6. Edie
EDIE
My name is Edie Jones and once again I am… wearing the wrong clothes.
I’m pretty sure that this is what a full-blown fashion crisis looks like.
We’re hurtling at an alarming speed in a sleek Range Rover along narrow single-track roads through mist covered hills.
But instead of taking in the shifting grey skies and the scenery, I’m looking at my reflection in the window and wondering what on earth Past Me was thinking.
Dress codes have never been my strong point.
I’m in a wool coat in the perfect shade of trying-too-hard grey, and a thick turtleneck sweater which makes me feel like I’m being strangled.
The scraped-back bun and minimal makeup are giving ginger Miss Trunchbull, and let’s not even get started on the knee-length boots and sensible skirt.
This is not a good look by anyone’s standards.
The driver who picked me up at Inverness Airport didn’t seem to notice my internal panic.
Once I spotted him holding a sign, he checked my ID, loaded my bags, and since then, he hasn’t said a word for the ninety minutes and counting we’ve been traveling.
I reapply my lipstick for the fifth time and check my phone.
There’s no service. I really hope this isn’t an extremely complicated way of taking me hostage.
The roads are narrow now, single tracked with little passing places. The moorland is dotted with sheep who stop grazing as we pass and stare at us, as if they’re not used to seeing people. We are a very long way from London.
I sway as we take a sharp left and start heading uphill. The only hint that we might be getting somewhere is a discreet navy-blue sign tucked between gorse bushes. White lettering picked out on the navy spells out the words:
LOCH MORVEN ESTATE
My stomach drops with nervous anticipation. We rattle over a cattle grid and then cross a stone bridge. A tumbling river rushes into a stand of tall pine trees, and a moment later the car slows to a halt in the middle of nowhere.
Oh shit, I’m about to be murdered .
My window slides open, and the bearded driver leans back and taps me on the arm.
“Take a look over there,” he says gruffly.
I scan the heather-covered moorland then let out a gasp of surprise.
A massive stag is standing on the brow of the hill, maybe a hundred metres away from us.
We’ve caught him unawares and he’s surveying his kingdom, seemingly unaware that we’ve pulled up behind him.
I hold my breath, scared that if I move, I’ll break the spell.
“That’s a monarch,” he explains. “If ye have a look, you’ll see he’s got sixteen points on his antlers. He’s been around the block a fair few times.”
“Oh wow.” I’ve never been so close to something so huge and wild. “He’s really beautiful, isn’t he?” I breathe in the earthy, peaty smell of the moors.
The driver gives me a nod of approval and surprises me with a grin. “Plenty more wildlife like that for you to see when you’re up here.”
The stag turns his head for a moment, noticing us at last. For a long moment he stands completely still, staring arrogantly back towards us with a challenging stare. Finally, he turns, darting gracefully with his white tail flashing as he bounds across the uneven ground.
“Nearly there,” the driver says curtly.
The road curves up through a pine forest and we climb up and up, until we’re looking down over a massive glen which seems to stretch on forever.
In the distance, I can see the sea and the dark shapes of the islands beyond.
There’s still no mobile reception. We’re literally miles and miles from anywhere, and my stomach clenches with anticipation.
What the hell have I signed myself up for?
I can’t even message Charlotte to say I’m having second thoughts, because I appear to be living in the dark ages.
I suspect she’d point out that as a history buff, it should be right up my street.
At the bottom of the hill, we take a right onto another little road, then there’s another discreet sign, and we pause for a moment.
Imposing metal gates swing open and we head down a well-kept driveway lined with glossy rhododendron bushes.
The grass verges look like they’ve been trimmed with nail scissors.
The driver lifts a hand and waves to a gardener sitting on a ride-on mower as the road twists again and then my jaw drops as I peer out of the window .
A turreted castle rises out of the landscape like something from a fairy-tale, only grander and far more intimidating.
Perched on a rise and surrounded by trees, it looks out over a tree-lined loch which seems to sparkle in the low autumn sunlight.
The sky above is a soft wash of blue and grey which is echoed in the colours of the water.
This place is history. I feel a shiver running down my spine at the thought that this is home for the next three months.
We pull outside the front entrance, and a moment later the driver opens my door.
I step out, my heels crunching on the pale gravel.
The air is cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp moss and woodsmoke.
I tilt my head back, taking in the countless turrets and crow-stepped gables, trying to absorb the scale of it all.
There’s an enormous, studded oak door flanked with clipped yew bushes and I turn to ask where I’m supposed to go, but the driver seems to have evaporated.
The door creaks open and a woman in jeans and a green sweater emerges. She’s got wavy shoulder-length brown hair, threaded through with silver that matches the chain around her neck. I was expecting someone in a uniform.
“Edie.” She extends a hand, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as she welcomes me.
“Janey Sutherland. I’m house manager here at Loch Morven.
I’m afraid we’re not very formal here,” she says as if she can sense what I’m thinking.
Her jeans have a muddy paw-print on each knee.
“Too many dogs. Ah Hamish, there you are.”
The driver has returned, and he’s holding onto my bags with his brows tipped up in silent query. “Can you take them up to the green room for me, please?”
He nods and trudges off.
“Man of few words, our Hamish.” Janey watches him with a smile then turns to shake my hand. “But he’s an absolute angel. It’s very exciting to have you here. A real live writer!”
“Oh, I’m not a real writer,” I begin, then realize I’m supposed to sound professional. “I mean I am, I’m?—”
Janey laughs and puts a hand on my arm. “You’re here to write. That makes you a writer. How was the journey? Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
My stomach growls loudly. “No, I’m fine,” I say, because I’m British and an idiot.
Janey cocks her head and looks at me thoughtfully, crossing her arms over an ample bosom. She’s got beautiful skin, and her nose is smattered with freckles.
“I tell you what, I’ll help you get your bearings and then maybe you’ll be ready for a bit of afternoon tea. Dinner’s not until eight and you’ll be starving if you wait until then. Come in and make yourself at home. Give me two seconds.”
She steps back, gesturing with a friendly wave of her arm as if I make myself at home in gigantic Scottish baronial castles all the time.
I’m left standing in the biggest hallway I’ve ever seen in my life.
It smells of expensive beeswax polish and old books, as well as something smoky and mysterious, possibly ghosts or the barbecued remnants of previous writers.
My boots click on the flagstone floor, but the sound is swallowed by the vastness of the space.
There’s a grand staircase which sweeps upwards in a dramatic curve, and an enormous chandelier – no, two chandeliers – hanging from huge wooden beams which have been darkened by time.
Huge paintings in ornate gold frames hang on the wall, and the faces of stern-looking men in military gear look down on me with disapproving expressions.
There’s a fire burning in the grate and a huge arrangement of flowers on a table by the door.
The whole place looks like it’s just begging for someone to make a dramatic entrance in a ballgown, but instead it’s got me looking like a reject from a sales conference.
I finger the locket around my neck, rubbing my thumb over the smooth silver as if it was a talisman.
“Sorry about that,” says Janey a moment later, appearing from a different door. “The duke’s just arrived from a trip to London and I needed to catch him up on a couple of things. Follow me.”
She leads me into a huge sitting room with windows that look out over a wide sweep of lawn flanked by serried rows of poplar trees.
Janey’s phone rings, and she makes a face and dashes out again, mouthing an apology in my direction.
There’s a whole army of portraits on the wall here, some in Highland regalia, some in velvet and lace.
I jump as the door opens and she walks in with a folder under her arm, her face an apologetic grimace. “So sorry, we’re a bit busy at the moment. Month end, lots going on, and the buck stops with me. Let’s take you for a quick tour.”
I follow obediently as she leads me through a door at the end of the room which leads into another corridor. This one is lined with stuffed animal heads which peer down at us with doleful expressions and glazed eyes.
“You’ll get used to them,” says Janey, seeing me look up.
“I’ll spare you the potted history lesson, because you’re the expert, and I’ll just give you a quick tour of the ground floor so you know where you’re going.
” She hands me the folder. “This will help. It’s a floorplan of the castle and a map of the grounds. ”
“Oh yes,” I say, deadpan. “I have one for my flat in London.”