I’d just started scooping them onto a cake stand when I heard a growing buzz of conversation from the tea room and the sudden scraping of chairs. I peered round the kitchen door to see a tide of customers abandoning their cakes and buzzing eagerly towards Mrs Kendrick. She was in the centre of it all, a blue-rinsed beacon basking in the attention.
What juicy gossip was she announcing now? By the looks of it, it was something pretty spectacular. I abandoned my tower of scones and edged in beside Kitty.
I couldn’t help but notice the inquisitive expressions of our customers transforming into ones of sadness and shock. Even Kitty, whose face normally only had two expressions—sour and very sour—registered disbelief.
‘What is it?’ I asked a man clutching his little boy’s hand. ‘What’s going on?’
The young dad swiped a napkin across the child’s icing-dotted mouth. ‘Hugo Carmichael, the old laird, has passed away.’
His voice was light but the heavy words felt as though they were jumping up to slap me in the face. All I could manage was a strangulated, ‘What?’
‘The old laird has died. Such a shame. He was such a pleasant old chap.’ He plopped a five-pound note onto the counter. ‘Very sudden, by the sounds of it.’
I steadied myself against the counter, unable to focus clearly on anything, and watched in a daze as the man and his son wound their way through the chatting throng to the door.
Nine
The sun pushed through a bank of cloud, illuminating the windows of Hugo’s ancestral home. I stood beside Kitty at the back of a large crowd of mourners in the grounds of Glenlovatt, where Hugo was being laid to rest in the family vault, a gated mausoleum protected by a huddle of leafy oak trees. The granite of Hugo’s final resting place sparkled softly in the light. The family crest with its bright blue and gold carvings of thistles and roses brought warmth to the stone.
I was relieved when Kitty suggested closing True Brew after the morning rush so we could pay our respects. It seemed so sudden. In the very short time I knew him I’d become very fond of Hugo, and to have our blossoming friendship end so suddenly filled me with sadness. Despite his frailties, there was so much life and mischief in those wise old eyes. He may have been approaching ninety but he was such a force of nature, and I was really beginning to value his advice and kindness. I pushed back the lump collecting in my throat.
To the right of me, partly concealed by an assortment of black hat–wearing women and tall, sharply dressed men, was Hugo’s son Gordon, the current laird. I’d never met him but had seen him zipping through Fairview in his Land Rover on a few occasions. He bore his grief well, smiling slightly at the words of comfort offered to him while pulling his black wool coat tighter and inclining his silver head.
More people drifted into my line of sight. There was the odd flap of a silk tie and the wink of designer handbags. Another man appeared beside the laird, all shoulder-length black hair and steely jaw. The collar of his navy coat was upturned, giving him a mysterious air. I raised myself onto my booted toes to have another look but at that moment a Scandinavian type modelling an enormous grey affair on her head stepped in front of me. My view of the tall, dark stranger was well and truly obscured by the trendy angles of her hat. I took a brisk step sideways for another view across the sea of bobbing heads but he’d gone.
Kitty nudged my arm. ‘What are you doing, Lara?’ she hissed out of the corner of her jammy red mouth. ‘You’re fidgeting about like a five-year-old.’
I took the opportunity to study my boss’s funeral ensemble again. She too was wearing a hat, except hers was more like a hovering flying saucer. Any minute now I expected the black circular design to blast light over her steel curls and abduct her.
Well, I could live in hope, couldn’t I?
She buried her gloved hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. ‘Sharp breeze considering it’s almost May. I wonder what we’ll get for lunch.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I thought you wanted to get back to open the shop?’
Kitty answered my question with an indifferent shrug. ‘There’s no great hurry, is there? Hugo was a frequent customer. The least we can do is pay our respects.’
And partake of the Carmichael family’s hospitality, I thought silently. Yes, the lure of a good funeral buffet and the throng of Scottish movers and shakers were just too much of a temptation for Kitty. Losing out on lunchtime profits paled in comparison with the idea of networking with people from some of Scotland’s most influential families. With one last lingering look at Hugo’s burial place, I followed Kitty and the other mourners towards the house.
Despite the sunshine, Glenlovatt Manor seemed melancholy, somehow lacking the vibrancy of when Hugo brought me here just over a week ago. It felt like an eternity now, following him through the vast corridors under the watchful eye of his regal family portraits.
Staff directed us up the steps and into the dining room. My heart lurched when I thought about the decadent lunch Hugo arranged for us that day. Goodness knows what he had planned to speak to me about. I pushed my curls away from my face. Oh well. I would never know now.
The dining table had been transported to the furthest end of the room, allowing waiting staff to weave in and out of the clusters of mourners, proffering plates of finger food. The platters were filled with an assortment of gourmet treats: pasties sprinkled with toasted pistachios, mini roast beef and mustard rolls, cheddar and chutney on oatcakes, and hot smoked Scottish salmon with mascarpone cheese.
Kitty was off like a rocket on the fifth of November, using her octopus reach to gather an assortment of items. I didn’t feel hungry but accepted a cup of tea and hovered in a corner with a large oval mirror opposite. I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring back at me from the gilt-edged frame. Red curls spilled over my shoulders, a bright splash against my plain dark coat. Thank goodness I’d decided to wear my bottle green scarf; I would have looked positively anaemic otherwise.
I buried my nose in the warm, familiar aroma of my teacup. Glancing up again, I caught sight of a short, spectacled man staring at my reflection in the mirror. He appeared constrained by his dark grey three-piece suit and slash of navy tie. He was clutching a briefcase. Surely a salesman wouldn’t highjack a funeral, I thought incredulously.
He stared at me for a few more moments before skimming his hand over the top of his receding dark hair and moving towards me with fast steps. My teacup remained halfway to my mouth when he said in a soft Glaswegian burr, ‘Excuse me, are you Ms Lara McDonald?’
‘Yes?’
He extended his hand and I shook it after gingerly balancing my cup in my left hand.
‘I’m Graeme Chalmers of Chalmers & Logie Solicitors. Can I have a quick word?’
‘Er, yes. Alright.’
Confused, I handed my almost empty cup to a passing waiter and followed Mr Chalmers out of the buzzing dining room and into an alcove further down the great hall. The coolness emanating from the chequered tiles under my feet was a welcome relief from the stuffy room.
‘I’ve been instructed by the late Mr Hugo Carmichael,’ he began, running his fingers down his tie. ‘Are you able to attend a meeting at my offices on Thursday morning at ten?’
I tried to process what he was saying. ‘You’re Hugo’s solicitor? Why do you want to see me?’
He didn’t reply. He merely stood there, waiting for a response.
‘Um, yes, probably. Yes. Alright,’ I answered, confused. But what is this all about?’
Mr Chalmers met my question with a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t divulge any information about Mr Carmichael’s will until we meet.’
He pulled a business card from his inside jacket pocket and I saw a flash of blue satin lining. ‘I look forward to seeing you on Thursday morning, Ms McDonald.’
Questions raced through my head so fast I thought my brain might implode. ‘How did you know who I was?’ I asked his retreating back.
Mr Chalmers’ mouth twitched
. ‘Mr Carmichael told me to look for the Pre-Raphaelite girl.’
Ten
The train zipped into the outskirts of Glasgow, streaks of wide open spaces and Hansel and Gretel cottages now giving way to black ribbons of motorway.
As Queen Street Station surged into view, my stomach lurched in very much the same way as the train did. The last time I felt this nervous was when Anton had told me he needed to talk.
I’d made an effort for this meeting with Hugo’s solicitor. A slim navy skirt skimmed my knees, topped off with a cream pussy-bow blouse and my leather jacket. I wiggled my toes in their sharp black court shoes. No pain, no gain, I suppose.
In order to wangle the morning off I’d had to employ every ounce of my mediocre acting ability to fool Kitty, ringing up as early as I could and feigning a headache. After a predictable stream of unsympathetic grunts, I promised to dose myself up with painkillers and plenty of water. ‘I’ll be in about lunchtime,’ I assured her.
‘Oh, alright,’ came the snappy response, followed by a cacophony of clattering plates, ‘but get here as soon as you can. I need reliable staff, you know!’
I’d slammed my mobile down before blowing an undignified raspberry. What an old bag!
Clutching my navy shoulder bag, I shuffled off the train with a stream of commuters, most preoccupied with their phones or studying the displays on the platform for their connecting service.
The Glasgow skyline was grey today against the sharp angles of tower blocks, glass offices and high-rise department stores. The offices of Chalmers & Logie Solicitors were only five minutes’ walk from Sauchiehall Street, which my poor feet were grateful for. I looked like any other working woman as I hurried past shop windows alongside the churn of traffic, my hair tied back with some black ribbon. People darted across the pavement in front of me like out-of-control skittles.
As I reached the solicitors’ offices, I took a deep breath to calm myself. Why on earth had the lawyer of an elderly Scottish aristo I hardly knew summoned me here? For the three days since Hugo’s funeral my thoughts had catapulted from one theory to another until I decided my nerves couldn’t take any more surmising. All the answers, I hoped, were behind this formidable façade of grey stone and black painted door.
My nervous reflection bounced back at me from the mirrored wall behind an immaculately groomed receptionist, who directed me to a plush waiting room furnished with a black leather sofa, white scatter cushions and monochrome paintings. I politely declined her offer of tea or coffee—the twist in my stomach suggested neither was a good idea I’d probably drop the lot and have to pay for the white carpet to be professionally cleaned—and instead tried to distract myself with the artwork on display. A pencil drawing of a young girl clutching a small sunflower caught my attention. I was studying its sweeping pencil strokes when the receptionist appeared in front of me. ‘Ms McDonald, Mr Chalmers will see you now.’
I trailed behind her red heels to another black door. She rapped gently, offered an encouraging smile and then disappeared.
Pinning a shaky smile on my face, I pushed open the heavy door. Mr Chalmers rose to his feet from behind an oak desk that was overloaded with files and other clutter. A quick glance suggested that his office was expensively decorated, the deep beige walls boasting three large prints of Glasgow scenes in substantial silver frames. One showed the Clyde shipyards, with cranes lurking over the water; another, views of Sauchiehall Street at Christmas, snow and decorations illuminated by the glow of street lamps and car headlights. The third photograph was of George Square in spring, flowers bursting out of baskets and pigeons hovering near office workers lapping up the sun. A shelf of glossy-spined books ran the length of the wall behind his desk.
But my attention was soon taken by the three men sitting opposite Mr Chalmers.
Their faces were all familiar. One of them, the dapper, silver-haired man, was Gordon Carmichael, Hugo’s son and the current laird. The second man was Travis, the family chauffeur cum butler. The other man seated beside him was the dark-haired, chisel-jawed figure from Hugo’s funeral.
Surprise was drawn on all our faces at the sight of one another.
From behind a pair of gilt-edged spectacles Graeme Chalmers announced, ‘This is Ms Lara McDonald. Ms McDonald, please meet Gordon Carmichael, Hugo’s son. This is Vaughan Carmichael, Hugo’s grandson, and this is Mitchell Travis, the family’s chauffeur and trusted employee.’
As the three of them rose to their feet, an image of a sombre, dark-haired teenager popped into my mind. Vaughan must be the grumpy kid in the photograph, I thought.
Gordon and Vaughan shared curious glances as they shook my hand. Gordon smiled quizzically, at least, while Vaughan Carmichael’s jaw seemed to harden. ‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered towards Mr Chalmers. ‘I thought this was the family reading of the will.’
His steely blue gaze was upon me again. I took an involuntary step backwards.
‘It is the reading of the will, yes,’ replied Mr Chalmers.
‘But she isn’t family,’ said Vaughan, his voice adopting a blunter tone and his dark brows gathering like storm clouds. He made me think of a bad-tempered Christian Bale. Embarrassment made my skin prickle. ‘Look,’ I said, tugging at my bag strap, ‘I don’t know why Hugo arranged for me to be here either. I’m as confused as you are.’
‘Could everyone please take a seat?’ suggested an anxious Mr Chalmers. ‘Then we can get started.’
I sat down in the vacant seat next to Gordon and smoothed down my skirt nervously for something to do. The laird’s mouth flickered a hint of a smile sideways but his grouchy son merely stared straight ahead.
As Mr Chalmers proceeded to read out Hugo’s will in a clear voice, ghostly pictures of him floated before my eyes and I smiled fleetingly. Unsurprisingly, he had left Glenlovatt Manor equally to his son and grandson but seemingly not as much money as they had envisaged, judging by the surprised rise and fall of their eyebrows.
Then a paragraph was read out for the attention of Travis. The Carmichael employee looked genuinely touched as Mr Chalmers read out that Hugo always considered him a ‘much loved and respected friend and employee’. Travis dropped his dark head slightly and sucked in a mouthful of air as Mr Chalmers carried on reading. ‘“I therefore bequeath my cellar of Dalmore whisky to Mitchell Travis with my gratitude and appreciation for his service over the years.”’
‘I can’t accept that, sir,’ he protested to Gordon. ‘It’s too much.’
Gordon dismissed his words. ‘Yes, you can accept it, and you will. My father would be most offended if you didn’t. He thought a great deal of you, Travis, as we all do.’
Travis nodded gravely. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Mr Chalmers turned to me. ‘Now, the late Mr Carmichael has left specific instructions for you, Ms McDonald.’
I ignored Vaughan, who shot forwards in his seat as if he’d had an electric current fired up his backside.
Mr Chalmers cleared his throat as he read. ‘“I, Hugo Carmichael, leave my late daughter-in-law’s art studio at Glenlovatt Manor to Miss Lara McDonald.”’ He looked up.
I stared back at Mr Chalmers, whose expression was expectant. ‘Art studio?’
He nodded briefly. ‘Yes. Lydia Carmichael’s art studio in Glenlovatt Manor,’ he repeated.
I stared back at the surprised faces examining me. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘There’s more, Ms McDonald,’ clarified Mr Chalmers. He turned his attention back to the papers he held in his hand and began to read again. ‘“Lydia’s art studio must be turned into a tea room for both the benefit of Glenlovatt Manor and as a business opportunity for Miss McDonald.”’
Vaughan was appalled. ‘Tea room?’ He threw his hands into the air. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
Mr Chalmers eyed him carefully. ‘No, sir, it most certainly isn’t. Shall I continue?’
Vaughan folded his suited arms across his chest. ‘Oh, please do. I can
hardly wait to hear the rest.’
Gordon gave his son a withering look.
‘“Glenlovatt Manor,’ continued Mr Chalmers, ‘was my family home for ninety years. However, as with many ancestral homes, modern demands and ever-increasing costs mean that it is in danger of falling into disrepair. I therefore direct that the art studio be converted into a tea room.”’
Mr Chalmers ignored Vaughan’s snort of derision. ‘“This tea room business will be part-owned and operated by Miss Lara McDonald.”’
The breath caught in my throat. I swivelled my head in disbelief, first looking at Gordon and then at Vaughan. The only face that carried a modicum of enthusiasm about the announcement was Travis’s.
Mr Chalmers paused for dramatic effect before resuming reading out the remainder of Hugo’s instructions. ‘“Lydia, wanted Glenlovatt to move with the times, as do I. Therefore, this new venture will not only benefit Miss McDonald but also the future of Glenlovatt Manor and the Carmichael family.”’
Vaughan opened his mouth angrily but Mr Chalmers silenced him with a simple lift of one finger as he continued. ‘“I wish for the gross profits from the tea room to be split between Miss McDonald and Glenlovatt Manor in a sixty to forty per cent arrangement.”’
Mr Chalmers snapped up his head from the clutch of papers at the sound of me gasping. He smiled as he finished: ‘“I wish Miss McDonald every success in her new venture. I only knew this young lady for a short while, unfortunately, but I know she will make a huge success of it. I have every faith in her.”’
He flicked his glasses off, placing them carefully on the desk.
A Room at the Manor Page 5
