12. Edie #2
I look around the study and try and figure out how to make some sort of order from the chaos. A boy in a navy polo shirt and a pair of jeans arrives with some plastic crates.
“These are from Janey,” he says, peering at me around the side of the stacked crates in his arms. “Where do you want them?”
“Oh.” That might make this a little easier. “Pop them on the table there, thank you.”
“No probs.” He flips his long fringe back from his forehead and deposits them on the table, turning to me with a curious expression. “Rather you than me.”
“It’s a challenge,” I concede, smiling back at him. “So do you work here too?”
“Aye,” he says, taking out a packet of gum from his pocket. He offers it to me politely. “I’m Martin.”
“No thanks.”
“I’m taking my life in my hands. ‘I’ll shoot anyone I see chewing gum within five miles of my person’,” he says, doing an impression in a booming voice.
I look at him, perplexed.
“The old duke,” he says laughing. “I wouldn’t have put it past him to do it, either.”
We both look up at the portrait that’s hanging on the study wall. A kilted Dickie Kinnaird in full Highland garb glowers down at us from beneath a pair of impressively thick brows, his eyes the same unusual green as his son. I try to imagine Rory as a child being raised by that man.
He must have had an ego the size of Scotland. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sit working every day with a painting of myself in my eyeline, but he must’ve chosen to put it there, so maybe that says more about him than he’d have liked.
I can’t resist asking. “What about the new one? Do you think he’s likely to get the shotgun out?”
“Rory? Nah.” He grins. “His bark’s worse than his bite, I reckon.”
“I’m not so sure.” His bark had seemed pretty bloody scary earlier, and not in a good way. Whichever part of his personality that made up the dryly amused, laid-back New York Rory had been well and truly compartmentalised. Or more likely locked in a mental basement somewhere.
“You here for long?” He picks up a red-covered journal and turns it over, flipping the pages without interest.
“Until I get this lot collated and written up.” I wave an arm airily around the general area, trying not to think about the fact that the task right now seems Herculean at best.
“So, about three years then by the state of this place?”
“Something like that.”
He leaves and I get to work. Red journals in one box, papers from the desk in another.
It feels weirdly intrusive to open the desk drawers and remove the notes and letters I find in there too, but I tell myself firmly that’s what I’m here for.
This is history in the making. It’s amazing, really, to be part of it, even if the dust is making me sneeze.
A couple of hours later, Janey comes to see how I’m doing, bringing cookies and cold Diet Coke.
“You’re doing really well. ”
I scrunch my nose in a dubious expression. Right now, it looks like that point where you commit to cleaning up and the place looks worse than it did before you started.
“I don’t envy you. I think hiring an expert to do this was the best choice they made. There’s way too much emotion tied up in the whole thing.”
My imposter syndrome baulks at the idea of being considered an expert at anything and I feel a little prickle of discomfort at the nape of my neck.
“I’m treating it like a research library and trying to forget about—” I motion towards the portrait “It’s kind of hard to do with him looking down on me. I feel like I’m being judged.”
“Why don’t you bring all the stuff through to the library? At least that way you could get on without his beady eye on you.”
“Do you think he’d approve?” I look up at the portrait and Janey follows my gaze.
“I think he’d love to think he was centre of attention,” she says wryly. “Let’s leave it at that.”
Janey picks up a stack of journals for me and we carry them through to the library.
“He was a character. Stubborn as a mule. He could be charming, but that’s—” She pauses for a moment and frowns. “That’s not always a good sign in a man, in my experience.”
I shoot her a questioning look.
“Let’s just say I’ve had my fill of ostensibly charming men.” Janey raises her brows. “I was married to one for fifteen years.”
I don’t want to push, so I just give what I hope is an understanding nod.
“So yeah, charming. But he could turn on you in a flash. He was always lovely to me, but he went through staff at a rate of knots and spent money like water. There’s a reason this place looks like a high-end hotel.
” She runs her hand along the polished wood of the mantelpiece.
“Most Highland estates are all faded grandeur and dark patches on the wallpaper where they’ve sold off a portrait to pay for the roof repairs.
Unless you’re talking about Brice Aaronson, the American tech billionaire who bought the neighbouring castle.
Now his place makes Loch Morven look like a Holiday Inn. ”
There’s a long walnut desk in a bay window which looks out over the courtyard. “This would be a good place to work. You can watch the world go by while you make sense of all this.” She gestures towards the journals.
“I’m beginning to get the feeling it’s a bit more complicated than I thought.”
“A challenge.” Janey grins. “Maybe you’ll get some inspiration for your own writing.”
I think of Rory’s grim-faced warning and shake my head. “I think I’ll keep the two separate.”
“So, you’re working on a novel?” We trek back to the study to collect another load of books and papers.
I nod.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a romance. My agent says I need to rewrite it and add some dragons and then maybe it’ll sell.”
“Do you want to add dragons?”
I shake my head. “It’s a historical series about three sisters or it would be, if I could find the courage to actually start writing again.”
“I love a good romance…” Janey holds the door open with a toe as I carry a box of papers through the passageway. “If you ever want to share it, I’d love to have a look. ”
My stomach squirms with nerves. Sending it out into the world and getting nowhere was a pretty big blow to my already-sensitive ego. “It’s not perfect,” I say, hesitating.
“I suspect you’re doing yourself a disservice. Email it to me and I’ll put it on my Kindle.”
My face must speak volumes because Janey puts a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Only if you want to,” she adds, giving me a squeeze. “But I mean it, I’d love to read.”
I dump the box down on the desk. Janey is so sweet, even though I’m pretty certain she’s only saying this to make me feel better. “Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll send it once we’ve got all this stuff through here.”
It’s such a tiny thing. But the idea that someone might want to read my work, without strings or expectations, it means more than I can say.
“I’ll look forward to it.”