24. Edie
EDIE
For a second, I assume he’s something to do with the estate’s forestry business. But then Janey appears, and the man’s thunderous expression softens into a grin that lights up his otherwise scowling face.
Five minutes later, I hear footsteps in the hallway, voices too. I hesitate, and then – for reasons I can’t explain – I slip through the door into the late Duke’s study. Something in my gut says the last place I want to be right now is sitting in the library.
Besides, there’s still one journal missing.
I head for the bookshelves, scanning for that elusive red spine, hoping it might finally show itself .
The library door slams shut. I freeze, not intending to eavesdrop, but with nowhere else to go.
“You look like shit,” says a deep voice a moment later.
“Good to see you too.” Rory, clipped as ever.
“I had questions,” says the voice. “Thought I’d ask them in person.”
There’s a pause and I contemplate climbing out of the window and sneaking away.
I’d have to slide out sideways through the ancient sash window and knowing my luck I’d get caught wedged halfway like Winnie the Pooh.
The thought of it makes me snort with inappropriate laughter and I put my hand over my mouth to stop any sound coming out.
What’s pretty clear from all of this is that I would make a spectacularly terrible spy.
“Go on,” says Rory. “What sort of questions?”
“Georgia, my PR girl. She’s had an American journalist sniffing around asking questions. She’s put him off?—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Rory explodes.
“You know as well as I do that this place is a fucking unexploded bomb. I rebuilt the distillery business from the ground up. It was on its knees.”
There’s another pause before Rory speaks. I shift from one foot to the other and the floorboard underneath me squeaks. Shit, this is not helpful.
“I am aware,” Rory says.
“If this place starts coming apart at the seams in the headlines, guess what they’re going to drag in with it?”
“You don’t think I know it’s a fucking mess?”
“What the hell is going on? Do I need to think about damage control?”
“It’s under control.”
“Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing. I voted with my feet, remember? The last thing I want is all this coming back to bite me on the arse. I’ve seen the accounts; I know how much of a mess the foundation was in before he popped his clogs.”
“And I’m getting it under control. All of it.”
“I fucking hope so. This is your circus, Rory, not mine.”
“Believe me, I know. If I had the choice, I’d be living the quiet life on an island.”
“Aye,” says the voice gruffly. “Well, you shouldn’t have been born first.”
There’s a rumble of laughter, which surprises me.
Silence hums between the shelves as I stand motionless, barely daring to breathe. Footsteps draw closer, and I realize – too late – that I’m trapped. I cast a final, futile glance at the window just as the door creaks open.
He fills the doorway, the light from the hall swallowed by his broad frame.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, eyes shadowed beneath dark, intimidating brows.
In one hand, he holds a glass of whisky, the amber liquid catching a flare of sunlight and burning like fire.
His shoulders are wide enough to block the entire doorframe, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
“And you are?”
“Um,” I say, taking a step back and banging into the armchair. I grab it to steady myself. “Sorry, this is—I mean, I am—it’s?—”
He stands there, completely still and unmoved. I wonder if I could make a run for it, duck under the arm that’s propped up in the doorway and head for the hills.
Rory appears behind him, a pained expression on his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s praying for patience or some sort of celestial intervention .
“Edie, this is my brother, Finn. Finn, this is Edie, the…”
“Writer.” I step forward and hold out my hand with what I hope is a confident smile. “And archivist. A bit of both. Or historian. Yes. That as well.”
Finn’s brow raises almost imperceptibly.
“Well, that’s cleared that up.”
“Normally I don’t lurk behind furniture listening at doors,” I add. It’s not helpful at all. Rory fixes me with a glare which clearly says shut the fuck up.
“Not that I was listening,” I add.
“There you are,” says Janey, appearing behind Rory. She puts a hand on his arm, and he turns around. I have never been so glad to see someone in my life.
“Finn, are you staying for dinner?” She glances at the whisky in his hand. “I take it that’s a yes.”
“Just for the night.” He gives a brief nod.
Four hours later – having successfully escaped the library – I’m standing in front of the large, slightly foxed old mirror in my bedroom, trying to decide what on earth to do with my hair.
If I frame it as dinner with Rory and his two brothers, it sounds manageable. Less daunting. The truth is I’m getting dressed for an evening with a duke and two lords. If my grandma were still alive, she’d be doubled over laughing.
This world is so far removed from the one I grew up in, there’s hardly a point of comparison. I lift my hair, twisting it up and glancing sideways to see how it looks.
I didn’t pack for aristocratic dinner parties – I packed for research. For dusty diaries, muddy walks in the woods, and the thoroughly unglamorous task of ghost-writing in the depths of the Scottish Highlands. I didn’t think any of this through .
I adjust the neckline of the green wrap dress I shoved into my suitcase at the last minute before leaving London. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.
Thank goodness for Janey, who knocked earlier to let me know supper would be in the dining room with the family. I took that as gentle code for try to look slightly less feral than usual .
Charlotte, of course, is over the moon with this turn of events.
She called earlier when I was just about to step into the shower.
“Just checking up to see how it’s going,” she’d said.
For a moment my heart had leapt when I saw her name flash up on the phone and I allowed myself a micro-second of imagining she was calling to say that one of the publishers wanted to offer me a six-figure book deal and movie rights, but no.
“No news, sadly. But at least you’re having a wonderful time up there.
I spoke to Annabel, and she said she’s excited to see you at the ball. ”
I put in some gold hoop earrings and pin my hair up in a low twist at the nape of my neck, adding an extra layer of dark rose lipstick for luck.
That’ll have to do. I’m aiming for mildly competent historian in an attempt to cancel out my deranged babbling from earlier on.
So here I am in the dress, with ankle boots that give a satisfyingly authoritative click as I make my way along the corridor towards the dining room.
Supper with the family. In a dining room the size of a football pitch.
The scent of roasted meat drifts along the hallway and my stomach growls as I approach the door, pausing for a second.
My heart is banging against my ribs. I don’t know why this feels so much more intimidating than eating in the kitchen with Rory or Jamie, or both of them, or neither.
I hear Rory’s low rumble and a moment later Jamie’s laughter in response. And then there’s a deep muttering from Finn. I take a deep breath and try and gather all my courage as I put my hand on the doorhandle and step inside.
As one, the three brothers stand up and turn to look at me.
Well, this isn’t awkward at all. Rory’s at the head of the table, as is fitting in a way I suspect he probably hates.
Finn’s on the opposite side of the room, so broad that he dwarfs the solid oak chairs.
Jamie’s by my side, his hand on the back of his chair, grinning at me with his Golden Retriever energy.
“Ah, the writer.” Finn looks at me steadily.
“There you are.” Jamie pretends to mop his brow. “Thank God, at last, some half-decent conversation.”
Rory indicates the space at the table waiting for me and I sit down, at which point the three men all follow suit. A moment later Gregor’s red-headed helper Martin appears, not dressed for gardening this time but neat in shirt and dark trousers.
“Would you like something to drink before dinner? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
I glance up at Rory and – for a split second, so brief I wonder if I imagined it – his eyes meet mine before he looks away.
I scan the table and notice each of the men has a crystal tumbler in front of them, each holding a generous measure of whisky.
“Perhaps Edie would like to try a dram?” Finn regards me from across the table. I know a challenge when I see one.
“I’d love to.”
He gives a brief nod of approval. “Never mind the champagne, she’ll have a proper drink.”
Martin returns with the bottle and refreshes their glasses at the same time as he fills mine. Finn watches me like a scientist observing a test subject as I take a sip .
“It’s not for tourists,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Or for people who commit sacrilege.”
“You mean ice?” I take a sip. It’s smoky and complex, with a faint taste of honey in the background. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the flavours fill my senses.
I feel Finn’s eyes boring into me. I open mine to see that he’s staring at me intently.
“It’s lovely,” I say, as the afterburn warms my throat.
Finn huffs out a noise of derision, somewhere between a snort and a laugh.
“Charming as ever,” Jamie says, lifting his glass in the direction of his brother. “You could try not to terrify our guest.”
“I’m merely observing that lovely isn’t what I’ve been working towards.”
“It’s hard to describe,” I say. “I always think that proper whisky is more of a feeling than a taste.”
Rory and Jamie exchange glances. Finn’s expression shifts down a notch from thunderous to moderately unfriendly.