Chapter 11
I always assumed the muses would sneak up on me. Tap me on the shoulder or whisper in my ear. I wasn’t expecting them to knock
me upside the head while I’m frantically googling Beatrice’s name on my day off.
It’s early in the morning, but I barely slept last night. My evening in Musselburgh with Finn left me jittery and with more
unanswered questions than I went in with. Namely: What is Beatrice’s deal and is she funnier and prettier than I am?
I’ve been doing research to answer these pressing questions for hours. Seeing how tall and lithe she is, how elegantly she
moves through the world, is pure torture. And yet I can’t stop. Can’t stop until the muses finally shake me from my newfound
addiction. I’m equal parts annoyed and excited as I abandon my Beatrice-centric searches to write an idea in the notebook
I keep by my bed: Chocolat meets Jane Eyre—a woman learns to heal a Scottish town, and her own family trauma, through food.
I stare at the elevator pitch and then look back to my phone, which is stuck on a news video of Beatrice posing for pictures
wearing a dress that probably costs more than my college tuition. In it, she’s holding Finn’s arm in a way that makes me want
to punch her in the jugular.
Okay.
Okay.
It’s my day off. During this leisure time, I can continue to internet-stalk a woman I should absolutely not care about, or
I can turn my attention to the book idea that just came to me.
The second option is the better one, even though it’s intimidating as hell. I’ve written short stories and poems, but this
will be my first attempt at a full novel. Knowing I’ll need to aim for eighty thousand words because of the genre has me chewing
on my bottom lip. I don’t know if I’ve written that many words in my entire high school career.
But this is what I want. This is what my summer is for. To gain traction for my writing career.
Yes. This distraction is good. This distraction is still making me feel bad about myself, but at least the book is something
I can do something about. At least it’s progress instead of the mere self-flagellation of staring at images of Beatrice.
I set my phone aside and open to a fresh page in my notebook. I begin outlining plot points, making character sketches. The more I write down, the more new ideas come to me. My only hang-up so far is that food is at the heart of this story and, as much as I love to eat, I can’t really cook.
The ding of a new notification from WhatsApp (the group is currently gossiping about which pop star is rumored to be vacationing
nearby) reminds me that I know someone who knows food. A renewed sense of excitement and purpose rushes through me. I make
my bed and brush my teeth. I throw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a cardigan, since it’s still early and there’s likely
a bite in the air. Then I lock up my cottage and start walking toward the castle.
The fact that I can casually walk into a castle on my day off work is hilarious. Gigi can have Dean and his clumsy make-out
skills, for all I care. I’ve got a castle and a bunch of new friends. Including a royal one, a voice reminds me. But the term “friend” doesn’t feel quite right for what Finn and I are to each other. Not after our
evening in Musselburgh.
The fierce protectiveness that came out when I told him about Gigi and Dean, the vulnerability he showed when talking about
Beatrice, the way he and I can push each other’s buttons as easily as we can make each other laugh . . .
Nope. Absolutely not. I came to Scotland for the good of my career, not to fall for a prince who’s probably not even allowed to date an American anyway.
After last night, I’m less inclined to believe Finn would sleep with me and toss me out of the castle on my ass.
Nonetheless, I will not be a Margaret MacIntyre and push aside my goals to chase a guy.
And I will 100 percent stop googling his ex-girlfriend.
The dew on the grass as I walk to the castle chills my sandal-clad feet, but the sun is out and so are the muses. I continue
to daydream about characters and settings until I get to the door I now know leads directly to the kitchen. I knock and then
let myself in.
“Ah, Hannah,” Ethel greets me. She has a wooden spoon in her hand. I’m worried I might be interrupting something, but the
kitchen is spotless, and nothing seems to be on the go. She asks, “Can I make you a full Scottish breakfast?”
“Um . . .” I appreciate the offer. However, there is a good chance I’ll end up with black pudding on my plate and I am not
prepared to try that yet. Maybe ever.
“Or maybe some drop scones?” she suggests.
I don’t know what those are, but they sound safe. “That sounds wonderful, thanks. I’m hoping I can pick your brain about cooking
for a book I’m writing.”
“Ah, you’re a writer, are you?” Ethel begins making batter. “That’s just lovely, dear. Ask away.”
When she says she doesn’t mind if I record the conversation, I pull out my phone and set it on the counter between us. Ethel
cooks while I pepper her with questions about her life and her relationship with her job.
“I was raised in a house with six kids,” she says, measuring out ingredients she then whisks together with a lot of might despite her advanced age.
Something tells me she’s freakishly strong and could probably beat me at arm wrestling.
“Eldest girl, I was, so I was an extra mum to all the littles. I learned that the best way to get them to behave was to bribe them with sweets. We didn’t have the money to buy such extravagances, so I learned to make them all myself.
Course, then mum didn’t want to do any cooking when she discovered what I could do.
Cooking for royals is much easier, much less pressure than cooking for five hungry siblings, that’s for sure. ”
She ladles the batter onto a griddle, and I stop the recording for now. As it turns out, drop scones are essentially pancakes.
She sets us both up at the island with the barstools where Finn and I had stew the other day. Between the place settings,
she adds various jams as well as a jar of Nutella.
As we eat, we discuss different foods and how meals can impact moods and show affection.
“I don’t make these drop scones for anyone,” Ethel tells me. “But I’ve taken a shine to you. And I don’t seem to be the only
one.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, assuming she’s referring to Caro or maybe Beverly.
“Don’t be coy, you know who I’m referring to.
” She puts more jam on her drop scones and points at me with her fork.
“You should know how nice it is to see Finn smiling again. That lad, walking around here, just crabbit at the world. Or out carousing and making a mess of things for their highnesses. You’ve had a nice effect on him. ”
I look down at my plate, afraid Ethel will be able to read everything on my face I don’t want to acknowledge myself. And then,
because I simply can’t help myself or my self-flagellation, I ask, “What’s Beatrice like?”
I can’t stop thinking about whether she made him laugh and why the hell she ended things with him. I’m hoping if Ethel can
tell me the truth, I can stop obsessing.
“Oh, she’s a fine young lady. Comes from a good family, has nice manners,” Ethel tells me, her voice even. Then she quietly
adds, “Doesn’t seem to have a sense a humor, though. And sure broke the poor lad’s heart.”
I take an extra-large bite of Nutella and drop scone so Ethel can’t see how pleased I am to hear that. Beatrice isn’t funny. She may be perfect in every other way, but she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t make him laugh.
Just then, Caro bursts through the door. “Hannah! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Don’t you be coming in my kitchen with that kind of chaos, Caro,” Ethel warns her. “You know the rules. You knock and then
come in.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but this is an emergency,” Caro says, still frantic.
“Our sketch troupe might have a place to perform for Edinburgh Fringe! Before they give us the spot, they want us to do a show there to see if we’ll draw a crowd or be funny or all of the above and so in order to do that, they want us to perform there tomorrow and I need you to come and I need everyone to come and laugh a lot and be really lovely so we can make our dreams come true. ”
Between Caro’s accent and the speed at which she just delivered the speech, it takes me a minute to process what she just
said. As soon as I do, I run up and hug her. “Of course I’ll come. I’m so excited for you.”
“I’ll come too,” Ethel says behind us, “not that you invited me.”
“Please come, Ethel. You know I want you and Beverly to be there,” Caro says, her hands in a prayer. Then she hugs me again,
squeals, says, “Okay, thank you, I have to go and rehearse with Leah and Duffie,” and runs off.
I’m so happy for Caro, I’m light on my feet as I help Ethel clear our plates. A new message lights up my phone, which is still
on the counter. It’s from Finn.
Rosie told me she misses you. How about another riding lesson tonight after supper?
Ethel doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s looking over my shoulder at the screen, reading every word.
“Riding lesson, my erse,” she mumbles.
Still keen on keeping my name out of the gossip circles, I try to explain the text. “I’m scared of horses and Finn’s helping
me conquer my fear.” Ethel’s responding look of disbelief makes me blush. I whisper, “We’re just friends anyway.”
“Friendship, my erse,” Ethel says.
I ignore her and text Finn.
I don’t have Rosie’s number. Can you tell her I’d love to?
I shiver despite the heat of the kitchen. We’re just friends, I tell myself. Even if I was accidentally developing feelings for him, nothing about the two of us makes sense, starting with the fact that I am Beatrice’s
opposite in every superficial and meaningful way. Finn should be with a Beatrice, not an American who openly mocks the monarchy. As though reading my thoughts,
Ethel stops me before I go.
“I’m glad you came in,” she says. “You seem to fit in here at the castle. We’re happy to have you.”
It’s a simple statement, one that shouldn’t form a lump in my throat and give rise to hope. And yet, it does. For the first
time in a long time, I feel as though I belong.