Chapter 7
I wake up with a start. It’s still dark out and my heart is pounding like it’s going to beat its way out of my chest. Yesterday
when I started work, I was excited. But that was before I knew I was the laughingstock of Inveresk.
There’s more. I’ve been so wrapped up in not going back home, saying yes to the first opportunity that allows me to stay here,
I’ve forgotten what this summer was supposed to be. The romance of living at a castle has been sucked dry, thanks to Finn.
So now I’m left with what? A job that has nothing to do with what I want out of life? This isn’t going to make me a better
writer. And I’ve seen what happens when you just blow along with the wind instead of pushing against the gales to get to where
you want to be. I see it every day with my parents. As much as I love them, the last thing I want is to end up with a life
like theirs.
I reach toward the nightstand until I grasp my phone. When I open it up, I’m not googling the royal Finn. I will happily never google him again. No, this time I’m looking up things that are for my best interests.
Library internships Scotland
Scotland authors
I’m typing and scrolling and typing and scrolling, and by the time the sun is rising, peeking through my curtains, I’m still
in the same place I was when I started: lying in bed with a job at a gift shop.
Yes, I’m at a castle, but I don’t think scholarships and graduate programs in Creative Writing actually care about how impressive
the location is when all you’re doing is helping tourists buy sweaters that read I’m Scottish, We Dinnae Dae This Keep Calm
Thing, followed by a graphic of a crown.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and try to give myself a pep talk. I’m in the middle of reminding myself that new
experiences are almost always valuable in life and for writing inspiration when a new message pops up on my phone from Caro.
I added you to our Whatsapp gc. Come join!
It’s a sweet gesture. Truth be told, I’m a little scared to dip into the group chat, especially knowing I’m the main cargo on the gossip train right now.
I ignore the message for now and start getting ready for work.
I’m looking forward to seeing Caro again—even if I am having a meltdown about what I’m doing here and my future.
On my short trek from the servants’ cottages, I catch up to an older lady who’s walking with purpose.
“The American,” she says when she sees me.
“Hannah,” I correct her as politely as I can.
“I’m Ethel. I’m the cook here at Inveresk. Don’t you mind the havering about you and the prince. He’s a right devil, always
looking to get his hand caught in the cookie jar. But Beverly tells me you’re a nice girl and Caro won’t shut up about you.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback. I guess not everyone is laughing at me. “Thank you.”
“I told the staff to put some food in the kitchen of your cottage. I trust you’re eating it.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say again.
“If you want a good stick-to-your-ribs dinner tonight, you come see me.” She pats me on the arm and turns off for the castle
while I head toward the gift shop. I’m about to thank her a third time, but she’s already gone.
When I get to the shop, Caro is outside talking to two people standing near a golf cart. They both have work gloves in their
hands.
“There she is,” Caro says, waving to me. “Come meet the most brilliant people who work here.” She indicates a woman who’s probably in her late thirties, early forties, and has thick brown hair. “This is Leah. She’s a riot. She’s the supervisor for the grounds crew.”
“I’m in charge of this lot,” Leah says, indicating the man with blond hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes standing beside
her.
“That’s Duffie,” Caro says. “He’s funny too, just not as funny as Leah.”
“It’s not a competition,” Duffie says. There’s a strange vibe between him and Caro I can’t quite put my finger on.
“It is when we’re trying to get into Fringe,” Caro tells him.
“Pipe dream,” Leah says, shaking her head.
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I’m happy to meet new people who don’t want to discuss the fact that I was
duped by Prince Finneas.
“You should come to our next show,” Caro says excitedly, taking me by the arms. “American comedy is so different, you might
have some ideas on how we can improve.”
“I’d love to.” I have no idea what I’m promising, not that it matters. Caro’s been so sweet and welcoming, I owe her several
favors.
Leah and Duffie wave goodbye and get on their golf cart while I follow Caro inside, where there are several boxes sitting
by the door. She tasks me with unpacking the new merchandise, including calendars of the royal family in their various estates.
I scowl at every smiling photo of Finn before displaying them nicely on the shelf.
“What show did you invite me to?” I ask Caro, once she’s finished setting up the register. “You, Leah, and Duffie do comedy?”
“Sketch comedy,” Caro tells me. “You know, like Saturday Night Live.”
“I actually went to a Groundlings show last year in LA.” I think back to the senior class trip that also included a day in
Disneyland and California Adventure, kayaking in Huntington Beach, and plenty of shenanigans in the hotel. It was also the
place where I first said “I love you” to . . . I shake the memory from my mind. That doesn’t matter.
“The Groundlings?” Caro says, clapping her hands. “That’s brilliant.”
Thinking about the trip makes me homesick, but not for home. More for a feeling of belonging. It’s been months since I’ve
experienced it.
“What’s wrong?” Caro kneels down beside me, where I’m unpacking a box of tea towels featuring an artist’s rendering of Inveresk
Castle.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Just some bad memories of a boy who broke my heart.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, only instead of waiting for me to answer, she goes on her own tirade. “That gadge, Duffie? He
and I were in a situationship for the better part of last year. I finally told him, ‘Duff, my head’s mince. Are we something
or are we nothing?’ ”
“What did he say?” I fold a tea towel and add it to a pile. I knew there was something going on between the two of them.
“The lad started crying. He’s thirty years old and instead of making a decision, he turned on the waterworks.”
“What?” I cover my mouth with my hand. “What are you supposed to do with that?”
Caro shrugs. “Exactly. Outside of our comedy troupe, we stopped talking. Eventually it stopped being awkward and we went back
to being pals.”
“That’s impressive you two can still work together, never mind be friends. I can’t imagine ever being friends with my ex,”
I tell her.
“It’s not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure.” She points to some bookmarks that have the queen’s face on them. “Can
you fix them tassels? They’re all fankled.”
As I detangle the tassels, I silently wish I could fix my fankled life, while I’m at it.
Caro tells me she’s got sketch rehearsal tonight but wants to take me into town another time after work. I readily agree.
I’m not looking forward to another evening alone with my thoughts. Those guys can be real bampots, as they say here. I’m locking
up the shop when Finn approaches.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“You just love to sneak up on me, don’t you?” I put the keys to the shop in my purse.
“Sneak up?” He chuckles. “I walked towards you in your eyeline. I’d be the worst burglar.”
“The worst,” I agree. I’m so torn between my anger at him and not wanting to be alone right now. I stand, rooted to the spot,
and wait for him to say something to make me run away or follow him.
“Plans?” he asks.
“Ethel promised me food if I come by the kitchen.” I look out into the bright blue sky, the trees sheltering me from real
life. I may be feigning nonchalance, but I’ve never felt so lost. “So. I’ve got that going for me.”
“Brilliant. Let’s go get some of Ethel’s cooking and then I can finish giving you the tour.”
“If the tour includes your bedroom, you can skip it,” I tell him, still not trusting him one bit.
He brings a hand to his chest as though he’s been scandalized. “Hannah. Here we speak to the royal family with a little more
decorum.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Sorry, Your Highness.”
“Forgiven. Now, let’s go sneak up on Ethel and give her a scare.”
“Don’t you dare. She looks like she’s eighty.”
“You underestimate her. She’s at least a hundred and three.”
We walk in silence toward the castle. He opens an ancient turquoise door that leads straight to the kitchen.
The tiled floor is in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.
Copper pots and pans line and hang down from a tall shelf that runs the perimeter of the room.
There are stainless steel workstations as well as an island with a marble top with barstools around it.
In the middle of it all is Ethel, her hair in a bonnet, apron on, methodically stirring a pot of stew.
“I knew I could tempt you,” Ethel says to me. She gives Finn a frown. “I don’t remember inviting you, stickler.”
“You wound me, Ethel,” Finn says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Do you really want to leave me to cook for myself? I’ll
get scurvy.”
Ethel ladles up two bowls of aromatic stew and serves us warm rolls, fresh from the oven, to go with it.
“We can eat in the dining room, if you’d like,” Finn says to me.
Something about his tone leads me to believe that’s not his first choice. I glance at Ethel, who gives a slight shake of her
head.
“Can we eat here?” I point to the stools at the island.
Ethel smiles approvingly at my suggestion, though I’m not sure whether it’s because this is what Finn prefers, or she wants
to keep an eye on us.
While we eat, Finn asks me about my life back in Milwaukee.
“Tell me everything,” he says. “Do you have any siblings? Have you ever worn one of those cheese hats to an American football
game—”
“Were you googling Wisconsin too?” I interrupt, but he ignores me.
“Are your parents the types of Americans who say things like ‘that’s rad’ or ‘working hard or hardly working’?”
“Let me stop you right there.” I put down my soup spoon. “I’m an only child; I have never worn a Cheesehead; I’ve never in
my life heard anyone, American or otherwise, say, ‘that’s rad’; and my parents are too busy complaining about each other to
toss out folksy idioms like ‘working hard or hardly working.’ ”
“Fine, then, what sorts of holidays does your non-folksy family of three take?” He’s unknowingly hit upon my favorite thing
about my dysfunctional family, which is our trips to Pike County. “Ah, we’ve found something you like,” Finn says approvingly.
“It’s written all over your face.”
I really am torn between my annoyance at his very existence and this weird type of homesickness I haven’t been able to shake.
With Ethel here to swat Finn with a wooden spoon should he act up (something tells me she wouldn’t hesitate, prince or not),
I give in and speak. “My family drives to southern Illinois every summer. It’s the only time my parents’ arguing is at a minimum.”
My mind conjures images of driving in the car, listening to boy bands, all three of us singing along.
“And what’s in southern Illinois?” he asks.
“A log cabin that’s been turned into a bed-and-breakfast,” I say, finally pinpointing that homesick feeling.
The trip to Pike County is what I’m missing.
The familiarity, the coziness. “We roast marshmallows at night at the outdoor firepit, read books until it’s time for bed.
During the day we ride ATVs on these endless trails, we have picnics and go bird-watching.
. . . There’s a horse ranch, but I’ve always been too scared to go riding. ”
“You’re scared of horses?” Finn asks in surprise.
I take my last bite of stew and pretend not to hear him.
“Hannah . . .”
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “Yes, I’m scared of horses. For the same reason I’m scared of whales and elephants and—”
I stop when I realize Finn is trying not to laugh at me. Glaring at him, I fling my arms wide in a look at me gesture. “What? They’re too big!”
This only makes the laughter break through his pursed lips. I’m about to get angry with him when Ethel comes by and swats
him with a tea towel. I knew she was on my side.
“Mind your manners,” she says to the literal prince of England. Ethel might be my new hero.
In order to regain some dignity, I straighten up and change the subject. “What about you? Where did you vacation growing up?”
“I spent most of my summers here,” he tells me. “The school year was obviously spent in England. Winters were for skiing in
Switzerland, but summers? Those were for playing in the forest and—you’re going to hate this—riding.”
“Madness.”
“We have tiny Highland ponies.” He gestures out the window. “They’re the perfect size for you.”
“I could ride an actual horse,” I tell him just to shut him up, even though the thought makes my stomach drop into my knees.
“Oh?”
“Yep,” I lie. “No problem.”
“Well, let’s go see, shall we?”
“What? Now?”
He stands and reaches his hand out to help me up. “No time like the present. Time to let out your inner American cowgirl.”