The Vintage Girl (17 page)

I was surprised by how easy he made it. And surprised at how I didn’t tense up the way I had with Fraser—I just seemed to flow into the turn as his strong arms gave me nowhere else to go. And then I was back in the middle again, feeling a little stunned, and facing Catriona, who flapped her hands at me.

“Figure eight!” she squawked. “Figure eight! Quick!”

Fraser and Robert started walking round me as if I were a traffic cone, giving me discreet shoves as they went.

Too late. The circle was moving again and I was feeling faintly seasick. The music was so
fast
.

“And
back
into the middle as we all go round!” called Sheila. “Your next partners are Dougie and Duncan,
five
, six,
seven
, eight.”

“Oi! Perform!” yelled Dougie.

My eye skated around the sitting room—old Indian rug, sofas pushed back against the wall, large marble fireplace … “Mantel clock, Victorian!” I said, pointing to it. Then, as the circle went the other way, I added, “Nice pottery spaniel figurines, I’ll give you a hundred quid for them!”

“Ai-yaaaarp!” shrieked Dougie.

Fraser went past and smiled encouragingly, soon followed by Robert, who merely raised one eyebrow like James Bond.

The music changed to a rattling sequence, and Duncan put out a hand to stop me, as if I were a ball in a roulette wheel. He set to me with some wild leaping from foot to foot, but then walked me round very carefully, and I felt a contrary pang that he wouldn’t be turning Kirstie and Catriona quite so cautiously.

“I wish I knew how to do this!” I confessed.

“I was a mere beginner a year ago—and look at me now!” he said, guiding me back to the middle, spoiling it only by going back to the wrong place in the circle and having Sheila grab him and reinsert him next to Ingrid.

The only thing I could say was that at least I hadn’t fallen over yet. Still, I told myself, just one set and turn to go, and I’d be free to sink into the background while everyone else showed off.

I stepped back to face Dougie, and caught Catriona leaning in to murmur something in his ear. She stopped when she saw me.

“Och, Duncan, Cat’s right, she’ll not learn if you turn her like that!” snorted Dougie, and reached out to grab my wrists. “Just keep your arms loose,” he went on, ignoring the warning quacks from Sheila, “and let me steer you into—”

“Let you what?” I gabbled, but Dougie was already winding me up. Just as he applied maximum force to the spin, my body went rigid, as it always did when threatened with a step sequence, but I carried on backward as if I’d been shot from a cannon.

The music drowned out any shrieked guidance from the others, and then I must have lost my footing on the carpet, because my shoe slipped off, and I was spinning, then slipping, then stumbling backward, arms flailing.

Everything really did go into slow motion, because I had time to think (a)
I am definitely going to fall over
, and (b)
I hope my head doesn’t connect with that original Doric-columned marble fireplace directly behind me.

“Evie, mind the fire!” screeched Sheila, so loud I could hear her over the dueling accordions.

I lurched and crashed into something scratchy, and my feet flew up over my head, revealing (oh, my God) the large hole in my emergency tights that I hadn’t planned on wearing, because up until the dancing class I’d had no intention of wearing a skirt. But at least I wasn’t on fire, or out cold.

There was a moment’s silence before the pain crashed in, and I heard a clunk, which I presumed was my shoe landing on the wrong side of the sofa.

Then the sting of splinters, the ache of bruises, and the burning hum of embarrassment hit me all at once.

“Now,
that
is a party piece,” said Douglas. “Right into the log basket.”

“Evie, are you all right? Speak to us! Douglas Graham, you are the most stupid boy I have ever …” Sheila and Ingrid rushed over, but even from my low vantage point, I could see they were both trying hard to swallow gurgles of laughter.

Frankly, I could have done without the crowd round the log basket. It was hard enough to sort out my skirt and unbuttoned shirt, let alone gather my tatty dignity, without negotiating the hands that now stretched out to haul me back to my feet. I’d made a right mess of the basket. There was kindling
everywhere.

“I’m fine,” I said, bravely dusting myself off, ignoring the metallic tang of blood where I’d bitten my lip. “Honestly, how funny. I hope it wasn’t an heirloom. Ha-ha-ha.”

The
Ha-ha-ha
didn’t ring with authenticity, but it allowed everyone else to stop fighting their hysterical giggles. And how.

While Catriona, Kirstie, and Dougie were clutching their aching sides and rocking back and forth like windup monkeys—and even Sheila and Duncan were patting their eyes—only Fraser seemed absolutely mortified.

“Did you get any splinters?” he asked, examining my skinned palms. “You must think we’re a right bunch of thugs, letting Dougie hurl you across the room on your first go.”

“Aye, and I thought I’d lost my touch with hammer-throwing,” mused Dougie, to mass cackles.

“More like a
caber
!” hooted Catriona. “No offense!” she added.

“Och, she could have been
killed!
” giggled Kirstie. “No, I mean, it’s
terrible
.”

My hands were throbbing, but I didn’t mind because Fraser was doing some kind of EMT inspection to make sure I hadn’t broken anything. It involved squeezing and moving my extremities with the utmost gentleness, and wasn’t totally unpleasant.

He was gazing right into my eyes, too. I swallowed, rather thrilled at the sudden attention, then realized he was checking my pupils for concussion.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as he flexed my fingers experimentally. “You were doing so well, too. Please don’t let that put you off.”

“I just need to learn how to do that spinning whatsit,” I croaked.

As I said it, I knew I really
did
want to learn how to do the spinning whatsit. For that brief second when it was almost working out, and that briefer second when Robert’s hands had grabbed mine and I’d felt him dance with me, I’d wanted to glide with the same poise as Kirstie and Sheila. I wanted to rise to the occasion, and not just because the fireplaces in Kettlesheer were twice as big and twice as likely to knock me out cold.

The shock almost took away the pain in my hands and legs. I
wanted
to dance. And I was going to learn how if it killed me.

“Oh, you’ll get it,” Fraser assured me. “We all had to learn once. It’s just practice.”

“I might need some extra lessons,” I said.

He smiled, his sunny, perfect-gentleman smile, the one that made me feel delicate and bonneted. “I think that’s the least we can do, since you’ve been brave enough to volunteer.”

I heard imaginary strings swelling behind us in
Gone with the Wind
fashion, but they stopped with an abrupt screech when Robert appeared at Fraser’s shoulder. He looked amused and modern.

“Nothing broken?” he asked. “It’s all about letting go and relaxing. I was watching your arms—you’re resisting. Stop resisting. Let the man place you where you need to be. You seemed to be okay when I was spinning you. Was it Dougie? Did he frighten you with his Scottish manliness?”

“Back on the horse!” said Sheila, bustling up behind us. “Can’t let that put you off, Evie. Let’s get going again—you’ve done your turn now, so you relax for a bit. Douglas, will you stop doing that, and put the music back on?”

I watched as Catriona, Kirstie, and then Ingrid took their turns in the middle, and a queasy combination of outright jealousy and definite fear began to swill around in my stomach.

On Saturday night, I’d have to do this in front of everyone at the ball, in some weird long fashion-forward dress of Alice’s, with Catriona’s fearsome mother watching, and with everyone else’s engagement at stake.

That was quite scary. But what spooked me was that for the first time in my life, my brain was concentrating on the moves and a new, determined voice in my head was counting the bars.

Max called me in the morning so delirious with excitement that I could barely make him out. He sounded as if he’d been drinking—since he’d got my e-mail the previous night.

“This table. You know what it is?” he demanded. “I mean, you
know
what it
is
?”

“Yeees,” I said, thrown. “It’s a table, isn’t it? I mean, it
is
a table?”

“It’s not just
a
table, it’s
the
table!” he gurgled. “Evie, you little star, you haven’t just got us a big fish, you have found me a whale! A Chippen-whale, if you will!”

He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

I’d taken the precaution of stepping outside to take Max’s call, because Duncan had spent the entire morning distracting me with family photographs and artifacts from VIP visits in the twenties. I was easy enough to distract as it was. Right now I was shivering on the terrace, wrapped in my coat and feeling a bit guilty about disturbing the pristine snow around the flowerbeds with my nervous pacing.

“Is it the real thing, then?” I asked, my heart starting to beat faster. “How can you tell without seeing it?”

“Would you like a history lesson?” Max inquired. “You would? Lovely. Now, have you heard of a place called Dumfries?”

“Yes, it’s about sixty miles away.”

“And have you heard of Dumfries House? The treasure trove of magnificent eighteenth-century furniture, much of it made especially for the Earl of Dumfries by Thomas Chippendale himself?”

I stamped my feet. Picturesque as the snow was, even with a pair of Duncan’s jazzy shooting socks on, I was fast losing sensation in my toes. “Can you just e-mail me a link to the Wikipedia page you’re reading, please.”

“I don’t have Wikipedia, you saucy brat. Just years and years of buying old biddies sherry. All
you
need to know is that a quick check of my sources reveals that a certain Donaldina McAndrew was rather pally with the various members of the earl’s family, and that various splendid items of furniture were known to have arrived at Kettlesheer around that time. It’s not
wholly
unlikely that if Mr. Chippendale was being commissioned to make a substantial amount of furniture for Dumfries House, he might have been prevailed upon to knock up a little something for the McAndrews.”

My head swam instantly with visions of messengers galloping across from Dumfries with rolled parchments of plans and wood samples. Donaldina—what a name!—commissioning something to keep up with her rich friend, so the return invitations could be issued …

“So it’s worth a lot of money?” I asked, thinking of Ingrid’s face when she’d talked about the oil bills.

“Darling, it’s worth more than your flat and my flat put together,” Max sighed. I could picture his fingers wriggling with excitement. “And it’s a major find. No one’s seen anything like this for generations. In fact, I might even give my contact at the BBC a call, see if there might be a spare camera crew …”

I wasn’t listening. I was too busy being thrilled. “Blimey,” I breathed. I’d done it! I’d saved Kettlesheer from being developed!

And yet, I didn’t feel anything like that on the table. No history, no glamour. Just wood and polish.

I pushed that thought aside. The evidence was right there in the book. Max had already known they had something precious hidden in the house—it made total sense.

But still it slipped out. “You can definitely tell it’s the real deal from the photos I sent?”

“I’d stake your reputation on it. You said something about written provenance, in a book? And what about the chairs?” There was a horrible slurping noise down the phone. “If there is a whole set of matching chairs …”

“I haven’t really checked out the chairs.” I bit my lip. “Should I tell them, then? So Duncan can prepare himself for having to sell it?”

Because that was another hurdle. Maybe I’d tell Robert first, see if he could make his dad see that, to save the house, he’d have to sacrifice the table. Desperate measures and all that.

“Don’t tell them yet. Let me get some buyers lined up, with some nice, tempting cash in hand. Meanwhile, you get yourself in there and look for chairs,” said Max, in the manner of someone settling back into an easy chair and lighting a fine cigar. “Find me two dozen rococo Chippendale chairs, and I might even let you go home early on Saturday.”

“Ah,” I said. “Saturday. That might be a problem.”

“In what way?”

“We’re snowed in. It doesn’t look good for getting back—the forecast is for even more at the weekend. But probably better that I stay here and carry on looking, right?”

There was a whistling intake of breath from Max as he weighed the advantages to himself. A Chippendale table versus a weekend of selling my photograph frames in the shop. Alone.

For once, I felt in a position of some power.

“And they don’t mind you staying?” he asked suspiciously.

“Not at all. In fact,” I added, unable to resist, “I’ve been invited to a ball in the house.”

“You’ve— Why?” Max spluttered, outraged at having been overtaken on the social ladder. “Is it because you’ve just told them what they’re sitting on? Is that it?”

“No!” I protested. “I haven’t told them anything yet. I was waiting for confirmation from you before I got their hopes up. They’re—”

I stopped myself. Max didn’t need to know how much I now wanted Duncan and Ingrid to keep their home. It wasn’t very loyal to my boss, but then, he wasn’t a very loyal man himself.

“Fine,” he said. “But make sure you introduce yourself to anyone who looks like they might have a house full of priceless furniture going unappreciated.”

“Naturally,” I said. “And if you get any battle reenactors in at the weekend, looking to stock up on swords and small cannon, tell them we can do wholesale.”

*

I slipped back into the house, stamping the snow off my boots at the front door beneath the disapproving gaze of a stuffed elk.

Elk apart, I was slightly disappointed not to find anyone in the hall. I was bubbling with eagerness to tell someone—anyone—what an amazing thing I’d found, and through a notebook no one had seen for nearly a hundred years. If it hadn’t been for me making Robert look in that room, and Violet making that note, how would we have known exactly how special the table was?

I couldn’t resist going back to the dining room to see if the table felt different to me now that Max had confirmed it was worth squillions. I positively waltzed down the corridor, raising my eyebrows in conspiracy with the bearded Victorian McAndrews along the wall—who must have known too! And then not told anyone.

I’d barged into the dining room, lost in my own vision of Donaldina instructing the famous Mr. Chippendale about table settings, before I noticed that there was someone in there already: Ingrid.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, taking in the calculator, the papers, the coffee—not on a coaster!—and her bent head, propped in her hands. “Shall I … ?”

“No, don’t worry,” she said, sweeping up the papers. Not quickly enough for me to miss the red final-demand type on all of them. “This is the only table big enough for our accounts.” She grimaced. “Never marry a man who still adds up in pre-decimal currency, Evie.”

It was a surprise to realize that Ingrid—fragile, birdlike Ingrid—was the family accountant; but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, given Duncan’s preoccupation with home brew and history. Her stressed air obviously wasn’t just down to Janet Learmont’s social etiquette lessons.

“Are things … ?” I didn’t want to pry, but she was hardly hiding the evidence. “Bad?”

Ingrid started to demur, then nodded sadly. “Numbers this big actually stop meaning anything. Maybe selling to a developer isn’t such a bad option. I keep trying to tell Duncan, ‘Enjoy this ball, it could be the last one,’ but he just smiles and says something’ll turn up: ‘The family won’t let us down.’ ” She pulled a
Grrr
face, then looked exhausted. “It was all right for
the family
. Coal only cost a penny a ton in those days and you had all the maids you could manage queuing up in Rennick.”

Robert had seemed so furious at the prospect of the house swallowing up his parents and all their money; he didn’t seem so unreasonable now. But why wasn’t
he
worrying about this? He was better equipped to sort this out than Ingrid.

“I’m sure it will work out,” I said fervently, before I had time to think. “I’m
very sure
there’s something
extremely
valuable here.”

Ingrid looked up at me, a faint light in her eyes. “Are you … ?”

I nodded. “I can’t say more at this stage, but not a million miles away.”

“Oh!” She glanced down and put her fingertips on the table. “Oh.”

“Sorry, but …” I moved a council tax bill and put her coffee mug on top of it.

“Oops, yes. Oh!” said Ingrid, her expression brightening. “Speaking of the ball, I meant to come and find you—Robert’s organizing another practice for you down at the lodge. Just the youngsters, you’ll be pleased to hear—Fraser, and Dougie and Kirstie, and Catriona, of course.” She smiled and nodded. “She’ll be doing the teaching, I expect; she’s been reeling for years.”

“Robert arranged a practice—for me?” I felt the blush creeping up my face.

“Mmm. Last night, while you were getting your coat, Catriona suggested her sister, Laura, might step in to dance with Fraser, just for that first dance, and Robert wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t even let her finish.”

She glanced over her shoulder, clearly expecting Janet to drop from the chandelier
Mission: Impossible
–style. “Between you and me, Janet’s trying to do some not-so-subtle matchmaking for Laura. She’d like her to settle down with a nice man like Fraser. Mums, eh?” she added, thinking my dazed expression was over the maternal interfering. “I expect yours is just as bad.”

“Worse,” I said. “She keeps sending me on speed dating. Sometimes she comes with me, to hurry them along.”

To check them out, more like. Mum didn’t trust me not to put my wishful-thinking goggles on, after a couple of rather unfortunate misunderstandings.

“Well, that’s what reeling’s all about!” said Ingrid. “Speed dating to music! I’m sure you’ll leave here with a good few numbers.”

I felt a sudden surge of positivity. That did it. Robert wanted me to dance with them,
and
I’d be saving Fraser from some Janet Learmont hostile takeover activity. If it meant defending Alice from any boyfriend poaching, I’d just have to force myself to dance with the most gentlemanly gentleman in Rennick, and indeed in the whole Border area.

And the sooner Max called me back with a buyer for that table, the sooner I could put poor Ingrid out of her financial misery, and make sure of next year’s ball.

*

The moon was so bright, reflecting off the snow-covered fields, that I barely needed Duncan’s torch, and the warm glow of expectation tickling my stomach put an extra spring in my step as I crunched through the pristine snow, wrapped up in all my thermal underwear, Ingrid’s biggest fleece, and two scarves.

Catriona was already in organizing mode when I arrived. She wasted no time in beginning the lesson once I’d got my coat off, removing the beer from Dougie’s hand before he’d even cracked open the can.

“Hamilton House is known as the flirty reel!” she announced, marshaling the five of us into position in the middle of Robert’s sitting room. “Boys on the left, girls on the right. Dougie, I want you to be on your best behavior, please.”

“I see you’ve cleared all breakable furniture out of your sitting room for Dougie’s benefit,” said Fraser. He was looking like a genial polar bear in a thick white sweater and jeans.

“No,” said Robert. “It always looks like this.”

“What? Unfurnished?”

“It’s called style, Fraser, we don’t all have to clutter up our houses with moldy old stuff,” said Catriona, before turning her attention to me. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Evie, but since you’re going to need all the help you can get—no offense—I’ve brought you those instructions I mentioned. As you can see, I’ve done one for all the reels. Different colors for different people, and so on.”

She passed me something that looked like a knitting pattern. I didn’t recognize anything from the previous night.

“Thanks,” I said. “Why’s it called the flirty reel?”

Kirstie leaped in while Catriona’s mouth was still open. “It’s supposed to have been invented by a right goer who wanted to flirt with her lover and dance with her husband all at the same time. Nothing changes, right?”

“That depends on your partner, missy,” said Douglas.

Catriona glared at her. “That’s one story. The other is that it’s about a tragic young widow searching for her missing husband.”

My ears pricked up, and I caught Robert glancing at me, amused.

“But I suppose you believe what suits you,” she went on. “Now, the first lady—that’s myself—starts, and she ignores her partner …”

She turned her head artfully away from Robert, then stepped toward Dougie with a low nod.

“… she sets to the second man …”

“The lover,” supplied Kirstie.

Dougie gave her a lascivious wink, then wobbled his knees, while Catriona skipped neatly from one foot to the other.

“… but then she turns the
third
man.”

“Presumably the gamekeeper,” said Robert.

Fraser held out his hands and twirled her round in a slow-motion spinning top. Needless to say, she made it look very easy and didn’t come anywhere near crashing.

“Then I come round to the top of the set, and meanwhile my partner—”

“Who also has an eye for the lassies,” added Kirstie, for my benefit.

“—has started and does the same thing with the ladies.”

Robert swung his shoulders at Kirstie, then reached out and grabbed
my
hands, gripping my thumbs, and quickly turned me around. As he did it, he glanced up at me from under his dark lashes. I knew he was acting up, but it still made my chest tighten.

“And then we join hands in a line and step to the side, two, three, four, and then to the other side, two, three, four …”