Highland Fling (4 page)

Jenny wondered about that. Meggie was obviously very determined. On the other hand, Jenny was genuinely tempted by the cosiness of the van. ‘I’ll let you know one way or another as soon as possible.’ She paused. ‘I would like to do it, in a way. Just to prove I can.’ And not only to herself. Part of her, deep down and barely acknowledged, wanted to prove to that man that a bacon butty and a cup of tea were not beyond her, though why she should care what he thought, God alone knew.

‘Good. Well, I can’t ask for more than that.’

Jenny looked at her watch. ‘I suppose I’d better be on my way. Do you think I should ring and say exactly when I’ll be arriving?’

‘How would you do that? Mobile phones are no use out here.’

Jenny made a face. ‘God! How
uncivilised!
’

‘Away with you! Do you need any directions?’

Jenny fished a crumpled bit of paper from her jacket pocket. ‘There’s a little road about a mile from here, and then up a long track to the left?’

Meggie nodded. ‘That’ll get you there. Good luck.’

Chapter Two

It was one of those doorbells that didn’t make any sound when you rang it. Jenny stood on the doorstep, shivering, wondering if the bell, which she had pulled with difficulty out of the doorjamb, was actually connected, or if it was just there for show. Or maybe it jangled in some far-off servants’ quarters, possibly unheard.

She had already used the time to unload her luggage from the car, and now it was heaped about her, pinning her there. She didn’t want to try the bell again and risk annoying whoever might be coming to answer it, going as fast as they could. But supposing there wasn’t anyone? She couldn’t be left standing on the doorstep for ever.

She looked about her, forcing herself to be optimistic, only to find her surroundings even less promising than Meggie had suggested. The house was constructed out of large blocks of very grey granite, a colour that might have been beautiful if the lavish, if not excessive, woodwork hadn’t been picked out in dark red. There was a plethora of rustic posts apparently supporting the second storey, with cut-off branches still protruding, looking like bloody spikes. Bargeboards ran underneath the overhanging windows, and outlined the little turrets and window
embrasures. In fact, Jenny thought grimly, the whole place looked like an extra-large gingerbread house, whose inhabitants, instead of disguising their evil intent by decorating their home with sweeties, had decided instead to advertise their gruesomeness with blood-coloured banners.

Thinking longingly about her warm little car and the beautiful, though long, road back to civilisation, she was about to try the bell again when she heard someone approach.

The sound of footsteps was followed by someone talking crossly to a dog. The door took a long time to unlock.

‘Hello – you must be –’ The woman was in her forties, and would have been pretty had it not been for her agitated expression. She had a lot of dark-blonde hair which she wore piled up on top of her head and a very beautiful pair of gold dangly earrings.

‘Genevieve Porter, Jenny for short.’

‘I’m Felicity Dalmain.’ The woman put a cold hand into Jenny’s.

‘You knew I was coming?’ asked Jenny, when she’d shaken it.

‘Oh yes. My mother is expecting you. We’re all expecting you. Come in.’ The woman picked up a couple of document cases. ‘Don’t mind the dogs. Once they’ve smelt you, they’ll be fine. Just don’t touch them straight away.’

With one bag tucked underneath her arm, and both hands full, this was not a temptation, but even if she had been free to do so, she probably wouldn’t have. Jenny liked dogs in theory, but the thought of a pack of them, sniffing her over, did make her sweat slightly.
And dogs could smell fear. She should have run away while she still had the chance, before the door was opened, and definitely before she weighed herself down with luggage.

There seemed to be about five dogs. Large and grey or small and brown, they applied their noses to her clothes with interest. They’d probably never smelt Marks and Spencer’s navy worsted before, she thought. Possibly expressing their opinion of it, without even brushing against her they instantly covered her in hairs.

‘Leave your bags there,’ said Felicity Dalmain, dumping the ones she was carrying. “You seem to have rather a lot of luggage. We’ll take it up later. Come into the kitchen. Would you like a drink?’

Jenny was desperate for a cup of tea, only she had a more pressing need. Unlike Meggie, she hadn’t taken advantage of the distant tree and the heather earlier.

‘Please could I find a loo first?’

‘Oh yes. There’s one through that door – no, the next one. I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Jenny found the cloakroom – a lavatory and a wash basin tucked in the corner of a large room full of old riding macs, coats, fishing paraphernalia and probably spiders, but with no lock on the door. It wasn’t cosy, but, she supposed, it was an improvement on the heather and the biting wind. She washed her hands and even after running the water sometime, it remained stone cold. Perhaps the kitchen will be really warm, she thought; the heart of the house, full of hot soup, freshly baked bread and comfort.

Assuming she could ever find the kitchen, of course. Given that they were at the back of the house, and it
wasn’t Chatsworth, she was amazed at the choice of doors before her. The first two revealed larders, with granite slabs, cruel-looking hooks and torn zinc fly screens, the third was full of bottles and jars, a fourth was full of dog beds, bones and torn blankets, and the fifth was the kitchen.

It was a little warmer than the rest of the house, but it wasn’t the haven of warmth she’d been longing for. Jenny glanced across it, hoping to see a range of some sort, something that promised hot water, or at least somewhere warm to lean. But, judging by the number of cats on top of it, the heat source was an ancient boiler and the cats didn’t look any too cosy.

The woman who had opened the door – Felicity, Jenny reminded herself – came towards her. She was holding a glass. A wisp of hair had escaped from her bun. ‘Would you like a whisky? I know it’s early, but I’m in a bit of a state. A friend – well, an old boyfriend actually – is coming to dinner.’

As Felicity was already pouring the whisky, Jenny didn’t feel she could now ask for a cup of tea, as to do so would both point up her hostess’s bad habits and add to her agitation. ‘How terrifying. No wonder you need a drink, but please make mine a small one. I’m working, after all.’ She gave a slightly nervous laugh. Either Felicity’s anxiety was catching, or Jenny felt she’d made a very grave mistake, driving seven-hundred-odd miles, committing herself to spending anything up to a couple of months in this freezing mausoleum, mostly just to prove a point. ‘Is he an old flame?’

‘Not exactly, more a spark that was never allowed to develop into anything else.’ Felicity paused. ‘I haven’t told my mother that he’s coming.’

‘Oh. And will she have to stretch the lamb chops to feed an extra person? Might she be annoyed?’

‘She’ll definitely be annoyed, but not because she does the cooking. It’s just that she didn’t approve of him twenty-odd years ago, and she’s not likely to now.’

‘Oh.’

Felicity tucked the wisp back out of the way. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you all this. We’ve only just met.’

‘It’s sometimes easier to tell strangers things than people who are connected to you.’ People found Jenny easy to confide in – she must look as though she was a good listener, and not easily shocked.

‘Yes,’ said Felicity tentatively, not yet ready to unburden completely, but reserving the right to in the future.

Jenny took a sip of her drink. ‘Should I meet Lady Dalmain first? Or get my stuff upstairs?’ Jenny was aware that she was there slightly on sufferance, and felt that Lady Dalmain would not be pleased to find her hall full of cases.

‘I suppose I should show you to your room. My mother’s in her study. She’s writing a book.’

‘Oh? A novel?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘She despises novels, or at least, all novels published after 1900. No, she’s writing a history book. She doesn’t like to be disturbed. Her work is very important to her.’

‘Will you tell her about your friend coming?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll have to. I’m just putting it off. Cheers.’ Felicity took a gulp of whisky that should have felled a horse.

Jenny tried to match it and nearly choked. ‘Your mother does know that I’m coming?’ Jenny’s own anxiety was feeding on Felicity’s, and she was beginning to think this hands-on work was very overrated. Give her a nice, safe computer, where she could just do everything in her own home, by email. People made things so complicated.

‘Oh yes. We’ve all known for weeks.’

Jenny took another sip. ‘Miss Dalmain, I don’t suppose you could fill me in about the family, before I have to meet them all? It would help stop me making any dreadful blunders about who’s who.’

This made Felicity smile, and Jenny saw what a very pretty woman she had once been, and could be again if she wasn’t so jumpy. ‘Well, there’s me. Do call me Felicity. I’m the eldest; should have been a boy. It was my father who named me Felicity; my mother wasn’t at all happy about my arrival. I adored him.’ She sighed. ‘Then there’s Philip, he’s the elder boy. My mother thinks the sun shines out of him, and he is really sweet, but I do get fed up with him being able to do no wrong, and me being unable to do anything right. Then there’s Iain. Iain is the youngest and doesn’t live here. He managed to get out. He’s married to Meggie who is …’ Felicity inspected Jenny to see if references to class would be acceptable. Deciding they wouldn’t be, she said, ‘well, not like us. She can be rather blunt. My mother doesn’t approve of her because she talks with a Scots accent. Scotch, my mother calls it.’

‘Oh, I thought that was terribly politically incorrect to call things or people Scotch, unless it’s whisky?’

Felicity laughed, more enthusiastically than Jenny
felt her remark warranted. ‘Sorry, it’s just the thought of Mama being politically correct, ever. You’ll understand when you meet her.’

‘Oh.’ Felicity had managed to make the Matriarch seem even more daunting than Meggie had. ‘Actually, I’ve met Meggie. I stopped for a drink on my way here, at The Homely Haggis, her café.’

Felicity stiffened slightly. ‘Oh?’

‘She asked me where I was going and, when I told her, she introduced herself.’

‘Yes, well, Meggie always has been a little too ready to press herself on people.’

Jenny sensed that snobbishness might be a family characteristic, and not just Lady Dalmain’s weakness. ‘Oh she didn’t press herself on me,’ she said. ‘She just asked me where I was going and then told me she was part of the family.’

Felicity’s glance was more than slightly disbelieving. ‘And she didn’t say we were a rum lot?’

Jenny looked into her glass, which still contained enough alcohol to allow painless limb amputation. ‘Sort of. So tell me quickly about the old flame, before he gets here.’ Such an intimate question was rather a risk, but Jenny wanted to change the subject and most women like to talk about their men.

‘As I said, he never got a chance to be a flame. Mama told me that he was common and I wasn’t to have anything to do with him. In my early twenties, I didn’t have much choice. She’s a crashing snob, I’m afraid.’

Ignoring this statement of the obvious, Jenny asked, ‘So how did you get in touch with him again?’

‘A friend of mine has alpacas over the valley. Lachlan is a sort of peripatetic alpaca clipper. She
mentioned his name to me and I thought it must the same Lachlan that I’d known, all those years ago. I finally plucked up the courage to get in touch, and said that, when he was next in the area, he must come over.’ Felicity drained her glass. ‘I’ve no idea why he agreed to come. I’m sure he must be married, or have a girlfriend or something. Either that or he’ll think I’m a complete tart for inviting him.’

’m sure he won’t.’

‘Because actually, whatever my mother says, I’m not a complete tart. I’m just very lonely. And if I don’t make some effort to change my life soon, I’m going to be stuck here looking after Mama for the rest of her life – and mine, possibly – she’s as strong as an ox.’

‘I see,’ Jenny said rather uncomfortably. ‘Well, well done for taking action.’

Felicity sighed. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to your room. You can get unpacked and stuff, and then come down to the drawing room at about seven for a pre-dinner drink. Lachlan’s coming at about seven thirty. It’ll be better if you’re here when he arrives. Then Mama won’t be able to make too much fuss.’

Jenny’s room was large, in one of the turrets, which meant it had plenty of windows, with panoramic views and draughts that would clean corn, as her mother would say. As requested, there was a table suitable to use as a desk, a high, old-fashioned bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe.

‘I’ve emptied one of the drawers and there’s a bit of space in the wardrobe,’ said Felicity. ‘We had the separate telephone line put in, as requested.’ This was
said with a visible wince. ‘Mama was livid! We’re supposed to be saving –’

‘But the firm paid?’ Jenny interrupted.