11. Edie #2
“I love history. We can learn so much by looking at the past, don’t you think?”
He grunts, so I carry on.
“It’s why I studied it. And you’re so lucky to have all this history right here, to be surrounded by it every day.”
“Suffocated might be a better word for it.”
I look at his profile. He gives nothing away, his expression completely blank.
I wonder if it’s learned, or if it’s something that comes with a lifetime of people looking at you, knowing one day you’d be one of the richest men in the country with land and property all over the Highlands and the world .
“Anyway,” he says after a moment as we stop on the crest of a hill. “This is what I’m doing this for.”
Below us we can see the castle in the distance, cradled by the forest which wraps around it on either side. The loch glimmers steel-blue in the sunshine. There’s a distant rumble of a tractor somewhere out of sight. He seems lost in thought.
“You mean for the castle?”
He shakes his head. “The people who rely on me. You’re going to find my father’s notes are… somewhat erratic.”
“In what way?”
He turns his horse to set off down a trail that climbs up between coconut-scented yellow gorse bushes and down towards a stream. I’ve gathered he’s a man of few words but?—
“In what way?” I ask again, tentatively.
Moss tosses her head so the bit jingles in the silence and I steady myself in the saddle.
It’s surprising how easy it is to ride after all this time – like getting back on a bike, only one with four legs and an entire personality.
I run a hand down her neck, feeling the silky smoothness over the hard muscle.
The horses have fallen into step beside each other so we’re almost touching.
“He was a drinker. Most people would say he was a barrel of laughs, mercurial, last of the old-style aristocrats. Loved shooting, loved his dogs. All that’s true, but he was a manipulative bastard.
” His face darkens. “Last summer he tried to fold the foundation which was set up by my great-grandfather. He believed that with the role came the responsibility to effect positive social change. My father’s belief was that the place should fund his lifestyle, not the other way round.
Any sense of duty skipped a generation when Dickie Kinnaird was born, it appears. ”
Moss tosses her head, and the reins slide through my fingers for a moment .
“Not with you.”
He turns to look at me, and I see the Rory I met in New York in his eyes, not the guarded, patrician duke. “I hope not, no.”
A huge bird soars in the cloudless sky, circling for a moment and then swooping into the heather.
The land seems to stretch on forever, rolling on for miles on every side of us.
In the distance, I can just make out the dark shapes of the islands beyond the shore.
It’s so far from the first time we met in Manhattan that it seems like another world.
“So why were you in New York?”
“Business.” His tone is flat.
“Not bussing tables.” I shoot him a teasing glance, pushing my luck.
He surprises me with a brief smile “No. One hopes my bartender career is on a par with yours as an investigative journalist, which is to say – non-existent.”
“I’d be a shit journalist,” I laugh. “I have no game face whatsoever.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, you had me fooled.”
“Really?” I preen.
“What do you think?”
I look at him, confused. “Weren’t you worried I’d blow your cover if I was?”
“I took a calculated risk. Back then, my head wasn’t as far above the parapet as it is now.”
“With great honour comes great responsibility and all that?”
“Something along those lines.” His face closes down again, and it’s as if the brief glimpse of the person he is behind the aristocratic mask is gone completely.
“Anyway, you’re wrapped up in so much legal red tape that if you even think about exposing any of the secrets you might come up against, your career would be over. ”
Back to reality with a very hard bump. I think it’s pretty clear that the arrogant billionaire duke is his default mode. I swallow back a wave of panic, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.
“So, what is your end game, Edie?” He pulls his horse to a stop and Moss follows suit, reminding me that I’m not the one in control here.
“End game?”
“You’ve written a memoir for Annabel.”
I open my mouth to protest.
“Yes, yes, you signed an NDA.” He tosses his head irritably. “But she’s got a mouth like the Channel Tunnel. Fortunately, it’s only her reputation that’s at stake, and frankly that seems to be pretty much bulletproof, God knows how.”
“I want to be a writer.” I look down at the smooth leather of the saddle and adjust a long piece of Moss’s mane which has flipped over to the wrong side of her neck.
“One hopes you are, given you’re being paid handsomely to do the job.”
I shake my head. “Not that kind of writer. Fiction.” I sigh. The document on my laptop is sitting there neglected, because I’m too scared to open it.
“And you’re here doing this because…?”
Oh, it must be nice to have the confidence that comes with billions in the bank.
“Because,” I say, as if explaining to a child, or someone so important that they are completely unaware of the minor day to day details.
“My agent is friends with Annabel. She put in a good word, and the estate needs someone to collate your father’s notes and diaries into some sort of family record. ”
“I am aware.” He looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “You were selected for your skill, your excellent qualifications in both history and English literature, and your talent.”
I clear my throat and fiddle with the reins. “Thank you,” I mutter, feeling awkward.
His mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. “I deal in facts, Edie.”
He shifts his weight in the saddle and his horse moves on, Moss tagging along behind him as the path narrows for a moment and then he stops again and turns, frowning.
“So if you want to write novels, why aren’t you doing it?”
I bite my lower lip and say nothing for a long moment. “It’s complicated,” I say, eventually.
“Is it?”
His words echo in my head as we ride. I tell myself it was just an innocent question, but it feels like more than that.
It’s a spotlight shining into dark corners I’d rather not look at.
Being a writer is all about picking yourself up, dusting yourself off after rejection and trying again. Maybe I’m just not brave enough.
We ride down to a collection of fancy log cabins where Jamie’s eco centre will be, with a community hub to train young people in rural skills. He points out the peatlands they’re regenerating and explains it’s all part of a project to keep young people in the area.
“Right now, people have no choice but to move away. We want that to change.”
A woman with a bright yellow backpack gives us a wave from the footpath, stumping up the hill with a determined expression on her face.
I’m glad to be sitting on the surefooted Moss, who seems to take the uneven ground in her stride.
She tosses her head and the metal of her bit jingles as her luxuriant mane lifts in the breeze.
I see the tiny trees being planted by a group of forestry workers who wave cheerfully from the side of the hill, and we ride along the side of the peat-brown river where he tells me salmon come each year to spawn.
It’s beautiful, and I can understand why Rory is so single minded in his drive to save this part of the world and preserve it for future generations.
It’s not just land – it’s a living, breathing entity with the future of families and their livelihoods at stake.
I can see why he guards it like a fortress. I would too.