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

by Jenny O'Brien

  He frowned. Now why had he added that rider? A woman like her? Like what? What was she like, exactly? She certainly wasn't all she seemed, that’s for sure. For a start, just who in their right mind dyed blonde hair black? No woman he’d ever heard of. It was the other way around surely? But, there at the base of her neck fine pale, blonde hairs peeking out from that creamy white skin. And it wasn’t just her hair. It was her accent and the way she glided around the room as if she’d been taught to walk with a book on her head. Deportment, that was it. She had deportment and an accent with a distinct variability in the use of the humble H, which she seemed to drop whenever she thought anyone was listening.

  He swivelled the deep red in the bottom of his glass as he remembered what he’d forgotten and suddenly he didn’t know what to think anymore. Placing his glass on the table he turned towards the door with a brief apology and headed to the hall and then outside and around to the back of the house, the view now shrouded in darkness.

  He remembered the shiver and the way it had rippled across her skin, her paler than pale skin and now he questioned everything that had gone before. Every glance, every laugh, every snarky comment between them had led him to think she’d felt the same way. For all his bravado at her having kissed him back, what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d taken advantage of her, knowing all too well if she objected it would be her job? But he wasn't like that, was he? She’d fancied him. He knew it just as if she’d said the words. So why was it now he felt the biggest heel imaginable? Why was it he wanted to apologise, not once but a thousand times and yet he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see that look on her face again; that stare of pure loathing, a shiver of revulsion on her skin. He’d caused that, only him.

  ‘If you’re sure you can’t find room for little ole me…’

  They were standing on the top step, Cassandra’s hand clutching on his arm.

  ‘Now, what would your father say, or my mother for that matter?’

  She laughed. ‘They’d both be delighted. Mater has been trying to marry me off for years and as for your mother: she’s always going on about the importance of family,’ she added, tracing a finger over his cheek. ‘Just think of all those little Tor and Cassandra’s running over the place.’

  ‘Who said anything about marriage, Cassie?’ he said, resorting to the childish nickname he’d used to call her in her pigtail era.

  ‘Now that’s not very nice,’ her head twisting to look at something over his shoulder. ‘Who’s that? She looks familiar?’

  Tor tilted his head and together they watched Tansy stroll across the lawn, the moon reflecting off her white blouse, turning everything to silver.

  ‘The new cook, Miss Smith.’

  ‘Really?’ She turned back, losing interest. ‘Will I be seeing you tomorrow at church?’ She pouted, lifting her face with a kiss; a kiss he sidestepped so it avoided his mouth.

  ‘Probably.’ He gave her ample bottom a playful slap. ‘Now, off to bed before I change my mind.’

  ‘Promises, promises. Sleep well,’

  He couldn’t sleep. He tossed and tumbled around his mahogany-framed four poster bed for what seemed like hours, finally drifting off when the first shards of grey, blue sky were starting to flicker over the horizon. He awoke mid-dream with his heart hammering in his chest and the image of her expression imprinted on his vision. He was a cad, a bounder, a scoundrel. He’d thrown himself at one of the servants. She was in his employ and therefore under his protection and he’d nigh on attacked her like some toff from the last century – or should that be the century before? She must have been scared witless because, despite her show of bravado, she was a mere slip of a thing and he was twice her size. If he’d wanted to do a lot more than kiss, there was very little she could have done to stop him.

  He only descended to breakfast when he knew Todd would come looking for him. Church was a mandatory requirement he had to undertake when he was in Oban whether he liked it or not and something he was only prepared to do on a full stomach.

  Piling his plate with bacon and eggs he wondered how she was this morning. Had she had trouble sleeping or had she snored her head off as soon as her head hit the pillow? She’d have been tired that’s for sure because it was nearly 11 o’clock by the time they’d finally exited the dining room and there’d still have been the remainder of the dishes to wash not to mention the table to set for breakfast. She’d have been up at the crack of dawn for staff breakfasts too, he thought pouring himself a cup of tea from the fresh pot Todd had just put in front of him.

  ‘My mother is late?’

  ‘Aye, she’s decided to have breakfast in bed even though it’s Sunday. She’ll be in time for church though.’

  ‘Oh. Everything alright downstairs, Toddy? The staff certainly excelled themselves. That meal was delicious.’

  ‘Aye, everything’s fine. I’ll pass on your compliments to Miss Smith, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please do,’ he said, well aware of the slight censure in his tone. He knew he’d broken with tradition by not inviting her up to thank, but to hell with him and to hell with her. It was about time they actually realised just who the boss was.

  He picked up a slice of toast and added it to his side plate, his hand hovering over the little dish of butter curls while his mind hovered over his next choice of words. He was happy to break with tradition but some things were sacrosanct and church was one of them.

  ‘Will the staff be attending church as usual? My mother and I will be happy to make do if it helps?’

  ‘It’s no bother sir. Miss Tansy will be going to the evening service. She volunteered.’

  I’m sure she did, but he left the words unsaid. If she was going to avoid him that was fine by him. In fact it would make it all so much easier. In fact, he’d make it easier still, picking up his phone and scrolling down the list of meetings he hadn’t been going to attend.

  ‘I’ll be popping up to Edinburgh for a few days so there’s no need to cater for me. I’ll let my mother know when I’m expected back.’

  It was very easy to avoid someone when they wanted to be avoided but that didn’t stop her from missing him all the same. Her eyes flew open at the thought even as she forced her attention back on the bowl and the pile of potatoes she was peeling for lunch.

  He’d been gone a week, one of the longest weeks ever. At first no one had told her he’d gone, and why should they? Why indeed? After all she was a nobody; a two bit cook on the minimum wage. Oh, she was living in the lap of luxury in the most amazing castle in its own grounds. The prestige. The honour. The reality of such a privileged lifestyle accounting for quite a few thousand off the final salary or pension scheme (of which there was none).

  The truth of it was, the castle, whilst amazing was situated off the beaten track and was as draughty as hell (that is if hell had drafts). The windows rattled in their frames at the slightest provocation, not to mention the wind whistling up through the floorboards. She’d taken to wearing both her woolly hat and socks to bed and if there’d been such a thing as a stray cat lurking, she’d have locked him in her bedroom to wrap around her feet. But there were no cats, only Lady Brayely’s terriers, of which she saw little. If it had been up to her, she’d have one of those large dogs that were more sheep than canine. All that wool snuggled up next to her would be better than any hot water bottle. She blinked as the vision of Tor wrapped around her invaded her head, Tor with long taut legs binding her to the mattress. She wouldn’t be in need of any additional heat source if she had him to curl up to, she thought, raising a hand to her suddenly flushed cheek.

  How the hell could she think of him like that? The only obvious answer was one she didn’t want to hear but one she couldn’t close her mind to. The thought, once it gained a foothold, swept through her body like a lightning bolt before heading straight to her heart where it could wreak maximum damage. She didn’t despise him. She found him fascinating, distracting, attractive even but she didn’t despise hi
m.

  She despised Monsieur de Gerai with a passion and he’d had good looks to burn. She remembered his smouldering, tawny brown eyes and tumbling, brown hair he’d had cut professionally every few weeks or so. His designer clothes were carefully chosen for impact over comfort. His teeth, by God she’d hated him but she couldn’t fault his whiter than white teeth, which must have cost thousands to cap and polish. It was his skin, no not his skin, she added, twisting the peeler in order to dig out a couple of eyes. It was the feel of his skin that last night when he’d found his way into her bed. The way he’d smoothed his hands over her thigh, caressing places she’d never been touched.

  She’d been asleep, dreaming even; dreaming of being in bed with a man, which was strange in itself because up until then her dreams had always involved something to do with food. She was an eighteen-year-old baking-obsessed child-woman with little or no interest in anything outside of baking so her dreams weren’t going to be a surprise. And then hovering on the edge of reality she’d finally realised that it wasn't a dream. It was her worst nightmare, a nightmare that wasn't going to stop anytime soon if the feel of his leg pressing between hers was anything to go by.

  So no, she didn’t despise Tor; she was attracted to him even though it was madness and yet… If that kiss was anything to go by, they had a lot more in common than their titles and wealth. They had chemistry, or whatever the word was for the mini explosion that had stopped her in her tracks and made her forget everything and anything except the feel of those lips weaving their magic across her heart. She just couldn’t understand it. Yes, he was good looking in that rugged Heathcliff kind of way but certainly not her type.

  Perhaps it was his mind she was attracted too, a dimple appearing. He was intelligent and his mother adored him, which was probably a bonus.

  The truth was, apart from that one accident by the chicken coop and that one incident in the dining room, she knew little about him. And yet… She placed the final potato in the waiting colander all ready to rinse and rested her elbows on the table. And yet she knew he smelt of sandalwood mingled with a hint of outdoors. She knew his hands weren’t smooth; they were rough in places. Workers hands, even. He wasn’t bothered about clothes either, unless he had a wardrobe of designer clobber stashed up in Edinburgh and she just couldn’t see it. She also knew he liked animals, all animals, as she remembered he’d been careful to shoot over the fox’s head. But all those things didn’t amount to much. She should hate him. She should hate the type of man he was; the type of man who’d allowed his mother to choose him a wife. What man in their right mind would ever do that, unless he was gay?

  She laughed, lifting the colander off the table and taking it to the sink. He wasn't gay! He was a hot-blooded man who should have been able to get off his backside and find himself a mother for his future heir because that’s what this was all about. She was under no illusions he actually wanted to get married. He’d make her pregnant and then leave her to rattle around in Oban while he carried on chasing fungi. It was probably a bonus he fancied her enough to actually want to sleep with her, but might that not be more down to the fact she was forbidden fruit? Would he still want to sleep with her if he actually knew who she was? Perhaps he made a habit of sleeping around with all and sundry? Perhaps a ring on his finger wouldn’t secure his fidelity? What if she married him only to discover he was playing away from home? What then, and more importantly what could she do about it? She’d probably be pregnant, pregnant and dependant.

  Her pace quickened but not so fast that she could outrun her thoughts. Today was her day off, or at least what was left of it after she’d made the potato salad. She’d been up at the crack of dawn but, after she’d finished the salads to go with the sliced meats she’d arranged for lunch, she was free until Mr Todd bolted the side door at 11pm. Washing her hands in the little sink by the back door she undid her apron and hung it on the hook by the larder before grabbing the coat, hat and gloves she’d brought down with her. She didn’t bother looking in the mirror, there was little point and, with the red and orange stripy hat pulled well down, even her own mother wouldn’t recognise her. She had her wage packet in her bag and a need to go exploring but first there was one thing she had to do.

  ‘Mother, don’t cry.’

  She’d followed Craigard Road down the hill, past McCaig’s Tower but she didn’t loiter like she wanted to. Asking for directions at the bottom she found a public phone box sequestered away at the back of the post office. She wasn't up to date on mobile tracking but she was pretty sure she shouldn’t use her own phone to call her parents.

  ‘But darling, won’t you tell us where you are? We’re worried about you, and Nanny said you didn’t even take your purse?’

  ‘Well, there’d be little point with daddy stopping my allowance.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it. You know your father. His bark is always so much worse than his bite, and those photos of you semi-naked really upset him.’

  ‘They upset him, what about me? How do you think I felt, huh?’

  ‘Don’t, darling. You have money in your account so why don’t you get the next plane home and we won’t say any more about it?’

  ‘I’m not ready to come back yet; soon but not yet,’ she added, tilting her head to look across the bay and towards the islands; islands she intended to explore. Perhaps not today but on her next day off she’d get up early and catch the ferry across to Mull. She bit down on her lip as she pondered whether to ask the next question, a question she desperately wanted to know the answer to and her reason for phoning.

  ‘So what happened to Lord Brayely then, did he turn up and does he still want to marry me?’

  ‘He turned up. Your father handled things like he does. They went away to the study and parted on the best of terms.’ There was a sigh down the line. ‘He wouldn’t stay for lunch, said there was little point and after I’d gone to the trouble of ordering in those cheese soufflés your father likes so much.’

  Tansy gripped the phone as she wondered just what her father had agreed to in her absence. She wouldn’t put it past him to have accepted his proposal on her behalf. If she went back to London she’d probably be bundled off to the nearest registry office before being whisked off somewhere on baby making duties.

  Taking an uneven breath, she decided to probe a little deeper. ‘And what did you think of him, still happy to sell me to him like a sacrificial lamb?’

  ‘Now, darling, be serious. You know we only have your best interests at heart.’ There was a pause. ‘If I’m honest, he was a little scruffy for a viscount. I was expecting a suit and I got head to toe leather. I was tempted to check his credentials. Nanny liked him though.’

  ‘Nanny was there?’

  ‘Oh yes, she said she wasn't going to miss it for the world. She plonked herself in the hall with that black felt hat on her head and her bag clasped to her chest on some pretext of having to post a letter when she knows Clemmy takes the post every morning on her way to the butchers.’

  Tansy hid a laugh. Good old Nanny. At least she’d now be able to find out the truth.

  ‘I see you’ve been up to your tricks, old girl.’

  ‘Now, now Miss Tansy you have some respect for your elders. Old girl indeed,’ but the softness in her tone belied her words.

  ‘So what did you think, Nanny?’

  ‘I think you need to get yourself back here and stop gadding about. Your father is storming about the place threatening to call the police. Your poor mother has wept a mountain of tears while that so call friend of yours, Miss Julietta, has been on the blower every five minutes trying to find out your whereabouts.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her anything did you?’

  ‘What do you take me for? I never did know what you saw in her.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’ The image of Juliette’s sniggering face was one of the only things she could remember from that night. She was the only one who knew her plans for the evening and she had every oppor
tunity to spike her drink. Swallowing the sudden lump blocking her throat she carried on.

  ‘So, I hear you met Lord Brayely?’

  ‘’Aye.’

  ‘Come on, Nanny, spill the beans.’

  ‘He’ll do you fine so he will. A fine figure of a man. He’ll make a good dad.’

  ‘I don’t need a dad, one’s bad enough.’

  ‘Not for you, for your children.’

  She laughed. ‘You seem to have made quite a few plans for me while I’ve been away.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t I? You haven’t the sense you were born with. He’ll do you fine, more than fine. He’s kind and well-mannered…’

  ‘You seem to have found out quite a bit about him. Just how long were you speaking to him?’

  ‘Not long, but long enough. I dropped me glove and we got chatting like. A serious young man if ever there was one, but the serious ones are the best. He’ll be faithful, mark my words.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she said, remembering the kiss. She couldn’t very well forget it. She’d been dreaming about it, about him, ever since.

  ‘You just need to get back here pronto, Miss Tansy. There’s no point in staying now you’ve met him. What’s going to happen if he finds out, have you thought about that? He’ll think you’ve played him for a fool and, believe me, he may be many things but a fool isn’t one of them.’

  She finally said her goodbyes and, placing the phone back on the cradle, walked across the street towards the promenade to watch the ferries and fishing boats make their way out to sea. But she didn’t see the boats with their distinctive bright orange buffs. She didn’t hear the cries from the gulls overhead as they followed the fleet for any tasty titbits coming their way. All she heard were Nanny’s words rolling around in her head and, of course, she was right. When had Nanny ever been wrong? Although she’d been wrong on one thing, her eyes wandering from the sea to the shore and the display of brightly coloured shops and hotels embracing the bay like the erstwhile arms of a lover. She’d been wrong when she’d said he was mild mannered. Hadn’t she seen his temper? If he’d been angry over a few chickens how might he feel when he learnt she’d made a fool of him?