As Gordon started to speak, his mobile rang and he indicated to me to sit down. ‘Please excuse me, but I should take this.’ He rolled his eyes good naturedly as he left the study.
I nodded and smiled again.
As I waited for him to return, I clutched at the notebook I’d spent the past fortnight jotting down ideas in—everything from possible colour schemes and layouts for the tea room to a suggestion for resuming tours of the house. Then there was the issue of recruiting staff for both the baking and cleaning. Thoughts about our opening hours leapt up at the front of my mind too. I had envisaged opening 9am to 4pm Monday to Saturday, with a slightly shorter day of 10am to 4pm on Sundays. I scrambled through my pages of notes, where I’d scribbled ‘rotational days off for staff’ so that everyone would have the benefit of a break.
‘Sorry about that,’ came Gordon’s voice as he returned and clicked the door closed.
His study was reminiscent of him, a calm and discreet exterior of solid wood panelling with polished redwood furniture. Yet I sensed that underneath it all there was a desire to succeed.
A large sash window boasted views of the side grounds, where a border of Scottish bluebells in the deepest shade of lavender jostled for attention beside white clusters of star-shaped cuckoo flowers. I cleared my throat and cast a glance at the notes in front of me.
Gordon seemed to sense my nerves. ‘Let’s start with the food, shall we? I’m sure that’s the most important part.’
I relaxed a little due to his friendly demeanour. ‘That’s a good idea.’
I referred to the menu section of my notes. ‘I don’t know what you think about this but I was going to suggest we include simple items on the menu to cover breakfast and lunch.’ I fiddled with my pen. ‘I wasn’t going to suggest full cooked breakfasts or anything like that. I imagine Thistles to be a classy tea room.’
A glance at the silver tea set already seated on Gordon’s desk reminded me of another point. ‘There will be no tea bags, only good quality leaf tea, and I thought we could offer traditional fruit and plain scones, toast, salmon and cream cheese bagels and maybe some quiche.’
I referred to my notes again to ensure I wasn’t missing anything important. ‘That should keep all the bases covered so we can concentrate on the baking side of things.’
Gordon smiled encouragingly and scribbled down some notes with his fountain pen. ‘This all sounds wonderful. You’re making me rather peckish!’
Pulling my gaze away from him for a moment, my eyes rested on a portrait of who I guessed must be Gordon’s late wife, Lydia. Her elfin face was enhanced by the pale blonde curls piled haphazardly on her head. An ice blue satin gown melted over her milky shoulders. She was stunning.
Gordon caught me staring at the painting. ‘It’s a rare one because she didn’t like to pose for stuffy portraits,’ he murmured. ‘She wasn’t at all pretentious.’ I turned to him and saw a distant longing cloud his face.
‘She was very beautiful,’ I said softly.
Gordon’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, she was. She must have been about your age when we had that painting commissioned.’
My attention slid away from the white gold features of Lydia. Another oil painting hung beside it, this one of Vaughan. He was all raven black hair and hard cheekbones. A black jacket and white shirt clung to his broad frame. Unlike his mother, there was no mischievous smile flirting on his lips. Instead, his defiant jaw exuded his usual air of provocation.
As if reading my thoughts, Gordon raised a grey eyebrow. ‘He isn’t as terrifying as he likes to make out. He’s just very protective of his family—well, what family we have left.’ My suspicious response must have been obvious, causing Gordon to lean forward on his desk. ‘Vaughan was very close to Lydia, and when she died he struggled for a long time. My son isn’t keen on the idea of reopening Glenlovatt to the public either.’
‘I would never have guessed,’ I smiled. ‘Why isn’t he?’
Gordon raised his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘He’s a very private young man. I think he believes that by opening up Glenlovatt again to the public, we’re somehow exposing ourselves and belittling the family name.’
‘But if the tea room is tasteful and does well, only good can come of it, surely?’ Aware that nerves were beginning to nibble away at me, I placed my hands in my lap. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m keen to move things along with the tea room as quickly as possible.’
‘Oh, so are we,’ assured Gordon. ‘But with your current job working for Kitty Walker, I don’t want you taking on too much.’
‘I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ve been fired,’ I blurted, heat spotting my cheeks.
Gordon blinked. ‘Fired? But why?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with anything underhand,’ I gabbled, anxious to reassure Gordon that I hadn’t done anything terrible, like sticking my hand in the till. My shoulders slumped in a defeatist manner. ‘I think Kitty viewed me as the opposition when I told her about what Hugo had done and she just wanted me gone after that.’
‘But that’s terrible!’
I shook my head. ‘I was relieved to go, actually. She was very difficult to work for.’
‘Well, her loss is our gain.’
Gordon slid open one of his desk drawers and produced a creamy envelope. Dark, spidery writing danced across the front. ‘It would appear,’ he explained, ‘that my father was very busy letter-writing right up to before he died.’ He dipped his fingers into the already open envelope and tugged out a letter. ‘Talk about thinking of everything,’ he said in a voice carrying more than a hint of admiration. ‘Before he passed away, Hugo arranged the legal and financial provision for Lydia’s art studio to be converted.’ His modulated Scottish burr mingled with the faint smell of ink and leather.
‘Sorry, what does that mean?’ I asked.
‘It means, young lady, that we are, in effect, raring to go. No bank loans, no planning permission, no red tape.’
Gordon eyed my puzzled face from across the desk. ‘Let’s just say my late father knew the right people. These people owed him a favour or three and he didn’t hesitate in calling them on it.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s even arranged for the best builders in the west of Scotland to do any conversion work.’
I leaned back in my chair. The very thought of all that negotiation and paperwork had been a real cause for concern. Then I realised something, which triggered my face to break into a grin. ‘He knew I would say yes.’
‘He did indeed,’ agreed Gordon. ‘So it really is just a case of you making this tea room something special.’
‘So no pressure then,’ I gasped, still grinning like an idiot.
Gordon put the letter back in the drawer. ‘I just wish Vaughan would get on side. It would make things a bit easier.’
I aimed a pointed look at Vaughan’s broody painting while I nervously fiddled with my silver bracelet. Perhaps it was proving to be lucky for me after all, now that my baking dreams were slowly becoming a reality, although I knew I would need all the help I could get dealing with that git!
As I prepared to leave, I casually glanced across at a couple of newspapers lying to the side of Gordon’s desk. Their pages were open, revealing two different photographs of Vaughan, one with a blonde hanging on his arm and the other with a moody-looking brunette draped around his neck.
Gordon’s gaze followed mine and he became grim-faced.
‘I’m afraid my son has this morning appeared in two separate gossip columns.’ He shook his head. ‘Goodness knows what happened to that American brunette he was seeing.’
An awkward silence settled across the study. I couldn’t imagine the very proper Gordon would ordinarily share such details with a near stranger; he must have been worried.
Beyond the ruby red curtains, a May morning was blossoming and I suddenly longed to be out there in it. ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ I exclaimed, clumsily jumping to my feet. ‘There’s plenty to do.’
&
nbsp; I’d only just started off across the great hall when I saw Vaughan striding up the corridor from the other direction and enter his father’s study.
Gordon’s muted tones reached me from his desk. ‘I’ve just had Lara in to see me about the tea room.’
The breath lodged in my throat when I heard my name mentioned. I hovered beside a grumpy looking grandfather clock and pretended to myself that I was interested in antiques, not eavesdropping.
‘Well, thank goodness I can be excused from discussing cake recipes,’ came Vaughan’s reply. ‘I’ve got a prospective client coming round to discuss an installation piece.’
I heard Gordon sigh as he replied, ‘Do you know what your problem is?’
‘No, but I think I’m about to find out.’
‘You haven’t met the right woman yet.’
Vaughan started to protest but Gordon ignored him. ‘When you do, you’re not going to know what’s hit you.’
In my mind I saw Gordon nod over at the black-and-white photograph of his late wife that sat on his desk. Lydia was posing on a windswept cliff top, her head thrown back and hair whipping around her animated face. ‘Believe me, son, there is no feeling like it.’
‘Yes. Well, until this mythical creature arrives, I’ll try to be more circumspect, okay, Dad?’
I heard the rustle of newspapers and decided it was time to complete my exit. Something told me Fairview’s resident grouch would refuse to play nicely.
Fourteen
‘Have you seen it, Dad?’ blazed Vaughan, barging into Gordon’s study. ‘It’s looking like something out of a bloody doll’s house!’
I opened my mouth to defend myself but Gordon got there first. I clutched at my scribbled notes, from which I’d been about to give Gordon an update on how things were progressing.
Gordon tugged off his square spectacles, plopping them onto a pile of papers. ‘I don’t know how you can come to that conclusion yet, son. The floor has simply been resanded and polished, and only the cake counter is in.’
Vaughan’s dark brows gathered together. ‘I’m telling you,’ he growled, ‘this tea room, and opening up Glenlovatt again, is a big mistake.’
I watched nervously as Gordon studied the beams of sunlight coming through his study window.
‘I don’t understand why you’re so against this,’ he puzzled. ‘Your mother adored this house and we were open to the public up until she passed away.’
At the mention of his late mother, Vaughan pointedly turned towards the window. ‘Exactly,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Our grief was private and it should stay private.’
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
Gordon smothered a sigh and stood up. In an instant, he was beside his son. ‘She’s been gone twelve years now.’
‘I’m only too aware of that,’ replied Vaughan, sounding pained.
‘And we’ll never forget her,’ soothed Gordon, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘But your mother wouldn’t want Glenlovatt falling into disarray or, even worse, having to be sold.’
‘Maybe I should go,’ I muttered, gathering my notes.
Vaughan raised a dark brow at me from over his shoulder.
‘No, Lara,’ directed Gordon. ‘You’re doing everything you can to help and I’m grateful to my father for bringing you to us.’
Vaughan sprung round to face his father, as though Gordon’s words had suddenly illuminated something for him. ‘Things aren’t that bad, are they?’
Gordon let out a dry laugh. ‘Nobody would guess you’ve been so hard at work for these past few months.’
‘That’s right,’ prickled Vaughan. ‘I’ve been working bloody hard on my sculpture commissions, Dad.’
‘I wasn’t talking about your sculptures,’ clarified Gordon with a pointed lift of his eyebrows.
Now it was my turn to stare emphatically out of Gordon’s study window. The emerald lawn rippled in the slight breeze and heavy headed daffodils bobbed their golden crowns as if in deep conversation with each other.
I could imagine Vaughan’s wolfish smile as he said, ‘Europe is full of beautiful treasures, and I’m hardly going to leave them unappreciated, am I?’
‘Yes, alright,’ snapped Gordon. ‘I’m sure Lara has even less interest in hearing about your exploits than I do.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I smiled tightly. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Of course, Lara. Thank you.’
As I turned to close the study door I saw Gordon resume his seat, staring up at Vaughan as if admiring the fine angles of his son’s face. Perhaps he was thinking Vaughan could turn heads, just like Lydia did.
‘All I meant to say was please be careful,’ I heard him warn. ‘And try to take other people into consideration. Some of these girls you’ve hurt had genuine feelings for you.’
I paused outside the slightly ajar door at these words. Even as I hoped this eavesdropping wasn’t going to become a habit, I was too intrigued to move.
Vaughan dismissed his father’s cautionary words. ‘Oh, come on, Dad! It’s all just a bit of fun.’
‘For you, perhaps. As I’ve told you before, the problem with you, son, is that you’ve never been in love.’
‘And how would you know?’ barked Vaughan.
Gordon’s voice was heavy. ‘Believe me, if you’d ever been in love the way I was with your mother, you’d know.’
I pictured Vaughan grinding his teeth. ‘We’re straying off the subject again here, Dad. And, as you say, we’ve discussed my love life before.’
Then Vaughan asked a question that made my chest flutter with concern. ‘Are things that bad financially?’
I could detect resignation in Gordon’s tone. ‘Yes, things are pretty bad. Why do you think your grandfather went to all this trouble in his will?’
‘But why didn’t you tell me, Dad? I could have helped.’
‘What, from your art studio or your latest conquest’s boudoir, perhaps?’ There was a chilly silence.
‘Sorry,’ apologised Gordon after a pause, ‘I didn’t mean that. I wanted you to concentrate on your commissions. They’re a great opportunity for you. The last thing I wanted to do was burden you with our leaky roof and dodgy heating.’
Vaughan made a short grunting sound, but Gordon continued, ‘Listen, son, some extra income would be more than welcome and the tea room could very well be the answer.’
There was another period of silence. ‘We have to do this for the sake of Glenlovatt,’ Gordon said eventually. ‘It’s what your grandfather wanted and, if she were here, I know your mother would have wanted it too.’
‘Okay,’ Vaughn agreed tightly. ‘If there is no other way.’
‘Believe me, son, there isn’t. And you never know, the new tea room could be the making of this place.’
Vaughan said pessimistically, ‘I’m reserving judgement on that for now.’
I was sorely tempted to burst back into the room and deliver a swift punch to that angular jaw of Vaughan’s as I heard him mutter, ‘Well, just make sure Lara McDonald doesn’t turn Mum’s studio into Santa’s grotto.’
‘Now, is there anything that I’ve missed?’
One of Morven’s carefully plucked brows arched. ‘Are you trying to be funny, Lars? You’ve got everything covered and, as you said yourself, dear old Hugo made sure all the basics were in place before he passed.’
We both looked around Lydia’s old art room. There was a sea of shelving waiting to be put up, and tins of glossy white paint sat with their lids gaping open like greedy mouths, as the decorators got to work with thick paintbrushes. The crackle of a radio could just be heard above the whizzing and whirring of drills.
I pointed to the patio doors at the end of the room. ‘I suggested to Gordon that we use those as another entry point to the tea room, as well as through the great hall—at least to begin with.’
‘What do you mean?’
I dropped my voice a little lower as I answered Morven. ‘Well, I was thinkin
g that we should keep visitors coming to us via the great hall for now, as it might pique people’s interest and make them want to see the rest of the house.’
A slow smile spread over Morven’s face. ‘You mean if they bring back guided tours?’
‘Absolutely. And of course that would generate not only more income for the house, but more customers for us.’
‘I like it,’ said Morven. Then she gave me a sideways look. ‘Why don’t you go and take a break? You look like you could be doing with a dose of fresh air.’
‘But I’ve got to confirm a time for the delivery of the dishwasher and I wanted to get another quote from that local laundry company.’ I let out a gasp. ‘Oh, and we said we’d talk about the social media side of things too, didn’t we? I mean, we’re going to need Facebook and Instagram accounts for the tea room.’
With one push between my shoulder blades, Morven had me out of the patio doors. ‘All that social media stuff is in hand, Lars.’
‘But what about job adverts for staff?’
‘Right you! I’ve had enough! Go and take a breather for half an hour. I am capable of using a telephone, you know.’
‘But I also need to speak to the local paper about advertising costs,’ I bleated, mentally running through dates. ‘If we want to open on the sixteenth of July—’
‘Out!’ roared Morven, planting her French-manicured hands on her hips.
With a faux wounded expression, I mouthed a grateful ‘Thank you’.
The gardens of Glenlovatt were positively frothing with colour. Thrusting heads of golden and cream daffodils had given way to pushy lavender wallflowers, tufty pansies in watercress green and rose pink magnolias.
Meandering around the manor’s grounds was a far more enjoyable way to spend a lunchtime than the forty-five minute respite from Kitty I had at True Brew. I glanced down at my watch. I could spare another ten minutes. Morven was doing her best impersonation of Wonder Woman. I didn’t know what I would have done without her.
A Room at the Manor Page 7
