The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  They chatted convivially as they ate, sending each other amused glances as they watched Armand pick suspiciously at his food, and when they left, Brad got the impression he’d scored a minor victory. There were several approving nods and murmurs as they made their way to the door. For some reason he found hard to explain, he was as pleased as if he’d just clinched a multimillion-dollar deal. And, strangely, this meant a lot more.

  “And then,” Charlotte continued between gusts of laughter, sitting in the drawing room at Strathaird later that evening, “Brad was wheedling Old Rob MacKinnon as though he’d been doing it for years,” she exclaimed, giggling.

  “Well done.” Penelope’s eyes filled with laughter. “Brad won’t do badly, you’ll see. Just give him time. He seems truly interested in the people and their problems and that will help him greatly.”

  “I suppose so.” Charlotte quieted suddenly and gazed absently into the fire.

  Penelope frowned. “Is something the matter, dear?”

  “Nope. Just thinking.” She mustered a smile. “Mum, do you think John’s the same person he was before the accident? I read somewhere that some people suddenly wake up totally changed.”

  Penelope looked up, surprised, realizing she must tread carefully. This was the first time Charlotte had deliberately raised the subject of her husband and she wondered what had provoked the sudden question.

  “I suppose that might occasionally occur,” she replied warily. “I seem to remember a film to that effect. But that was fiction, of course. One would have to consult a doctor, someone who really knows.”

  “Mmm.” Charlotte plucked the fringe of the cushion absently.

  “I have heard too that sometimes people can’t remember anything at all when they come out of coma—which happens rarely.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Charlotte responded.

  “If that’s how you want to take it, Charlotte, so be it,” Penelope replied crisply. “You’re a grown woman and it’s not my place to tell you how to run your life anymore. But just think of another scenario—what if John woke up worse than he was before the accident? Do you feel that you have the right to subject you and Genny to more of that treatment?” She held Charlotte’s eyes unflinchingly for a few seconds. “I’m not trying to get you to do anything you don’t feel is right. All I’m saying is that people rarely change, and if they do, it’s often for worse rather than better.”

  “Right.” Charlotte ended the conversation with a bang and Penelope was wise enough not to pursue it. “I wonder if Brad is truly aware of all that’s involved in running Strathaird?” Charlotte said as though they’d never changed the subject.

  “Not yet, but I think it’s beginning to dawn on him.” Penelope shifted, curling her legs on the sofa under her. “He hasn’t mentioned it per se, but from one or two comments, I get the sense that perhaps he’s more aware than he makes out.” She sighed. “The poor boy has such a load to deal with, doesn’t he? What with Harcourts, the twins and now this.”

  Charlotte shrugged, picked up her old shooting jacket and rose stretching to her feet. “He’ll manage. He always does. I just hope Sylvia understands all that’s required of him.”

  “So do I.” Their eyes met and Penelope sighed. “It’s not an easy job for anyone. I was partially born and bred to it and still it was no sinecure. But then, maybe she’s one of these people who adapts easily.” She sent Charlotte an optimistic smile. “Good night, darling. I’m getting to bed early tonight so that I’ll be ready tomorrow for the arrival of the twins and Ambassador de la Fuente.”

  Charlotte leaned over and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Night-night, Mum. I’m off to Glasgow in the morning as usual.”

  “I know, darling. I’ll pick up Genny. And think about what I said,” she told her, touching her daughter’s cheek. At least Charlotte was starting to question things. That was a beginning, if nothing else.

  “I will, Mum. And don’t worry about Genny, Brad said he’d do it.”

  “That’s awfully kind,” Penelope exclaimed, though she wasn’t surprised. She’d seen the two of them, heads bent over Genny’s math homework, and had heaved a silent sigh of longing.

  “What time are the troops descending on us?”

  “Sometime before noon. I’ll make sure Genny’s around. She’s so excited. It’ll do her a world of good to be with the boys.”

  “Hmm. Next thing you know, Sylvia will be here.” Charlotte made a face and Penelope frowned.

  “I’m sure Sylvia will do her best to fit in, and we must do all we can to help her. Thank goodness the ladies are coming in every day now. Mrs. Murray’s niece is home for the holidays and will give us a day or two to help with the extra washing and ironing.”

  “Great. Then there’s nothing for me to worry about.” Charlotte sent her mother a bright, brittle smile and left the room. After the door closed behind her, Penelope’s shoulders sagged. She stared a moment or two at the dying embers in the grate, then rose, checked the fire-guard and turned out the lights. It was useless to worry about her child, but she felt suddenly grateful for Armand and his interest in Charlotte’s work. At least that part of her daughter’s life appeared to be thriving. It was the first time she’d seen Charlotte throw herself so passionately into an activity that took time, effort and extreme concentration.

  As she mounted the stairs, she thought of the long day Charlotte would face on the morrow. It wasn’t the trip to Glasgow she worried about, though that in itself was bad enough, but the emotional strain of seeing John, lying motionless, with never any sign of change. She wondered what had provoked Charlotte’s question about him tonight. It was too early to have hope that their conversation would lead to action. It was only when Charlotte herself came to terms with what she was up against that anything would change.

  Reaching her room, she forced her mind onto practical matters. There was a lot to do in the next few days, with the twins and the ambassador’s arrival. She tried to conjure up an image of Diego de la Fuente, whom she’d met only once after Brad’s father, Scott, and the ambassador’s daughter died. The poor man had been so weighed down by grief by the loss that he’d barely functioned. She sighed, gazed at the photographs on the pretty chintz-skirted dressing table and swallowed in sympathy. At least now she was able to look at David and Colin without bursting into tears. At times, she even remembered funny incidents, happy moments spent together and smiled. She would never get over their loss, of course, but at least now she’d reached some measure of acceptance. Enough to get through each day and start planning her own future.

  But first, she must see Brad properly settled at the helm. Only then could she begin thinking about herself.

  7

  Sylvia alighted in Glasgow from the first-class cabin of the flight from New York, tired and annoyed at having to be here, yet satisfied she’d spent her time on the plane profitably. She’d even read a book she’d ordered a couple of months back on the Internet. It wasn’t going to win a Pulitzer, but Lady of the Manor: A Firsthand Guide to Becoming a Countess did provide sharp insight into the oddities of the British aristocracy. For example, chapter three had stipulated, “Do not refer to money. Like children, it should be seen and not heard.”

  Fine. She wouldn’t mention money, though why it was bad manners to mention what her apartment cost when it was a matter of public record was beyond her. Still, she had read carefully and taken extensive notes, particularly on how to establish smooth relations with the natives. On this matter, she’d decided to take a studied two-prong approach: be pleasant on the one hand, but also show you meant business. She’d learned that skill the hard way, she reflected. For a moment her mind strayed to her own personal problems. But only for a minute—she’d long ago learned to separate her emotions from business. Besides, gathering from Brad’s daily reports, there was a lot of work to be done at Strathaird. She knew she’d have to make it clear to the locals she wouldn’t tolerate laziness or idleness simply becau
se it was the national pastime.

  Entering the crowded arrival hall filled with tired passengers, she switched on her phone and checked her e-mail.

  Three from Ira, she noted, satisfied to learn the new Harcourts’ ad campaign was running smoothly. There was another from her other assistant, Hamilton. Good. Brad would be pleased that both Sydney and Auckland were a go. She gave a satisfied nod and opened the last message.

  Her smile faded. Instead of picking her up in Glasgow as planned, Brad had arranged for a chopper to take her straight to Skye. She squinted at the text—Unavoidable meeting with the clan MacKinnon—and shook her head. Swallowing her anger, she shrugged and rolled a trolley to the baggage belt. She had bigger battles to fight.

  Although she had long hated helicopters, Sylvia had to admit she was excited about finally getting a look at this estate Brad had inherited. If the place was in reasonable shape, it might have real promise as a getaway. She rather liked the idea of being able to invite some of their more prestigious acquaintances to a little R&R at Brad’s private Scottish castle—soon to be hers, too, she realized with a ripple of satisfaction. Of course, she pondered thoughtfully, they’d have to change the name. “Strathaird” didn’t have a very glamorous ring to it.

  Two hours later she gazed down uneasily from the chopper into the restless gray water below. The ride had been bumpy and rain splattered the windscreen, making it hard to see anything of the landscape beyond. This would not be a pleasant way to die, she decided with a shudder. The pilot pointed to a blob on the horizon and she followed his finger through the mist. In the distance she could make out a medieval-looking fortress, austere and unwelcoming against the bleak sky. She felt her spirits plummet. It looked grim. Then, on reflection, she decided that wasn’t so bad—at least the place would look impressive to visitors. Like something right out of Brave-heart.

  The chopper circled and the castle disappeared from view. A sudden lurch made her grip the edge of the seat, her pulse all over the place as she held on to her self-control. Why couldn’t Brad have landed an inheritance in a country with better weather? she wondered irritably.

  When the chopper finally landed on the lawn amid strong gusts, Sylvia took a deep breath, then released it gratefully. She loathed choppers. Not that she’d ever admit to it or allow the weakness to upset her schedule. Still, it was good to feel the damp grass squelching under her black leather moccasins. Even the realization they’d probably be ruined couldn’t dim her relief.

  Opening her umbrella, she glanced at the castle looming somberly above her, struck by an unexpected sense of foreboding. It looked aggressively permanent, as if rather than tolerating change, it forced its occupants to bend to its will. She glanced fleetingly at the chopper, suddenly tempted to rush back across the lawn and leave. But of course, that was ridiculous. After everything she’d faced in life, there was nothing in this old pile of stone that she couldn’t handle.

  Bracing herself, she turned back, eyes narrowed, and faced the castle, standing powerful and ominous as though daring her to challenge it. She examined the lawn, smooth as a green velvet carpet, and began mapping out where to put the pool when she noticed a figure standing at the foot of a wide, shallow stone staircase leading up to French doors beyond. Her heart lurched. Then she recognized Penelope MacLeod and experienced a moment’s relief. At least Penelope was a familiar face, though why she felt nervous when she had everything under control was beyond her. Straightening her slim shoulders, she fixed on a smile, confident that her black Calvin Klein slacks and the three-quarter-length raincoat she’d picked up at Bergdorf’s struck the right note. Knowing she looked great always cheered her considerably and she gave the stark facade a scathing glance, wondering what Brad could possibly see in a remote place like this. He clearly needed to be reminded where the real world was and where his priorities lay. She would waste no time in doing just that.

  Waving jauntily, Sylvia stepped across the lush green grass, wondering how quickly a competent management team could be brought in to run the place. Not fast enough, she reckoned, shivering as a gust of wind strained the spokes of the umbrella. Still, she was determined to be pleasant and not let the place get to her.

  Penelope stepped forward with a welcoming smile. What an attractive girl Sylvia was, she remarked, noting the blond, beautifully highlighted hair swinging smartly, framing a face whose tanned skin looked fresh despite a whole night on the plane. She was sleek, chic and very put-together in black and white, a huge black bag draped over her shoulder and a pair of two-tone sunglasses that defied the rain. She looked more like a top model than the future chatelaine of a Scottish castle, Penelope reflected. Then, swallowing her uneasiness, she smiled brightly and held out her hand.

  “Welcome to Strathaird.”

  “Hi, Penelope. This is some place.”

  Penelope caught a whiff of perfume she recognized but whose name escaped her.

  “I’m so sorry Brad couldn’t meet you in Glasgow,” she said as they turned toward the steps. “Unfortunately, today’s the big gathering of the MacKinnon clan and some issues needed to be ironed out.”

  “Not a problem. Doesn’t he have a secretary yet to handle that kind of thing?”

  “Uh, no. And even if he had, this particular matter needed to be dealt with personally. It’s been in the offing for quite some time. Now, where’s your luggage?” She glanced across the lawn to the helicopter about to take off.

  “It’s being shipped from Glasgow. It wouldn’t fit in the chopper.”

  “Ah. Well, we must hope it won’t take too long arriving,” Penelope murmured, remembering the last guest whose luggage had been delivered a week later.

  “I brought this for tonight.” Sylvia indicated the large black leather tote she was carrying. Penelope smiled, relieved, then led the way up the ancient stone steps, pulling the pale pink cardigan of her twinset about her shoulders. “I hope you won’t be cold, it’s been fairly chilly even though we are in mid-summer.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Sylvia responded. When they reached the French doors, she stopped on the threshold.

  “Wow! This is really something. It reminds me of Henry Ford’s castle,” she remarked, staring at the paneling, the low coffered ceiling and the paintings on the walls.

  “Really? That must be lovely and probably far more comfortable than Strathaird,” Penelope remarked, laughing. “I’m sure Mr. Ford saw to it that every modern convenience was installed. Renovating can be quite a job in a place like this, what with special permits and such, due to the historical importance of the place.”

  Sylvia eyed the fading chintz furniture—why hadn’t they had it reupholstered?—then noticed the fine mahogany antiques stacked with ornaments and photographs. “Is that Fabergé?” she asked casually, impressed despite herself.

  “Yes. Nicholas and Alexandra gave the Easter egg to Hamish MacLeod and his wife in the early 1900s.” Penelope led her into the Great Hall, then turned to her with a warm smile. “You must be exhausted. Would you like some tea or coffee, or shall I take you up right away and show you your room?”

  “Thanks. It would be nice to take a nap before Brad gets back from the meeting,” Sylvia agreed, fatigue kicking in. As she followed her hostess up the wide oak staircase, she took in the state of the castle. Frankly, the place was a mess. Not a complete disaster—in fact, she was sure some would find its shabby British chic quite charming—but the place wasn’t up to what she considered a minimum comfort level. She frowned, casting a deprecating look at the threadbare carpet, knowing enough about renovating to shudder at the thought of all it would take. Was it really worth it? she wondered doubtfully. Would they use the place often enough to justify the millions it would cost to refurbish it?

  As they reached the landing, she considered the corporate and social advantages. A castle in Scotland was a castle in Scotland, of that there was no doubt. But it was also money that could be making money. She glanced fleetingly at the forbidding faces staring down at
her from the gloomy portraits hanging on the oak-paneled wall and sighed. This definitely wasn’t what she’d hoped for, and with characteristic swiftness, she decided it was better to cut bait than fish. She’d insist Brad sell the place. The last thing she wanted was to cart this albatross into their new life together. The sooner she sat him down and made him see sense, the less time they’d waste, and life would return to normal.

  “I’m not sure when Brad will be back,” Penelope remarked as they reached the top of the stairs “I’m afraid it may take a while.”

  Sylvia focused her tired brain and tried to remember what they’d been talking about. Ah yes, the meeting. “Why is this meeting expected to take so long?” she inquired, curious despite herself.

  “It’s a long story that dates back. It all began, you see, when Duncan MacLeod supposedly kidnapped MacKinnon’s wife and stole some of his land when he was away at war.”

  “Goodness! That would be World War II?” Sylvia asked, amazed that the natives were still so savage, even in modern times.

  “Good gracious, no,” Penelope exclaimed, laughing. “This dates back to the late 1700s.”

  Sylvia stopped in her tracks and her brows flew up. “The late seventeen—you mean they’re still arguing about something that occurred back then?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Penelope shook her head apologetically. “Things can take a long time to get settled in these parts.”

  “No kidding,” she muttered, horrified. It was obvious Brad was being sucked into quicksand here and needed her to save his ass.

  “Why don’t I show you your room? Then we’ll have a bite of lunch in the breakfast room. Charlotte said she might join us.”

  “Great.” Sylvia infused an enthusiasm into her words she was far from feeling. She took another surreptitious peek at the eyes staring down at her. She supposed they must all be MacLeod ancestors, but they gave her the creeps. It was like walking through the portrait gallery at the Met, but far eerier. A mausoleum would be more cheerful, she decided, sidestepping a knight in armor who leaned too close for comfort. As they began the walk down the wide oak-paneled corridor lit at the far end by a large stained-glass window, she tried to evaluate what the net worth of the movable property at auction might run.