A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  With fresh eyes, I took in the shiny wooden tables and high-backed chairs. The cake counter now had several wooden shelves running along the wall behind it. Assorted screw-top jars of tea and coffee sat there, along with a large chrome coffee machine. A small blackboard, currently blank, was hung beside the coffee machine, ready to boast about our assorted treats. My heart lurched at the sight of the electronic till and credit card machine. I wasn’t a seven-year-old playing shop. I was a twenty-seven-year-old businesswoman, charged with making Thistles profitable and securing the future of Glenlovatt Manor.

  No pressure.

  Then I spotted the boxes of reprinted menus piled neatly in one corner. Just in time. With the kitchen scissors I prised a box open and anxiously read through one of the menus, checking for typos. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was perfect.

  I removed the rest of them from the boxes and began propping two on each of the tables, against the mini sugar bowls Morven had organised. They featured a ribbon of Clan Carmichael tartan of moss and sage green, decorated with squares of blue.

  Then I brought out my to-do list and tried to calm my nervous excitement by walking through everything methodically. I triple checked the fridges, pantry area and barista’s station were all well stocked; fired up the credit card machine and the till to make sure there wouldn’t be any technical glitches; and made sure all the jams and marmalades for sale were stickered with prices.

  Finally, I picked up my jacket and bag from a nearby table, knowing there was nothing else to be done until the baking the next morning. My stomach lurched at the thought as I made a move to leave.

  ‘Ow! Bloody hell.’

  I snatched my finger away from the patio door, where I’d managed to catch it as I’d pulled it closed. A dull ache was followed by a flash of red as my fingertip throbbed. That would no doubt turn into an impressive bruise by the morning.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Vaughan was hovering just behind me.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I just caught my finger in the door.’

  I made a move to walk past him but he put his arm out and said gruffly, ‘Let me take a look.’

  Please go away, I pleaded inwardly. Take your white shirt and faded jeans and just go.

  ‘It’s fine. Really,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve only caught it in a door. I don’t require resuscitation.’

  A mischievous smile flashed across his face. ‘I can do that too, if you like.’

  I straightened my back. ‘No, thanks. Big day tomorrow, so I should get going.’

  Vaughan took a large step, blocking my path. ‘Not until I’ve checked your hand is okay. You’ve got a twenty-minute drive home.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ I shoved my hand out. ‘See? It’s fine.’

  He gently took me by the elbow. ‘I think that’ll be a nasty bruise. Come on, there’s some arnica in the store cupboard.’

  He led me back through the tea room, into the great hall and down a short flight of stone steps that took a sharp turn to the right. His Timberland boots echoed loudly beside my trainers. He pushed open an old, battered door to reveal a narrow cupboard with a very dusty window and some cheap shelving. Below the window were a sink and a rickety cabinet.

  Vaughan cranked the cold tap on and, before I could react, plunged my offending red finger under it.

  ‘Aaargh! That’s freezing! You could have prepared me.’

  ‘By doing what, exactly? Placing a few scented candles around the place? Wafting essential oils in the air?’

  I scowled up at him looming over me. ‘There’s no need for sarcasm. You know what I mean.’ I snatched my hand out from under the water and Vaughan turned the tap off. There was a grumpy gurgle from the pipes.

  ‘Keep still while I dry your finger and put some arnica on. Can you move it?’

  I was sorely tempted to show him how flexible my middle finger actually was but decided against it.

  He reached up to the cupboard above the chipped white sink and pulled out the cream.

  ‘Is it in date?’

  He rolled his blue eyes. ‘Of course it is. I only bought it the other week. I use it a lot when I’m working. A professional hazard.’

  A lump of something collected at the base of my throat as he gently wiped my hand dry with a fresh towel from a nearby shelf and then proceeded to massage in the cream.

  I flicked a quick glance up at his face, expecting him to be looking down with those spidery dark lashes of his, concentrating on the task in hand. He was studying me instead, his black hair sweeping over his shoulders.

  ‘That’s a lot better, thank you,’ I coughed, pulling away. ‘The pain is easing off now, but I’ll probably have a nice bruise there by morning.’

  Vaughan’s soft expression vanished. ‘Yes, probably.’

  I reached down for my bag and briskly marched out of the dimly lit room.

  Twenty-two

  I swung my Cleo into the parking area at the side of the house and gripped the steering wheel for much longer than was necessary. It was very early but I needed to get a head start for opening day.

  I perched my sunglasses on top of my head and checked out my reflection in the visor mirror. What with a chronic lack of sleep last night, my eyes were staring out of my face like two poached eggs. A chorus of wood pigeons serenaded me as I stepped out in a white T-shirt, black jeans and trainers—what with all the baking that had to be done, I needed to be comfortable. I grabbed my handbag from the back seat and locked the car.

  The lawns were layered by the first rays of sunshine, and a fresh, crisp breeze weaved its way through the avenues of trees and the flowerbeds, where the scalloped camellias raised their heads to the sky. Glenlovatt Manor had the ability to wind its way around your heart and steal your affections without you even realising it. No wonder Hugo and Lydia had loved the place so much. I glanced at the mausoleum, nestled peacefully further down the grounds. I just knew Hugo was willing me to succeed.

  I headed for the tea room’s patio doors, praying that a certain dark-haired sculptor was still in bed. Firmly pushing away images of Vaughan lying there all sinewy under his covers, I marched inside, to be met by Gordon coming through the door to the great hall. ‘My goodness, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes on a Monday morning!’

  I smiled back, pointing at his sharp navy suit, blue shirt and pale gold tie. ‘You do know you’re going to be swooned over by the ladies of Fairview if you insist on wearing that?’

  Two streaks of colour trailed across Gordon’s cheeks. ‘Oh, don’t say that!’ Then he folded his arms. ‘I was a bit surprised you didn’t stay over after the ball, as Morven did, but Travis said you were a bit under the weather . . . ?’

  I concealed a fond smile at the thought of Travis. What would I do without him?

  ‘That’s right. I just felt a bit off colour.’

  Gordon’s brows furrowed. ‘What a shame. Well, I’ll let you get to it, but I just came in to say thank you, Lara.’

  I could feel a blush steadily rising on my cheeks. ‘I should be thanking you.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s not so,’ he corrected me kindly. ‘You’ve taken on this challenge and you really didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘I did. I have to show you and Hugo that he hasn’t made a mistake by putting so much faith in me.’

  As Gordon left for his study, I headed into the kitchen.

  There were still a few hours until we were due to open, so I whisked on one of our new Thistles aprons and got to work on some cherry pie cupcakes. Next I’d have to do the coconut and lime cake, and then a chocolate Guinness cake. Jess would be arriving in half an hour and Morven would be joining us just before opening.

  Excitement shot through me like a bullet as I added sugared roast almonds to my baking mix. I watched the glacé cherries bob up and down as my mixer folded them in. They looked like little crimson boats negotiating a creamy sea. I dipped in a teaspoon to taste my mixture, closing my eyes. The tangy cherries merged with the to
asted taste of the almonds. Perfection.

  ‘So, that’s tea for two, one slice of gin and tonic loaf, and one frangipane tart.’

  I’d delivered the order to the table with a satisfied smile. Thistles had been open for only a couple of hours but business was steady.

  Our two inaugural cakes of the day—a pear and ginger cake with whipped cream and rum-caramel glaze, and a more traditional orange layer cake—sat like two vain ladies on top of their respective cake stands. Our cake display was a cornucopia of colour; waves of snowy icing atop slabs of fruit-studded cakes jostled deep pink cupcake cases that were filled with swathes of golden baking. Jess had placed her latest batch of sourdough focaccia on a glass platter at the far end of the counter. They were just out of the oven, their specks of green olives and plum tomato glowing like jewels in the crusty mounds of bread. In a twist on the traditional date and oat slice, I’d laced caramel through the mix and then speckled the top with dark chocolate shavings as a finishing touch.

  Jess eyed my slice with relish. ‘I know what I’m having with my cuppa at break time.’

  ‘That’s if I don’t get there first,’ grinned Morven. ‘Blimey, ladies, if I keep working here, I’m going to have to go up a size or two!’

  Earlier that morning, Gordon had come back in to ‘test’ a slice of my chocolate Guinness cake and quench his thirst with an Americano. Now Mrs Baylis, a retired local librarian turned Glenlovatt tour guide, popped in. Decked out in tweed and pearls, her powdered face was wreathed in joy as she looked around Thistles for the first time.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ she gasped, clasping my hand, ‘the late lady laird would have loved this.’

  With her passion for local history, Mrs Baylis had jumped at Gordon’s offer to be the official tour guide at Glenlovatt. It had been decided that she would undertake two tours a day, three times a week, to begin with, to monitor public demand. Then, if there was an appetite for them, the number of tours could be increased.

  Mrs Baylis glanced down at her dainty watch. ‘The first coach party of tourists should be here soon.’

  ‘Are visitors allowed to see the entire house?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, only the great hall, the dining room and drawing room, and then the guest bedrooms upstairs. The grounds too, of course.’ With a smile, she added, ‘I’ll make sure we end the tours at the tea room.’

  ‘That suits us!’ I said. ‘I’m sure we’ll not have many issues recruiting additional staff in here, should the tours really take off.’

  The metallic rear of a coach slid into view. Mrs Baylis smiled again as she headed for the great hall. ‘That’s the spirit, Lara.’

  An elderly couple dressed in walking gear popped their ruddy faces around the patio doors. ‘Excuse me. Are you open?’ asked the man hopefully.

  ‘Yes, of course. Please come in.’

  They nodded polite greetings to the other tables, a few of which were now occupied, and began to openly admire the cakes.

  Over the hum of conversation and muted music (I’d selected an array of classical pieces and Scottish reels that were on my iPod) I scooped up two plates from behind the counter, ready to serve the walkers.

  The morning passed in a whirl of hungry holiday-makers, and even a small group of primary school children who had come for a short visit to the grounds. Lunchtime came around with Morven having spent the latter part of the morning clearing up the children’s debris and keeping them occupied with tales of Gary, the Glenlovatt pirate. My satisfaction at seeing our kitchen return to some semblance of order after the lunchtime rush was abruptly interrupted by a voice behind me.

  ‘Lara?’ Vaughan stood by the kitchen entrance, pushing a lock of hair off his face. Excitement was quickly extinguished by irritation, more at myself than anything else.

  Behind him, Morven’s eyes swivelled between Vaughan and me. Then she popped her blonde head around the kitchen door. ‘Jess, I just need a hand behind the counter for a sec.’

  Jess replied, ‘Ah. Got you. Okay.’

  I took a steadying breath and flicked a tea towel over my shoulder. ‘Hi,’ I declared, indicating some sticky toffee muffins, two slices of raspberry and coconut loaf and a single wedge of lemon meringue pie. ‘Leftovers from this morning. Anything you fancy?’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why hadn’t I just given him an icy stare instead of resorting to suggestive chitchat?

  Vaughan’s lips twitched. ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

  I folded my arms across my chest. ‘You know what I mean.’

  He grinned. ‘I do. The place looks great.’

  ‘So not like something out of a snowglobe then.’

  ‘No, it’s great. Very classy. Just like its new owner.’

  Okay, unexpected. My face tingled with sparks of heat. ‘Thank you.’

  He leaned closer, his blue eyes intense in a way that made me step backwards. ‘I need to speak to you about Petra.’

  ‘You do?’ I replied cautiously.

  He came further into the kitchen, his spidery lashes fluttering against his cheeks. ‘Well, the thing is, I’m not exactly engaged.’

  Now seemed like a good time to wipe the already clean work top again. ‘Not exactly engaged?’ I asked, wishing I wasn’t so bloody interested. ‘What does that mean?’

  Vaughan cleared his throat. ‘Petra and I have been dating on and off for several months. Her family and mine have been close since we were kids.’

  I put down the tea towel. ‘You don’t have to tell me any of this. In fact, I’m not sure why you are. It’s none of my business.’

  Vaughan watched me stack a pile of plates in the dishwasher. ‘I just wanted to explain, that’s all. She’s desperate to get married. She drops hints like two-ton bricks every chance she gets. But we’re not engaged.’

  I raised my eyes to his. Why did he have to stare like that?

  ‘So why don’t you tell her that?’ I replied.

  Vaughan pulled a hand through his hair and it fell down around his face. ‘Believe me, I have.’

  The conversation paused while I closed a couple of cupboard doors.

  ‘Petra seems to think if she mentions marriage often enough, it will happen.’ He leaned across the work top towards me, tilting his slightly stubbled angular jaw. ‘But I am not engaged to her,’ he repeated. ‘And I never will be.’

  Silence fell between us, and before I knew what was happening our lips were inches apart and I found myself staring at the dark stubble snaking around his jaw.

  ‘Vaughan?’ came a high-pitched voice from somewhere behind him. ‘When are you coming back?’

  A young blonde woman had draped herself in the kitchen doorway, a cream bedsheet wrapped around her from which a golden shoulder protruded. Lingering lunchtime customers stared incredulously at the half-dressed blonde. Was Vaughan Carmichael for real?

  I sprang backwards, as if jolted by an electric shock. ‘You’d better get back to it,’ I ground out. ‘She’ll catch her death in that.’

  ‘This isn’t what it looks like,’ protested Vaughan.

  ‘It never is, is it?’

  Vaughan blinked a few times. ‘You’re determined to think the worst of me, aren’t you?’ With a dry laugh, he added, ‘Well, you think what you like, Lara. Maybe I should start living up to your high expectations of me.’

  He turned and draped one arm across the shoulders of the sheet-clad blonde before sauntering nonchalantly out of the tea room.

  Twenty-three

  ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

  Morven’s emerald green eyes widened over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Don’t be a daft cow!’

  ‘I’m not,’ I bleated, tugging at my frayed socks. ‘I think I’ve just underestimated all the work Thistles would take and I don’t think I’m up to it.’

  A month had whipped by since the tea room opened and also since Vaughan’s and my argument. From that day, on the very rare occasions I spotted him prowling around Glenlovatt, we’
d only acknowledged each other with a curt ‘Hello’. This week Gordon had mentioned that Vaughan was away in London, showcasing his latest sculptures at some poncy arts event.

  I was relieved. It was for the best under the circumstances.

  Morven banged down her cup, dragging me back to reality. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you quit now. You’re doing really well with Thistles, and you owe it to the memory of that sweet old man. He believed in you and so do I.’

  ‘That’s not fair bringing Hugo into this.’

  Morven nodded. ‘No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have mentioned Hugo. But I know it’s nothing to do with you not being up for the task. It’s that bloody sculptor!’

  My coffee cup froze as it reached my mouth. ‘What?’

  Morven folded her arms. ‘Your low mood has got nothing to do with the workload of Thistles. It’s because of Vaughan Carmichael, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. The guilty expression clouding my eyes answered her question.

  ‘I don’t mean to bring it up again,’ said Morven gently, ‘but have you forgotten that a half-naked blonde appeared at the tea room only a few weeks back?’

  I swung my head sharply to look at her. ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten.’

  Morven tucked her knees tighter under her on the sofa, leaning over to squeeze my arm tenderly. ‘You can’t let your feelings for Mr Grouchy impact your judgement.’

  Morven was right. Of course she was. I would only be letting myself down if I walked away now, not to mention Hugo, Gordon and Glenlovatt.

  ‘But Petra,’ I muttered. ‘What if they actually are engaged?’

  Morven sighed. ‘Well, if it was true, it’d be your lucky escape.’ She turned her heavily lashed gaze to mine. ‘But that guy is never seen with the same woman twice, so I think the chances of him being engaged to Petra Whatsit are slim to none. You probably guessed this already but the world of the so-called landed gentry is very incestuous.’