‘He’s not the only one.’
Before Mum could reply, Wolf strode back up and extended a heavily ringed hand. ‘Nice place you have here. Chrissie has told me all about your new venture, yeah?’’
His accent rang with heavy overtones of English public school. Only my mother could go to South America and hook up with someone as British as rainy weather and cream teas.
‘Yes, I just own this tea room,’ I explained carefully, ‘not the whole house.’ I didn’t want this lumberjack look-a-like with his leather wrist bracelets to think he’d fallen on his feet. If Wolf was dating my mum (and I tried not to imagine anything more graphic than them holding hands), I wanted him to do it for all the right reasons.
He nodded his head casually. ‘Cool.’
After a few more moments of charged silence, Mum clapped her hands. ‘So, any chance of a cuppa and a slice of cake seeing we’ve travelled all this way to see you?’
‘Of course. Becky, Jess, this is my mother, Christine.’
While my two bakers took charge of the situation behind the counter, I stood aside like a moody teenager. Not only did I have Environmental Health snooping around my kitchen, I now had my hippie–feminist mother and her bearded new toy boy to contend with. And judging by the assorted luggage, they weren’t here just for a long weekend.
While Becky brewed the tea and Jess slid two banoffee muffins onto plates, Christine regaled Morven with the ‘awful’ taxi ride they had from the airport to Glenlovatt. ‘It seemed to take forever,’ she exclaimed, her tanned fingers fluttering about her throat.
‘Mum, the airport is only twenty-five minutes from here.’
Emerging out of the kitchen, Mr Doyle moved to inspect the toilet, giving Mum and Wolf a quick appraisal as he did so. Thankfully Mum was too busy perusing Jess’s blackboard specials of courgette and roast pepper quiche and chorizo and rocket rolls to notice—I didn’t think I could take one of her anti-establishment rants right now.
My good fortune was only to last for a few more moments. Mr Doyle marched up to me with his clipboard, ‘Everything appears to be in order, Ms McDonald.’ He thrust a piece of paper at me. ‘I apologise for this intrusion but, as I’m sure you will appreciate, we have an obligation to check out environmental health complaints.’
Oh shit.
Mum’s head whirled round. ‘You’re from the council? Environmental Health, did you say?’ Mr Doyle seemed to pale slightly under Mum’s cat-like stare. ‘Am I right in assuming that someone has made a complaint about my daughter’s cleanliness?’
‘Not my personal habits, Mum,’ I laughed nervously. Oh please, wooden floor. Open up your gaping jaws. Take me now. I won’t object.
Mr Doyle licked his thin lips. ‘Madam, we are obliged to investigate any such complaints, but your daughter’s premises are more than satisfactory.’
Christine’s full mouth twisted in disbelief. ‘Satisfactory?’ She flung her tanned arms out. ‘This place is immaculate. Immaculate, I tell you!’
She snatched Mr Doyle by the arm and spun him round so fast I’m surprised he didn’t have motion sickness. ‘Look at this gorgeous cake display. Look at it! It’s a place of baking heaven. And you have the audacity to come in here and throw your authoritarian weight around?’ Ignoring the fact she’d only seen the tea room for the first time five minutes ago, she carried on. ‘I’ll grant you it’s rather unfortunate that it’s located in some elitist ancestral pile, probably acquired through the ill-gotten gains of a bunch of inbred aristos . . .’
Morven spluttered beside me, the colour of my face again rising to matching the shade of my hair.
‘But nonetheless,’ Mum carried on breathlessly, ‘my Lara’s making the best of a bad job.’
Wolf nodded at Mum’s shoulder as he devoured a mouthful of muffin and spluttered, ‘Up the workers!’
Time froze at this point as Gordon’s voice travelled from where he was standing in the doorway to the great hall.
‘Good morning, Lara. When you’ve got a moment, could this land-stealing, inbred aristo possibly have one of your delicious coffees, please?’
Twenty-five
Anger and embarrassment bubbled in my chest but I managed to contain myself until a bemused-looking Gordon had returned to his study.
‘Out!’ I barked, alarming Mr Doyle. ‘Go on!’
He paled even further and scrabbled about for his paperwork.
‘No, not you! I’m talking to these two.’
Morven stifled a giggle while Mum looked crestfallen. ‘What?’
‘I’m trying to run a business here, in case that has escaped your attention. Any moment now I hope to have hordes of cake-obsessed visitors through that door.’
‘We won’t be in the way,’ protested Mum, folding her caramel arms.
‘Yes, you will. You’ve managed to offend not only the laird but also most of the people in this room and it isn’t even lunchtime.’
I snatched up my blue leather handbag from behind the counter and fished out my door key, handing it to Mum, a large silver L dangling from it in mid-air. ‘Here. Go back to my flat and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll call a taxi for you.’
Mum’s golden jaw hardened. ‘Well, that is lovely. We’ve come all this way and you’re not going to spend time with your own mother? What happened to supporting the sisterhood?’
I supressed an eye roll. ‘I just told you. I’m working.’
Mum put on a show of rooting around in her stripy beach bag. ‘A taxi, you say? I think I’ve spent most of my cash already.’
Wolf mirrored her theatrics, delving into his trouser pockets, then producing a sad face that any mime artist would have been impressed by.
I blew out some air and fetched a twenty-pound note from my purse. ‘Pay for your taxi with this.’
‘Thank you, darling. I’ll pay you back later, of course.’
‘Up the workers!’ repeated Wolf over his shoulder as they sauntered past a sheepish Mr Doyle, who had retreated to the safety of a corner table, their hands skittering over each other’s backsides. Luckily our patrons had yet to arrive or they’d have been turned right off their salmon and cream cheese bagels.
‘Can you hold the fort for a few minutes, you guys?’ I asked, ‘I’ve got a couple of apologies to make.’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll get back to the bagels,’ Jess said.
Becky handed me Gordon’s cappuccino, which she’d decorated with a chocolate thistle stencil. ‘It wasn’t you who said it.’
I took the cup and shook my head before walking stiffly over to where Mr Doyle had retreated to a corner table. ‘I’m so sorry for that. Can I get you something? On the house.’
Mr Doyle cast a fearful look towards the door. ‘She won’t be coming back, will she?’
‘You mean my mother? No. At least, I hope not.’
Mr Doyle nodded hesitantly. ‘Alright then. I’ve got some paperwork to finish off. It should only take five minutes but an Earl Grey tea would be very nice.’
Becky smiled from over behind the counter and busied herself with a teapot.
Travis was out in the hall. ‘Is Mr Carmichael back in his study?’ I asked.
He nodded and gestured towards the large coffee cup I was cradling. ‘I could be doing with one of those this morning.’
‘Go and see Becky,’ I answered. ‘Tell her it’s on the house.’
I clutched the ceramic coffee cup tighter. I wouldn’t be making much of a profit if I kept dishing out free drinks.
Gordon had been so understanding and welcoming, he didn’t deserve to be slagged off by my mother. Suitable words of apology raced through my mind. All I needed was for her anti-establishment rant to colour his view of me or what we were trying to do for Glenlovatt.
I passed a stony-faced bust of one of their ancestors and arrived at Gordon’s study door. Straightening my shirt collar, I lifted my hand to knock but a pool of pale light showed it was slightly ajar, and I could now hear Gordon’s voice
as he spoke on the phone.
‘Well, what else can I do?’ His voice sounded desperate. ‘That Petra Montgomery-Carlton . . .’
My ears swivelled onto high alert. I knew I shouldn’t be lurking there, clasping Gordon’s coffee and awash with guilt for listening in. But nevertheless, my trainers remained stuck to the tiled floor. I leaned in a little closer to the gap in the door.
Gordon uttered some grunts and mumbles before his voice became clear again. ‘Oh, I met Rhiannon at a recent charity event. No, not that one. This was the one to raise money for the homeless.’ There was a pause before he spoke again. ‘The funny thing is, she said at first she couldn’t attend as she didn’t know which of her four homes she’d be in at the time. Yes, I know, ironic, isn’t it?’ Gordon mumbled a few more words and then he said, ‘I know Vaughan thinks he’s doing this for all the right reasons but, well . . .’
There was silence as the person at the other end spoke.
Gordon continued, ‘I don’t want him sacrificing his happiness just so Glenlovatt can carry on.’ There was another pause before he said, ‘I know, I can’t see Petra being the easiest of wives, can you?’
What was Gordon saying? Like a jigsaw, the pieces began to shuffle together. Did he mean Vaughan was contemplating marriage to Petra in order to protect Glenlovatt? After the Ladies and Rogues Ball I’d rushed home in true Cinderella style, fired up my laptop and googled Petra. The internet threw up all sorts of information about the Montgomery-Carlton clan, who’d made their fortune in bespoke bridal gowns.
Gordon’s concerned voice went on, ‘Yes, the tea room is doing well, as are the guided tours, but, Alistair, we’ve got another problem, which has only just come to light.’
Another pause, interrupted only by the odd squeak from Gordon’s chair. ‘Oh, Lara’s a sweet girl. Hard-working and enthusiastic too. But you know that Glenlovatt is a money pit.’
There was a long silence before he spoke again. ‘It’s not just the blasted heating being on the blink. Our landscape gardeners have hiked up their charges and what with this latest problem to hit the house . . .’
What was he talking about?
I steadied Gordon’s coffee in my hands. Any moment now I’d drop the bloody thing.
His resigned sigh made my shoulders slump. ‘I know, I know,’ he agreed, tapping his pen on the desk. Then he dropped his voice. ‘But there’s no way I’m allowing my son to ruin the rest of his life by marrying someone he doesn’t love, even if it does mean losing Glenlovatt.’
Gordon murmured a few things and then spoke again. ‘No, Vaughan doesn’t know about this latest bloody issue. If I tell him, he could well do something impulsive and I’m not prepared to risk it.’
I’d heard more than enough and had spun on my heel to leave when Gordon’s next words held me fixed to the spot. ‘I can’t see any other way,’ he added with an air of finality. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this, Alistair, but I owe it to my father, to Vaughan and to Lydia to keep Glenlovatt in the family.’
There was a thud as he banged something on the desk. ‘I’ve been so lucky in my life to fall in love and marry the woman of my dreams. I won’t allow Vaughan to sacrifice any chance he has of that.’
With a resigned sigh he added, ‘So that’s why I’ve decided to ask Rhiannon Kincaid to marry me.’
I lurched back to the tea room.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Becky.
I clattered the cold cappuccino onto the cake counter. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’
She narrowed her smoky shadowed eyes. I asked, ‘Could you make a fresh coffee for Gordon and take it to him, please?’
‘Sure, no problem. Morven’s gone to speak to the local paper. They rang with costs for an advertising feature.’ Becky gave me one more sidelong glance before picking up Gordon’s fresh coffee and walking towards the door.
‘Okay. Right. Thanks,’ I replied.
By that time, customers had started to arrive and Jess was clearing a table for an American couple. I tried to take in what I’d heard. Surely Gordon wasn’t serious—marrying someone so he could hang on to the estate? Anyone could see he was still in love with his late wife.
I fetched my mobile and searched for the name ‘Rhiannon Kincaid’. I half-expected spicy pictures to pop up but it was mostly photos of her in slit dresses and towering heels. She seemed to lurch from one man to the next, and when she wasn’t decorating some rich guy’s arm she was peddling the tacky shoe emporium founded by her late father.
Dejection overtook me. There must be other things Gordon could do to generate more income for Glenlovatt besides allowing this red-taloned socialite to get her claws into the estate.
Gordon marrying Rhiannon and Vaughan marrying Petra? Crikey. Glenlovatt and the Carmichael family would never recover.
Twenty-six
Driving home that evening I cranked up my car radio, but I still couldn’t concentrate on anything except the last proper conversation I’d had with Vaughan.
What a judgemental cow I had been! He’d stood there, looking all dark and deep, wanting to explain about Petra, and instead I’d jumped to the wrong conclusions, hanging onto the prior evidence that he was a bit of a philanderer. And as for that blonde girl in the bedsheet . . . Vaughan had wanted to explain about her too, but I’d made up my mind and wouldn’t listen. She could have been one of his art models. I inwardly cringed as I thought about it.
Through the windscreen the autumn sky was contorting its pale blue into tangerine. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Thistles and the tours were all going well but obviously not well enough to sustain an estate like Glenlovatt, if Gordon and Vaughan were both contemplating marrying sugar mummies.
Poor Hugo would be spinning in his grave. And as for Lydia . . .
There must be something that could be done to prevent two car-crash marriages and keep Glenlovatt afloat. I just couldn’t envisage that gorgeous house redecorated in leopard skin.
My despondency was soon replaced by irritation when I stumbled, exhausted, into my flat.
Wolf was stretched out in a tangle of limbs on the sofa, hugging one of my stripy nautical cushions. Seated comfortably in my armchair was Mum, her gold half-moon spectacles perched on her face, reading a hardback entitled Empowering Your Lady Garden: A Definitive Guide. The cover was all swirls of pink and purple, with a very suggestive silhouette. As I wanted to be able to eat dinner, I decided to avert my eyes.
‘Good day, lovey?’ she called.
I swiped my sunglasses off the top of my head. ‘I’ve had better.’
Mum snapped her book shut. ‘I hope that awful official didn’t give you any more trouble.’
‘No, Mum, he didn’t. The poor sod was terrified after the tongue-lashing you gave him.’
Mum’s lips tightened. ‘I was just defending my daughter.’
‘Well, I don’t need defending. I’m more than capable.’
I’ve had to stand on my own two feet for long enough without you around.
‘I won’t defend you again then, if that’s how you feel,’ bristled Mum.
Wolf’s closely cropped head had been jerking between the two of us, as if he had a prime seat at Wimbledon.
I retreated without another word into the kitchen. All I wanted to do was slop around in my pyjamas and pummel my frustrations into some unsuspecting dough.
As I clattered about, I heard Wolf call out from the sitting room, ‘What’s all this about some mysterious letter, Lara?’
‘Sorry?’
‘That old guy who died left a letter in his will to be opened on some specific date, yeah?’
As I shot up straight like a rocket, I distinctly heard Mum award Wolf a swift slap. ‘Ow, Chris! What the hell was that for?’
I sauntered back into the sitting room. ‘Have you been going through my things, Mum?’
‘No, indeed I have not! What do you take me for?’
I folded my arms and chose not to answer that particular question. ‘Well, how d
o you know about the letter? I didn’t tell you about it.’
Mum coloured slightly under her Latin American tan. ‘I might have spoken to that chauffeur chappie at Glenlovatt on the way out of the house. Curtis, is it?’
‘Travis.’ My eyes narrowed further at her. ‘What exactly did you ask him?’
‘I wouldn’t say Chris asked him,’ sniggered Wolf, picking a lump of fluff from his sock. ‘She interrogated him, more like. The poor guy looked petrified.’
Mum prickled. ‘I did no such thing. I simply asked him why some old laird would leave my daughter a tea room and he said that wasn’t clear as yet. Then he mentioned this letter.’
I could imagine Mum virtually pinning poor Travis against one of the ancestral busts and shining the light from her mobile into his terror-stricken eyes. ‘That’s right,’ I answered after a beat, deciding it was going to be easier just to get this over with. ‘The family solicitor said Hugo’s instructions were that this letter was not to be opened until the twenty-seventh of October.’
I returned to the kitchen and filled the kettle, watching the silvery water in a daze. I made a mental note to go and apologise to poor Travis tomorrow.
‘Don’t you have any idea at all what this letter is about?’
I jumped. ‘For pity’s sake, Mum! Have you been taking stealth lessons?’
She raised an apologetic hand.
‘No,’ I replied, once my heart rate had settled down. ‘In answer to your question, I have no idea why Hugo left me the tea room.’ I snatched some teaspoons out of the drawer. ‘Once October twenty-seventh rolls around, hopefully Hugo’s letter will provide all the answers.’
‘Well, just you make sure you look out for yourself,’ Mum advised. ‘These sorts of families can be very manipulative. They are all out for themselves. Just look at the Highland Clearances.’
‘“These sorts of families”?’ I repeated incredulously, heading back to the sitting room. ‘And what on earth have the Highland Clearances got to do with anything?’
A Room at the Manor Page 14
