They talked and he made it simple for her and very reasonable. When you went shopping for a company you dealt in millions, millions which had been entrusted to you by the shareholders. So everything in the package had to be good. It would be illogical to value the plant only because no one affected an organisation more than its executives. In fact, you could say the question was whether to buy Angus MacAllan and his company or Jock Smith and his.
‘Buy?’ Maggie interposed, and Derek looked annoyed with himself.
‘I keep saying “buy”, don’t I? It’s “merge”, of course.’ He went on, posing the questions which over the next few weeks it would be her brief to answer as factually as possible. Having it spelled out didn’t help. She had thought vaguely on the lines of a character reference. Derek smiled gently:
‘ ’Fraid not, darling. We’re not here for the beer. I have told you millions are going to pass. My clients pay for data. The subject gambles (a) to excess (b) in moderation (c) not at all. The subject goes in for women...’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He wants to marry Troy.’
Derek’s chuckle made her feel an innocent. ‘That needn’t be the last word.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I trail him!’
‘If you do I’ll trail you,’ he promised. And then the levity left him. ‘It won’t be hard to know, love. That part won’t trouble you. I can’t say the same for myself.’
‘Derek!’ She did not care who might be passing. ‘You know me better than that.’ Her hand went along his cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Why don’t you go and ask him? Maybe he’ll stretch a point for a very important person like yourself.’ Rob’s efforts for what he called ‘a bit o’ peace and quiet’ were many and varied. Today’s was the ‘wee kelpie’ that lived in the pool and came up at night to gallop in the moonlight. ‘Well, what are you stopping for?’ he added as Kelly still hovered uncertainly. ‘Away and tak’ a look. Give his door a good clatter, mind, he’ll be in his bed.’
‘There’s no door,’ Kelly objected. Poor Rob for his sins had been adored on sight. None of his snaps and snarls had the least effect.
‘Are ye blind or something?’ he now retorted. ‘Can you no’ see the door? Ask that moke in your pocket to show you. Isn’t he supposed to be one of them?’
‘You’ve an inventive brain, Rob,’ Maggie said. ‘But she mustn’t bother you.’
Rob’s battered countenance was immediately defensive. ‘Who said she bothered me? I like her blether. And I’m not the only one. That young lad of Angus MacAllan’s was dancing round her on Sunday like a dog wi’ two tails.’
Maggie stared. Kelly had not been forthcoming about Sunday, neither had Graham, though in his usual meticulous fashion he had informed her that she was entitled to deduct for the lunch. Had they not then spent the afternoon in Wee House sharing the silence of books? Not a bit of it, Rob said. They had been nosing round the stables all afternoon and if you asked him the sitter had taken a back seat. Kelly had led, he had followed.
‘He’s got a real soft spot for her, I can tell.’
‘Nonsense, Rob. They’re only bits of bairns,’ Maggie protested.
‘We were all bits of bairns once upon a time,’ Rob said unanswerably.
He then put romance aside and asked if Troy had been consulted about adding to the stock. A second pony, for instance. What had Maggie done with the one Kelly had had in Ireland?
‘Let me disillusion you with all speed,’ Maggie laughed. ‘Cream Cracker belonged to the stables where I worked. Dear knows who has him now. They were selling up. Kelly doesn’t know that, mind. She’s quite happy thinking he’s at home where he always was.’
‘Quite happy?’ Rob echoed. ‘Is that a fact? Then why do I catch her greeting in a corner after we talk about it? It’s a real pity you couldnae get that wee beast over here. It would earn its keep in no time.’
A wild notion, perhaps, but Maggie could not forget it. For the rest of the day that and the picture of Kelly crying by herself in a corner fought for attention. Look before you leap, Angus MacAllan had advised. It was not Maggie’s way. She thought it was no good thinking too much about things because then you got cold feet and chickened out. That evening as soon as she got back to Wee House she rang Fairley Hall. Yes, indeed, Phyl’s warm voice told her, Cream Cracker was still with them. Several buyers, however, had been ‘making noises’. One was due back in the morning.
‘You won’t let him go?’ Maggie begged. ‘Please, Phyl. I’ll match any offer.’
‘That you won’t,’ Phyl asserted. ‘But I must know soon, honey. We’ll be getting them off next week, all of them.’
‘Soon as I can talk to Troy,’ Maggie promised. ‘It’s just a matter of form, but I must ask her.’
She laid down the phone and stood thinking. At this moment where was Troy? One person at least would know—if she had the nerve to ring him.
Since Sunday she had not seen or spoken to Angus MacAllan. Indeed the mere thought of him made her dizzy. How could she jot down his habits? It was fantastic. No wonder spies came in from the cold. She was not asked to be a spy, only a character witness, and she felt that the moment : those green eyes next lit on her face they would perceive and loathe her. No matter, of course. Soon enough all contact between them would have ceased. Married to Derek she would be miles from Aberdeen.
Meantime, if she wanted Cream Cracker, she must act. Her finger was travelling down the ‘Macs’ in the directory when the telephone at her elbow started to ring. The caller was crisp: ‘Good afternoon. This is MacAllans of Aberdeen. Could I speak to Miss Campbell, please?’
‘Speaking.’ Maggie began to feel there was something in the powers Kelly claimed for Zebedee.
‘Will you hold, please, for Mr. MacAllan?’
There was no mistaking the voice which now took over. It was low, deep and shorn of frivolity. ‘Maggie, Angus MacAllan here. I have a proposition for you.’
Maggie? Had he said Maggie? With only echo left she doubted it. And then he said it again, impatiently: ‘That is you, Maggie? Are you hearing me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then tell me, how are you at entertaining?’
There had not exactly been scope for it in what had amounted to living in a double loosebox.
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he agreed unflatteringly. ‘But I suppose you do know—’
‘Not to blow on the soup,’ she inserted tartly. ‘Yes, Mr. MacAllan, if I try.’
‘Sorry,’ he said smoothly. ‘I asked for that. In few words, I want a hostess for a dinner party. Will you do it?’
‘When?’
‘A little over two hours.’
Shock paralysed. ‘I don’t know—I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just yes or no, please. And quick as you like. It’s you or ring round the agencies.’
‘You do realise horses are my real thing?’
‘I’m afraid horses are not on the guest list,’ he said dourly. ‘And I fully realise I must be thankful for small mercies.’
It was hardly gracious. Big deal, she thought furiously. But he had angered her into acceptance. Facts followed. The eight guests, four married couples, were of varying nationalities. They had been at a trade fair and Angus along with other Aberdonian industrialists had volunteered hospitality. Everything had been laid on, the caterers should already be at Strathyre getting ready, but Mrs. Burton, his secretary, who had promised to act as hostess, had been knocked out by an attack of migraine.
‘Anything you want to know, ask Graham,’ he concluded. ‘He should be home by now. He’s going to eat with us, so you might also see he washes his face.’
‘And Kelly?’ Maggie was coming down to earth. ‘What will I do about Kelly?’ A question, perhaps, with ‘last straw’ qualities.
‘Anything you like, I don’t mind.’ It was flipped impatiently back. ‘There’ll be plenty of people round to
keep an eye to her. You can surely organise something.’
It was obviously no time to enquire Troy’s phone number and in the context of British Standard it was five o’clock. Seven for seven-thirty, Angus MacAllan had said. He was driving some of the guests out from Aberdeen himself, two company cars and drivers would be bringing the remainder. Two German couples, he’d added, one Norwegian pair and one Italian. And there was no cause for alarm. All spoke English.
No cause either for alarm about Strathyre. A van was parked in the driveway and there was a general air of activity.
As Maggie approached, first the fanlight and then one of the downstairs rooms flashed into pearly light. The undrawn curtains gave a glimpse of pale trompe l’oeil panelling and gleaming night dark furniture. Another room, on the opposite side of the hall, also woke up like a sleeping beauty. This time her mind fumbled for the words and found them—water-lilies. All that cool cool green, sheer nets and greeny-yellow stripes.
Before she had time to knock, the hall door opened.
‘Miss Campbell, Dad has just telephoned,’ Graham said composedly. ‘He wants me to show you where everything is.’
She felt, perhaps absurdly, that were she to be disappointed in this house the let-down would be intolerable. Its long windows and lofty ceilings made it such a stage, though one that she herself would never have dared to set.
The hand that had done so, however, had been very sure, in places very bold and everywhere triumphant. There was the fire of orange and yellow screening the dining-room windows from floor to ceiling. There was the tall french window in the drawing-room, its fluted fanlight seen through sheer white net, and the subtle greens and yellows in the paper that covered ceiling and cornices. The white walls had somehow the sheen of a lily pond and the stripes she had noticed were on the sofa upholstery.
The drawing-room was a period piece. What Graham called the ‘den’ was a warm translation. Pinch-pleated lime green curtains screened the white sheers and the chairs and sofa were soft olive brown. Upstairs the bedroom set apart as ladies’ cloakroom had a ceiling pied in pink and lavender daisies.
Not all the doors were opened. ‘I won’t show you my room because you might think it very untidy,’ Graham said diplomatically. ‘This is the bathroom.’
He pushed the door and Maggie found herself blinking. No lily pond this, the word was Caribbean. The suite and the thick carpet were emerald green, the basin dropped into a long tropical blue vanity unit. Light came seductively from the glass ceiling, the black scrolled walls carried prints, there was a hand-beaten silver mirror and for amusement a white birdcage. If you added it to the aquamarine bathroom in the Edinburgh flat and the gold and black one in Wee House you had another collector’s piece.
‘Someone round here likes bathrooms,’ Maggie remarked.
‘Yes. Mummy,’ Graham responded simply. ‘She was a designer. Dad says she let this one go to her head.’
It explained the instances of almost theatrical decor, but for self-confidence it did nothing. What parties Jean MacAllan must have given in this house, the house on which Maggie recalled she had set her eye years before. The crystal chandelier in the dining-room must have blazed down on a very accomplished hostess. Tonight, Angus MacAllan, looking the length of his table, would see such a different woman.
The silver mirror showed her all too plainly—not bad looking but hardly svelte. Big eyes, big mouth, big cheeks, a mane of straw-coloured hair falling from a crooked centre parting. There was a horrible word ‘milkmaid’ that kept recurring. Horses were her real thing, so were the sweater and jeans in which she all but slept. Angus MacAllan’s heart at this moment must be in his boots.
‘I suppose you give lots of parties,’ she hazarded dejectedly.
Graham’s head shook. ‘No. We don’t care about them. We’re two stick-in-the-muds. But tonight’s different. Dad felt he had to because they’re visitors to the country.’
He took Maggie downstairs. Already in the dining-room the beautiful oval table was blossoming with quite as beautiful glasses and silver. Mats and starched napkins were being set out. There was a centrepiece of red gladioli mixed with grapes and apples.
The flower arrangers had also been busy in the hall where a Byzantine cone of chrysanthemums graced one corner.
You would be dead indeed not to catch the atmosphere. Back in Wee House Maggie drew a bath and soaked in it as long as she dared. She had no party clothes, but Graham’s phrase about visitors to the country lingered. If glamour was impossible she could at least look Scottish.
A white blouse, prim and lace-edged, and a full-length tartan skirt. She went for her hair like mad, swirling it back and forth, finally sweeping it off her forehead and tucking it into black velvet. This and the pearl ear-studs she’d chosen was all very simple, so she could afford the drama of sapphire blue eye-shadow. It was cold. She found a stole, threw it across her shoulders and set off across the drive.
It had seemed a foregone conclusion that Angus MacAllan’s black beauty would be the first car in the motorcade. Startlingly, it was not.
‘Oh, cheese it! What are we supposed to do now?’ Graham demanded as the other two cars arrived with their passengers. ‘It’s probably the car,’ he added gloomily. ‘We’ve been having trouble with it.’
He had asked a question. Maggie answered it with a confidence not altogether genuine. ‘What do we do? We go and welcome the guests. That’s what we’re here for.’
A word with one of the drivers supported Graham’s diagnosis. Angus had left his office in good time, but the car had been seen to ‘die’ once already in the factory drive, so it was more than probable he and the two Italians were held up somewhere en route. Just what would happen, Maggie thought ruefully, and went to explain matters to the Norwegian and German couples. Fortunately they all spoke excellent English. She took the ladies upstairs, Graham, strikingly pink behind the ears, showed the men to the ground floor cloakroom.
Happily they were easy guests and the caterers were understanding. She put a stop on dinner, organised drinks and got conversation going. Graham helped shyly but competently. At least half an hour passed before her ears caught the sounds for which they had been waiting, wheels on the gravel and car doors opening and closing. Voices followed, the drawing-room door opened and she saw a man, a girl and their missing host.
Angus bore traces of having fallen by the way. There was a dust trail on his dark suit, his tie was askew, his hair wispy. He was grinning broadly. Maggie blinked. The Angus MacAllan she knew, even in his kinder moments, was serious. This smiling man had a swagger that went with his lilac shirt. He was a stranger. Ridiculously apt. ‘A stranger across a crowded room .’
She had had only a few sips of sherry, but had it turned her head? Was it imagination that as she walked towards him, her long skirt belling about her ankles, he looked at her in a most peculiar way? His eyes a second ago had been on his young son doing the rounds with a tray of glasses. But now Graham was out of range. Who then did Angus see as he stood there, rock still, eyes fixed? His wife, perhaps. Such a moment must often have occurred when Jean was alive.
With all the talk about kelpies and magicians an enchanted evening was not incredible.
‘Hallo,’ he said as though he were still dreaming.
‘Hallo.’ She was enchanted too. She could not look away. Their eyes held each other as though at sword point.
Then it snapped. The crowded room was back, Graham’s bright kilt flirted against the yellow green carpet and mischievously Angus flashed two oily black palms in her face.
‘Angus!’ Maggie gasped, and backed away.
There was a chuckle, green devils danced in the eyes and the smudged hands pretended to grab at her blouse.
‘Ang-us, you may not be so wicked!’ said a charming Italian voice.
Maggie had taken to its owner on sight. Her smile had the warmth of her homeland and her dark eyes were beautiful.
Angus used her Christian name. ‘It’s al
l right, Domenica. Maggie knows me, though she’s in disguise tonight. I hardly know her.’ It was a two-edged compliment.
‘And so charming a disguise,’ Domenica put in at once. ‘Oh, you have such advantage, you tall Scots, with your romantic tartans. You must tell me please, Maggie, what name it has.’
Again Maggie was not allowed to answer.
‘Oh, I’ll tell you that,’ Angus said calmly. ‘In this house we call it the traitor!’
For a second Maggie thought her nerves had got the better of her. Had he said it, or had she feared this so intensely that her ears had taken over? Shock plunged her like a corkscrew. Her mouth went dry.
‘Oh, this interests me!’ Domenica’s voice bubbled with excitement. ‘Now I know what you mean. Guido—’ She turned to her hitherto silent husband. ‘You remember the day we went to Glencoe, that lady on the coach said to us: “Never trust a Campbell.” But surely it was a joke. Surely no one...’
‘If the lady said it she meant it,’ Angus affirmed stoutly. ‘Me, I’m saying nothing. This is a Day of Truce.’
Maggie found herself breathing again. Her name was an irony, but at least it was no personal shaft. Angus was linking her with nothing closer than the infamous Campbell treachery at Glencoe.
‘Suppose we postpone the history lesson?’ she suggested, smiling. ‘Let me take you upstairs. It’s this way.’
She had thought there was more than a passing interest in her guest’s scrutiny, first of the curving staircase, and then of the bedroom. Domenica explained this over the mascara brush. She had known about this house and had been anxious to see what Jean had made of it. Oh yes, as Maggie looked enquiring, she was ‘not quite—how you say it—a blind date’. Before her marriage she had studied colour planning and had met Jean MacAllan some years ago at a conference in Paris. Angus too; he had picked Jean up when it closed and they had all stayed the weekend. Addresses and promises of reunion had been exchanged.
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