“This is business, and it’s tough enough as it is,” he said dryly. “I’m a fish out of water and it’s taking all of my time to get these folks to trust me. We have to go the extra mile to fit in.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so personally involved,” she said with a bad-tempered shrug. She was tired, desperately wanted a shower and Brad’s attitude was getting on her nerves. Added to that was her own lack of self-control. She could not allow such emotional displays to happen again. “Where’s the living room?” she said at last. “I could use a drink.”
Brad drew her close and turned her toward him. “Don’t get uptight on me, Syl, it’ll all work out, you’ll see. You’ll learn to love the place as much as I do.”
She was about to tell him a few home truths—like the fact that the only thing she’d ever love about this place was the sight of it in her rearview mirror—but instead bit her lip and nodded. There would be time enough for negotiations when they were alone. Everything would be fine, she reassured herself, and not because she was going to pander to their ridiculous old-fashioned dictums. It would work out because she’d see to it that, by the end of the week, she and Brad were back where they belonged: New York City, thank you very much.
As they walked toward the drawing room, she speculated about how best to proceed. Okay, she’d play the game for a couple of days until she could get a handle on how best to extricate them from this situation. She glanced around her. In the meantime, she’d light a fire under the staff. For one, the place needed a good cleanup, not to mention the deplorable state of some of the furnishings.
In the drawing room Penelope sat on the sofa while Armand, the French cousin whom she remembered from a trip with Brad to Paris, sat perched on a high-backed tapestry chair next to the empty grate. He had an irritating laugh, she recalled, careful to paste a smile on her face as she entered.
“Ah, Brad, Sylvia,” Penelope said. “Did you have a nice bath, dear?”
“Uh, actually, I thought I’d wait till later.”
“Syl didn’t expect brown water, did you, honey?”
Brad threw her a grin that left her seething in silent rage. What was the matter with him? Couldn’t he see he was making a fool of her? She forced herself to keep smiling. “It was a little unexpected.”
“Oh! I’m dreadfully sorry,” Penelope exclaimed, rising, and tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear as she was prone to do. “I completely forgot to warn you. It’s terribly off-putting at first. Still, there’s nothing really wrong with the actual water itself.” Seeing that Penelope’s smile was genuinely apologetic, Sylvia calmed down and turned with her toward the Frenchman. “Allow me to introduce you to Armand de la Vallière.”
“We had that pleasure in Paris.” Armand rose and kissed her hand elaborately, making her want to roll her eyes despite her displeasure.
“Would you like a drink?” Penelope asked. “You’ll need one after such a long haul.”
“Scotch and soda on the rocks, please.”
“Right. Have a seat,” Penelope replied.
Sylvia sank gratefully among the plump cushions of a small sofa opposite the fireplace, and felt a little more relaxed. But Brad’s next words left her ragged.
“You can forget both the soda and rocks. Here they drink it neat.” Brad’s back was facing her, so he did not see the killer look she sent him. Where were his tact and diplomacy?
“Neat’ll do fine,” she replied with a bright, brittle smile as he turned to her with a tumbler.
“Is it your first visit to Skye?” Armand questioned, tilting his birdlike head curiously.
“Yes, it is. Do you live here as well as in Paris?” she asked, taking a long, welcome sip.
“Oh, mon Dieu, no!” he exclaimed.
Sylvia grinned. Her eyes met Brad’s in a silent exchange that broke the mounting layer of ice and gave her hope. The familiar complicity left her more at ease, and she settled on the sofa, mollified, wondering how Armand might be put to good use.
After all, she’d only given herself a week.
Instinct told Penelope the rap on the door spelled trouble. “Come in,” she murmured automatically, laying her fountain pen down on the desk with a sigh. It had been a long day.
“I’m sorry te’ disturb ye, ma’lady.” Mrs. Murray stood planted in the doorway, her striped apron straining at the waist, her steely, permed curls stiffly in place. Her expression was stony, mouth turned down in a frown. As the door opened wider, Penelope’s sense of foreboding increased.
“Yes, Mrs. Murray?” she asked in a neutral tone, wondering what could possibly have happened to upset the easiest woman on her cleaning team.
“I’ve come to hand in ma’ notice,” Mrs. Murray sniffed.
Penelope rose, shocked. “What on earth are you talking about, Mrs. Murray?”
Mrs. Murray shook her head woefully with a deep sigh. “Forty-five years it’s been, ma’lady, and never a complaint.” Eyes turned misty with memories, she heaved another gusty sigh. “I can still remember the first day I set foot in the castle. Lady Flora received me hersel’ in this very room. Mary, she said—fer in those days I was just a young thing—ye’ll start in the kitchen with Cook and I hope it’ll be te’ yer liking.” Her red cheeks quivered as a single tear traced its course through her powder. “Never a harsh word have I heard until today—”
“Mrs. Murray, there must be some misunderstanding. Please sit down.” Penelope drew her firmly but gently toward a chair. “What has happened to upset you?”
Mrs. Murray allowed herself to be seated beside the sofa and gave another long sniff. “Never did I think I’d see the day when I’d be told the house was dirty. Dirty, ma’lady!” she exclaimed, pulling out a voluminous hankie and dabbing her eyes. “A cleaning service from Glasgow was what she said. A complete overhaul.” She waved her hands, growing increasingly agitated. “Need to scour the place from top to toe, were her very words. Said there must be thirty years of dreck, whatever that is.”
“But who said that?” Penelope inquired, heart sinking.
“Miss Sylvia.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding. I’m sure Sylvia didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.”
“I heard what I heard and I know what I know. Filth was the word she used and I’ll nae’ forget it as long as I live, Lady Penn. God knows ye’ve all been sae’ good to me over the years and it breaks ma’ heart, but I’ll nae’ stay working for the new laird if that’s who he intends to marry.” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head vigorously and dabbed her eyes yet again. Penelope racked her brains for a solution. Sylvia had obviously made some tactless comment—not the first, unfortunately, even though she’d only been here a day—that would now need major diplomacy to counter.
“Mrs. Murray, why don’t you take a few days off and let me sort this whole matter out? I assure you, if I really believed Sylvia meant what she said, I’d accept your notice at once. But I’m certain there’s been a mistake.” She sat down next to Mrs. Murray on the sofa and tried another approach. “You see, Sylvia isn’t used to our way of life. In America, things are very different. It’s probably as difficult for her to adapt to us as it is for us to accept her. I know what a staunch churchgoer you are,” Penelope emphasized, hoping she’d hit the right button. “And that you, of all people, would be the first to reach out and help a sister in need. So let me do a little investigating and then we’ll talk about it.” She squeezed Mrs. Murray’s wrinkled hand reassuringly and gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Between you and me, Mrs. Murray,” she added, lowering her voice to a murmur, “I think poor Brad’s going to need all the help he can get. And I’m counting on you, of course. I know you have a broad vision of life and are able to understand others’ limitations.”
Mrs. Murray heaved another sigh but her shoulders straightened. Penelope noticed that the tears had dried and her cheeks were flushed with pride.
“Och, ma’lady, I’ll try ma’ best.
But if that wom—Miss Sylvia,” she corrected grudgingly, “produces any more newfangled products bought on some godforsaken machine, that’s where I lay ma’ foot down,” she declared firmly. “There’s a box in the pantry,” she added ominously. “Take a look for yersel’, ma’lady, and ye’ll see,” she said with a knowing glance at Penelope.
“I will. But I’m sure it was well meant.”
“Hmmph.”
“We should, I feel, at least give Sylvia the benefit of the doubt, don’t you?” She rose with a firm smile and Mrs. Murray followed suit, sticking her hankie up the sleeve of her cardigan.
“Thank you, Lady Penn.”
“Not at all. Thank you for being so broad-minded and understanding, Mrs. Murray. This modern world we live in puts taxing demands upon us, doesn’t it?”
A silent look of mutual understanding was exchanged and Mrs. Murray nodded.
Penelope closed the door behind her, the smile of moments earlier transforming into a frown as she pressed worried fingers to her temples and wondered how to cope. There were days when she felt overwhelmed, and this was one of them. For the past several weeks she’d been dealing with Armand—not an easy guest at the best of times—and now Diego de la Fuente and the twins were here. All of this, while trying desperately to show a reluctant Sylvia the ropes. How was she going to iron out this latest faux pas?
She let out a long breath and stared at the blotting paper on the desk. What made it worse was that Sylvia probably meant well. She felt utterly wretched having to point out the young woman’s mistakes. It was cruel and embarrassing and she knew Sylvia was suffering. What could she possibly do to smooth matters over, without humiliating Sylvia, and still keep the ladies happy?
She glanced at her watch, realizing it was getting late. Perhaps she’d better take a look at this box of products Mrs. Murray had referred to. How on earth had Sylvia gotten them here so fast? She rose and moved to the door.
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed, stepping into the hall and nearly falling over Diego de la Fuente, who appeared to be on his way to the library with the Financial Times tucked under his arm. He stopped, his dark eyes alive under thick salt and pepper brows that stood out against the weather-beaten tan earned from a lifetime of sun and sailing. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she murmured as he steadied her.
“If anyone is to blame, it’s me.” He frowned. “Is something wrong, my dear? You seem concerned.”
“Yes, no, that is…in a way, but please don’t let me bore you with domestic concerns.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and ignored the threatening headache, wondering all at once if talking to someone might not help. At least Diego was neutral.
“Is there anything I can do?” he inquired.
“Not really. But thanks for asking.”
He kept his hand on her arm and smoothed her sleeve. “You know, one of these days you must start thinking of yourself, and stop worrying about everybody else in this household. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong,” he added, steering her persuasively back toward the sitting room.
Penelope hesitated. She needed to get to the root of the trouble with the ladies, and check the linen, but Diego’s firm grasp on her arm made her realize just how tired she was, and how much she needed to confide in someone. Reluctantly, she let herself be ushered into the sitting room and together they sat on the couch.
“Now,” he said, smiling winningly, “tell me all about it.”
Whether she liked it or not, Charlotte reflected, she must face the fact that Sylvia had arrived and go up to the castle.
Maybe later, she decided, putting it off once again by wielding her pencil and ferociously adding some final touches to her latest design, a brooch for her grand-mother’s dear friend Evelyne Franck in Gstaad. It was one of her first commissions, and she was tremendously proud that Evelyne, a true connoisseur, had ordered something from her. Tilting her head, she took a critical look at her drawing. It was imposing, she decided, a piece designed to be worn on cashmere or heavy silk, a jewel for a mature woman. There was a 1930s touch about it. But then, that could be said about much of her work. She frowned, laid the page down once more and sharpened her pencil, still searching for the final form the brooch would take. The stones were already chosen: a cabochon quartz, tourmalines and diamonds. Sylvain de Rothberg had used that same combination to great effect. Now she intended to create her own design with those same elements. She wondered if Armand would like it. Probably, since he appeared to be obsessed with anything relating to Sylvain. And he was right—there was definitely magic in Sylvain’s work. Eyeing the drawing once more, she experienced a moment’s doubt. Was there any in hers? She desperately hoped so, but who could say? What did it take to reach stardom? Armand seemed to think she had true talent. But what if it was just one of his crazy illusions? After all, there was no disputing Armand was a bit off-the-wall.
Setting the drawing aside, she stretched and grimaced, kicking the dilapidated stool rhythmically, wondering what Brad was doing. She hadn’t seen him for five whole days. The thought made her unreasonably angry. She supposed now that Sylvia was here he didn’t need her company any longer. Or perhaps they were honeymooning it up in the laird’s bedroom. What irritated her most was knowing that it was none of her business, yet it bothered her anyway.
Impatiently she switched off the spotlight that illuminated her drawing table and, flinging her old basket over her shoulder, tried not to think about the couple. It was the couple bit that really got to her. She fidgeted impatiently, then picked up a few pencils, just in case inspiration hit during the night.
After procrastinating for another few minutes, she closed the door of the studio and entered the gallery where Moira was redoing the window.
“You off?” she asked, leaning back on her heels and surveying her handiwork. “Take a look at this before you go.”
Charlotte moved across the gallery and glanced indifferently at the arrangement Moira had placed on the stand in the window. A bright red, white and blue silk scarf strewn next to it showed off the gold and quartz, but frankly, right now she didn’t care.
“It looks great. I like the scarf,” she murmured.
“It’s for the Americans. But what’s the matter with you? No changes, no last-minute bright ideas?” Moira rose and looked her over, surprised. She lifted her batik skirt, careful not to spoil the effect of the window display, and climbed gingerly back onto the floor.
“I have to go up to the castle to welcome Sylvia,” Charlotte muttered sullenly.
“Ah…” Moira eyed her keenly from behind thick lenses that gave her an owlish expression. “And why is that such a big deal?”
Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it isn’t, really.”
“But for some reason it is,” Moira pointed out gently.
“Oh, blast it,” Charlotte let out a long breath and flopped onto the edge of the window display.
“Don’t,” Moira squealed in terror. “If you move anything so much as one iota, I shall throw a fit.”
“That’d be a treat.” Charlotte grinned, despite the depression hovering.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to throw a tantrum, Charlotte Drummond, and just you remember it.” Moira wagged a finger at her, then sat down carefully next to her. “Come on, Charlie, tell me what’s up. You haven’t been right since you got back from your last visit to John the other day.”
“I know. It’s all a bit of a muddle, really. I haven’t seen Brad for five whole days. You’d think the queen had arrived, the way everyone’s fussing.”
“Well, she is his fiancée,” Moira pointed out matter-of-factly.
“Don’t remind me.” Charlotte got up abruptly and cast her eyes heavenward. “I suppose she’s already turning everything topsy-turvy up there.” She jerked her head in the direction of Strathaird, aware that the change she’d so desperately feared was well and truly here.
“Well, she’s not about to disappear into the mist, so I suppos
e you’ll have to get used to her.”
“You don’t need to rub salt in the wound,” Charlotte remarked tartly, sending her friend a dark look from under creased eyebrows. “I’m well aware that from now on I’ll be a second-class citizen. It’s just difficult, because Brad and I have always had such a special relationship.” Charlotte stared into space. “It’s never going to be the same again now that she’s here,” she ended, annoyed at the catch in her throat.
“Is it just the friendship that you think will change, or is there something else between you?”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte spun round, eyeing her friend defensively. “What an idiotic thing to say.”
“Is it?” With the perception and liberty of old friendship, Moira plunged ahead regardless. “Maybe you don’t want to admit it to yourself—which, by the way, is a habit of yours—”
“Rubbish!”
“Okay, then look me in the eye and tell me that what you feel for Brad is nothing but old friendship. From where I’m sitting, it looks very different.”
“What utter rot,” Charlotte exclaimed, outraged.
“And as for Sylvia,” Moira plowed on, “you’re just plain jealous of her.”
“Of all the rotten, nasty—”
“Shut up and listen for once, I’m not done,” Moira said, rising and facing her squarely. “You don’t want to see Sylvia because the thought of her lying in Brad’s arms is making you ill.”
The two women faced one another, eyes locked in a battle of wills. Charlotte was about to protest vehemently, opening her mouth to give Moira a pithy retort, then closed it abruptly as the full force of her friend’s words hit her. “No,” she muttered, shaking her head, leaning her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. “That’s ridiculous, absurd and above all, inadmissible.”
“But true,” Moira insisted relentlessly.
“This can’t be happening.” Charlotte gave a muffled groan and Moira slipped an arm around her.
“But it is, darling, and the sooner you face up to it, the better.”
Charlotte laid her head on her friend’s shoulder and let out a shaky sigh. “But how could this have happened, Mo? I mean, Brad’s been part of my life forever, and apart from that one little fling we had in London, years ago, I’ve never thought of him in that way.”
The Lost Dreams Page 14
