“Here’s your room,” Penelope said brightly, stopping before a door on her left. It opened onto a large, airy bedroom prettily decorated in blue and white chintz. Chintz, Sylvia observed, seemed very much in vogue here. Personally she preferred a cleaner, more minimalist look, but she had to admit that ruffles and floral patterns held a kind of rustic New England charm.
“It’s very pretty,” she remarked for something to say. “Did you decorate it yourself, Penelope?” She laid her bag and purse on the bed and moved to the window where a small sofa rested under the mullioned panes. Leaning her knee on it, she stared out across the lawn toward the sea. It looked gray, bleak and menacing. Even the dot of a red fishing boat bobbing on the surf did little to lift her spirits.
“Not really decorate, no,” Penelope said in answer to her question. “Things get done when they need to around here. You know how it is, the odd sofa about to collapse, bedspreads that have deteriorated beyond rehabilitation. I agree this particular material is rather attractive,” she said, caressing the bedspread with a smile. “My mother-in-law, Flora MacLeod, and I chose it together shortly before she died.” Then Penelope moved toward a large mahogany armoire and opened it. “I’m afraid there’s not much cupboard space, but the chest of drawers is fairly large. I can always have another one brought up from the cellar if necessary.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s great. I just brought what I’d need for a few days. Honestly, I don’t have that much stuff. But—” she paused, looking at the cupboards “—where are Brad’s things?”
Sylvia searched curiously for another cupboard or closet, or wherever it was they kept their clothes. Her business trips to London, where she stayed in a suite at Claridge’s, had not prepared her for this.
Penelope gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, I’m afraid Brad’s room is on the next floor. It’s the room all the lairds have occupied since the 1500s.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I just moved right in there?” She frowned as Penelope hesitated. “I mean, it certainly would be less disruptive. Brad and I—well, we’ll want to be together, and I’d hate to disturb anyone.” She stood expectantly, ready to pick up her things, then cocked her head. Was she missing something?
“Sylvia, I don’t quite know how to put this. It’s a little awkward…”
“Is there a problem, Penelope?” Sylvia stared at her, eyes questioning.
“Uh, no, of course not. But you see, things here on the island are not quite as advanced as in your world. Customs are somewhat antiquated.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Sylvia failed to see her point and wished Penelope would just say what was on her mind.
“What I’m trying to say,” Penelope continued in obvious discomfort, “is that people might not understand if they knew you and Brad were, um, cohabitating, so to speak, before being married.”
Sylvia plopped down on the window seat in open-mouthed amazement. “You mean, for people to—” she burst out laughing and waved her hands for lack of the right term “—you have to be married?”
“No, of course not,” Penelope reassured. Their eyes met now in mutual amusement and she joined in the laughter. “It’s all about keeping up appearances. Sharing the same room might not go down very well with the tenants.”
“But what on earth does it have to do with them?” Sylvia asked, bewildered.
“Nothing, I suppose, and yet…” Penelope’s eyebrows drew together as she tried to explain. “We try to respect their sensibilities.” Her hands fluttered in an embarrassed gesture and she sighed. “It isn’t always an easy task, I assure you.”
Sylvia nodded slowly. She still failed to see what on earth her sex life had to do with anyone but Brad and herself, but she stayed quiet. For now, at any rate. Perhaps this was what the book had meant by accepted code of behavior.
“I know it’s perfectly ridiculous in this day and age,” Penelope continued apologizing, “but I’m afraid the ladies would definitely be upset.”
“The ladies?” Sylvia said faintly, wondering how many other people she would be expected to please.
“You’ll meet them tomorrow. Mrs. MacKinnon, Mrs. Murray and Mrs. Lorrie. They’ve been doing the cleaning here for more than forty years. They have rather old-fashioned views. I felt that perhaps—”
Sylvia nodded, jet lag catching up with her. “Not a problem, Penelope. I get the drift. Do you mind if we continue this discussion later?” she added with a winning smile. “Right now, I’m beat.”
“Of course, my dear. So thoughtless of me. I’m glad you understand.” Penelope pressed her hands together at the waist and smiled. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thanks, unless there’s a map of the castle. I suspect I’ll need one not to get lost.” She grinned and decided to make the best of it. There was no use in putting people’s backs up. If there was one thing she’d learned during her years of climbing the corporate ladder, it was that pissing people off didn’t pay. And in her modest opinion, this wasn’t so different. If she could get Penelope on her side, she might have a strong ally, she reflected speculatively. After all, Penelope had everything to gain by Brad’s departure.
Penelope headed toward the door. “Don’t worry about getting lost. At first the place can be confusing, but in a week or so you’ll be used to it.”
“A week?” Sylvia’s head jerked up and she frowned. By then she expected to be back in New York. She hoped to leave before the week was out. Surely seven days would be ample time to have the place up and running. Surely it wouldn’t take that long to persuade Brad to depart. Still, she’d have to tread lightly here, and winning Penelope’s cooperation struck her as a brilliant strategic move. “Perhaps you might show me where I can freshen up?” she asked, rising from the window seat, legs shaky from fatigue, and searching the chintz-covered walls for the door to the bathroom. She hadn’t stopped all week and now it was hitting her hard.
“I’m afraid that’s down the hall. As I mentioned earlier, things are a little backward here, Sylvia. It may take a little getting used to.” She led the way back into the hallway.
“Are there any ghosts?” Sylvia inquired laughingly, casting a cursory glance at the watercolor prints on the wall.
“None to speak of. There was Clara MacLeod, who died in 1773 of a broken heart. She has been seen from time to time but not of late. And of course Cullum, the first laird who battled the Vikings in 900 and something, occasionally makes his presence felt. But not since Flora died. Things have been relatively quiet since then.”
Sylvia was about to question what “relatively” meant, but thought better of it. Instead, she remarked lightheartedly, “How boring for you.”
“We survive quite nicely, thank you. Here’s the bathroom. I hope it’s all right.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do fine.” For a week, she amended silently. “Has Brad brought anyone in to begin an overhaul? I would think plumbing and wiring might be a problem in a place like this.”
“Architects, you mean?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’ve done your very best to keep the place up, but it sure looks like it could do with some rehab.” She flicked a finger over a damp stain on the wall.
“As I mentioned,” Penelope said patiently, “the historical society and the National Trust have very strict rules regarding remodeling.”
“Right.” She could have kicked herself for not remembering. It just went to show how tired she was.
Ten minutes later, wearing a white terry robe, hair expertly wrapped in a towel, Sylvia headed briskly down the corridor. A refreshing hot shower would help her clear the cobwebs. She stepped into the bathroom, horrified to see it looked as dated as the castle. A spartan cork floor, towels hanging on metal pipes and a long white tub that predated the Jacuzzi by far stared her in the face. There was no shower.
Never mind, she decided, leaning against the doorjamb and closing her eyes. It’s only for a few days. Then we’ll be back to civilization and can pretend this n
ever happened. Yawning, she moved toward the tub and absently turned on the taps before setting her makeup bag on the counter and arranging her toiletries on the small shelf above the basin. Grimacing, she placed her toothbrush in a misty glass, then turned to check the bath. A gasp escaped her and she watched in horrified wonder as dirty brown water oozed onto white enamel. “My God, what is wrong with this place?” she murmured, wearily turning off the taps. The pipes must be as old as the place itself. She took a deep breath, regrouped and tried the basin. Identical brown liquid trickled forth and she stared at it in disgust. Something must be done urgently, she reflected, shaking her head despondently. The place wouldn’t even be of use to them commercially if there wasn’t decent running water. She wondered if all the bathrooms were alike and if so, how Brad could stand it. You’d think after two weeks of this he’d have had enough. But either he was oblivious or blind, for there had been no mention of what she considered a major flaw.
She tramped crossly back to her room and changed into a smart pair of white pants and a silk shirt. The least he could have done was warn her. She took a critical glance in the mirror, glad she’d had the chemical peel, and done Botox around her eyes. She made a face, but her expression didn’t budge. At thirty-five, it was important to keep up her looks, and the slim, green-eyed blonde staring at her from the mirror filled every expectation. She also wanted to look good for Brad.
She considered unpacking, then decided to wait till after lunch. Perhaps Brad would dismiss Penelope’s ridiculous notions about having different rooms. Surly he wouldn’t tolerate being pushed about by a bunch of yokels? In fact, this was as good an opportunity as any to show people how things were about to change around here.
She moved to the window and stared glumly as the waves heaved inland, endless, forceful and incessant. She shuddered involuntarily. How many lives had this angry sea swallowed? she wondered, suddenly haunted by the murky waters of her own past, those desperate times when she’d thought she, too, would drown in the ocean of misery that had once been her life. But she’d survived—even flourished, she reminded herself proudly. Only in the rarest moments—like right now—did she wonder if she’d ever really escape. She quickly banished such thoughts, knowing there was no place in her present life for self-doubt, and focused on the property.
The castle must be a prime piece of real estate, even in this remote location. Plus, for some reason she failed to comprehend, people thought of Skye as romantic. What would the estate retail in the present market? she wondered. She’d raised the issue with Brad before, but had elicited little response. She’d hinted tentatively over the phone that he should consider selling, but he hadn’t picked up on it, or even seemed interested in the property’s value, for that matter, which had struck her as weird at the time. Now she frowned, concerned. Back in New York, Strathaird had seemed insignificant, another obligation, certainly, but a manageable one that would be resolved, as were all the other corporate matters they dealt with daily. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She turned back toward the room, glanced at the single bed with its mahogany headboard and virginal floral coverlet, and grimaced. Playing hide-and-seek on the stairs could be amusing for a couple of nights, but it would become tiring if the charade were to continue. Maybe Penelope was just being paranoid. Brad would set her straight, she reassured herself.
She picked out a black sweater from the tote bag lying half-open on the floor, and slipped it over her shoulders before heading down the corridor toward the huge oak staircase. Reaching the landing, she allowed her fingers to travel over the carved balustrade and stared down from the gallery into the Great Hall below. Impressive in its own way, she supposed, but who in their right mind would want to live in a tomb like this when they could have a perfectly nice place in town? Strathaird should be turned into a museum, for Christ’s sake. Perhaps then it might even become a tax write-off?
She descended the stairs considering the matter, firmly ignoring the eyes following her everywhere. Nobody freaked her out, and a bunch of painted faces were not going to start. Then, to her delight, she heard Brad’s voice echoing through the hall. With a sudden surge of relief, she hastened down the last stairs, the sight of his windblown chestnut hair and familiar smile more comforting than she cared to admit. It dawned on her that he looked different, more relaxed in an old shooting jacket, jeans and rubber boots. Then, in an uncharacteristic move, she threw herself into his arms and hugged him.
“Am I glad to see you!” she exclaimed.
“Makes two of us.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead then drew back, eyebrows creased, and surveyed her. “Everything okay?”
“Well, I guess. It’s somewhat archaic, sort of like being whisked back in time?”
“Yes, isn’t it? Has a charm all its own,” he agreed, a smile curving his lips.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was referring to.”
“Oh, you meant the history?” he said, nodding. “It’s fascinating too. You’ll have to get Aunt Penn to give you a complete tour. She knows all the tales.”
“I’m referring to the present living conditions,” she snapped impatiently.
“What about them?” He drew away and took off his jacket.
“Well, surely you must have noticed?” She tried to mask her rising irritation. There was no use in having a head-on confrontation, she knew that. Men reacted so much better when approached indirectly. Hadn’t she always followed that sacred rule in business?
“I can’t say that anything in particular comes to mind,” he remarked, frowning, his expression mystified.
“Not even the tap water?” she replied sweetly, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “Really, Brad, surely you must have noticed that!”
“Oh, yeah!” His forehead cleared and he grinned. “I forgot to warn you. The water’s local. It’s the same all over the island. A bit salty too, but it washes fine as any other. You’ll get used to it.”
“Used to it?” she spluttered angrily, forgetting her resolve. “I’ll never get used to bathing in filthy water. Plus, there’s not even a shower.”
“We’ll have one put in. By the way, your workout equipment arrived.”
“Well, that’s something, although I don’t know if it’s worth having it unpacked,” she muttered, taking a deep breath, determined not to lose her calm completely.
Brad moved next to her and stroked her cheek. “Don’t get upset, honey. Right now you’re tired. You’ll see, tomorrow it’ll all be better.”
“Bradley, I am not some sweet little idiot you need to soothe—Oh my God,” she exclaimed, pulling away and almost tripping into the huge baronial fireplace at her back.
“Careful.” Brad grabbed her arm and steadied her.
“What,” she asked, pointing a shaking finger, “is that?”
Brad glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry,” he laughed. “That’s just Rufus.” He summoned the dog, who moved ponderously to his side. “He’s gigantic, isn’t he? A wolfhound with a bloodline almost as old as the MacLeods’, but trust me, he’s harmless. Unless you’re a rabbit, you’re completely safe.”
“Just dandy,” she muttered, staring at the dog, still stunned that Brad would allow such a creature in the house. This laid-back attitude of his was a total surprise. It was as if she was standing before a different man from the sophisticated, driven, exacting individual she knew.
“You sure you’re okay? You look kind of pale.” He slipped a hand under her chin and searched her eyes with such affectionate concern that she melted despite her anger. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up, Syl. I had an important meeting with members of the MacKinnon clan that I simply couldn’t miss.”
“I heard. Anyway, it was just a chopper ride.”
He smiled down at her, the familiar glint in those piercing blue eyes making her go suddenly weak. “You hate chopper rides.”
“True. But I can stand them when necessary. What I can’t stand, though, is being relegated to
a guest bedroom.” She looked at him suggestively through her lashes and raised a questioning eyebrow. “I mean, this is the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake,” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Surely they can’t be that backward?”
“What do you mean?” He frowned.
“Penelope said it would look bad if we slept in the same room. Something about it bothering the housekeepers.”
“Geez, I hadn’t thought of that.” He frowned, then grinned apologetically and slipped an arm around her waist. “I guess we’ll have to sneak around like teenagers for a while.”
“You mean you’re going to tolerate this? Brad, it’s your house now—take a stand.” She disengaged herself, thoroughly annoyed by his lack of reaction.
“I’m sorry if it bothers you, Syl, but I’m sure Penelope knows best. Surely it won’t matter for a few nights?”
“Maybe to you it doesn’t, but I care quite a bit, even if it is only for a few days,” she remarked tartly. “I didn’t travel across half the world for this.”
“Of course I care,” Brad replied patiently, slipping his arm around her shoulders, “but we don’t want to upset people unnecessarily. If Aunt Penn thinks it’s better this way, then I think we should comply.”
“Jesus, Brad, you sound like a complete wuss,” she exclaimed, disgusted. “I think this place is affecting your sanity.”
“You know as well as I do that offending people’s sensibilities unnecessarily is a stupid reaction. You’re the one who’s always telling me how we need to handle things with kid gloves.”
“That’s in business,” she muttered.
The Lost Dreams Page 13
