Highland Fling (5 page)

‘Oh yes, but she hates spending money, even if it’s not hers, unless it’s something she approves of, like books, or antiques. Nothing remotely electronic. Still, I hope this is all right. The bathroom’s just down the hall. My mother has her own bathroom, and the rest of us share this one.’

‘Just show me where it is. This house is so big, I’m sure to get lost.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Felicity led the way down the passage. ‘It’s in here. Don’t use the shower; it doesn’t work. And the bath is always cold because there’s never enough hot water to heat it through. I usually fill a bucket with hot water, wash with it standing in the bath, and then sluice myself off with the plastic jug. My mother’s bathroom has its own immersion heater.’

‘Oh. Right, fine,’ said Jenny, vowing to get her work done as quickly as possible. While everyone, Henry in particular, had warned her that Scotland was a lot colder than England, no one had mentioned this applied to the water as well.

‘So I’ll see you downstairs in the drawing room at seven, then?’

‘If I manage to find it, yes.’

Jenny went back downstairs to bring up the rest of her bags and her laptop. It wasn’t that she necessarily expected anyone else to carry them, but it would have been friendly for Felicity to have taken something, if only the carrier bag containing chocolates and a plant, gifts for her hostess.

Once in her bedroom, she plugged in her laptop. She
was reluctant to unpack. It was as if she thought the clothes in her suitcase would take on the cold of the room the moment she took them out. Besides, she couldn’t think of anything she’d packed that would be warmer than her trouser suit. However, Felicity hadn’t mentioned changing for dinner, but Lady Dalmain sounded like the sort of woman who would, and as Jenny had been wearing the same clothes for a long time, she did want to put on something else.

Reluctant to get out of her clothes until she’d sorted out a substitute, Jenny logged on to her email. She didn’t read any of the ones awaiting her attention – from other, less demanding clients than the one who had sent her here – she just dashed off a quick one to her mother.

Dearest Mum, well, I’ve arrived, and as you predicted, it’s freezing here. You were right about the thermals, I definitely need them. And to save me spending hours on the Internet ordering some, could you be a darling and send me some? Vests, petticoats, nighties, in fact, to save time, you could just get the whole contents of the Damart catalogue sent to me. Don’t, for God’s sake, tell Henry, he’ll laugh. Oh, and an electric blanket. With luck, I might be able to scrounge a hot water bottle until then. The scenery’s pretty, though. But the family seem to be mad as cats. Haven’t met the mother yet. She sounds the worst of the lot. Why did I agree to come here? No need to answer that! Your loving daughter, Jenny.

While she was logged on she thought she might as well confirm her arrival to her client. She typed,

Uneventful journey, arrived safely. Haven’t met the family yet. Will report again shortly. Yours, G. Porter.

She didn’t email Henry. She wanted to wait until she had some positive news. Anything she said now would just make him say something scathing, disguised as sympathy – ‘A bit out of your depth, sweetie? I did warn you …’ She was going to show Henry a thing or two.

At seven she made her way down the stairs. In winter it’s perfectly acceptable to look as if you’ve wrapped up warm. In October, it somehow appears rude to be wearing every stitch you’ve brought with you. On the other hand, so was letting your teeth chatter while you tried to make small talk with your hostess. Besides, Jenny hadn’t brought any winter clothes as such and had had to improvise.

She had on two pairs of tights, a slip, the skirt that went with the jacket of her trouser suit, and a clean cotton shirt over the silk one that had got spattered with grease. On top of this she put her only cardigan, a fine lambswool one, and then her jacket. She did feel a little like a sausage in a skin, but it was preferable to openly shivering. She had resolved that at the first opportunity she would hightail it to the nearest woollens shop having an end-of-season sale and buy up their entire stock. She could always turn a tartan rug into a skirt, at a pinch, particularly without Henry there to comment.

She was a little nervous as she approached the room from whence came low, muttering voices, of the kind that were guaranteed to stop the moment a stranger entered – thus informing the stranger that she was the topic of conversation, but she took a breath and went in.

‘Ah, hello,’ said Felicity, jumping up. ‘Let me introduce you to my mother. Mama, this is Genevieve Porter. Jenny, this is my mother, Lady Dalmain.’

It was with a flutter of anticipation in her stomach that Jenny turned to the Matriarch.

Chapter Three

The woman who rose was dressed in a tweed suit and a silk blouse. She must once have been handsome, but bitterness and discontent had pulled in her lips and narrowed her eyes. She wore her greying hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. A thick rope of gold sat uneasily with the crêpe de Chine but went well with her heavy gold earrings – this was a family that went in for jewellery, thought Jenny. Lady Dalmain, who held herself very erect, extended a regal hand. It was covered in rings and was designed to keep whoever dared to take it strictly at arm’s length.

Perhaps it was the whisky she’d drunk earlier or perhaps it was the sheer theatricality of the situation, but Jenny was beginning to enjoy the hideousness of it all.

A huge stag, whose head emerged from the wall behind Lady Dalmain, squinted slightly, and other badly stuffed beasts stared glassily at nothing. Faded tapestries, depicting tartan-clad warriors and fainting maidens hung disconsolately from the oak panelling. Complicated wooden lamps hung with cut-glass pendants fought for space on the occasional tables with Staffordshire models of Flora Macdonald and Highland gentlemen with lions at their feet. Different generations of The Family, immortalised in sepia,
stared grimly from richly decorated photograph frames. There were enough silver stags at bay, deerhounds and Highland cattle to populate a small zoo, and these were flanked by an equal quantity of drinking vessels and dishes. She even spotted an elephant-foot wastepaper basket. Felicity was neurotic and her mother was apparently a monster, but there was a funny side to this situation. Her mother, Henry and his friends, would love hearing a detailed description. Henry’s mother would have been hugely impressed.

Then Jenny caught sight of Felicity trying not to bite her nails, and suddenly felt guilty for her amusement. It was all right for her, Jenny, to be entertained by how awful it was, she could just go home to Henry, and his nice maisonette, when her job was done. For her, it would definitely be over by Christmas. Felicity had to live here.

Jenny took her hostess’s outstretched hand carefully, unwilling to spear herself on antique diamonds.

‘How do you do, Miss Porter?’ said Lady Dalmain, in a deep, surprisingly melodious voice. ‘Would you be connected to the Wilmsbury Porters, by any chance? A very old family.’

‘No, I think we’re connected to the Billingsgate Porters.’ Then she bit her lip; this was no place for flippancy. She imagined Henry frowning at her; she sometimes didn’t take his mother quite seriously enough for him, either.

But Lady Dalmain nodded sagely, and for a moment Jenny wondered if there really was a family of Billingsgate Porters.

‘You’ve met my daughter,’ Lady Dalmain went on,
‘
but
sadly, my elder son, Philip, has been held up. He’ll join us later.’

There was a sound from Felicity that indicated the ‘hold-up’ might have been tactical, but she didn’t actually say anything.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Lady Dalmain went on, either ignoring or not noticing her daughter’s interjection. ‘Felicity, give Miss Porter a glass of sherry.’

‘Oh please call me Jenny.’

‘Or she might prefer a whisky,’ said Felicity.

‘We don’t say “a whisky”, Felicity. If Miss Porter prefers whisky she can say so.’

‘Miss Porter’ yearned for the courage to say that what she really wanted was a boiling hot toddy, but didn’t dare. She was still shivering, although neither of the other two seemed to feel cold. ‘Whatever is easiest,’ she said, wanting whisky for its more warming characteristics, but feeling sherry was probably safer.

‘It’s no trouble for Felicity to give you whisky if that is what you prefer.’

Rashly, she said, ‘Yes, please,’ glad that Henry wasn’t there to disapprove. He didn’t like her to drink spirits. She tried to picture her own mother being like Lady Dalmain, having her own hot-water supply, ordering her daughter about as if she were a servant, or a delinquent teenager, driving the daughter to drink. She couldn’t make the necessary leap of imagination – it was too far from reality. Her own mother was a sweetie and Jenny found herself suddenly wondering guiltily if she took advantage of her.

While Jenny was sipping her whisky, she heard a bell jangling deep towards the back of the house.
Neither Lady Dalmain nor the dogs appeared to have heard it, but Felicity jumped.

‘That’ll be Lachlan,’ Felicity said, relatively calmly but with a slight edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘He’s coming to supper. I hope you don’t mind, Mama. There’s plenty. It’s only stew.’

Lady Dalmain’s expression froze. It was as if she didn’t know which of her daughter’s
faux pas
she should pounce on first: the unexpected guest, the mention of food in that vulgar way, or the use of the word ‘stew’. Jenny bit her lip, her sense of the ridiculous heightened by alcohol.

‘And who, if I may ask who is to be dining at my table, is
Lachlan?
’

‘Lachlan McGregor. You remember. I knew him years and years ago. I got in touch with him at Elaine’s and he’s coming to dinner. I’ll just go and let him in.’

Jenny would have liked very much to be able to offer to do this for her, but that really would be presuming on her position as very new guest. She had to stick it out, alone with Lady Dalmain, who was smouldering far more effectively than the logs in the grate, which issued forth smoke, but no heat.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Jenny tucked her hands up her sleeves in an attempt to warm them, but found it only made her colder. The largest of the dogs got up and shook itself, obviously keen to match Jenny’s skirt with her jacket and her trousers with an application of dog hairs.

‘Actually,’ said Jenny, ‘I brought you a little present. Shall I run and fetch it?’

Lady Dalmain inclined her head, which Jenny took to mean yes, and escaped, aware as she passed
through the hall that Felicity and Lachlan had disappeared. Possibly Felicity had taken him into the kitchen for a pre-pre-dinner drink, or a health warning about Lady Dalmain. Glad that Lachlan was at least Scottish, and therefore less sensitive to the cold and more impervious to strong drink, Jenny scanned her clothes to see what else she could put on. She found a silk scarf that more or less matched the rest of what she was wearing, and she tucked it round her neck. With luck no one would notice she hadn’t always been wearing it. She found the carrier bag with the presents, feeling mean for giving them to Lady Dalmain, and not Felicity. She’d have to get Felicity something else, when she had the opportunity. The worst part was that she knew she was only giving presents to Lady Dalmain because she had already picked up Felicity’s anxious-for-approval-daughter habits. She was even worrying in case the Belgian chocolates and African violet screamed ‘bought from a service station’.

You don’t need to panic, she told herself. Lady Dalmain has probably never darkened the doors of a service station in her life.

She ran downstairs and back into the drawing room. She presented the carrier bag.

Lady Dalmain accepted it graciously. ‘Thank you. It was kind of you to be so thoughtful. I realise that your position here is not really that of guest in the conventional sense, so I appreciate the gesture.’ She inclined her head. ‘I gather you have something to do with computers, and are going to do something which will help Philip?’

‘That’s right.’ It was also almost true. ‘It’s very kind of you to let me stay while I do the work.’

‘It will be pleasant for Felicity to have some young company. Besides, there are no hotels in the vicinity. We rather treasure our remoteness.’

Jenny smiled, unable to think of anything to say.

They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the fire spit and hiss and the dogs grunt and trying not to listen to the distant murmur of voices that was growing no nearer. Obviously the kitchen was more attractive than the drawing room.

Covering the obvious absence of her daughter and her guest, Lady Dalmain drew breath. ‘Felicity’s rather a vulnerable girl, you know. She lets herself be put upon by people. I expect this Lachlan is after her money. I must make it clear to him that she hasn’t got any.’ Lady Dalmain squeezed her eyes in an imitation of a smile. ‘Tell me about your family.’

Jenny limped through a description of her parents, how her father was dead and how her mother occupied her days. Lady Dalmain nodded, satisfied that Jenny’s family were humble, yet respectable. Then she said something which made Jenny nervous.