Chapter 5
L ight streams into the room as though the sun has shifted a thousand miles closer overnight. I don’t remember falling asleep but when I pry open my lids, I notice that all of the pots and plates that Sophie brought last night are gone and not so much as a crumb has been left behind. For a moment, I have to ask myself whether I dreamt the whole thing, but my bleary brain is soon stunned into motion when the piercing screech of what I can only describe as a fight between a Pegasus and a donkey forces itself through my cracked-open window.
Leaping out of bed at the commotion, I fly to the window, clutching the dressing gown around my chest as though it would in any way protect me from the sound. Sliding up the pane, it isn’t hard to find the source. The piper stands at the very foot of my window; his red Balmoral tartan kilt, with matching hose and bonnet, and a black military jacket are a stark contrast to the green morning. His pale cheeks are flushed with the exertion of his playing. His broad arms almost swallow the instrument.
‘You do know if you loosen your grip on a squealing animal, they usually cease their crying,’ I call out the window just as the mouthpiece falls from his lip and his clutch on the bag loosens enough for me to be heard above the droning song.
‘They are bagpipes, ma’am,’ the piper calls back. ‘I can assure you that I’m not harming anyone.’
‘Except my ears, of course. I dread to think the shock my body is under after such a rude awakening.’ I laugh down at him, attempting to show him that I only mean it in jest. He continues his grave, obedient stare. ‘Is there nowhere else that you can practise?’
‘I am not practising, ma’am. It has been specially requested by your father that I wake you each morning.’ His voice is gruff, and though I can hear him from a storey away, he still sounds as though he is mumbling.
‘Is this Scotland’s answer to an alarm clock? I thought we were past such stereotypes.’ He isn’t amused by the joke, only repositions his fingers on the chanter and sucks on the mouthpiece as he prepares for his next onslaught. ‘Look …’ I speak quickly before he can begin again ‘… look, I appreciate the sentiment, respect the culture. It’s a fascinating history. It’s just that I had a long journey yesterday and was hoping to spend much of today unconscious, and this really, really , isn’t helping.’ Hoping a sweet smile might persuade him to leave me in peace for the rest of the morning, I grin at him from above. The longer I sleep, the less time for my consciousness to battle against me. When my whole being isn’t vibrating with the sound of bagpipes, the silence of this place will be too much. I know it already.
‘I apologise, ma’am. These are my orders. Your father knew how fond the late queen was of being woken to the sound of her piper and made a special request. It is the Balmoral experience, and I must follow my commands.’ Before I can protest, he begins again, drowning out the morning call of the birds with another slightly too upbeat song that I can hardly distinguish from the other.
With a huff, I slam the window down, and crawl back under my duvet. Both movements prove futile as neither succeeds in muting the noise outside. After tossing and turning in my bed for at least another ten minutes, I throw off my covers with a grunt and submit to the piper and his persistent piping.
Heaving myself out of the dishevelled bedclothes for a second time already this morning, I have nothing else to do besides head to the bathroom to finally take the shower I have been procrastinating. The powerful spray slapping my skin and sloshing against the glass is exactly what I needed to dull the relentless crooning and I soon find the sound almost tolerable when accompanied by the hissing of hot water.
Once the smell of damp horse is well and truly scrubbed from my skin, I re-emerge to silence. With my towel looped around my dripping frame, I glance out of the window briefly to find my early morning caller departed and peace restored. That is until I realise that all of my clothes are still a four-hour horse ride away and even the underwear I managed to smuggle is heaped in a soggy puddle on the floor.
With nothing else to do, I pull out my phone, hoping a message or two will distract me for a time. Not a single name fills the screen, not Atticus, not Kitty, not even my father asking if I have arrived safely. The emptiness hits me again.
Atticus will have an excuse. He’s probably on his way as we speak, or making arrangements at the blacksmith’s shop in Gretna Green, unable to wait another few weeks. Plus, he’s hardly ever on his phone. Perhaps he has sent me a handwritten letter and the post here is just a little slow. Yes, it will be something like that, I tell myself.
Desperate for some distraction, anything at all, I settle on breakfast as the answer. Clad only in my fluffy towel, I walk along the corridor, my hair leaving a trail of perfumed drips behind me. High walls, thick with frames, seem to stretch on forever. The inhabitants of the portraits watch on as I become exactly the person my mother and the press think I am.
My bare feet pad down the carpet to a chorus of muffled gasps. The bustling household seems to slow to a stop, like a flock of birds shot down mid-flight.
‘Good morning.’ I address each wide-eyed member of staff with a blinding smile, as though my heart isn’t currently pounding hard enough to punch through my chest, or I’m not fighting with each breath. Many of them can’t scramble together a response, whilst others struggle to mask their shock in their unintelligible replies. Though there are some, surprisingly the older generation, that seem almost entirely unfazed. They simply bow their heads respectfully, or return my greeting with a slight curtsey.
It is Mrs Buchanan who is most undisturbed of all, standing like a sentry at the end of the corridor, arms folded, smirk twitching at one side of her thin lips. ‘Lady Alice, how good of you to join us. How nice to see you making yourself so at home already. I trust everything is to your liking?’
Another member of staff flicks a nervous look back and forth between us as it becomes clear that the housekeeper is attempting to get me to crack, to even just mention the fact I am one draughty hallway away from flashing my bare arse to the whole household.
‘Absolutely wonderful.’ I grin, not giving in to her. ‘Although …’ I begin, and Mrs Buchanan’s triumphant smirk begins to show more plainly. ‘If you could ask your piper to give me at least another half an hour in the mornings if he insists on giving me such a wake-up call, it would be much appreciated.’ Finally, she scowls, opens her mouth to speak and when nothing comes out, turns on her heel and marches back down the hallway with her sharp nose upturned.
With my confidence taking a nosedive once the adrenaline begins to wear off, I am grateful to see Sophie singing to herself as she walks seemingly aimlessly down the corridor towards me. Only when she ceases her subtle dancing does her mind return back to earth and she notices me. For just a single second she is a deer in the headlights, until she breaks out into the most chandelier-shaking laughter I have ever heard. It’s infectious. She is bent double, and soon I too am clutching my chest, with tears clouding my eyes.
‘Already running around in the scud? Amazing,’ Sophie says between breaths. ‘I did wonder why Mrs B was scampering about looking like she’d been licking piss off a thistle.’
I burst out in another fit of laughter and she flushes red. ‘I mean …’ she stammers, ‘looking like she’s been licking uri— no— pish—no … sorry, my lady.’ She curtseys, her pale cheeks burning so hot, even her neck begins to flame.
‘Oh hush,’ I reassure her, still giggling at the image. ‘That’s the best laugh I’ve had in a while.’
Sophie smiles shyly again. ‘I’ve never seen her so frazzled,’ she half-whispers and a glimmer of pride washes over me.
‘Sophie, could you possibly do me a favour?’ I finally compose myself enough to ask.
‘You’d like me to find you some clothes, wouldn’t you?’ Amusement glints across her whole face.
‘Yes please.’ Finally, it’s my turn to blush – my true colours finally on show.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’ She’s serious this time, and there’s such a soft kindness in her thick brows that I know I can trust her, ‘Oh, and Lady Alice?’ I nod. ‘I’ll find someone to bring your breakfast to your room whilst you wait.’
After just about sprinting back to my room, I am glad when Sophie finally returns under a heap of fabric.
‘Now,’ she begins, tossing the pile onto my bed, ‘I can’t promise couture or whatever, but I have found a few bits and bobs lying about.’ She picks out a few pairs of jodhpurs, too many tartan garments, and a jumper or two. ‘I couldn’t find you any,’ she leans in to whisper, ‘knickers. I’m afraid we don’t usually have too many spares lying around and I’m not sure the queen would like to share from her selection that she keeps here. But I was going to go swimming in the loch tonight with a few of the girls from the village, so I’ve got my cozzie you can borrow whilst I send yours down to be washed, if you like?’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I look at her wide-eyed, and she nods, handing me the bright floral swimming costume. ‘But then you won’t be able to go swimming with your friends.’
‘Haven’t you ever swum in just your scants?’ she replies casually.
‘Scants?’ I enquire, bemused.
‘Scants? Keks? Pants? Undies?’ She gives me a teasing look that proves she already knows the answer.
‘I can’t say there are many places that I could do that in London without having an audience.’ I chuckle as I imagine jumping into the pond in St James’s Park and becoming the most taboo photo in a hundred people’s holiday album.
‘We definitely don’t have that sort of trouble around here. Aye, if you ever fancy letting them hang free and getting a good cold splash of nature about you, Loch Muick after five …’ She taps the side of her nose as though she has just revealed the identity of Jack the Ripper. Hearing her talk so bluntly, so coarsely, is a breath of fresh air through my stiflingly stuffy life. I’m not sure that anyone has ever said exactly what comes to their mind to me before, at least not before perfectly polishing it first in an effort to make it more palatable. It seems that honesty, no matter how brash, is far nicer.
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ Chuckling, I pick out a knee-length tartan skirt and the jumper that looks the least itchy and decide to make of it what I can. Changing quickly in the en-suite, I have to shimmy into Sophie’s bikini bottoms and though they chafe at my legs, anything would be better than going commando in a castle for a second time today.
My outfit is about as flattering as could be expected. Sophie stands beside my bed, refolding the copious amount of fabrics that she had unloaded onto it. ‘I can leave a few bits here if you like? I’m not sure Mrs B is in a rush to fetch your things from the village.’
‘Thank you, Sophie,’ I say sincerely. ‘I’ll get your cozzie back to you as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t bother yourself with that. Take it as my gift from me to your ladyship.’ She’s teasing but I know she isn’t mocking me. ‘Who knows, you might have some more use for it in the next few weeks.’
I don’t bother to tell her she’d never catch me dead in a freshwater lake; the sentiment itself is sweet and I don’t wish to expose my snobbery even further.
‘Anyway, I must be getting on. Your knickers don’t wash themselves.’ She laughs but a pang of guilt slides through me.