Chapter 21
‘T he king and queen have requested your company at the final dinner tonight.’ Mrs Buchanan strides into my room and launches open the curtains like a vampire hunter excited to turn their prey to ash.
‘Am I allowed to politely decline?’ I have become rather accustomed to eating alone and thoughts of having to make small talk for hours, unable to cram more than a morsel in my mouth between conversations, is pretty low on my list of desirable things.
‘Nope,’ the housekeeper replies, as bluntly as ever.
‘You know, as weird as it was, I miss when you were being all nice and mumsy.’ I grin, throwing my legs over the side of the bed as she hands me a stack of folded clothes.
‘And I miss being twenty-five. That doesn’t mean I’m going to wake up in the morning and my hot flushes have miraculously stopped and I can put my legs behind my head again.’ Mrs Buchanan rolls her eyes as she busies herself around the room.
‘All right, I take it back. I don’t think I want to know that much about you.’
‘Think how I feel – I have to wash your knickers every day.’ The housekeeper gives me a sidelong glance, though a ghost of a smirk dances across her wrinkled lips.
‘Are … are you actually being … funny? ’
‘Hmm, don’t push your luck, lass.’ She chuckles, sedately. ‘Just make sure you’re dressed for dinner by six. Don’t be late.’ She points at me with a warning finger, and I salute her in reply. Giving in to her smile, she slips out of the room with a shake of her head.
Stuffed into a dress and perfectly polished, I am suitably uncomfortable, meaning I am ready for dinner. Fixing a smile to my face, I head down to the dining room and am ushered to my seat. Though entirely on time, I am the last, aside from the king and queen themselves, to arrive at the table. Every eye at the long table tracks me across the room as I am shown to my place beside an older gentleman and an even older lady who sits curled over her placemat and doesn’t so much as look up as I sit down.
‘Good evening,’ I address the table just as I have been taught, and receive varied levels of enthusiasm in response.
Looking about the room, though trying my hardest not to look too eager, I realise that I am the youngest here by far. Recognising only the prime minister and the chancellor, I turn to my neighbour and make an attempt to control the small talk before anyone begins a topic that will fluster me.
‘Good evening, sir.’ I outstretch my hand, and he looks at it reluctantly. ‘I’m Alice. Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Lord Punchard,’ he says with an entirely straight face, simply placing his hand in mine like he’s the Pope and I must kiss his ring.
Releasing his sweaty fingers as quickly as possible, trying not to laugh at his name, I attempt one last time to be the perfect lady. ‘How are you finding Scotland, sir?’
‘Hate the place. Bloody Jocks, no manners whatsoever, you know. One called me a—’ he leans in closer to whisper the next part and his rancid red-wine breath hits me square in the face ‘—see you next Tuesday, right to my face yesterday.’
I have known this ‘Lord Punchard’ for less than five minutes and already I wish to track down that brilliant Scot and applaud them. Stifling my laughter, I feign a shocked expression and reply, ‘Well I must say you and I must have seen very different Scotlands. You know, it is often used as a term of endearment here.’
Punchard only chunters to himself. I don’t listen to exactly what he says, but I can imagine its some sort of outdated xenophobia, and my desire to be here falls below zero.
‘Walloper,’ the old woman beside me announces, still without looking up from her cutlery.
‘Excuse me?’ I turn to her, with my brows furrowed, wondering what I could have done wrong.
‘That wee dobber there.’ Her Aberdonian accent is thick as she points proudly at Lord Punchard, and makes no attempt to lower her voice. ‘Walloper,’ she reiterates.
The rest of the table hear her – it would be difficult not to – but the ‘walloper’ in question and all of the other suited and kilted guests only avoid her eyes. No one says a word, except me. ‘I’m Alice. Nice to meet you.’
‘Aye, I know. You’re Alex’s granddaughter. I’m her old pal Baroness Mckay. You won’t have heard of me. The moody cow never spoke about her mates. I reckon she didn’t want anyone talking to them to find out how much of a wild thing she was.’
For the first time, Baroness Mckay actually looks at me. Scanning me up and down several times, she shrugs before adding, ‘You’re a lot like her. Though you’re much softer around the middle.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, deciding to take it as a compliment. For years, my whole existence has been my image. Forced to maintain a perfect figure, a controlled face, tamed hair, for the first time in my life what I look like hasn’t been at the forefront of my thoughts. This body isn’t just for photographs; it’s for racing through glens on rusted bicycles; it’s for swimming in ice-cold lochs; it’s for sharing good, hearty food with friends. I actually don’t care that my bones aren’t on display for the world to see.
‘Good lass,’ is all she replies before the whole room is silenced.
Fraser Bell strides in, bagpipes ablaze, cheeks pinked from the strain. His uniform is perfect, from the neat pleats of his kilt to the spotless tunic; he really is a spectacle of Scottish excellence. Pride flows through me and I find myself wanting to make childish gestures at the miserable codger next to me, just to rub it in his face how wrong he was about such a culture. Instead, I watch Fraser, unable to remove my eyes from him even as the whole congregation stand to welcome the king and queen, who take their seats at the heads of the table.
Once Fraser has finished his piece, his silence invites the king to greet his guests. Still, however, I can’t tear my eyes from the piper. My hands grow hot at my sides and I am forced to wipe them on my napkin. Stood right in front of me, when the mouthpiece falls from his lip, his gaze finds my own and we are locked in a stalemate across the table whilst the king continues his speech.
For a moment, I am in the gardens again, my legs wrapped around his waist, his lips on my neck. Suddenly, the room grows very hot and I have to shift my weight back and forth on each foot just to keep stood upright. I have to finally cut the eye contact between us before I end up fleeing the room and dragging him with me. When I look back up from my placemat, the piper has the audacity to wink his pretty little green eyes and I splutter on my own saliva.
‘Am I boring you, Lady Walpole?’ The sound of my name falling from the king’s lips stuns me back down to earth.
My cheeks flame as every eye falls on me, and I have to fight the urge to duck under the tablecloth and sit out of sight. ‘My deepest apologies, Your Majesty.’ I can’t look at the king and his burning glare.
The king finally finishes off his speech as my face shows no sign of letting up on its ever-deepening redness. Finally, we are all allowed to reassume our seats to Fraser’s light accompaniment.
For the whole of the first and second courses, I am grateful when no one makes an attempt to speak to me. No one makes any attempt to engage Baroness Mckay either, but she seems as content as me in the silence. As the meal has progressed, various members of the staff have lined the walls, ready to ferry the dirty dishes back to the kitchen as soon as the attention has been turned from them. Amongst the staff is Sophie, and every now and again she gives me a cheeky smile, but it does little to comfort me. Do I really want my new-found friends to see me so out of my depth in what is supposed to be my own world? The more I am ignored, the more that shame floods through my chest and I have to fight back the shadows that threaten to overtake me.
‘Alice Walpole, isn’t it?’ a man with a greasy forehead asks me from across the table, looking down his nose through his half-moon spectacles.
‘Lady Alice will do just fine,’ I say with a smile. If everyone else in this room can be given the respect of their title, then so can I. ‘And you are?’
‘Sir Charles Hornby,’ he replies, puffing out his chest proudly.
‘Pleasure to meet you.’ I perform just as I should, and Sir Hornby leans closer towards me over the table.
‘I have heard many stories about you, Miss Walpole.’ He grins and my stomach turns.
‘Lady,’ I correct politely, attempting to control my composure.
‘Many of them would suggest that you aren’t much of a lady.’ He pushes his glasses up his nose, but they slide down again almost instantly on the slick sweat making its way down the bridge. I’m clutching my knife and fork so tightly in my hands that my knuckles pale with the force. ‘I also hear you’re back on the market.’
Instinctively, my eyes flick to Fraser as he stands to attention before me, waiting for his next cue to play. He is already watching me closely, his fists shaking by his sides as he holds his form.
‘Punchard,’ Sir Hornby calls to the equally repulsive man beside me, who looks up from his potatoes at the sound of his name. ‘What have you heard of little Alice Walpole?’
Punchard laughs a spine-tingling laugh and leans in closer to me, his breath on my neck again. ‘Ha. What haven’t I heard? A little troublemaker for your good great-uncle, aren’t you?’
Beneath the table, I feel his rough palm rest against my thigh and I tense at the sensation of it. What do I do? If I get up and make a fuss, I’ll only be in trouble. ‘ Be angry in private ’ – that’s what Mother said. But the further his hand climbs up my leg, the closer I am to taking his name as an instruction. As he leans closer still, I tremble at his proximity.
Without warning, a deafening screech sounds through the room. Punchard removes his hand with such speed that he fires his hand right into the hard mahogany of the dining table and I use the moment to leap to my feet. Fraser stands opposite me, his bagpipes squeezed tightly in his hand, his eyes burning through me as the party buzzes on in the background.
‘Pipe Major?’ The king addresses him, massaging his own ear.
About-turning, Fraser bows to the king. ‘My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. I believe I was a little too keen with my next piece.’
‘Yes, indeed. I think you just about deafened us for a moment there. But, at least it was good timing. Francois here was just telling me what my naughty nephew the Viscount Fairfax has been up to these days and I think we have all heard quite enough.’ The party chuckles at their king, and Fraser stays tense.
‘Lady Alice, were you hoping to make a speech?’ The king directs the attention back to me, as I remain standing.
‘Please excuse me, sir. I have come over a little unwell,’ I manage to stammer out, before fleeing from the room.
As I burst from the dining room, staff fuss around me, but I can’t take any notice. The clinking of cutlery on china, the gabble of pompous voices, the hushed uttering of orders given left, right, and centre grow louder and louder, until I am overcome with the desire to cover my ears to escape it. My head throbs with the sound. My chest feels drawn and strained like skin stretched over the mouth of a drum. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t breathe.
Rubbing my hands down my legs neurotically, I attempt to keep a grip on myself, and stop myself from sinking completely. Rubbing faster, harder, my hands burn, my dress stretches but still I can’t stop.
‘I’m okay.’ I repeat the words like a mantra over and over, but soon the words mean nothing. Pacing the halls with high ceilings only makes me feel trapped, like the walls themselves are crushing my chest, refusing to allow the breath to reach my lungs.
I need to leave. As I launch myself out of the front door, a footman bows to me. Opening his mouth to bid me farewell as he has been ordered, he quickly slams it shut at the sight of my face and instead calls out my name as I run across the gardens.
My face burns; my neck burns. I fight the urge to throw up all of my starter and main course into Jimmy’s flowerbeds. Pulling my heels from my feet, I launch them as far as I can throw them, an animalistic cry ripping its way from my throat with the motion.
Everything is just so loud. The wind cuts through the trees like a chainsaw through a rainforest. The hooting of owls is like the feral screeching of a woodland beast. My hair is pulled too tightly. The seams of my dress are scratching at my waist. I just need to keep running. Ghostly clammy hands run up and down my body and yet I can’t decide whether to tear the clothes from my back, or drag on layer upon layer so I can’t see any more of myself.
I don’t know where I’m running until I get there. I force open the barn door, and the old wood creaks open just enough for me to slip through. My heartbeat still races and the sweat pours from my brow, but the smell of hay, the soft snort of Hamish, and the darkness of the room soothe me. I’m hardly able to see a few feet ahead of me, and the only light is from the moon as it slices through the window above Clover’s stable. Moving using muscle memory alone, I wander up to Hamish. I stretch out my palm to him, and he presses his snout against it and allows me to slide my fingers into his coarse mane. The soft stallion nuzzles in against me, and over the gate I rest my head against his, breathing in his wild smell. Soon, the rising and falling of my chest plateaus to a level that doesn’t make me feel like I am one missed inhalation away from death.
Once the feeling of numbness overtakes me, I can finally lift my head again. After kissing the horse on the side of his face, I move down the stables to Clover. She doesn’t see me at first and I can observe her and her new baby unperceived. They lie in the corner of the stable, foal tucked into the mother as she delivers her warmth and protects her young with every inch of her body. Each time her foal stirs, Clover licks her, and keeps guard for another moment longer before stooping down beside her and slipping back to sleep. They seem so peaceful, so contented. Just a mother and her daughter, sleeping side by side, each one warmed by the other. They’re safe here.
As I’m sat in the stable in the puddle of moonlight, the night passes slowly. The horses softly shift against their hay, and all I do is watch the darkness numbly. My body is exhausted but I can’t bring myself to sleep.
‘Alice?’ A warm voice fills the cold barn as a silhouette slides in through the doors. I don’t stir, or call out. I know that voice better than I know the one in my own head these days, and he knows I’m here.
Fraser Bell strides through the darkness and kneels before me, the moonlight curling around him, and shrouding him in an ethereal glow. Flooded in moonshine, I see his disordered appearance closely. It is evident that he has torn his bonnet from his head. His hair is dishevelled, as though many a rough hand has been run through it, and his brow is almost permanently furrowed as deep lines score his forehead. Dimples are ironed flat, and his eyes are as dark as the night around us, though as he scans my face back and forth, they soften back to an evergreen and I am home once again.
The piper places my shoes by my side, before untying his own ghillie shoes and, with tender hands, slides my feet into each of them. Barefoot on the stone floor, he doesn’t say a word, only places his hands softly against my cheeks and kisses me on the forehead. Thoughts of Sophie linger in the back of my mind and I know I should feel guilty, but I can’t stop myself from relaxing against his touch. His presence is the only thing that can warm me now. With him beside me, the draught through the stables doesn’t even touch me. Shuffling around to sit beside me, Fraser remains silent as he holds me against his chest like the mare swaddles her foal. For the first time this night, I feel safe.