The Vintage Girl (18 page)

Catriona carried on talking in her schoolteacher voice as we formed one line of boy-girl-boy, then another line of girl-girl-girl, and then did the inevitable circling round.

“So it’s just a load of partner-swapping,” said Dougie. “Got that?”

“You dance with everyone and end up with the one you brought,” I said.

“I know, it’s just
impossible
at first,” said Catriona sympathetically.

But it wasn’t. The flirting story made it a picture in my brain, and the patterns made a shape that I could see, crossing, then turning, then crossing again, like crochet.

Oh, my God, I thought, stunned. This was what it felt like to learn steps.

“Evie? Are you all right? You looked confused,” said Fraser. “Do you want to go through it one more time?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Don’t worry, when we put the music on it’ll go wrong,” Catriona reassured me. “It always does.”

Quite incredibly, it didn’t. Even with the music, I still knew where I was supposed to be going, who I was supposed to be reaching out for. Maybe it was because the others were sweet enough to reach out for my hands every time; maybe Violet was discreetly nudging me into place; maybe it was because part of me was instinctively aiming for Robert.

It was fast, it was fun, and after the fifth time, I realized I wasn’t even thinking about where I was going next.

*

We reeled until I accidentally knocked over the one ornament in the whole sitting room, at which point Catriona firmly shunted us into the kitchen to eat pasta served in minimalist white bowls. They were obviously expensive, but seemed joyless compared with the delicate violet and thistle crests of Kettlesheer’s service.

Afterward, Fraser and I volunteered to load the state-of-the-art dishwasher, while the others lounged on the sofas, discussing some horsey hunt business. Catriona kept saying, “We shouldn’t laugh …” but that didn’t stop her from roaring with laughter about some girl called Tats McNee. (Tats could have been the horse.)

When I peered round, I saw that Robert wasn’t laughing. He seemed preoccupied, but then, Dougie did have his feet up on the glass coffee table, and Kirstie had disarranged the carefully stacked photographic books.

I wondered if he was seeing the reeling in a different light, now that he’d read Violet’s notebook and the postcards. Imagining his beautiful golden-haired great-grandmother, dancing with the portly Prince of Wales.

I realized Fraser was talking to me, and jerked to attention.

“You did brilliantly tonight!” he said. “Don’t tell her, but it took Alice weeks to work out Hamilton House.”

“Really?” I said, warmed by the affectionate pride in his voice.

Fraser paused his systematic plate stacking, and dropped his voice. “I don’t want to sound overbearing, but I still haven’t heard from her. She is okay, isn’t she? You know what she’s normally like about returning calls.”

I squirmed. I hated lying to Fraser, but I was clueless myself.

As with most men, conversations of this nature came about as easily to Fraser as banjo playing. “Evie, I hope you’d tell me if I’ve done something wrong. Or”—he hesitated—“if I made a mistake in inviting her up here?”

“Fraser, it’s
nothing
like that. She adores you.”

“Steady on.” He looked down shyly at the cutlery basket, and I envied Alice, having this gentle giant of a man so mad about her. If she was going to stand him up, she could at least put some effort into softening the blow.

“She—she doesn’t want to let you down,” I went on, my imagination embroidering the scene between historical Major Fraser in uniform and Alice in ringlets, writing a note begging forgiveness for her unexplained absence. “She’s just indisposed, with her sprained ankle, and wouldn’t want to make you sit out the ball because she couldn’t dance.”

Fraser looked confused. “Indisposed … ?”

Maybe I’d gone too far.

“She’s probably knocked out on painkillers,” I said. “That’s maybe why she hasn’t called. I’ll be trying to get hold of her myself tomorrow—I’ll tell her to ring.”

“Would you? That would be awfully kind,” said Fraser. “And, you know, I really do hope you enjoy the ball. It’s a rather special evening.” Sadness jutted his lower lip. “Just a shame we’ll be missing Alice.”

Awfully.
Alice so didn’t deserve him.

At eleven, Catriona announced that she needed to get up in the morning for “a very important meeting,” and the evening came to a halt as Fraser offered to drive everyone home.

We drifted outside, where the full moon was reflecting off the soft banks of whiteness until it felt almost like daytime. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, but otherwise everything was still and magical. I breathed in a deep lungful of sharp night air.

“Jeez, it’s cold,” said Kirstie. “Dougie, get in that car and warm me up. Night, Robert! Thanks for the spaghetti. Sorry about the mess on your nice white sofa. My mum swears by white wine vinegar.”

“No worries,” said Robert, though I noticed Catriona gave her a death look.

Fraser bleeped his Land Rover with the remote, and Dougie yanked the door open for Kirstie, bundling her in enthusiastically as she blew Robert a kiss off her gloves.

“Good night, Robbie,” said Catriona. “You’re still on for supper tomorrow night at mine?” She leaned up and went to kiss him on the lips, just as he turned his head to answer Fraser’s question about winter tires. She ended up with his cheekbone.

Awkward,
I thought.

No, actually,
awkward
was the way she grabbed his chin, dragged his face to hers, and planted a kiss right on his lips while we all watched, complete with
Mmmmmm
noise.

“Night, Catriona,” I said. “Thanks for the instructions.”

She got in on the passenger side, ignoring the squeals from the backseat. “No problem. Let me know if you need those diagrams explained.”

“Do you want a lift up to the house?” Fraser nodded toward the car.

“No, it’d be quicker for me to walk,” I said. “By the time you’ve gone round via the road—”

“Oh, you can’t walk on your own—” he started.

“I’ll walk Evie back,” Robert interrupted. “Take me ten minutes. I’ll get my coat.”

I turned round, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I do. Can’t have you getting eaten by bears in the woods. As I’m sure Cat’s mother would tell you, losing one girl from our set is careless, losing two is bad hosting. Wait there.” He turned back to Fraser. “You guys get away.”

“If you’re sure?” Fraser looked at me, then when Robert disappeared inside whispered, “You don’t have to be polite. I’m happy to drive you over!”

I raised a hand. “How often do you get to see a night sky like this in London?”

“Never.” We both looked up at the inky northern sky, speckled with tiny diamond points, and I stole a swift sideways glance at Sensitive Countryman Fraser, one for the mental scrapbook.

“Right!” Robert was back, jangling his keys. “Let’s go.”

I waved as Fraser reversed his Land Rover expertly in the snow—not even a tiny wheel spin—and drove off down the track toward the road. Dougie’s and Kirstie’s silhouettes wrestled in the back. I bet Catriona gave them one minute exactly before telling them to belt up and shut up.

“Brought you this,” said Robert, offering me his trapper hat. He’d pulled on a beanie over his own ears and was bundled up in his ski jacket so only his bright eyes and sharp nose were properly visible.

“Thanks.” I pulled it on. It was warm but huge, and nearly reached my nose. “Ooh. I can’t hear anything.”

“Hang on.” Robert leaned forward and grabbed the two earflaps, tying them on top of my head. “I save this one for outdoor pursuits. Means when people ask me what I plan to do with my enormous house, I can pretend not to hear them. Only drawback is that I can’t wear it inside.”

I gave him a look. “You could try
having
an opinion about your enormous house.”

He returned my look with extra pointedness. “I do. You know what it is. Now, shall we?”

Our feet made satisfying crumping noises in the night stillness, and the moon bathed the landscape with surreal pale blue light, casting shadows under trees.

“Don’t you think this is like walking through Narnia?” I breathed.

“Hmm, I haven’t skied there,” said Robert. “Is it European?”

“No, it’s— Oh, shut up,” I said.

We walked side by side, our arms swinging a few centimeters apart. I was very conscious of how private it felt to be walking alone together at this late hour, in this silent, secret forest.
His
silent, secret forest, in fact. I wondered if Robert felt it too; neither of us spoke for a few minutes.

“Thanks for another dancing lesson,” I said, to break the silence. “It was sweet of you to arrange it.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for not destroying any of my furniture. I see you picked up Hamilton House quickly enough.”

“The story helps,” I said. “The husband, the lover, the future lover—and then the husband doing exactly the same. I like things with stories attached.”

“Ah, this is about the postcards, isn’t it? Our very own transatlantic fairy tale.” He said it in a slightly sardonic way, and I glanced sideways. Robert was staring straight ahead, his eyes on the path.

“That’s a real fairy tale, though. The chance meeting, the American princess, the love that lasted till Ranald died. Anyway,” I went on, sensing he was about to launch into more remorseless bubble-bursting, “the proof’ll be in the dancing. It was good of Catriona to come round and teach me.”

“She enjoyed it. She likes telling people what to do.”

“I’d noticed.” I hesitated. “I don’t want to mess it up for her.”

“Why?”

“Why?”
The atmosphere between us hummed with something unspoken. Robert couldn’t see my face, so I threw caution to the winds. “Because I get the impression that this first reel thing is more of an exhibition dance for you and the future Mrs. Kettlesheer than anything else.”

“Ah, that’s only if the reel’s perfect.” He swung his hands.

I really couldn’t make out Robert’s attitude. Was he being politely vague about his private life? Could he really be as unconcerned as he seemed?

“But that’s what bothers me,” I went on. “
Your
mother and
her
mother seem to think your party piece in the middle of the Eightsome is going to involve a ring box, so if I crash into a suit of armor and spoil the whole thing, they’re going to be pretty—oh!”

The penny suddenly dropped. How had I been so thick not to realize before?

“Oh, I get it!” I was so poleaxed that my feet stopped moving. “You
want
the whole thing to be screwed up, so you’re off the hook!
That’s
why you insisted on me taking over from Alice—not because you wanted me there, but because you wanted me there to
wreck
it!”

Robert stopped too, a pace or two ahead, and turned back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Next you’ll be telling me I’m deliberately not getting married so I don’t have to inherit.”

“You wouldn’t do—!” Actually, I didn’t care whether he was joking or not. Scalding waves of mortification were sweeping over me.

I’d done it again—let my imagination create a whole scene that not only wasn’t happening but was actually the
opposite
of reality! If any snowflakes had fallen on my burning cheeks, they’d have sizzled straight off.

“That’s not even funny,” I snapped, losing any semblance of self-control. “Catriona expects you to propose! I can’t think of anything more ungallant than letting a girl think she was about to get the most romantic moment of her life and then deliberately ducking out of it. Using someone who—someone who isn’t a confident dancer at the best of times!”

Had Robert planned this from the moment I’d told him I couldn’t dance? Had that spin outside his house been a test, to see how bad I was? Oh, God. And I’d been trying to wrestle him into top hats and breeches, like Fraser …

I pushed away the mortified voice in my head and marched onward. Stupid. My stupid imagination, running wild in that house, casting myself in some imaginary romantic drama.
Again.

“Wait! Evie, wait!”

I could hear Robert running, but I carried on walking. I had an awful plunging sensation in my chest. I’d never been more embarrassed in my life.

What would Alice do? I thought. She’d be practical. Like Mum. Tidy up. Make lists.

Number one, get back to the house. Two, make a report about the furniture for Max. Three, call Alice and tell her to get herself up here, by helicopter if necessary. Four, leave, in same helicopter.

A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I slipped and tried to keep my eyes fixed on the deep footsteps I’d made in the snow, but Robert pulled me round and I slid, leaving me very close to his face. Close enough to see the faint freckles round his nose, and feel his hot, quick breath in the cold air.

“Evie, that’s
not
why I wanted you to stay. Honestly.” He tried a smile but it came out crooked. “Look, my
parents
are dancing in this reel—Dad’s bound to make at least one major cock-up. I don’t need to add any more chaos to the mix.”

But I was still smarting. I hoisted my chin. “That’s not the point. This isn’t just about Catriona, is it? I don’t think you understand what your mum and everyone else is expecting. They need you to be involved. They’re struggling. You’re right—they don’t understand what needs to be done with Kettlesheer to make it work, but you
do
. You could help.”

Robert shoved his hands in his pockets. “So what are you saying? That I should just fall in with what everyone expects me to do? Move to some leaky barn that I’ll have to patch up as long as I live and then foist onto my own kids?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” I said, thinking of Ingrid despairing over the accounts. “There are loads of businesses you could start, grants you can get. It’s a wonderful place! I’ve only been here four days, and I never want to leave! And that’s without any emotional blackmail from anyone!”

Robert spun round and stomped a few steps away, staring out into the trees.

I waited. I thought I’d probably said too much already, but I wasn’t sure what to do next. I was in the middle of a forest. A snow-covered forest.

Eventually, he turned back and spoke in a soft, quite angry voice.

“Dad keeps going on about how it’s our duty to keep the castle going, because he remembers his father telling
him.
And his father’s mother telling
him.
But that’s not how our family life was.
I
didn’t grow up hearing about how one day I’d have to drop everything and move up to Scotland and be a farmer. Even Dad didn’t think he’d have to—I mean, he wore tartan trousers at the weekend and wept tears of pure Macallan at rugby internationals, but you can do that when you’re safely in south London and have two uncles ahead of you in the queue, can’t you?”

“But you’re here now.”

“It’s a bit late for being sat down at my dad’s knee now! I’m thirty-one. I’ve got my own life, my own career, my own plans.” Robert rubbed his hand over his face. “Look, we’ve had this conversation. I just feel like I keep having it with bloody everyone up here.”

“Did you read the postcards?” I asked.

“I did.” He looked me in the eye, and though he was cross, I could see something else: panic. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s a sweet idea, but even that’s someone else’s love story. Not mine. What have I got in common with some rich American princess? Or her landed husband? I’m a self-employed businessman, Evie. This isn’t my life.”

“But it wasn’t Violet’s either! She came from New York and—”

“Evie, stories don’t do it for me the way they obviously do it for you,” he said. “I need something a bit more factual.”

“But Violet was a smart cookie too!” I insisted. “Sheila Graham says everyone round here really respected her for the way she kept the house going after she was widowed, kept everyone in work. That’s not some airhead, that’s a businesswoman. I bet if you went through those rooms, you’d find the most incredible records, a real story—”

Robert raised an eyebrow at my passionate hand-waving, and I stopped, suddenly self-conscious.

“Sheila also said you’d find it different when you wanted to settle down,” I went on. “I know that can be scary. But I know lots of people who weren’t sure about getting married, and they took the plunge and now—”

“Oh,
God
,” said Robert, and set off walking again. “I preferred it when you were trying to sell me on the house.”

I caught his arm. “Robert.”

He turned back. “What?”

I screwed up my courage; at least let one good thing come out of my mortification. “Don’t let Catriona think you’re going to propose on Saturday if you’re not. There’s really nothing worse than”—my face was burning again—“than realizing you’ve read the signals wrong …”

“Does that actually
happen
in—” he scoffed, but I carried on.

“And that the reason everyone is cheering is because the man you thought might be proposing to you is actually proposing to someone else.”

“Oh.” Robert fell silent. “That sounds painful.”

“Mmm.”

It had been. Jack Wrightson. My ex-flatmate and, I thought, secret admirer. We’d spent many a long night having exactly the sort of long, confessional conversations I felt soul mates should have. He had gorgeous Byronic eyes and long hair, and I’d totally pictured him proposing on the steps of St. Paul’s during one of our long chatty mooches around London. I’d even hinted as much to Mum.

Sadly not.

It was still something that was raised at Christmas: “Some people grow out of having imaginary friends as toddlers, Evie. They don’t develop imaginary fiancés …”

“How did you get from … presumably not much to proposing? If it’s not a rude question?”

I sighed and started walking. “Well, when you’ve got quite an overactive imagination …”

Whether it was the forest or Robert, the words tumbled out surprisingly easily. “I’ve got used to having to fill in the blanks. Supply the romance. You don’t know how lucky you are, having a
tradition
to get married to. My family’s the least romantic ever. My parents never row and make up, they don’t have nicknames, they don’t even have a song!”

“A song?”

“You know, like ‘Candle in the Wind,’ or ‘Angels.’ ”

“Those are both songs about death, Evie.”