Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
I was so frustrated with myself.
I should have been appreciating the strong, rugged scenery with Loch Crawe gliding past the driver side window like a shimmering, oval mirror. Trees were strung around it like jade jewels. Instead, my thoughts kept harking back to Evan.
The only hint now there had been two bombs was the outline of a sandpit in one of the nearby fields, which had several figures stationed around it, filling it in.
A few official-looking vehicles were stationed close by, but the traffic was moving both behind and in front of me, albeit a little more slowly than normal, directed by a couple of traffic police.
I pushed on.
Evan was fluttering at the corners of my mind again. Had I imagined there’d been a mutual feeling of attraction there?
I knew with flickers of embarrassment in my chest that I hadn’t imagined my attraction for him, despite the protestations I kept making.
I could deny it all I wanted and pretend that it hadn’t mattered, but it had.
Evan had managed to get under my skin.
I checked my rear-view mirror. The cars behind me were shining in the late afternoon sun, trailing behind each other like brightly coloured ants.
If I was being truthful, from the first moment I’d set eyes on him at the party lunch in his sharp suit and glittering cufflinks, he’d had an effect on me.
Maybe it was just some weird, temporary crush, I assured myself over and over as the shaggy Highland cattle and sloping mountains slithered past. I was grateful to him for stopping me making an utter tit of myself with Fox and losing my hospitality job.
And yes, he was very, very handsome. But that was as far as it would go.
A silly, momentary liking. He still had something going on with Sacha anyway, and no doubt he viewed me as an interfering busybody when it came to the tour.
I just wanted to get to my grandpa and Strath Ross so I could reset.
And if Alison and Bennett did decide that my Florence tour suggestion was one they wanted to try, and I had to return to The Ramblings, then I could handle it.
I could deal with Evan. I’d just have to throw all my energy into helping set up of the tour and remind myself why I was there.
In the meantime, it was perfect timing for me to head home.
It would allow me to clear my head and sort everything out.
It had been wonderful staying at The Ramblings. It was a charming, classy, stately home with mystery and history baked into every piece of stone, and Alison and Bennett were such a lovely, sweet couple.
Dane was … well, Dane. Charming and good-looking but self-absorbed. The way he’d acted when I left had thrown me, though. There had been a vulnerability there that I’d never seen before.
The only issue was Evan. No, he wasn’t an issue, I corrected myself as I negotiated the traffic along the country roads. Oh God. I was doing it again! Stop dwelling on him, Daisy!
I rubbed at my face with one hand before returning it to the steering wheel.
My thoughts crossed to Cayla next. If Alison and Bennett went with my tour idea, would Cayla even consider playing Florence?
I guided Marlene around a corner and took us down a sun-dusted road, banked on either side by fluttering hedgerows.
Cayla would be great. I knew she would. If she did accept the role, it would be such a boost to her confidence. Just what she needed. Not only that, but it would look great on her CV too for when she began applying to acting school.
But I knew I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself.
There was no guarantee the Lords would decide that my idea had legs.
Maybe they’d consider it too gimmicky, or they wouldn’t feel comfortable about dragging up the past. But if they did decide to run with it, surely the tour would put some extra money in the estate coffers?
Raise the profile of The Ramblings? Open it up to the possibility of staging corporate events? Weddings, perhaps?
More visions about the tour tripped through my head.
I could see it now: Cayla dressed in a frilly apron with her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, a grey dress skirting her ankles; dashing here and there in front of intrigued tourists and locals; showing how Florence lived and worked so hard, whist keeping her acting dreams close to her heart like a burning secret.
We could reenact the vase being stolen and poor Florence’s insistence she was innocent. We could show the aftermath of her having been blamed for the theft and how that impacted her.
It would capture moments in time and illustrate Florence’s past.
The Ramblings still possessed that old, worldly aura with its sweep of grand staircase, tiled great hall and watercolour paintings decorating its walls.
Still, I reminded myself, glancing in my rear-view mirror as I drove along, I mustn’t get too carried away. There was no guarantee Alison and Bennett would go with my tour idea anyway.
And even if they did, I’d still have to persuade Cayla to take the role of Florence.
I grimaced.
It sounded like even more of a monumental task the more I replayed everything over and over.
I turned the bend, and the sign for Strath Ross erupted out of the grass verge on the left-hand side.
My heart gave a little skip of delight. London seemed so far away with its hustle and bustle.
Instead of the Bohemian chic of Notting Hill and the endless streaks of red buses, I was confronted by the sight of the familiar, little, white, stippled cottages strung along the edges of the fields and forestry.
An osprey dangled above the hills, like a brown and gold kite bobbing in mid-air.
Strath Ross was a quaint little town, still stuck in the nineteenth century, but I loved it like that.
It had a small post office, a doctor and dentist, a newsagent and a sprinkling of independent shops. It was hemmed in on all sides by farms and banks of trees.
I drove on past a couple of old barns and grinning rickety fences, which reminded me of weathered teeth in the hazy afternoon sun.
Then I took a left down the snaking gravelled path towards my grandparents’ house where I’d grown up.
I smiled as Marlene’s wheels crunched on the crumbly stone path that led down to the house, remembering the times when I was a kid and I would roll down the lush, green banks of grass on the left-hand side, with my grandparents rolling their eyes and laughing at me through the kitchen window.
In the winter, the three of us would build a portly, slightly off-kilter snowman, and he’d perch there on top of the hill, a sentry on duty in one of Grandpa’s checked flat caps and Grandma’s woollen scarves.
In autumn, I would kick the leaves and then help Grandpa to sweep them up. Our hard work would be rewarded by Grandma, who would present us with her delicious hot chocolate whipped up with fresh Scottish cream and drizzled with marshmallows.
They’d taken on the roles of my mum and dad with relish.
Even now, my mother still wasn’t a solid presence in my life.
Even though she only lived in the next town, she was still absent, and that was fine.
I’d accepted it, and although there was still a sliver of resentment that would sting me whenever I thought about what she and my dad had done, I knew I wouldn’t have had the wonderful life I did if it weren’t for my grandma and grandpa stepping up. I would never have been this happy.
Emotion clogged my throat as I stared out of the windscreen, Marlene’s engine still purring.
I eased her to a stop just a few feet away from the tomato-red front door.
No sooner had I climbed out and savoured the familiar tang of earth and dry bark than my grandpa tugged open the door and burst out. ‘Och, look at you, Daisy Dewdrop. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’
I ran up to him and threw my arms around him in a fierce hug. There was a hint of woodsmoke in the air.
Grandpa took a step backwards in his tartan slippers and studied me out of his smoky grey eyes. His mouth melted under his white, pencil-thin moustache. His snowy hair was slicked back. ‘You get bonnier every time I see you. Just like your grandma at that age.’
I laughed. ‘And your patter never changes, Grandpa.’
I pulled my bag from the passenger seat and collected my case from the boot. Grandpa ushered me inside. It still smelled like home.
The cottage was the same. From its polished, hardwood beams to the amber, linoleum floor in the kitchen and the tall, glass cabinet in the sitting room, housing my grandma’s treasured collection of porcelain wild birds, it reminded me a little of The Ramblings on a smaller scale, with its memories, characters and history imprinted on its heart.
The modest garden was brimming with paintbox-coloured potted flowers and shrubs, and the lawn looked like it had just been mowed. Grandpa had been flexing his gardening talents again.
Photos of the three of us, or The Three Musketeers as my grandma used to call us, were dotted all around the sitting room. Her serene smile shone out at me. My heart sagged in my chest. Come on, Daisy. No bringing the mood down!
‘So,’ I said in a bright voice. Grandpa was already filling the teapot at the kitchen sink. My grandma’s two aprons still hung from the back of the door, and her favourite mug, imprinted with sunflowers, sat on the windowsill. ‘What would you like me to make us for dinner?’
Grandpa turned around with a mischievous glint. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been shopping.’
‘Ok.’
‘And I got…’
‘A chicken?’ I supplied, folding my arms in a jokey manner. ‘And let me guess, Maris Piper potatoes for roasting, sprouts, parsnips, carrots and Yorkshire puddings?’
‘I might have done.’
I raised my brows at him.
‘Aye. Alright. You guessed correctly.’
My grandpa had always adored my grandma’s roast dinners, and although mine wouldn’t be a patch on hers, I could rustle one up that wasn’t half bad.