Christmas at the Castle

by Marion Lennox

  ‘Holly...’

  ‘Head, not heart,’ she said, and the anger had suddenly gone. ‘The acorn never falls far from the tree. Dumb Holly, that’s me. And blind. Geoff robbed just me but you’re robbing a whole community. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. You are like your father.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘So why are you going back to Manhattan? Your father would have done exactly what suited him. Isn’t that what you’re doing? I don’t know the ins and outs of finance, but I know Gran is destitute—that’s why I was forced to work for you. Right. I’ve worked for you. I’ve been your chef and your fiancée for Christmas and beyond, but Hogmanay is now over. My official contract finishes tomorrow, just as soon as I’ve done the washing-up, stripped the beds and put back the dust covers.’

  She wrenched—with some difficulty—the crazy metal ring from her engagement finger and handed it back. He took it without a word.

  ‘Sense prevails,’ she said dully, stepping back. ‘I’ve made one stupid, stupid mistake, I walked straight into another and I’m done.’

  ‘Holly, I love you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t love you,’ she said and gave the lie to her words with a sob. ‘I can’t. Angus, I want heart and that’s all I want. I know this is dumb, but somehow I want the whole fairy tale. I want a man who truly knows how to be a Lord. A Laird even.’

  * * *

  Holly disappeared—to the kitchen? To start the washing-up? To cry her heart out? He desperately wanted to follow, but first he had to get some facts.

  Half an hour talking to villagers gave him an outline. Yes, he should have talked individually to his tenants before, but he’d been here such a short time, enough to see his father’s neglect, the contempt in which his father was held. He’d thought he’d pack up and leave as soon as he could. Only Ben’s phone call—and then Holly bursting onto the scene like a Christmas angel—had interfered with his plans.

  So as far as the sale went, he’d left the communication with the villagers to Stanley. Stanley was in charge of the rent roll. He knew each of the villagers individually, so Angus had worked out his terms and left it to Stanley to talk to them.

  But now it seemed Stanley hadn’t talked to them—he’d written. One of the villagers who lived closest heard Angus’s tight-lipped questions and nipped home fast. He came back with two letters.

  Angus read, and a cold fury started burning deep within. Was that an oxymoron? Cold and burning? But that was what this felt like. He felt ill.

  Holly’s accusations were just.

  He’d left this to Stanley. He knew Stanley was guilty of petty dishonesty, he didn’t like the man, but it had been so much easier to leave it with him.

  Why had he done what he’d done? He paced, and paced some more, and then he made a couple of calls. To the agent in London who specialised in large estates, who’d been handling this sale, who was earning so much from it that he didn’t mind taking a call at this hour. And then to the Middle East, to the accountant of an oil tycoon.

  Then he went and found Dougal. The old man was still awake. He’d been out in his wheelchair, watching the bonfire. Now he and his little dog were propped up in bed watching the dying embers through the window, watching the villagers drift home, watching the end of the estate.

  He was astonished to receive his late night visitor, but in half an hour Angus realised the man’s mind was still razor-sharp and coldly vindictive. Towards Stanley and towards Angus’s father, who’d employed him.

  ‘He told me Mac’d been given a home by Rob at the pub,’ he said as a parting shot. ‘Lying hound. He just booted Mac out. I don’t know how he’s survived. As far as Stanley was concerned, we were both better off dead.’

  It was a fitting epitaph to the accusations whirling in his head. His father. Stanley. Himself. Some of those accusations were aimed squarely at him.

  Then he sat down in silence in the Castle library and stared bleakly into the night.

  You’re killing a community.

  It was a cold thought and it was absolutely true.

  What to do? How to repair such damage?

  Not sell? The contract wasn’t irreversible. But if he didn’t sell... He’d seen the cottages, the roads, the infrastructure. He’d seen the grinding poverty. The place needed a massive injection of...something.

  Love?

  Holly?

  That was crazy thinking. He had to think like a financier here. A financier was what he was.

  He was also Lord of Castle Craigie. It was a role he didn’t want, he’d never wanted, but that was what he was.

  A Laird as well as a Lord? Somewhere, in the night’s conversations, that distinction had been made crystal-clear.

  Finally at dawn he rose and walked to the gilt mirror over the fireplace. A bleak figure looked back at him, unshaven, tired, grim. He was still wearing the kilt of his forebears. He was dressed in the Highland battledress of ages.

  So... He was the Lord of Castle Craigie ready to face barbarians from without, but it seemed the barbarians were within. This battle was nothing to do with the oil tycoon who’d offered to buy this place. It was a little to do with Stanley. Soon, when he had his facts fully together, he’d go and face the man.

  But it had everything to do with himself.

  He wasn’t like his father.

  He wasn’t, he thought grimly, and he knew, he just knew, that given this current set of facts the old man would have walked away without a backward glance. What the oil tycoon was offering was truly staggering.

  But Holly would expect...

  Holly did expect, and so did he. He cast one last look at the letters, at the figures, and something within him settled into a rock-hard resolve.

  He needed to talk to Stanley, he thought. Now.

  And then he needed to talk to Holly. If she’d listen.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HOLLY HAD CRIED herself to sleep. This was dumb. It was the behaviour of an angsty, lovesick teenager. Even when Geoff had done his worst she’d felt anger and disgust and distress but she’d never sobbed into her pillow over him. Over humiliation, yes, and over desperation at her financial position, but never over Geoff the man.

  But last night—or in the wee hours when she’d finally cleaned up the kitchen—she’d crept upstairs and hauled her blankets over her head and given way to despair—a despair only matched by the loss of her parents. Her grief seemed to go that deep. Bone-deep.

  She’d been so tired and so distressed she hadn’t so much as combed her hair. She knew she had ash on her face, she knew her eyes were swollen from crying, she knew she was a sodden mess and when the knock came at the door she dived under the covers and yelled, ‘Go away.’

  Then she peered out from under the covers again and checked her bedside clock. Seven. She’d crawled into bed at four. Three hours’ sleep.

  But her contract said she still had to work today—her last day. Did the hordes want a cooked breakfast?

  She would do this, she thought determinedly. She would fulfil her contract and take the money promised her. Then at least Maggie would have enough for a rental bond.

  Something good had to come from this mess.

  ‘Breakfast in half an hour,’ she yelled to the knocker. ‘Go away.’

  Instead the handle turned and the door opened inward.

  Angus.

  She should have locked the door.

  The door didn’t have a lock.

  She should have wedged the chair against it. She did not want this man in her room.

  Angus.

  He hadn’t slept. She could see that at a glance. He was exactly as he’d been last night, in full Highland regalia, smoke-stained, five o’clock shadow and then some, tired, strained, grim as death.

 
‘We need to talk,’ he said, but she shook her head and sat up, hauling her bedclothes to her neck.

  ‘There’s no need. What’s done’s done. I’m finishing up at lunch time. Everyone’s leaving. You and Stanley can do your worst.’

  ‘You think I’m an ogre, don’t you.’

  She took a deep breath, trying to see sense, trying for a bit of justice here. This man hadn’t asked to inherit. He didn’t want this place. He’d come, he’d sold, and he was moving on.

  Oh, but the pain he was causing...

  ‘Stanley’s been taking a cut,’ he said, slicing across her thoughts. Jumping right in where her thoughts were centred. He hadn’t come into the room—he was standing at the door as if he had no right to come further.

  ‘Stanley,’ she said cautiously, trying to fight back judgement for a moment. Let the accused speak...

  ‘I can’t lay it all on Stanley.’ His words were as bleak and hard as his face. He stood against the door-jamb as if he were in the dock admitting murder. ‘But it is my fault. Back in Manhattan I’d never have let an unknown employee have such responsibility, especially one I already suspected of dishonesty, but here it seemed I had no choice. I came over to settle the estate, sell it and get back to Manhattan. Stanley was the only retainer left who knew the place. I gave instructions but they weren’t followed. That’s up to me. I suspected the man was dishonest; I just hadn’t dreamed how much.’

  ‘What’s...so what’s he done?’ She could barely get her voice to work. She wasn’t inviting him in. She wasn’t lowering her bedclothes from around her neck. Bedclothes and distance were fragile armour but they were all she had.

  ‘He took a kick-back from the buyer’s financial men,’ he said. ‘He gets ten per cent of the value of any cottage included in the purchase. Stanley knew he had to communicate my offer to let each cottager buy, but he failed to mention the financial help I’d organised. So therefore every cottager was faced with a two-month eviction notice unless they could find finance on commercial terms. In this climate...’

  ‘Financial help? You were offering...what?’

  He told her. He stood and watched as she listened. He watched as he saw her thinking of the offer, how much it would have meant to Maggie, how much it would have meant to every cottager struggling to come to terms with leaving.

  But she still didn’t lower her bedclothes.

  ‘It’s better,’ she said at last. ‘I mean, it’s good. So, now you know, you’ll fix it?’

  ‘I’ll fix it. Stanley’s sacked and already gone. I hope to never see the man again, but my lawyers will be following him. No contract’s set in stone yet. Every cottager who wants to stay will be able to.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s that then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fantastic, she thought. Justice had been served. Maggie could stay. The village of Craigenstone would go on being Craigenstone. She should be whooping.

  She wasn’t.

  ‘So you’ll reorganise the cottage sales and go back to Manhattan?’ she asked dully.

  ‘See, there’s the thing,’ he said, gently now, as if he’d only just figured it out for himself but was afraid to say it aloud. Afraid to make it real. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wh...why not?’

  ‘Because this estate needs a Laird.’ And then he smiled, a tired, rueful smile, and he glanced down at his smoke-stained kilt, his sporran, all the trappings of his title. ‘Maybe it needs a man the villagers can refer to as Himself. Someone who cares. This estate’s been run down for generations. I spent a lot of last night talking to McAllister. It’s amazing how awake he can be when his passion’s firing and, at the first talk of estate restoration, fire it did. His body’s failing but his mind is razor-sharp. One hint from me and orders came thick and fast.’

  ‘Orders?’ Her bedclothes had slipped now, just a little, not so much as you’d notice, and she wasn’t noticing. She was too busy listening.

  ‘This valley has no industry at all. There was a woollen mill on the estate until thirty years ago, but it fell into disrepair during my father’s time. It needed massive upkeep but my father closed it rather than spending money, and its loss caused untold poverty for the crofters. Apparently our sheep produce the finest fleeces in all of Scotland. The reputation for our product remains to this day, but the land’s been let go to ruin, the crofters forced off the land by poverty, the market ignored. If I was to put in some decent infrastructure...restore the crofts...build more cottages rather than sell...put money back into restoring our flocks for fine wool...McAllister says there’s enough of our sheep left to pull the flocks back together. He also says there’s enough of the skills remaining in the old folk to get the mill restarted. Craigenstone Woollens. We might just make it work.’

  ‘But Angus, you’re talking years,’ she said, trying to get her head around what he was saying. ‘You’re talking...passion.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m talking staying here,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about not being like my forebears. I’m talking about bringing this valley back to life.’ And then he paused. ‘I’m talking life, my Holly. Here. With you. With the kids if they want to stay, and it seems right that they do. With McAllister behind me for as long as he’s able. I’m talking about forever.’

  ‘You’ve decided this in one night?’ She was so breathless she could scarcely get her words out. ‘How can you have decided so fast?’

  Still he didn’t come near. Maybe he didn’t think he had the right. Maybe he thought she’d scream the roof down. ‘Because it’s been a long night? No,’ he corrected himself. ‘It’s been a long three weeks. Three weeks to change a life?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, if you don’t touch me,’ she managed.

  ‘Are you scared of pillaging?’ He threw her a weary smile, and that smile...it made her world turn inside out.

  ‘Angus, I’m scared of me, not you,’ she admitted. ‘Up until yesterday, my hormones were going nuts for you and yes, they still are, and you’re still wearing that kilt and your legs are doing my head in, but I made my decision last night and I’ll stick to it.’

  ‘Even if my parameters have changed? Even if your accusation that I’m just like my father shoved something home that should have been shoved home years ago, and has been the catalyst for massive change. Holly, your accusations are just. Maybe my mother’s fears have been just. I live for myself—I always have. I don’t try to do harm. I put my head down and work and I make a lot of money, but I’ve never thought of the bigger picture. Or maybe I should make that the smaller picture. The financial corporation I run gives a lot to charity. I give when I’m asked, but I don’t give because I see need. That’s obviously because I don’t look.’

  ‘But you did look when Ben asked to come here,’ she admitted. ‘You did ask Dougal to come. You’ve filled the Castle.’

  ‘Yes, but that was because you were here,’ he said bluntly. ‘When I advertised for you I didn’t even want you. If I hadn’t found you I would have had an excuse not to have the kids here. I didn’t give myself.’

  ‘So...so now what?’ she managed, and finally he walked forward, he moved to her bedside but he didn’t touch her. He was still keeping his distance. Employer speaking to employee who’d thrown accusations at him and quit.

  ‘I’ve fallen in love with you, Holly McIntosh,’ he said softly into the stillness of the morning. ‘More. I’ve fallen in love with what you are, and it’s what I want to be. I want to be able to give like you do. I want to be able to live like you.’

  ‘What, fall in love with rubbish men?’ she demanded, and he smiled.

  ‘You’ve fallen in love with one and a half rubbish men. The final half has redeemed himself. Or int
ends to redeem himself. Holly, think about what we could do with this Castle. Think! We could turn this place around. Craigenstone would come to life again. I have the capital to inject. I’d love to do it; I will do it. Holly, if I need to, I’ll do it alone, but I don’t want that. I’ve fallen in love with my wonderful Christmas gift, my Holly, my girl who’s turned my life around.’

  ‘You...you don’t want to go back to Manhattan?’

  ‘I’ll need to go back and forth from time to time,’ he conceded. ‘The company’s running smoothly but I’ll still need to maintain my interest to fund what we need to do here. But...you’ve never been to Manhattan.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like to go?’ And then, before she could speak, he put his hand up. ‘Don’t answer. Not yet. I’m not asking for a Manhattan bride. I’m asking for a bride for Castle Craigie. I’m asking for a Lady for a Lord, a Herself to match Himself, a woman who’ll help make this Castle, this whole estate, truly grand. And who’ll occasionally accompany her husband on his business travels—when he really needs to be away and when he can’t bear to be parted from her.’

  ‘Angus...’

  ‘Because I can’t bear to be parted from you, Holly,’ he said softly, putting his fingers on her lips, and then he stooped and took her hands gently into his. ‘I love you, Holly McIntosh and I’ll do whatever it takes to make you love me. If that means every time I go to Manhattan I need to take along three kids, their mum, your gran, a dog, a cat, Dougal, his nurse, this whole amazing entourage, then so be it, but my days of being a loner are over. I don’t want to be Lord of Castle Craigie alone, my love. It’s quite a title and it needs to fit us all. I think Lord should be another word for family. Lord of Castle Craigie. Us.’

  And then, as she failed to speak—for how could she speak when her eyes were wet with tears?—he tugged her forward and she felt the last of her armour slip away. He tugged her into his arms and he held her, as if she were the most precious thing in the world, and Holly McIntosh’s world changed right there, right then.