A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  To my surprise, Wolf piped up, ‘You can’t bracket everyone the same, Chris.’

  My mum’s eyes popped. ‘Since when did you become a defender of the establishment?’

  Wolf rubbed his beard. ‘I’m not defending anyone. I’m just saying that not all aristocratic families are a waste of space, yeah?’ He untangled his legs from the sofa. ‘They very often have the same worries and family conflicts as the rest of us.’

  Mum opened her mouth to speak but Wolf had already loped off to the spare bedroom.

  That night, I lay in bed trying to ignore the squeaking bedsprings coming from my spare room. Bloody hell! It was like living next door to Edinburgh Zoo. Mum and Wolf had obviously called a truce after their earlier exchange.

  But this problem paled into insignificance when I thought about Gordon and Vaughan. The prospect of Gordon marrying that awful Rhiannon woman while still pining for Lydia made my heart sink. And as for Vaughan . . .

  I shifted uncomfortably under the covers. Images crowded my mind, of him and Petra walking down the aisle; clusters of confetti gathering in Vaughan’s dark hair; their wedding reception at Glenlovatt; her in pools of satin, being photographed against the banks of majestic trees.

  I thumped my pillow and sat bolt upright. Through the chink in my navy curtains I could just make out the inky silhouette of the Fairview Hills and a patch of sky studded with stars. I had to concentrate on sensible business decisions and Hugo’s faith in me. The last thing I needed after Malta and the Anton fiasco was having my heart broken all over again.

  I slowly slid under the covers again, resolved to let this turmoil go and try to relax for the first time all day.

  Twenty-seven

  Monday morning swung around, delivering an autumn day of heavy rain.

  I weaved round Mum in the kitchen, scooping up a final mouthful of cereal. Christine and her young lover had been in residence in my flat for only a few nights but it seemed more like three months. When they weren’t cavorting around the place or feeling each other’s bottoms, they were engaged in heated discussions about politics, gender equality or climate change. Tiredness crawled over me like a rash.

  As I grabbed my navy leather jacket, Wolf emerged from the bathroom shrouded in a grey dressing gown.

  ‘Morning,’ he grinned lazily. ‘No rest for the wicked, yeah?’

  I plastered a tight smile on my face. ‘Yes, something like that.’

  He was a bit of an enigma, was Wolf. I still hadn’t been able to find out exactly what he did for a living and he skirted deftly around the issue whenever it was raised. From where I stood it was spouting philosophical statements while sounding like a high-school student with too many marbles in his mouth. That was when he wasn’t totally absorbed in his mobile phone.

  Scrambling around in my handbag, looking for car keys, I resolved to speak to Mum privately when I got home. I sincerely hoped she wasn’t giving Wolf money. As a college lecturer she’d never earned a fortune and had squirrelled away whatever savings she could after Dad died, so the prospect of her handing over her hard-earned cash to a layabout filled me with horror.

  Mum suddenly appeared from behind him, tugging her belted cream dressing gown tighter. Her grey hair was pulled back off her face in a low ponytail. She appraised my outfit of dark blue jeans, pale pink T-shirt and trainers. ‘Don’t allow yourself to be exploited by multinationals, darling. And watch you aren’t unknowingly pulled into their world of capitalist propaganda.’

  My eyes followed her gaze. ‘What? Because I’m wearing an outfit from a chain store?’

  Mum’s mouth contorted. ‘That’s how these things start. One minute you are your own woman, unrestrained by the shackles of convention. The next you’re—’

  ‘Shopping for avocados, walking a labrador and carrying a Dior bag?’

  Mum’s eyes glinted at my sarcastic reply. ‘There’s no talking to you when you’re like this, Lara.’

  I picked up my car keys from the hall table. ‘Must dash,’ I called. ‘There’s only so many hours in the day for me to doff my cap at the landed gentry.’

  Becky had already started setting things up and was giving the floor a sweep when I arrived. Jess was in the kitchen, shovelling a fresh batch of pecan croissants into the oven, and Morven was at a nearby table, chattering into her mobile and scribbling in an expensive-looking notebook. She mouthed the words ‘free publicity’ before sticking her thumb up.

  The coffee machine burbled behind the counter, and the soft strains of a violin piece nicely complemented the scent of freshly baked scones. The rain had eased for the moment, leaving pearly remnants sliding off the windows. It made Thistles seem even cosier.

  An army of ideas to bring more revenue to the estate had been cartwheeling through my mind on the drive to work. It was just a case of getting Vaughan to agree. Trepidation settled in my stomach. I dragged myself back to the present. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes.’

  Becky smiled. ‘No problem.’

  Taking a steadying breath, I left the tea room and negotiated the snaking great hall staircase. The dark green walls slid past me as I climbed the stairs past paintings of muscular horses, ancestors with elaborate hats, and stippled landscapes, silent witnesses to my furtive ascension. Travis didn’t seem to be around and I hadn’t spotted Gordon yet either. My fingers raked along the dark, embellished bannister. Gordon had said something yesterday about Vaughan being in Edinburgh, so I hoped now would be a good time. I knew what I was doing was risky but it was for the good of Glenlovatt.

  I remembered Gordon taking me on a brief tour of the house and leading me through the right-hand wing. I was sure he’d said the door at the end was Vaughan’s studio.

  ‘He’s very protective of it,’ he’d smiled. ‘I’ve only been in there twice and both times he couldn’t hustle me out quickly enough. Artists, eh?’

  My heart zipped in my chest. Vaughan would have me thrown out of the house if he had any idea where I was going.

  My legs shook slightly but I propelled myself on. A couple of other doors lay ajar, revealing glimpses of a small library carpeted in red velvet, and a box room that housed a canopied single bed with crisp blue linen, satin curtains tumbling to the floor and framing a view of heather-laden hills.

  I reached out for the handle on the last door, a heavy, dark-panelled affair. The gold handle rattled in my hand. At first, it seemed to be locked, but the door definitely wasn’t entirely secure. It let out a faint protest as I turned the handle for a second time.

  I paused for a moment. All I could hear was the sharp tick of a clock further down in the hall. I steeled myself and turned the handle more forcefully. It appeared that while Vaughan had closed the door, he’d forgotten to lock it—presumably, because he was in a bit of a hurry.

  I took another deep breath and pushed.

  A set of dark curtains covered one very large window at the end of the room. They were tightly drawn, so I could only make out the odd curve and sharp angle of Vaughan’s sculptures. I edged my way around a couple of trestle tables, stationed at angles in the centre of the room. My fingers searched for the light switch. Damn. It didn’t work.

  The room was eerily quiet, apart from an insistent banging. I realised the noise was my heart ricocheting around my ribcage like a stray firework. What was I doing?

  Squashing my doubts, I moved towards the curtains and pulled them apart. Pale morning light flooded the studio and I let out an involuntary gasp.

  The vaulted ceiling, a dramatic combination of a snowflake design combined with inquisitive-looking cherubs, stared down at an astounding collection of figures, from traditional bust sculptures in various stages of development to a couple of modern installations moulded out of shards of glass. Everywhere I looked, milky faces gazed back. A statue of a naked woman, arms flung wide open, looked to be formed from the purest marble and made me think of a ballerina, all tight limbed in her sinewy grace.

  My nostrils breathed in the mix of metal, cera
mic and stone that weighted the air, while my mind raced with admiration at the variety and skill of Vaughan’s work. I had no idea he was so talented. The sensual thrust of his figures made a lump form in my throat.

  Even a contemporary installation of cut glass, occupying one corner of a nearby table, had a strange effect on me. I tentatively reached out to touch it. It was like a glinting star, plucked from the far reaches of the galaxy. What I knew about art could be comfortably written on the back of an envelope but I would have defied anyone not to be impressed by Vaughan’s work. My fingers tingled on contact with the star-like creation. The thought of Vaughan’s fingers delicately piecing this together and shaping it into life triggered a hot flush on my cheeks.

  For goodness sake, Lara, get a grip on yourself!

  Ideas started to assemble in my mind. Yes, he could be rather secretive at times about his work, but if I could make him see that his sculptures could benefit Glenlovatt, then maybe he’d be receptive to some suggestions. And he and Gordon wouldn’t have to contemplate marrying two rich airheads.

  I tugged the curtains closed again. It seemed such a pity to plunge all these graceful sculptures and bold pieces of modern art back into darkness. It was as if Vaughan’s studio heaved a melancholy sigh as the velvet drapes swished together again.

  Deep in thought, I turned towards the door, but my attention was caught by something in the corner that was covered by a dark blue velvet cloth. Why had Vaughan placed a piece of his work over there out of sight, when everything else was proudly stationed in the centre of the room?

  I tried to fight my nosiness but it was no good.

  I took tentative steps towards the mysterious object, then slid the cloth away. Underneath the folds of material was a half-finished marble bust of a woman. Part of her head was complete, displaying fine features and waves of hair. There was a serene smile beginning to blossom across her partly completed mouth. The other side of her face was blank, as if Vaughan had pulled away in a hurry. When I leaned in to look more closely at the high cheekbones and partially sculpted jaw, recognition dawned.

  This was Lydia.

  Awash with guilt for intruding, I pulled the cloth back over the bust and scurried back to the still slightly open door—only to barrel into a tall, silhouetted figure.

  How long had he been standing there?

  The solidity of his jaw confirmed that it had been long enough.

  Vaughan’s shoulders stiffened. ‘What the hell are you doing in my studio?’

  Twenty-eight

  His blue eyes flashed in the semi-darkness, making me step backwards. ‘I just wanted to see,’ I stammered, the words tripping out of my mouth.

  ‘See what?’

  Steadying my voice as much as I could, I looked him in the eye. ‘Your artwork?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?’ I followed up my idiotic wisecrack with a papery laugh.

  Vaughan didn’t join in. He merely crossed his arms.

  I cleared my throat and scrambled for something to distract him from me having trespassed in his sacred studio. ‘Why is that piece of artwork hidden in the corner?’

  Vaughan’s brow furrowed. ‘What artwork?’

  ‘The one covered in the blue cloth.’

  ‘It isn’t hidden.’

  ‘Then why is it pushed back over there away from all the others? Is it because it’s of your mum?’

  Well done, Sherlock. As soon as the words fell from my mouth with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I willed them back.

  ‘My work is none of your business and you’ve got no right to come into my studio.’

  He had a point there. Okay, confession time. Before I could think better of it, I opened my mouth and said, ‘Look, I know about Petra.’

  Vaughan’s mouth adopted a grim line. ‘Know what?’

  How long was he going to keep up this two-word-question thing? My words tumbled over each other. ‘I know you’re thinking of marrying her—for all the wrong reasons.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And what has my private life got to do with you, anyway?’

  Floundering, I knew I had no option but to carry on. I was making a spectacular tits-up of it all anyway, so why stop now?

  ‘I know it’s absolutely none of my business, but don’t throw your life away just to secure the future of this place. There are other options.’

  ‘Oh, really? And why do you care?’

  I stared at Vaughan’s cocked eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’

  He moved into the room, making me take several more nervous steps backwards. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt, dark jeans and a beige waistcoat. Oh bollocks. He looked utterly irresistible.

  ‘Are you jealous, perhaps?’ he said with a sneer.

  A high-pitched laugh shot out of me. ‘Jealous? Why would I be jealous?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  The vast blackness of the room, the at works’ silhouettes and Vaughan’s proximity were unnerving. I tossed my ponytail back over my shoulder. ‘I am not jealous,’ I replied tightly. ‘I was only trying to point out that your father and grandfather wouldn’t want you to get married for the wrong reasons.’

  The temptation to tell him his father was considering doing exactly the same thing gnawed at me, but finding me in his studio was probably enough for Vaughn to contend with right now. Add to that his thunderous expression and I definitely knew I was not prepared to say any more for the moment.

  I wished he would open up the curtains and allow the morning light to swallow up the gloom; it was like being confronted by Dracula in his crypt.

  ‘I think you have an ulterior motive,’ he growled, leaning in a little closer.

  My legs remained rooted to the floor.

  ‘I think,’ he stage-whispered, ‘that you’re using Glenlovatt as an excuse.’

  ‘Excuse for what?’ I said falteringly.

  ‘For this,’ he answered, seizing my mouth with his. Shock gave way to excitement at the taste of his lips, as my body moulded effortlessly into his.

  Vaughan slipped a hand against my back, the heat of his skin searing through my T-shirt. His tongue danced with mine and a sigh whispered from my chest. His breathing quickened and the sound of my own ragged gasps propelled me out of his arms.

  What the hell was I doing?

  I pulled back and examined his angular face, a smirk shifting across his mouth.

  ‘I thought so.’

  The sight of him judging me was too much. ‘Now who’s the one leaping to conclusions?’ I blustered. The imprint of his lips still tingled. ‘I came up here because I wanted to get more of an idea about what you do. I was going to suggest using your sculptures to raise money for the estate.’ Tears gathered in my eyes and I pushed past him before he could see them. ‘Tell you what, just carry on with your plan to marry that blonde, okay?’

  ‘Lara, wait,’ he began.

  ‘You’re right, Vaughan,’ I called over my shoulder, the tears threatening to spill down my face as I dashed blindly towards the staircase, ‘it is none of my business.’

  Twenty-nine

  Thankfully, Thistles had just welcomed a small group of tourists, so at least I would be occupied for a while. They’d disgorged from a flashy beige minibus, their admiring faces turned up towards Glenlovatt like flowers seeking out sunshine.

  As Becky served an Italian couple, their enthusiasm for our cakes was matched by her infectious smile and blushing appreciation of their fervour.

  Dashing my tears with the back of my hand, I managed a cheery ‘How are things?’ to her and Morven.

  Becky’s nose crinkled. ‘Are you alright? You look upset.’

  I brushed aside her concern. ‘Oh, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t look like that when you came in here this morning.’

  ‘Look like what?’ I muttered, busying myself with a pile of napkins.

  Morven folded her arms. �
��Like you’ve just ridden a rollercoaster but not been strapped in.’

  My mind still clung to the sensation of Vaughan’s mouth against mine. With a hollow laugh, I said, ‘Don’t be daft,’ and fled into the kitchen. I sank against the cool work top and snapped my eyes shut. What an arrogant git! That kiss was his way of letting me know I was one in a long line.

  Well, if he wanted to marry Petra Double-Barrel-Whatsit and throw away his happiness on a marriage of convenience, that was his problem. But Gordon was another matter.

  Shoving aside furious thoughts about Vaughan, I resolved to speak to Gordon about what I had overheard. If Vaughan wouldn’t listen, at least I might be able to make his father see sense.

  To my relief, Vaughan had failed to make an appearance anywhere near the tea room.

  The lunch rush was over, Jess had left for the day and I was clearing another table when I felt someone approach behind me. It was Gordon.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Lara.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t sound promising.’

  Gordon smiled. ‘Do you remember the Fairview Herald competition for a family of four to win a guided tour and afternoon tea here?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ I confessed. ‘There’s been so much going on, I forgot about it.’

  ‘Well, the winners, a local family by the name of McNaughton, are arriving just before 2pm.’ He paused.

  ‘Mrs Baylis will be here to take them on the tour, though.’

  Gordon frowned. ‘Ah. That’s precisely the problem. She’s been called to collect her granddaughter from school. She’s got a heavy cold.’

  ‘Right,’ I managed, guessing where this conversation was leading but hoping I was wrong.

  ‘And I’ve got a long-standing appointment with my accountant,’ added Gordon apologetically, ‘otherwise I would have been more than happy to do it.’ He cupped his hands together in a begging action.

  Uh-oh.