Chapter 6
W ithout Sophie and her interesting conversation, the silence of Balmoral resumes. It itches, the silence. It starts out as a tickle, like a loose hair kissing at your neck with irritating persistence. Then it begins to crawl all over you, in an inescapable attack, pinning you down and subjecting you to your own personal hell.
When the only sound more torturous than the sound of my own thoughts reaches me for the second time today, I am almost grateful. The distant hum of bagpipes seems to float through the castle like tinnitus, stubbornly burrowing its way into my thoughts until the inability to focus on anything else begins to drive me insane.
With nothing else to occupy me, I decide to follow it. Retracing my steps down from this morning, I am thankful when it seems as though the house is at rest. There is no movement aside from the rattling of ornaments along sideboards as my bare feet pad down the carpet. Not a single creature stirs as I creep down the stairs; I’m watched only by the soulless taxidermy that lines each wall, and my heart throbs in my throat. I’m not doing anything wrong, at least I don’t think I am, but the thought of being perceived, of being caught out in my curiosity, forces me to tiptoe in a way reminiscent of my childhood, creeping around the hallways at home to read books in Mother’s library after dark.
The music flows louder. A few discordant notes echo through the empty hallway until they suddenly terminate, leaving only a straining hum behind. Just as I reach the kitchen the jarring sound of voices blends with the grating clash of crockery, a sure sign of life heading in my direction. Before I am caught, I slip off through a side room and into a tall doorway. The white-painted wood creaks under my touch but I remain undetected, watching through the crack in the door as a member of the household trundles past with a rattling tea trolley.
Releasing my breath as soon as he has passed, I finally take notice of the high ceilings of the room I have stumbled into. More stag heads accompany the coving in a crown of disembodied antlers, and I wonder if there are actually any left to roam the wild, or how many generations of the poor unfortunate souls are strung up there to gather dust forever.
Just as the thought begins to well and truly lower my spirits, a horrisonant screech almost renders my heart as useless as my furry friends. Finally drawing my eyes away from the nearest paintings and trefoil designs, I look about the room and notice for the first time that I stand in the corner of the ballroom. At the far end, beyond the great glass-enclosed candelabras that hang from the ceiling like giant bell jars of fireflies, a pair of parallel stairs lead up to a grand door. The rich mahogany forms a sort of pulpit structure, and one imagines the king standing over its banister, raising a toast to his guests across the ballroom. It is not the king who stands there today, however.
The Piper to the Sovereign, relieved of the confines of his uniform, stands proud over the room, his mouthpiece tucked between his lips, an almost playful smirk threatening to grace them too. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’ I enquire, once my blood pressure has returned to a non-life-threatening level.
‘No, ma’am,’ is his only reply.
‘What happened to a simple “good morning”? Or even a friendly “hello”?’ I cross the floor to gauge him with a closer look. His hair is dark but when the light catches it from the wide windows, it twists with threads of red.
‘I must not speak un—’
‘—unless spoken to.’ I finish for him with an eyeroll. ‘What a boring rule. Is there any way we can swap it for: do not announce your presence with what can only be described as a chicken’s battle cry?’
He tries to control the smile that tickles at his mouth but the deep dimples in his freckled cheeks give him away.
‘My apologies, ma’am.’ He bows his head. His civilian clothes cling to his body in a way that his uniform tries to hide. Thick arms embrace his instrument, and his broad chest is pushed out proudly with his pristine military posture.
‘Oh and the ma’am thing too. People in London only call me ma’am to take the piss. My mother named me Alice; you’re welcome to use it.’
‘Aye, of course, ma’am.’ Those dimples make a return as he looks down at me bashfully.
‘What is your name, Piper?’ I fold my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow.
‘Well, ma’am —’
‘Alice,’ I moan, my voice echoing in the ceilings.
‘No, it’s actually Fraser, Fraser Bell.’ The subtle grin surfaces again as he teases me.
‘Hilarious.’ Fraser sets down his bagpipes and they groan with the motion. Looking down at me from his stage, he leans casually against the banister, his wide arms folded over his chest.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ His thick Scottish drawl reverberates about the ballroom, and for a moment I can’t seem to find any words. ‘I had chosen the room furthest from you to rehearse,’ he continues, noting my silence. ‘My apologies if I have disturbed you.’ For a moment I am taken aback. He has changed his plans to one that would irritate me least.
I am used to having households rushing around at my every beck and call, but such casual consideration is so unfamiliar that I have no idea how to process it.
‘I was just having a look around, gathering my bearings.’
I’m not sure why I lie. Why I don’t tell him I was looking for him, chasing the sound that has been occupying my mind? I have a reputation to uphold, after all.
‘Is everything to your liking?’
‘I suppose it is adequate. I mean aside from that incessant noise that seems to travel through the place. Are we sure there are no feral cats trapped in the walls? Or perhaps a disgruntled phantom?’
‘My granny would turn in her grave to hear an English lass voice such an opinion. She hated the pipes, of course. But she hated the English slagging them off even more.’ Fraser descends the steps and meets me in the middle of the hall. ‘I guarantee after a couple of weeks here, you’ll be asking me to teach you how to play.’ The piper is so close now that I can see the light patch of red strands under his chin that he must have missed with his morning shave. His irises are knots of green, with a thread of amber woven through and suspended like the stained glass of a marble.
‘It’s lucky that I shan’t be here that long then, isn’t it?’ The reminder of Atticus pangs through me in a painful strike and I have to take a step back from Fraser to try and recover some of my composure.
‘My mistake, my lady, I was told you’d be staying with us for the summer.’ He too, takes another step back, as though realising how close he had drawn to me without thinking.
‘Yes, well not if I can help it.’ My voice comes out in a grumble but I know he has heard me. Fixing a taut smile onto my face, I try to mask the seriousness that had overcome me for a moment. ‘I had best let you get back to your practising. Sorry for the interruption.’
I turn abruptly on my heel, and my feet slap along the floor as I head back the way I came.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Fraser calls, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.
‘Can’t wait.’ I roll my eyes and fire a sarcastic thumbs up over my shoulder, though I catch myself beginning to smile. Turning back to say something, anything, Fraser is already halfway back up the stairs. With another second unseen by him to gather my thoughts, I push back through the door and leave him in the ballroom, chased out by his bagpipes in a sound that is already becoming too familiar.
Unafraid of being caught this time, I return proudly through the halls, taking a moment to absorb my surroundings properly for the first time. The whole place is a masterclass of Highland design. Though all of it was pretty much rebuilt through the nineteenth century, there’s still that feeling of authenticity there, as though you can picture a Scottish laird plodding up and down the halls, admiring his game, or straightening the plaid curtains.
Though outside of the windows the sun is clouded over, the place doesn’t feel dull. If anything, it feels brighter, at least brighter than London, where you’re always overlooked by one building or another casting shadows over each street corner. No, here the cloud seems to keep all the radiance of the summer sun, without the harsh glare, the squint-inducing stare. Light diffuses across the sky and all the land around it seems to glow, as though not one point is worthy of the sun’s spotlight, but every tree, crag, and sprig of heather shines as though the world has always wanted your eye to land upon it specifically.
Jimmy, the groundskeeper, strides across the lawn, his fox-red Labrador trailing at his heel. Watching him for a moment, I take note of the lightness of his step, of the way that in spite of the drizzle dampening his flat cap, he seems so genuinely happy. Even as Mrs Buchanan pursues him with a familiar sour expression, a skirt almost identical to the one currently itching my thighs flowing behind her as she chases after him, he only grins at her. Standing before him, berating him for something or other, whilst nervously itching away from his dog that keeps attempting to lick her fingertips, Mrs B has a face like thunder and yet as soon as her back is turned, Jimmy watches her all the way back to the castle as though struck by lightning.
With my mind once again falling to Atticus, I rush back to my bedroom. After several wrong turns and at least four dramatic entrances into rooms that aren’t my own, I finally get the right one and grab my phone from the desk. What is the use in waiting to be saved? Calling the only man who has ever told me he fell in love with me at first sight, my heart thumps in anticipation with every unanswered ring.
‘Hello, you’ve—’ Atticus’s voice flows through the speakers.
‘Atticus! Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear your—’
‘—reached Atticus Beaumont. Either I cannot take your call right now, or I am ignoring you. I shall let you decide which one you think applies to you …’ His answering machine continues and I end the call, and redial straight away. You never know, he might have lost it down the crack of the sofa and by the time he found it, it had rung out.
When the same pre-recorded message answers the third time I ring, I give up. The kernel of hope fizzles out and I deflate into my bed.