Chapter 2 Graeme
Chapter 2 Graeme
“We’ve gotten ourselves into a belter of a disaster, Mum.” I pushed my hand through my hair as I entered Mother’s kitchen,
the chaos from Craighill still ringing in my ears like an annoying song I couldn’t shake. “I told you we shouldnae have let
the house to them.”
Mum didn’t even look up from the sink as she washed up from supper. “They were the only ones who would pay the price we asked.
You ken that.”
“But they’re numpties, the lot of them.” I released a long sigh and leaned against the doorframe, replaying the afternoon,
including a chase through the three-hundred-year-old MacKerrow family estate house in search of an escaped parrot. “They’re
mental, Mum. And they’ve turned our family estate into a madhouse.”
“Graeme.” Her gentle reprimand only fueled my arguments.
“The man playing the part of the gardener looks like he stepped out of a zombie apocalypse movie. Ana Lennox has her sights
set on finding a husband and isnae being subtle about it.” I cringed at the thought of her showing up wherever I worked in
the house. “And there’s a dodgy parrot with a propensity for pinching small objects. He even stole my hammer yesterday.” I
stared at my mother to emphasize the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “And that’s only some of the actors taking over
our ancestral home!”
Mum’s chuckle did little to dim my ire. “Graeme, first off, we’ve no got the money to turn the place around on our own. It took everything we had just to purchase it back so it’d be in the MacKerrow family again.” One of her dark brows edged northward. “And we’ll never restore it as a venue or inn unless we earn the means to do so from people just like the Lennoxes.”
I looked away from her knowing stare.
My parents and I—even my brother Calum—had already dissolved our collective savings to purchase the estate from German businessman
Carl Newman after his great-grandfather bought the settlement from Duncan MacKerrow in 1919. Just after the Great War, many
of the larger Scottish estates fought for survival. Increased taxes, business losses from the war, and tenants buying up their
own farms led to grand estate owners forfeiting precious family properties.
The desire to repossess family land continued through each generation. Now we had it, but our ownership hinged on the edge
of a knife if we couldn’t earn money to pay for the mortgage and improvements.
And the weight of that knowledge hit my shoulders with added force because I was the primary manager of the estate. As eldest
son, it fell to me, but I’d also been the driving force behind recapturing the property. And with Dad teaching history at
university on the mainland, Mum running her local bookshop and helping take care of Lachlan, and Calum working and traveling
as an editor by day and author by night, the task fell most naturally to me. And it made sense. I could run my wildlife sculptures
and woodcrafts business from my home, continue my carpentry work among the islanders, and navigate the needs of Craighill’s
tenants as well as initiate restoration.
Plus, it gave me a chance to keep a keen eye on things at the house. Though, after today, I wished my eyes weren’t so keen.
There were things I couldn’t unsee. Ana Lennox’s eye makeup was one. Her father’s parrot was another. And then there was the
ostrich mount. What on earth would lead Mrs. Lennox to think the stately home of Craighill needed an ostrich?
I pressed my fingers into my eyes as if that might help remove the images and then stretched out my spine, my head nearly meeting the top of the doorframe. My back twinged with a sudden pain, reminding me of my failed attempt at catching the American woman falling from the stairs.
My sister had been a tall woman, but the American even bested Greer by a few inches. My throat closed off at the memory of
the way her curves pressed against my chest as she’d landed on me before we both crashed to the floor.
All woman.
My head thrummed with a deeper pain at the thought. Now I was the one going full-on mental. Clearly, it had been much too
long since I’d held a woman in my arms. And since the last one chose to leave and take my heart with her, I hadn’t been in
search of another. Still wasn’t.
Especially some fiery-tempered American social media... whatever.
“Some barmy American broke the stair railing on the main stairs.”
Now why did I feel the need to state that aloud?
Mum’s other brow joined the first. “The same railing you’re having to repair because it was already falling apart?”
I looked away and walked to a nearby window.
Too many things needed attention at the house, but I loved the work. Restoring craftsmanship my forefathers designed and constructed
to showcase the love of their home fed my soul. There was a whole host of things I couldn’t fix. Life had driven that point
to the painful spot. But this , I could. Nevertheless, it was going to take money and a long time—I sighed—and I’d have to work around the Edwardian actors
to do it.
What inspired a rich man and his wife to offer a historical experience for tourists with a penchant for wearing old-fashioned
clothes and acting like rich people from the early 1900s, I had no idea, but from the extensive application the Lennoxes sent
my family to justify their desire to let the house, the venture sounded oddly lucrative.
My shoulders slumped at the idea.
They were turning the beautiful MacKerrow estate house into a bathersome theme park.
The familiar view from the window of the village of Glenkirk calmed me with its more than a dozen buildings in a long line
situated toward the rich blue hues of Loch na Keal. My gaze traveled over the lush green glen behind the village toward a
hill beyond, where I daily trekked from my cottage hidden along the craigs above. I caught a glimpse of one of Craighill’s
turret tops peeking above the hillside. I’d stood upon that parapet on the first evening we’d purchased the house, gazed out
over a view I’d known the whole of my life. But standing on the stones my forefathers helped carve to create the MacKerrow
ancestral home caused pride to settle deep in my chest.
Home.
And even if it meant navigating a houseful of play actors trying to relive the past, I’d swallow up the frustration in order
to keep it. I had to. We’d only had enough money to restore part of the house for the Lennoxes’ costume drama, and that left
half of the house with needs my family couldn’t afford.
“So the guests are beginning to arrive?”
“Aye.” I looked back at Mum. “Only one today. The charade doesn’t start in earnest until later in the week, praise be.”
“We want this to succeed, son.” Mum approached, a smile on her face and a tiffin in hand. “In the long run, it will prove
a good choice.”
“Aye.” I grumbled out the word again and turned toward her, taking a chocolaty biscuit from her fingers with a begrudging
nod. I’d nearly keeled over at the amount Dad received from the Lennoxes to lease the house for six months. Up-front money.
Enough to finish necessary repairs for Lennox to plan her venture, at least. Then they’d have to earn more through the rent
to continue the restoration process. A long-term plan to turn the house into a wedding venue and inn, featuring local woodcrafts,
artistry, and history.
But that was years in the making.
“I heard it’s been an exciting day up at the big house.”
Calum entered the kitchen in the same way he usually entered any room, as if waiting for applause. His dark hair, similar
to mine, waved down to almost touch his shoulders. A grin always accompanied his defense of the length, followed by the comment
“I’m an author,” as if it explained everything.
He sauntered past the counter and snatched up a biscuit from the plate before sitting down in a chair by the small table between
them. “Eileen from down at the pub said her sister told her of the great adventures of Merlin, an American, and a broken stair
railing.”
I stifled the grin edging for release at my brother’s succinct and comical unraveling of the day’s events. But Mum released
a full laugh, which knocked my smile completely loose.
She had a great laugh.
One not as frequently in use over the past two years.
“Eileen said the American was some famous travel writer who has even won a few awards for her documentaries.” Calum crossed
his legs and took another bite of the biscuit. “I’d wager travel writing and novel writing have a great many differences,
but it’s always nice to share ideas with other writers.”
Travel writer? And a famous one at that? No wonder she didn’t so much as thank me for creating a buffer between her and the
three-hundred-year-old oak floors.
I should have known she’d be trouble as soon as her dark red hair flew into my face. It smelled as fresh as yellow bedstraw
by the sea—a combination of warm honey and cool coastal brine. Wild and unwieldy.
The vision of her hinged in place despite my best efforts. I’d never met a woman so tall. And those eyes of hers—as deep and
dark as the loch. The fact she failed to back down to my, admittedly, poor manners only needled my annoyance at her return
to my mind even further.
I nearly growled all over again.
“I suspect there’ll be quite a few Americans since Mr. Lennox works in the hospitality business there and will use his connections.”
Mum returned to the sink. “For this first ‘run-through,’ as his wife called it, for the media outlets, she’ll likely draw
upon people who will speak highly of the experience.”
“Well, I must stay out of the way to keep my air of mystery.” Calum waved a biscuit toward me. “Part of my brand as an up-and-coming
fantasy author is that no one knows the real face behind C.J. Cunningham, and my publicist thinks it’s a boon for my growing
popularity.”
How could I let the opportunity pass me by?
“You mean the truth would frighten all the readers away, do ye?”
“No.” Calum’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m afraid for all the poor hens’ hearts I’ll break at having to turn them down.”
Mum’s chuckle warmed the air, and I rolled my eyes, fighting my own grin. “Ah, you’re haverin’ now, are ye? What woman would
want a pure dafty like you?”
That worked to remove Calum’s satisfied smile and resulted in him sending the other half of his biscuit toward me. I caught
it and tossed it in my mouth with a satisfied shrug.
“That’s enough, lads.” Mum shook her head and returned to her dishes. “We already know you’ll keep your distance from the
guests, Calum. And with Peter at uni, it will be up to me, Graeme, and your dad to smooth anything over.”
“Does that mean you’ll put on the historic breeches and neckerchiefs too, brother?” Calum snatched another biscuit from the
plate on the table, tossing me a wink. “I’d pay a few quid to see that.”
The heat left my face at the idea. I’d agreed to help with any problems that arose. Emergencies, if necessary. But that didn’t
include Mrs. Lennox’s little dress-up party.
The only time I justified some similar tomfoolery was at the Highland games.
Or wearing my kilt for special occasions.
Otherwise, the idea of donning early twentieth-century suits and hats sounded more like a form of torture designed by women
who watched too many costume dramas than a voluntary adventure.
“You’d lose money on that one, Cal.” I walked over to Mum and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow to fix the
back door. Have to make a new hinge for it tonight.”
She smiled up at me in the way I felt all the way through. The way only a mother who had pride in her children could do, even
if life hadn’t always gone the way she’d hoped.
My heart ached a little as grief pierced afresh, and I rubbed at the spot on my chest as I left the room.
Some things could never be fixed.
But the madhouse on the hill wasn’t one of them. At least if the Edwardians didn’t destroy it in the process.
***
Katie
Some dresses are flattering to more voluptuous figures. After trying on four different Edwardian styles, I came to the conclusion
that perhaps these weren’t those sorts of dresses.
Okay, not “perhaps.” Without a doubt. As my only high school boyfriend said, “ Some girls are more like a guitar, but you are definitely a cello .”
Yeah, I dated one of those guys. Needless to say, we didn’t date for long.
At any rate, the entire “cello” comment was coming back to haunt me as these dainty and elegant gowns found a hard time making it over the bottom of my cello. And since high school, I’d grown more into the top of my cello, so I had serious doubts about buttoning any shirtwaists too.
I rubbed at an aching spot on my temple and transformed my frustration into a chuckle. From the shapes of these gowns, rich
Edwardian women were flutes.
And this cello was definitely not playing the right song for Edwardian England.
Emily, the young maid who’d attempted to dress me, alerted Mrs. Lennox of the... unfitting. The matron arrived to find
my bed littered with discarded gown options and me wearing a pink day dress that hit too high on my calf and left an embarrassing
pucker at my chest. With another lift of those manicured brows of hers, she ran a palm over her now perfectly smooth hair.
“Well, you certainly cannot present yourself before guests with any bit of credulity in such a fashion. No high-bred lady
would be caught like”—she waved a palm toward me, her frown deepening—“that.”
It took me a full five seconds to comprehend her, but the intention rang as clear as her perfectly articulated diction. The
little curl of her lip probably helped too.
“Which means you won’t be able to participate in our activities until you have an appropriate wardrobe.” She nodded, running
her palm over her hair again. “It’s a very good thing you arrived early enough for us to solve this little dilemma.”
“You think you can?” I waved toward the bed and cringed a little at the mound of discarded gowns. “I could just watch from
the sidelines.”
“No, of course not.” The words whipped out of her. “You cannot fully appreciate the experience without actually participating. We have classes on everything from meal etiquette to dancing, to the language of the fan.” Her hand rose in imitation of a fan opening. “This is a fully immersive program that requires complete participation. How can you accurately critique our experience without comprehensive saturation?”
The fire in her eyes took a teensy tip toward crazy. “Sidelines are not an option.”
Super. And fully immersive classes? Why did the idea stick somewhere in my mind between “run away” and “most embarrassing
moment of my life”?
I kind of got the sense Mrs. Lennox was bordering on obsession when she gave me a ten-page booklet on the Edwardian Experience,
which covered house rules and Edwardian etiquette.
Including how to handle romantic relationships appropriately.
I caught my snicker before it burst out. I didn’t plan to meet my perfect match at some crazy baronial home dressed as a Downton Abbey character in the middle-of-nowhere Scotland. Oh no, no! I didn’t need to compete with crazy in a relationship.
“Of course.”
Her smile returned. “I believe one of my maids does some sewing, so perhaps she can alter these, especially since I hadn’t
fully considered needing clothing options for women with more”—her gaze rose from my toes to my erratic attempts at a coiffure—“stature.”
And that was a nice way of saying what didn’t need to be voiced.
It was true. My stature had been the bane of my existence since middle school, except when it came to me playing basketball,
the one sport I wasn’t afraid to try. (Note: I didn’t say I was good at it, just not afraid of it... or rather, afraid of what my clumsiness might do to other people.) But as I grew taller... and taller than
all the boys in my grade, plus the grade above me, the awareness of my size as a young teenager didn’t bode well in the self-confidence
arena. Being a tall woman is not for the faint of heart. In all my photos with friends, I’m the one standing beside the petite
faerie maids like a lurking Frankenstein without the squarish head and sickly complexion.
Tall and “well-built,” as my gran put it. Exactly the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old girl wanted to hear. Made me feel like a truck.
“Would you fetch Clarice at once so we can ask her about alterations?” Mrs. Lennox looked over at Emily and then back at me,
her posture wilting a little. “Or full gowns?”
“Yes, your ladyship,” the young woman curtsied and slipped from the room, keeping to her role of Edwardian maid.
With a deep breath, Mrs. Lennox folded her hands in front of her and approached me, giving off similar vibes to my mom before
my first date. That vulture-like feeling that made you feel that if she looked a little too closely, she’d see the extra layer
of eye shadow you tried to slather on without notice.
“Since we only have one additional guest arriving today and the others won’t be here until tomorrow, we have some time before
we initiate the full Edwardian Experience.” She spoke the last two words with that familiar flourish of both her voice and
hands. “Perhaps I could give you an extensive tour of Craighill, and then, since the day is proving a dry one, you might like
to explore Glenkirk. It’s a lovely village that we will involve in our experience by taking a few walks there, as any Edwardian
household would have done during that time.”
And the little tour would give me even more photos and stories for my articles, podcast, and blog. I’d learned to stretch
every opportunity.
Mrs. Lennox proceeded by giving me a much slower tour of the massive baronial house than I’d had the day before and then expounded
a half hour about the benefits that this historic experience offered. Evidently Mrs. Lennox had an almost terrifying fascination
with all things Downton, which compelled her to convince her doting millionaire husband to lease the manor house and embark
on this unique career adventure.
Though we hadn’t seen much of her husband, she mentioned that he would be joining her and their daughter (whom I’d met during the parrot debacle) for the full experience. Due to said debacle, I hadn’t properly met either one of them, but Mrs. Lennox took the opportunity to list her daughter’s attributes and lengthy bout of singleness.
For a second, I began to wonder if Mrs. Lennox created this entire Edwardian Experience to catch her daughter a husband.
Props to Mrs. Lennox for going big for her daughter, but... well, there was matchmaking and then there was this—creating
an entire fictional world for your child to find her early twentieth-century knight in knickers.
But in real life, meeting your match on a tiny island in an old manor house where everyone dressed up in costume? Probably
not very realistic.
And then I replayed my sentence and grinned. Which part was realistic anyway?
As Mrs. Lennox left me to attend to some catastrophe in the kitchen, I glanced out one of the magnificent arched windows toward
green hills and beauty. Sunlight beckoned me forward.
I always uncovered the best adventures when I went off on my own. And today I had time to explore, so why not go ahead and search for a story to share?