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

by Jenny O'Brien

  The cold was setting up a chain of reactions but she didn’t care about that. She didn’t care about anything apart from the fact she’d made a mess of things yet again. Lady Tansy, the darling of the press. The poor little rich girl had yet again cocked up; the irony being of all the things she’d done in her life, this was the most important. Baking was important, as important as breathing, or at least it was to her – and she was good at it. No, she was a bloody fantastic baker but not to the man by her side. She felt the tears gather anew but she was too cold to do anything other than let them fall.

  ‘For heaven’s sake! I can’t stand it when the waterworks start.’

  She heard the words but the meaning didn’t filter through the wall of apathy that seemed to shroud everything like a cloud. That is until she felt a handkerchief pushed roughly into her hands. Looking down, she nearly laughed at the sight of the freshly ironed white cotton so like the neat pile in the top drawer of her father’s chest of drawers. At the thought of her father the tears, which up till then had only been a trickle turned into a torrent, a torrent of inconsolable drops streaming down her face with only the sound of the engine breaking the silence. She didn’t realise they’d even stopped until the interior light went on and she felt his hand tilt her chin to stare into her face.

  The tears dried up then. All that was left were the two of them in the car in the silence. Even the rain had stopped beating its relentless tattoo down on the soft-topped roof. She watched transfixed as he plucked the handkerchief from her stiff fingers and gently, oh so gently, wiped her tears away.

  ‘Shush now, it’s alright,’ he said, speaking as if to a child.

  Her eyes widened at the thought, her gaze wandering over his face. Her child. Their child. The child they’d never have. The child they could have had if she hadn’t run away. If she hadn’t run away she could even now be engaged… No she’d never be engaged with her father at the helm. She would have been betrothed to this surly, bad-tempered stranger with more arrogance than was good for anyone but also with the gentlest touch. Her hand curled into a fist as she remembered that meeting between him and her father because no doubt they’d have cooked something up between them in her absence.

  Twisting away she fumbled for the handle only to find her hand enveloped in his.

  ‘No, let me.’ He moved her hand back onto her lap and, leaning across opened the door before walking round the bonnet and helping her out.

  ‘Ah now, I knew you’d find her, sir. That’s fine so it is. Where was she?’

  ‘Half drowned under a tree. She’ll be in need of a bath, Toddy.’

  ‘A bath, sir?’

  ‘Yes, a bath man. To warm up. If you could help her with a bath… There doesn’t seem to be anybody else, does there, and,’ his eyes now shifting across the room. ‘I don’t think she’ll be able to manage herself.’

  ‘Me, sir? But?’

  ‘Yes, you.’ The first tinge of impatience marking his words.

  ‘Ach, I don’t think I can.’ He gulped. ‘I’m a bachelor sir. I’ve never…’

  ‘Get away with you. I’m only asking you to run the thing and get the towels…’ He paused, and they both stared towards the stairs, the bottom stair to be exact; the bottom stair where he’d propped her up only seconds before. But now she wasn't so much propped as stretched out very much in the style of a rag doll. They eyed each other for a moment before he finally spoke.

  ‘She’ll get her death if she doesn’t…’ He stood up with a sigh, grasping his old friend’s arm with a gentle squeeze. ‘Right, together then. No arguments and then some soup.’

  ‘Certainly, sir, and there’s a nice raised pie in the larder…’

  ‘Not for me Toddy. For her.’ His eyes now back on the stairs. ‘All I need is in the lounge or, to be exact, in the whisky decanter in the lounge and you can join me. You know I hate drinking on my own.’

  Later, much later, a couple of drams of Oban’s very own single malt later, he sat in front of the fire, his feet resting on the antique barley twist fender just like his father and grandfather before him. The castle might boast twelve bathrooms and the new addition of underfloor heating but there was still very little he was allowed to do to change the fabric of the building. They tried to economise in other ways but there was no way he would ever skimp on warmth. The coal scuttles were always heaving as were the log baskets. They didn’t heat every room just the ones in constant use and all of the servants’ quarters, of course. A happy servant was a warm one, his brow wrinkling at the thought. He viewed them more as friends, friends with financial benefits as opposed to any other sort, although he’d quite like to think about the other sort of ‘benefit’ where Lady Titania Smith-Nettlebridge was concerned.

  He ground his teeth before raising the vintage thistle patterned glass to his lips, his eyes relishing the way the firelight reflected and bounced off the finely etched surface. Miss Smith-Nettlebridge was someone he had spent the last hour trying not to think about. Up close and personal, her skin was even paler than he’d ever imagined, not that he’d seen much of it.

  They’d decided, as they both had reputations to uphold, that the best course of action was to dunk her in the hot water fully clothed, apart from her socks and her boots. She had pretty feet, he remembered, the smooth fiery liquid tracing its way down his throat. Long slender feet with simple square cut toenails. He’d been expecting varnish. No, that wasn’t quite true, as he raised the glass to his mouth, letting the cold glass press against his bottom lip. He hadn’t been expecting anything because he’d turned off all thought and all emotion when they’d entered the bathroom. But he had been surprised all the same. There wasn’t a mark on her; no tattoos, toe rings or ankle bracelets for that matter. He thought they all went in for that sort of thing these days.

  He eyed the rest of the whisky before heaving a sigh of regret. He had work to do tomorrow and a hangover wasn't part of the plan. In fact, any trace of a hangover and he’d throw up. The seas around the Firth of Lorn were well known for their inclemency and he still had samples to collect from the most isolated island of all.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I’ll have to leave, there’s no two ways…’ she mumbled, dragging the sharp teeth of her comb through her hair with a grimace before working a neat plait with deft fingers. ‘I love it here. I love the silence. I love the scenery and even the early starts.’

  She turned and stared out of the window, feasting her gaze on the still dark night as she wondered where she should go. She could go back to London and back to her previous life of parties and trips to Harrods and Harvey Nicks with her mother, but the glitz and glamour had dimmed somewhat. The glitz and glamour hadn’t so much dimmed as been smashed by a pair of the bluest eyes and a pair of the strongest hands.

  She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to leave Scotland. No, that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t want to leave him. Pulling on her felt slippers with the pretty diamante flowers, she hurried out of the room and traipsed down the stairs with a light foot. She had breakfast to cook and an apology to make. After that, and only after, would she think about tomorrow and what the hell she was going to do with the next fifty years or so.

  Entering the kitchen, she wondered what it was about him that ticked all her boxes because charming he wasn’t. He was probably the most arrogant, bad tempered, rude man she’d ever met. Opening the fridge to take out the milk, she decided there was no probably about it. She’d focus on his bad points and forget the rest as she tried to close her mind to the memory of his touch and the feel of his lips roaming across her skin.

  Stoking the Aga took seconds. The kettle was always the first job, the kettle set to boil while she sorted out the chickens. But today, with the mistress and most of the staff away she had more than enough eggs to be going on with. She’d still need to visit the coop but later would do.

  She set the teapot on the table and, cradling her mug, took it outside to spend precious minutes she couldn’t re
ally afford just staring out on to the shadowy terrace. She still hadn’t decided what to do, but as Nanny always said

  Do nothing and something will happen…

  ‘Morning. Any tea in the pot?’

  She nearly dropped her mug. If she hadn’t been resting it on her thigh there would have been broken crockery to pick up and not just the spreading stain where she’d tipped tea over her leg.

  ‘Now look what you’ve made me do.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  But instead of replying, she stood up only to find his hand on her shoulder pushing her back onto the bench.

  ‘No, you stay where you are, Miss Smith. I’ll get it and I’ll fetch you a top-up too,’ he added, taking her mug from her hand and walking back inside.

  ‘Of all the overbearing bossy…’

  ‘You said something?’

  She blushed, struggling to avoid his gaze but meeting his eyes all the same. The blush deepened as she remembered waking up in bed in a towel and nothing else. She had no idea how she’d got there, no idea at all. She had no idea, only suspicions.

  ‘Just talking to myself,’ she finally managed; taking the mug he was holding.

  ‘That’s alright then.’

  She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘Well, I talk to myself all the time. Sometimes it’s the best sense I can get all week.’ He sat down beside her, stretching out his legs with a sigh. ‘Try making sense out of a pile of spotty teenagers scarcely old enough to tie up their shoelaces let alone be let loose in the big wicked city?’

  ‘Big wicked city?’

  ‘Edinburgh. That’s where I teach, when I can’t avoid not to, that is.’ He tilted his head back, his eyes closed to the first shafts of light starting to turn the sky from black to navy.’

  ‘But, I don’t understand? Why do you have to teach when you have all this?’ She threw out a hand, sweeping it towards the dark twisted branches now just visible in the distance. ‘Surely you can’t need the money?’

  ‘Oh can’t I, little miss nosy? There’s more to life than money you know.’ He shifted and now instead of his neck she was staring into his eyes, eyes as black as his stare as he scrolled over her face with the precision of an artist about to embark on a masterpiece. His hand raised and, with a slight twist, he grabbed the end of her plait before giving it a sharp tweak.

  ‘Teaching comes with the territory. If I want to be able to use the university’s resources to further my studies I need to give something back, and teaching the odd student is the only way. I don’t have a full time post now, just the odd lecture… Tell me, why would someone with such pretty hair decide to dye it such an ugly colour?’

  ‘Tell me,’ she echoed. ‘How can someone with all the opportunities you’ve had turn out to be so bloody objectionable?’ She stood up, and pulling her hair out of his grasp headed back into the kitchen. ‘I’m employed to cook, Lord Brayely, and I’ll thank you to keep any personal comments you may have to yourself.’

  Her back turned she ignored his quiet footsteps as he made his way to the sink and painstakingly washed his mug before leaving it upside down on the draining board. She didn’t care if he was trying to be helpful. She didn’t care if, at some time in his life, somebody had actually taught him how to do the dishes. She didn’t care that his eyes were on her every movement as she went back and forth to the larder before cracking eggs in the heavy iron skillet.

  She didn’t care, and yet she cared desperately.

  ‘I’ll have mine in the kitchen, and make that three eggs. I’ll probably be back late.’

  Slapping down a loaf on the cutting board she started to slice bread for toasting only to find the knife gently removed from her grasp.

  ‘I’ll do that while you watch the eggs. I don’t have much time before I leave.’

  ‘If you’d let me know yesterday,’ she grumbled, adding a few chopped mushrooms to the pan.

  ‘And when would I have done that exactly? It’s not as if you were in any fit state to be listening to my plans for the day.’

  She set his breakfast down at the far end before refilling the teapot.

  ‘I meant to thank you for, for…’

  ‘For finding you? Don’t mention it, all part and parcel of being lord of the manor,’ he added, smoothing marmalade on his toast before taking a hearty bite. ‘There won’t be much cooking to do today with ma away. In fact, you might as well take the day off. Toddy is used to looking after himself. He’ll probably want to spend the day with his sister in town, come to think of it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sat down opposite, pouring herself a mug from the pot without a second thought. ‘Can I ask you a question without you snapping my head off?’ she said, raising her head to meet his steady gaze.

  ‘As long as you’re quick. For some reason, I’m in a good mood, so ask away, Miss Smith and I promise I won’t snap, unless it’s personal that is? Then chances are, I may er ‘snap’ as you call it,’ he added on a wink.

  ‘As if! No, it’s about Mr Todd. Why do you…?

  ‘Why do I what, call him Toddy?’ He placed his knife and fork tidily in the centre of his plate before pushing his mug in the direction of the teapot. ‘That’s what I’ve always called him. He’s been here a long time, you know. I was only a teenager when he arrived and he took me under his wing. We’re friends more than anything, despite me paying his wages. Two lonely souls trying to make their way…’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘He does seem a little serious. Such a nice man and he never married?’

  ’Not all men want marriage, Tansy.’ He gave her a sharp look, before continuing. ‘I can see where you’re coming from with Toddy; he’d have made a wonderful father. I think there was someone, a girl in Lewis, but for some reason it didn’t work out. He’s never said anything, we don’t have that sort of relationship but I seem to remember my father let something slip about some housemaid or other. She’d probably have made his life a misery. That’s what women do. They attract you with their pretty face and womanly wiles, reeling you in like a fish on a hook before slitting your underbelly and spilling out your guts.’

  She ignored his comment. She was enjoying sitting there having a conversation of sorts, even if it was only about the butler. But one wrong word or look and he’d be biting her head off.

  He was waiting for her reaction, she just knew he was but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait even if it killed her. Instead, she focussed on the first part of his answer even if the questions she really wanted to ask tumbled around her head like dust balls in the desert. Who or what had made him so sceptical about life and about love in particular? He’d obviously been hurt at the hand of a woman and she now couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. Had he been dumped, was that it? Or was it something worse, much worse? Maybe he’d been young and impressionable although, shooting him a look, she couldn’t imagine he’d ever had that quality laid at his feet. He was the most put together man she’d ever met. He was a man who knew where he was going and how he was going to get there, not someone like her who lurched from one crisis to the next.

  Picking up her mug she finally managed to ask. ‘Where’s Lewis, it’s one of the islands, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, but the Outer Hebrides.’

  ‘I’m planning on visiting some of the islands if I get the chance.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have time. You can come with me today, that is, if you can bear the company of an overbearing bossy…’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Yes you did, and you’re probably right, come to that.’ He rested his elbows on the table and stared at her over the top of his mug. ‘Tell you what, as an apology, I’ll treat you to an early lunch on Seil and then, if you’re feeling brave, you can accompany me over to Belnahua. It'll be by boat, mind. I hope you’re not prone to seasickness?’

  ‘Me, I’ve a cast iron stomach,’ she quipped back, the beginning of a smile lurking behind her
mock serious face. ‘What do I need to bring?’

  ‘Just yourself and perhaps a flask of tea. Belnahua is uninhabited so there won’t be some café to pop into for a cream cake, or even a loo, come to that.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’ve got my gold D of E!’

  ‘Really? You do surprise me.’ His head tilted so he could look at her pink slippers glittering in the weak Scottish sun.

  ‘I thought you were going to stop with the snarky remarks already?’

  ‘No.’ He stood up from the table and started gathering together his dishes. ‘What I said was I’d apologise for commenting on your hair, although the comment still stands.’ He ended, pulling the door open only to pause, his hand high up on the jamb. ‘Wrap up warm. Belnahua is no trek with the promise of a warm bed at the end. It’s bleak, cold, uninhabited and potentially dangerous.’

  ‘So tell me about this island then. Bell…’

  ‘Belnahua?’

  They were sitting side by side in The Oyster Bar, their eyes drawn like magnets to the wonderful view of the other islands. Tor had promised her lunch but she hadn’t quite bargained for the homemade thick vegetable soup followed by crispy mouth-watering haddock wrapped in the best batter she’d ever tasted. Now, with mugs of rich dark coffee before them while they waited for the boat he’d hired to be brought around to the shoreline, she asked the first in a raft of questions.

  ‘Belnahua, that’s it. It sounds romantic.’

  ‘Romantic is it?’ He flung his head back and laughed, the sound turning the heads of the locals propping up the bar. ‘It’s far from romantic, more like tragic. It’s been uninhabited since the war; the First World War when all the men went off to fight and probably never to return. Any romance, as you put it, would have died then. All that’s left is a pile of broken down slate to match the broken down houses and a few wild animals.