cheeks and even grubbier shorts invaded her thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

  She knew she was staring but that didn’t matter. Whilst she was still fascinated by, what was after all, a hunk of a man, her mercurial thoughts now pulled her in a completely different direction. Maybe there was a reason for his arrogance? Maybe his childhood, in this amazing part of the world, had been a lonely isolated one? There would certainly have been few children to play with, if any, apart from at school and she could imagine someone with such an unusual interest in fungi wasn’t going to be that popular. His mother hadn’t struck her as the most demonstrative either and a child needed that. They needed a lot more than bricks, mortar and open spaces.

  Her own childhood hadn’t been perfect by a long way. As the youngest with two older brothers, she’d been treated as a baby long after she’d outgrown both pull-ups and pigtails. But, despite the age gap, she’d remained close to both her brothers and they were always there if she needed them, particularly Hamilton. She’d always been closer to Hamilton than anyone until he’d left for university and then left for good. If he’d been less tied up with work she’d have sought his advice over her recent setback but he wasn’t so she hadn’t. Perhaps she should have and then maybe she’d feel less confused about the man in front of her; the man now staring with that horrid sneer obliterating any trace of recent laughter. Maybe just maybe she’d misjudged him? Maybe just maybe she’d misjudged herself?

  Her mouth dry, she decided to ignore him just as she was going to ignore the blush racing up her neck. She continued muttering soothing encouragements to the chicken, the very female chicken but her heart wasn’t in it. This was her fault. She only had herself to blame. If she hadn’t left the stupid door unlatched she’d have been in the nice warm kitchen making lunch.

  ‘I don’t believe it, it’s actually working,’ his whisper causing her to tilt her head in the direction of the steady stream of birds following the trail like well-behaved school children on their way to assembly.

  ‘Of course it’s working, I never doubted it for a second,’ she said firmly, heading backwards in the direction of the coop where Jock, ever quick off the mark, had the door open and a handful of pellets as a reward for each bird as she hopped through the opening.

  They all sank down on the lawn to catch their breath. Two hours of chicken hunting had proved just how unfit they were and just how smart the chickens were.

  ‘Look at the state of me.’ Tansy tried to brush the soil and dirt off her jeans but only succeeded in spreading it. ‘If I’d known, I’d have worn my Fitbit and racked up a few thousand steps. Her ladyship will want her lunch and I’ve nothing ready.’

  She wiped her hand across her face to ward off the tears brimming on her lashes but only succeeded in knocking off her glasses. But she didn’t care. She’d only been here two days and she’d made a complete hash of everything. There was no lunch prepared. She had guests for afternoon tea and a cake half mixed on the table not to mention bread in the Aga that would now be burnt to a crisp. She hadn’t even thought about supper and then there was the dinner party with no menu to speak of. She might as well just leave on the next train because, despite failing at her one attempt at independence, she’d done what she’d set out to and that was decide Lord Tor Brayely was the last man on the planet she’d marry, not that he’d asked her. He’d no more want to spend another five minutes in her company than he would marry her; not now.

  ‘Ach, don’t be worrying, lass. Her ladyship will understand once she hears,’ Mr Todd said.

  ‘There’s no need for her to hear about this because I certainly won’t be telling her. She left straight after breakfast, isn’t that right, Mary?’ Tor interrupted, jumping to his feet.

  ‘That she did, sir. Off to the hairdresser and then coffee in town. She won’t be back for a good half hour or so.’

  ‘Just time for me to get cleaned up and then I’ll take her to The Manor House for lunch.’ He smiled, a gentle smile that lit up his whole face. ‘She has a thing about their ox liver and bacon, and I’m sure the staff will be happy with a scratch lunch so that you can crack on with your baking. Oh,’ he paused, his eyes careful to avoid her tear stained cheeks. ‘The colonel loves cherry cake and those little cakes with icing that taste of almonds?’

  ‘Bakewell tarts?’

  ‘Bakewell tarts. I’m quite partial to a tart myself, a Bakewell tart,’ he added with a wink. ‘If you could put a couple aside?’

  ‘Won’t you be there?’

  She knew she shouldn’t have asked the moment the words left her mouth. As the hired help, it was none of her business whether he’d be there or not. It was her job to cater as if he would be. That was all. She felt the heat build in her cheeks but instead of dropping her gaze she lifted her chin and waited for his caustic reply. But all he did was shake his head before turning on his heel.

  Back in the kitchen, she threw together a batch of French gallettes. Yes, it was the wrong country but it only took seconds to make the batter and she could easily get the staff to help her fill them with whatever toppings they wanted when they joined her for lunch. She then turned her attention back to her cake as she let her mind wander.

  Her first thought was she liked him. Her second; she liked him a lot. Yes, he’d been horrible to her, more than horrible but the sad truth of it was she deserved everything he’d said and more. Those poor chickens. If it hadn’t been for him spotting them, she’d have had a lot more to worry about than getting tea ready. And then to take his mother out
to lunch so she wouldn’t have to hear about what a mess her new cook had made of everything. She could have hugged him there and then, although she wouldn’t. However, now the seed of thought had been planted, she wondered what he’d have done if she’d thrown herself into his arms and given him a proper thank you. He’d probably have just stood there, his arms by his side with that sneer on his lips she was growing to hate. Yes, better she remembered her place and started making tentative plans for her return to London. She’d proved to herself once and for all marriage to him wasn't an option, hadn’t she…?

  Dusting the cherries with flour so they wouldn’t sink to the bottom she realised she hadn’t thought of London even once. Apart from a brief call to Nanny, she hadn’t spared a second for her friends and what they were up to. She hadn’t even bothered to flick through Mr Todd’s pile of newspapers to see whether she was in them, usually one of the first things she did each morning. London seemed so far away. It was far away, over five hundred miles away to be exact and she was quite happy about that. She could honestly say there was nothing about it she missed, not one single thing. Well, apart from her bespoke hand-stitched silk and cashmere mattress that is. If she hadn’t thought it would give the game away she’d have had it shipped up for the duration of her stay.

  She didn’t see him for the rest of the day or the one after; the day of the dinner party but she was too busy to notice. No, that wasn’t quite true, she amended, taking a sip from her mug before it went the same way as the last one; cold. She’d noticed, but she didn’t want to.

  He’d left a bucket full to the brim of plump, glistening trout but he didn’t come into the kitchen, instead handing it to Jock to take in for him. She’d heard via Mr Todd that he’d wolfed down her steak and kidney pudding in addition to the small plate of Bakewell tarts as if food was going out of fashion but that was all.

  The next morning was one of those clear fine days with a dollop of spring flickering around the edges; a life reaffirming day where hope was in every little thing from the struggling sunlight dappling its gentle glow to the stalwart daffodils nodding their regal golden crowns in the gentle breeze. Winter would soon be a long distant memory she thought, sniffing the crisp air; crisp air with a lingering sting of ice in its tail.