Chapter 16
T hough my mother may, once upon a time, have been the woman in those photographs, she isn’t anymore. As much as I wish I could run to her and have her stroke my hair like those girls in the books with broken hearts, my reality is very different. The thought of her does the opposite of comfort me, and the thought of returning to my parents’ home just miles away to admit defeat is like fleeing the lion’s den, only to fling myself into a circle of vultures. No, I can’t face them.
The longer I stand outside of the Beaumont all she truly needed was to cry. Balmoral is a quiet place to cry. No one has to see you if you don’t wish for them to.’
‘I don’t need to cry.’
‘Perhaps not, but your soul does.’ Pulling into the long driveway, she tucks the car behind the kitchen and we both rush through to avoid being caught. ‘One thing you absolutely need to do is have a shower and get dressed. You look and smell boggin’.’ She turns away and grabs me a towel from her pile of fresh linens.
For the first time all day, I manage a smile. She returns it gently. ‘I have asked Sophie to lay out a few options for you but I have requested that she meet you in the queen’s dressing room. The queen will already have been dressed by then; hopefully they will be too merry to notice you arriving late.’
‘Mrs Buchanan?’ I call softly as she begins to walk away, and she turns back. ‘Thank you.’ My voice comes out in a whisper and she nods in acknowledgement before leaving me.
When I arrived here nearly two months ago, I would never have known this would become a place I’d run to when everything else feels too much. Even now, as caterers, waiters, and other contractors filter in and out of the castle, its hustle and bustle doesn’t feel so overwhelming. Being in these walls, I can finally take a moment to breathe. Standing on the staircase, I look at the place around me, at its ugly carpets, and its questionable wall décor, and for the first time since I left, the persistent throb of fear subsides.
Still feeling as though I have been lifted by my ankles and shaken until empty, I walk slowly through the hallway towards my room. With my eyes fixed on the floor beneath me, I take each step carefully, as though one slip could see me shatter completely.
My depression is like a chip in a window screen. It’s always there. You can just see it bugging you from the corner of your eye, and with every bump and pothole, you wonder if this might be the one that will finally send the whole thing bursting into a million shards.
I had thought Atticus would be the final blow, but still I walk, clinging to all of my cracked pieces.
A pair of boots hesitate at the opposite end of the hallway. Slowly they inch closer and closer towards me, but I still can’t lift my head to see who wears them. When they are within an arm’s length, it is his aftershave that I recognise first. Though subtle and stirred with the cold scent of the earth, it seems to envelop the corridor and pulls my eyes instinctively in his direction.
Fraser Bell steps quietly along the carpet, his eyes fixed in front of him, not diverting from his path. He looks dishevelled, as though only moments ago he was rushing around, but now he nurses each of his steps as though able to spend an age in this hallway. A wayward wisp of hair falls across his forehead and the sight of its amber strands glowing in the late afternoon sun that comes in puddles through the windows sends a shock of heat through me.
I want nothing more than to reach out and snag him by the arm, but my body won’t cooperate, and he simply passes me by. I know he sees me, for as the breeze of his body hits me, he nods his head and gives a polite ‘my lady’ all still without meeting my gaze.
By the time I can summon the strength to speak, metres separate us. ‘Fraser …’ I say, though my voice is painfully quiet. Whether he hears or not, he doesn’t stop, and only the soft bump of the door swinging closed behind him answers me.
* * *
Sinking down into the bottom of the bath, I allow the spray of the shower to pelt me as I stare numbly at the steaming bathroom. Tiny droplets are swallowed up into mammoth ones as they race down the glass, and for just a moment, as the water trickles down my face in a substitute for tears, I allow myself to feel the hurt. Clutching at my chest, it is physical. Pain ripples through me with an unstoppable force and yet I don’t bleed, I’m not broken, there is nothing I can do to fix it, to make it stop, besides sitting here, in this bathtub, trying not to scream.
This pain isn’t just Atticus. It isn’t just a broken heart. No, I’m sure of it. This is the pain of failure. The pain of turning into my mother despite every one of my efforts to be nothing like her. This is the pain of fate, the pain of feeling like you’re losing control only to realise you were never in control to begin with.
Why can’t I cry?
I squeeze my eyes tightly, hoping to force out just one tear. It’s just like vomiting, isn’t it? No one likes to vomit, but after those moments of breathless pain as your stomach cramps and your nostrils sting, equilibrium is restored. If I cry, perhaps the pain will go away. If I cry, maybe I will find peace for a moment.
‘Alice?’ A voice travels through the steam along with a soft knock at the bathroom door. ‘Can I come in?’ It’s Sophie. Her usually chipper tone is gone, and even through the mahogany door, I can hear her worry.
After I manage a rasping ‘yes’, the maid enters, a plume of steam released back through the door with her arrival.
Finding me curled up and naked, Sophie gives me a sad smile and, without a word, grasps the bottle of shampoo from the side and lathers my hair. Taking down the shower head, she gently rinses me off, like I am child, too worn, too ready for bed to care for myself. After repeating it over again with the conditioner she then dampens a flannel and softly scrubs down my back, across my face, lifting each arm gently until all stench of Hamish is gone.
‘Now babe …’ Sophie steps back with a smile ‘… despite you giving me the fear and running off, I love you, I’d do anything for you, but I’m going to draw the line at washing your Mary.’
‘My Mary?’ I croak and she smiles.
‘Aye, your Mary. Fairy? Minnie? Fanny?’ She whispers the final word as though her mother would appear from around the corner and tell her off for her brash language, but I only smile weakly back at her. ‘You okay if I leave you to finish up? I’ll just be waiting outside the door, and I can take you down to the dressing room.’
I offer her a grateful nod, and she leaves the room, satisfied. After finishing off my shower, I slide out of the bathtub and drape myself in the towel Mrs Buchanan had given me and meet Sophie back in my bedroom.
‘Ready?’ she asks, her familiar smile back on her features.
Before I nod in agreement, I draw her in and hug her tightly in an embrace I think I may have needed for years. ‘Thank you,’ I breathe. No one has ever been so kind to me before now. I came back here with every expectation to be rebuked, to be mocked, to have them all say ‘I told you so’, or do as Fraser did and simply act as though I don’t exist and yet, I have never in my life experienced such … love .
‘Come on.’ Sophie pulls back and pushes the wet hair from my face. ‘Forget whatever has happened just for tonight. The Ghillies Ball is the one night a year where anything goes in this place. Be who you want to be. Or don’t. Just for one night let it all go, and try a different you on for size.’