The Vintage Girl (10 page)

I grabbed my pen and notebook, keen to get my brain back into professional gear. My hands, I noticed, were shaking.

“Hello?”

“Good work on the table,” said Max. It was incredible how quickly he could drop the louche act when money was involved. “That’s the bobby. Worth about ten, twelve grand on a good day. I know a lady in Altrincham very keen for a table like that. Was there a second one?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Check for a pair. Bumps up the price.” He paused. “Table? Found it?”

“Which one? There are about a million!” I said. “I don’t know where to start. Give me a clue.”

I heard the click of a lighter and a tense exhalation at the other end. My stomach clenched. Max only smoked when coffee wasn’t getting his heart rate high enough.

“I’m not in the mood for games. I’ve just had that penny-pinching weasel Daniel Finch round.”

My heart sank. Daniel Finch was Max’s accountant. They had the sort of love/hate/fear relationship normally found in Meat Loaf duets.

“What did he want?” I asked warily.

“Blood,” groaned Max. “My liver. My firstborn son. I mean, he’s
welcome
to Jasper. Please. It would get me out of paying for his driving lessons—”

“What did Daniel
want
?” I repeated.

“Let’s just say that we seem to have slipped behind with our rent, as well as some other payments on account, and friend Daniel seems to think that an assistant is one of life’s luxuries I should be casting by the wayside, along with decent wine and soft loo paper.”

I grimaced and looked for something to crush, silently. This was a worrying echo of last year, right down to the buck-passing syntax.

When Max’s business was failing, it was “we,” up to the point where “Daniel” insisted that Max sack me. He’d spared me at the last moment, thanks to Alice getting him into some old dowagers’ bridge club in Chelsea; but last year Max’s turnover had been three times what it was so far this year,
and
I owed him money. Times were hard, and I didn’t doubt Max would cut me loose without much of a backward glance, especially if I couldn’t pull in a big deal from a house apparently full of saleable items.

“Fine, I get it,” I said. “How much would we pay for a herd of escritoires? Because that’s all Duncan’s steered me toward so far.”

Max made a rather fruity comment about the escritoires. “Find this bloody mystery table! It can’t be that hard, even for you. Have you tried the dining room? It could be a dining set—ow!”

“What?” I stopped writing.

“My head,” said Max in his pathetic “hurt bear” voice. “Daniel has induced a migraine. Where’ve you put those super-strength headache tablets your most obliging sister acquired for us?”

“They’re in the tea caddy in the kitchen. Don’t take more than one at a time—they’re illegal in the EU.”

I could hear Robert talking on the phone in the hall. His voice was rising, and I strained my ears to hear what he was saying over the sound of Max’s whining.

“And that’s another thing, when are you planning to come back?” Max demanded. “I’ve got a shop full of your tatty flotsam and jetsam staring me in the face, and I honestly cannot bring myself to sell it. I have a reputation to consider. I do not want to be seen flogging grotesque wedding photos like some antimarriage counselor.”

“I’ll be back by Friday,” I said, hearing the old-fashioned jingle of Robert hanging up the receiver. “If you’re really not feeling well, see a doctor. And don’t forget it’s Valentine’s Day on Saturday.”

“You sound like my ex-wife.”

“I am nothing
like
your ex-wife, Max,” I replied, then turned round just in time to see Robert standing at the door. One eyebrow shot up, and it occurred to me that it might sound a bit wrong, out of context. “Put all the teddies out, throw some confetti over them, and I’ll see you on Friday,” I added, and hung up.

“Trouble at home?” Robert asked as I slammed my notebook shut before he could see my despairing asides about his family furniture.

“No, no, just my boss. He needs his hand held sometimes.”

“What …” Robert left a meaningful pause. “Literally?”

“Oh, no! God, no! No!” I shook my head, hard. “He wears a leather coat.
No.
”

“Ah, it’s that maidenly blush again,” Robert observed.

“That’s not blushing, that’s … the cold.”

Robert checked his watch. “I don’t mean to hurry you out, but is there anything else you need to know about the Wi-Fi, or the house? That was Cat—I’ve got ten minutes before she and her mother appear to make their last plea on behalf of skirts for men. You’re welcome to stay and finish what you’re doing, but there won’t be much peace and quiet.”

“Is it an extension of the committee meeting?”

He sighed. “There’s an agenda, yes.”

Then it was a meeting I didn’t want to be at, eager though I was for more ball detail.

“I’d better leave you to it. But I suppose they just want it to be perfect,” I said, packing up my laptop. “Don’t you feel like the leading man? The Kettlesheer heir surrounded by the most beautiful girls in the Borders?”

“More like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said, then added, as I opened my mouth to protest, “I know you think castles and reels and tartans—ooh, romantic!” Robert mimicked my breathiness so perfectly, I winced. “But keeping places like this running was never
romantic.
It was more about political strategizing and mergers. Cold-eyed business.”

“Maybe in the
very
old days—” I began.

“Oh, come on.” He looked at me as if I was being hopelessly naïve. “It wasn’t
that
long ago that Ranald McAndrew needed a strategic overseas investor to refloat his expensive castle, was it?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t like that,” I protested, not wanting to think of the vivacious girl in the drawing room steaming across the Atlantic as some sort of …
human checkbook
. “And if it is just business, surely you’re more qualified than anyone to take over? Because you
don’t
love it?”

“Ouch.” Robert’s face softened, and we regarded each other frankly, neither wanting to concede the other had a point.

“It can’t be
all
misery,” I said. “You’re hosting a white-tie-and-champagne ball at the weekend. Please. Humor me here.”

Robert leaned on the kitchen table, dropping his eyes, then raised them to mine. His face was open and honest, and a bit weary.

“I’ll tell you what it’s like,” he said. “It’s like being given a job you didn’t realize you’d interviewed for. And then being told you’ve got to judge Miss McWorld on top of that, while everyone points at the family tree in the hall and gossips about your sex life because you haven’t got married yet. And then introduces you to their daughter. And you’re, like …”

Robert illustrated it with a manic grin, and for a moment the storage-focused businessman fell away and he looked like any of the other panicky blokes herded in my direction at the singles dinners Alice and my mum dragged me to.

In a flash, I felt sorry for him. Sorry, in fact, for all the other male McAndrews who’d been frog-marched to face a selection of capable local girls they didn’t fancy as much as their fathers fancied the land the girls came with.

“I still think it’s amazing to belong to a house like Kettlesheer,” I said.

“But that’s just it. I belong to the house, not the other way round.” Robert raked his hand through his already tousled hair, and frowned at his cold tea. “What I want doesn’t seem to come into it.” He glanced up. “Sorry. I know, boo-hoo for me. You don’t need to hear all this.”

“Why not? I’ll be off on Friday. Looong before you have to staple your party face on for the Reel of Luck.”

Robert laughed. “You should stay for the ball. See for yourself.”

“Thanks, but I hear you have to have exact numbers,” I said ruefully. “I don’t want to spoil Janet’s battle plans.”

“I know the organizers,” said Robert, with a jokey tap of the nose. “I can get you in.”

I sighed, because my entire body was screaming
Show me the dance cards!
“I wish. But since we’re talking business, I’ve just had fair warning from my boss that if I don’t get back to London on Friday with a selection of priceless gems for your father to sell through us, I might as well not bother coming back at all.”

“Oh dear.”

“So if you know where the collection of Fabergé egg spoons has been hidden, now is the time to tip me the wink.”

“I wish I did,” said Robert. “Even if I think it’s a waste of time to sell them, I’d hate us to be the reason you lost your job. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

He looked directly over the table, and again the shrewd brown eyes stalled my brain. Something fluttered in the air between us for a moment, and then it was gone.

“I should get back up to the house.” I hoisted my laptop bag onto my shoulder.

Robert pushed his bench back and got up to escort me to the door. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. And if you need the Internet, text me.”

“I haven’t got your number,” I pointed out.

“Hang on, I’ll get my phone—I’ll ring you.”

I lingered in the cool hall passage as Robert turned back to get his phone from the kitchen table, and my attention was drawn to a tarnished brass door handle.

My imagination gave a little fizz, picturing the housemaids in starched white headbands who must once have polished that, dreaming of the underbutler at the big house. Was this the old drawing room? Full of Violet’s stuff? It was a bit nosy, maybe, but a quick peek wouldn’t hurt …

I pushed the door open as quietly as possible, and my heart skipped: the room was jammed with trunks, tables, standard lamps, some storage boxes, photographs stacked in silver piles, all smelling of lavender and leather and another time.

Violet’s life, from New York childhood to Kettlesheer widow, all waiting for someone to explore.

Without thinking, I began to inch into the room, heading for the tempting packing crates like a sniffer dog, my mind full of Violet and her gilded life.

These rooms must have felt tiny after the airiness of Kettlesheer—after whatever splendid New York townhouse she had left. I spotted a photograph of Ranald, darkly dashing in cricket whites, the brooding McAndrew eyes burning over a luxuriant mustache; and an old gramophone, a lady’s sewing box with a beautiful tapestry lid, and a rocking horse with a dappled mane and faded ribbons.

Against the far wall was a painting of a dimpled blonde in tennis whites, a white band crushed against her curls and a racquet over one shoulder. Older than the portrait in the drawing room, a woman in her thirties now, but still the same mischievous glint in her smile. I got a familiar shiver of something exciting, and valuable. I wanted to know her. I felt like she was inviting me to explore her life.

I picked up a beaded evening handbag sticking out of an old banana box. It glittered with jet beads and gold links—

“I know. Where to start, eh?” said a voice from behind me.

I dropped the bag and jumped back.

Robert was standing a few paces away, holding his phone. He sounded more amused than annoyed.

“You’re welcome to have a look,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to sort it out for months.”

“Really? You don’t mind?” I asked. I was already edging back inside, running my gaze over the various boxes and crates with the quick “junk or gem” scan I used at auctions. Obviously, what I was really craving were photo albums. Photo albums were
people
. Parties. Weddings. Moments in real lives, like mine. What were Violet’s?

“Be my guest,” said Robert. “Phone number?”

I rattled off my mobile number almost without thinking as I opened the nearest box. It looked like the contents of a lady’s desk: notebooks and letters in faded ink, stiff wedding invitations, calling cards belonging to Lady Violet McAndrew.

Reverentially, I lifted the top card—an engraved order of service from Ranald and Violet’s wedding in London.

“Oh, they were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square!” I exclaimed.

“And?”

“It’s where all the smart society weddings were held. Look, they had the most beautiful hymns …” Images swam in front of my eyes from other society photographs I’d pored over, the French lace veil, the gold-buttoned guard of honor outside, the masses of crisp white blossom—

There was a knock at the front door. The sort of firm knock designed to travel through ancient hallways without doorbells. The knock of a horsewoman.

“Oh, God,” said Robert, “they’re here.”

“Who’re here?” I asked, still entranced with bridal Violet, now boarding the steam train to Berwick in my mind’s eye, the station platform at King’s Cross piled with her Louis Vuitton trousseau.

“Catriona and Janet. Listen, take that box if you want, and I’ll have a look through here later, see if there’s anything that might help you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped back into the hall. I could see two bold shapes through the door glass. “You should …”

“Right, yes.” Robert marched forward and opened the door to reveal Janet and Catriona on the step, now in matching quilted jackets and fur-trapper hats, each with a clipboard under her arm.

“Good afternoon!” barked Janet, her breath pluming in the cold air.

Catriona didn’t look thrilled. “Oh, hello, Evie.”

“Evie was just going,” said Robert, ushering me safely past them. “Ring me if you need … help.” He made a phone sign, his finger and thumb held up to his ear. It seemed a very London gesture, set against the backdrop of snowdrops and stone walls outside.

“I will.” I squinted against the sun. Robert was perfectly framed by his contradictory house: cream and cool behind him, mossy and old round the door.

I raised a hand in farewell to all three of them and set off back to the big house, the contents of Violet’s desk tucked under my arm, taking deep lungfuls of the clean Scottish air until my jittering pulse returned to something nearer its normal rate.

*

The forest path to the big house seemed much shorter on the way back—or maybe that was because I’d picked up my pace, eager to get back to sift through the box under my arm.

I saw the walk back through Violet’s eyes now. Through gaps in the trees, I could make out grazing fields beyond the woods, sweeping away toward rolling gray hills on one side, while the woodland thickened on the other. Had she and Ranald ridden down here when she was still mistress of the big house? Did she look back with regret, once she’d been moved out? There were hoof prints here and there, in the dried mud. My fertile imagination immediately provided a chestnut horse, a sidesaddle riding habit, a large hat … with a veil?

I was startled out of that particular dream by a pheasant rattling unexpectedly out of the undergrowth and surging straight up into the taller trees. As I squeaked with shock, a couple of rabbits bolted out of the hedge and bounced across the fields, their white tails flashing against the grass.

I was the anti–Snow White. Wildlife didn’t flock to me so much as make a run for it.

I shouldered my bag and pushed open the wooden gate onto the main track. After a few minutes’ brisk marching, Kettlesheer’s turrets rose up through the trees ahead of me. The sun had set now, though it wasn’t yet dark, and one by one the lights went on in the downstairs windows like friendly beacons guiding me home.

For such a dramatic house, I thought, it had a surprisingly intimate pull. But then I felt like I’d been given a glimpse behind the tapestries, and now I didn’t just see Kettlesheer’s stately rooms, I was starting to see the people who had lived in them.

Inside, the hall was deserted, apart from a pile of post on the dark oak sideboard, a file marked
Cloakrooms
, and the keys to several Land Rovers.

Since there was no one about to herd me back to the junk rooms, I slipped upstairs to leave Violet’s box in my bedroom for later, then get looking for Max’s table.

It took all my self-control to leave the box on the bed and not leap into it, right then and there. But, I reminded myself, Max hadn’t been joking. He would sack me if I didn’t come back with the table, and now was my chance to get a proper poke around without Duncan at my shoulder, waving African hunting horns at me.

I wandered down the passageway, trying not to look directly at the suits of armor lined up against the walls. They were real Scooby-Doo specials, the sort that usually came with narrowed eyes flickering from side to side in the slits, only these had huge medieval swords attached. I wasn’t sure what the obsession with military hardware said about the family. Was there a ruthless streak running deep in the current McAndrews, under their soft English accents?

I shivered, imagining Robert in a boardroom, his eyes flashing with the wild-eyed courage that had once defended the Kettlesheer estate from English—

I caught my own moony reflection in a framed photograph of the staff, circa 1880, and pulled a face. I really had to get a grip.

Kettlesheer was a
big
house. It had a lot of rooms—and they all had tables. Downstairs, I passed a couple more drawing rooms and a library, and each one made me want to stop and close my eyes and just breathe in. The stately house atmosphere was infectious. My shoulders straightened as I walked past huge mirrors; my neck seemed to arch as if all my hair were piled on top of my head in an elaborate bun.

I paused next to a double door in a long corridor decorated with painted crests and imagined myself about to sweep in, announced by a discreet butler.

“Lady Evangeline Nicholson.” I inclined my head, eyes closed, half-smiling in acknowledgment.

Well, there was no one around.

“Lord and Lady Fraser Graham—”

And then voices floated into my mind. Actual voices! I couldn’t make out what they were saying, just the low murmur of conversation, but they were definitely coming from behind the very door I had my hand on, as if my warm fingers had set something back into motion. A shiver ran over my skin.

The house really was coming to life around me. This was the spookiest, most spine-tingling—

“Ah, Evie!” A hand descended on my shoulder, delivering a pat that sent me staggering against the doorframe. “I wondered where you’d got to! Carlisle amassed the most fascinating collection of hyacinth glasses that I think might prove to be worth a pound or two!”

It was Duncan.

“I went down to the lodge,” I said. “I needed to send some photographs to my boss, and Robert was kind enough to offer me his Wi-Fi.”

Duncan’s jolliness dropped a level or two. “Wi-Fi? If you’d said you needed music, my dear—”

“No, Wi-Fi. Not hi-fi, sorry, was I mumbling?”

“Modern technology’s rather wasted on me, as Robert will tell you.” Duncan sounded a bit baffled, but perked up when he realized there was a room he could show me. “Are you coming in?” he inquired, nodding at the door. “Rather splendid, our dining room!”

“Oh, er—”

“Let’s see what’s going on.” He pushed open one of the doors, ignoring my bleats of panic, and immediately pulled it shut again. “Ah,” he said. “Maybe not.”

“What’s in there?” I gasped, my mind crowding with spectral diners.

“Ball Committee,” he mouthed. “Ingrid, Sheila. That old woman.”

“But Janet’s down at the—”

“Not Janet. Gordon. More of an old woman than all the others put together. No, best leave them to it,” he went on. “Come with me to my study—I’d love your opinion on some pocket watches my grandfather left me …”

And with that, I was swept reluctantly back down the hall.

*

That night, I got dressed with a vengeance. I wasn’t going to make the same wardrobe mistake for dinner twice. I piled on as many layers as I could fit under my clothes, and made my way down to the basement with an extra cardigan, just in case.

In the kitchen, Ingrid’s blond head and Sheila’s white roller-set curls were bent over something in the middle of the table. It looked like a board game, with ivory counters in pink and blue. Sheila had a pencil behind her ear, like a builder. There were wineglasses the size of buckets, but no sign of Duncan.

He was, Ingrid explained, at a meeting of the Rennick Winemakers. The glass she pushed toward me had, she promised,
nothing
to do with him.

“Duncan’s always been into home-brewing,” she explained. “All the teachers at St. Theobald’s were. You name it, he’s mashed it up and added alcohol to it. It’s just got worse, now he’s got access to his own water supply and hundreds of outbuildings to store the revolting stuff.”

“Like what we were drinking last night?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Ingrid. “And I’m very sorry. The first time he served his home brew at one of those soirees, Dr. Murray called to see if we’d had a campylobacter outbreak, there were so many patients needing his attention the next day.”

“You’ll have us teetotal yet,” said Sheila cheerfully. “Imagine that! What was the nonsense Jock Strathmorris was telling me about Duncan making whiskey in the stables? He’s not serious, is he?”

“I’m afraid he is.” Ingrid took a big slug of chardonnay—I noticed the bottle was the house white from Fraser’s wineshop. “Duncan thinks that Kettlesheer turnip vodka they made at Christmas could be a moneymaker. God knows we need one. I’ve got the gas bill and the electricity bill, and I can’t decide which to hide first.” She sighed, making the silk ruffles on her blouse flutter sadly. She wore one of Duncan’s old cardigans over the top for warmth, which diminished the glamour somewhat. I admired her for trying, though. “I love this house, but I think the boiler runs on liquid gold, not oil.”

“If the water’s unusual, mightn’t a microbrewery work?” I asked, wanting to be positive. “Lots of big houses have breweries. You’ve got the space.”

“Evie, hen. I’m a Scotswoman through and through, but even I think there’s a place for turnips, and it’s not in a glass,” said Sheila.

“Well, what about bottled water?” I persisted. “I bet Robert would know how to market it to London shops. He could do a business plan, and Duncan could … um, design the label? If you put the castle on, I bet it’d sell by the lorryload!” I beamed at Sheila. “
Fraser
could sell it! It could be his shop’s house water!”

Ingrid and Sheila exchanged trepidatious glances.

“I’m not sure Robert and Duncan quite see eye to eye on business matters,” said Ingrid. “I sometimes think Robert feels owning a castle
spoils
his business credibility. No, what we need is a quick lump sum, even if it means prying some valuable out of Duncan’s hands.” She grimaced. “You might have some trouble persuading him to sacrifice something. It’s all very personal to him, you see.”

That
I could understand, but I thought of what Robert had said, about not wasting time selling little bits here and there. “If I can’t find the right thing,” I said cautiously, “has Duncan thought about putting the whole castle on the market? I mean, if it costs so much just to keep going every year—”

“Duncan will never sell.” It was the first time I’d seen Ingrid definite about anything. “Absolutely not.”

“Ingrid, he might have to,” said Sheila. Her tone was gentle, but realistic. “People do, you know. It’s no shame, these days. No one’s got the income. Well, apart from Nigel Learmont …”

Something flickered in Ingrid’s face, and my drama radar pinged. I wasn’t quite sure why, though. An old crush, maybe? A refusal to see Janet lord it over her? Something to do with Robert and Catriona?

“Duncan won’t sell,” she repeated, shaking her head. “He’s always said how it’s the family’s duty to keep this place going. His father drilled it into him and his brothers that if they ever got the house, they had to move heaven and earth to stay here. He got that from
his
mother. She used to sit them down in the nursery and tell them grisly tales of how their ancestors chopped off people’s heads to get Kettlesheer, and that it was only fair to those poor headless people that they didn’t let it go.”

“Oh,
Violet
,” said Sheila. She smiled. “Yes, I can imagine her doing that, especially after Ranald died. Wanting to stay, no matter what.”