Chapter 10
‘W hy the bagpipes?’ My sudden question startles Fraser and he drops the hoof pick he was holding as he swivels around to find me at the stable door. Brushing his hands down his trousers, he fusses with the sleeves of his flannel shirt that he has rolled to his elbows in an attempt to straighten himself out.
Though it is I who sought him out, I swallow at the sight of him, my mouth suddenly dry upon stepping past his threshold. Trying to think nothing of it, aside from questioning whether I have acquired a hay allergy in the last few days, as my neck begins to itch, I clear my throat in an effort to get the piper to speak.
‘Ma’am.’ He bows his head, still tugging at his sleeve.
‘Fraser.’ I give him a pointed look, and he is flustered again.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘What is my name?’
‘Lady Alice? Ma’am?’
I chuckle at his bumbling attempts to figure out which title shall please me most whilst knowing that I wish for him to call me by anything but. Fraser’s pale cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. I continue, ‘Now, Fraser, tell me what made you choose the bagpipes.’
Moving across the stable, my dress drags in the hay as I approach the mare Fraser had been caring for when I arrived. I hold out my palm, and the mare presses her pink speckled nose against it before allowing me to slide my fingers through the thick strands of her mane. Fraser soon joins me in rubbing a wide hand across her flank, and the affectionate horse presses her head hard against him in encouragement. The piper visibly relaxes and lets out a contented sigh before speaking again.
‘My dad held this position before me. When I was a wain, he would be practising all hours of the day to be perfect for the late queen. Drove my mum round the bend. Made it even worse when he taught me everything he knew, so even when Dad was working, I’d be at home skirling away.’ Thoughts of a tiny Fraser, with a shock of red hair, hopping around the house with bagpipes the same size as him, make me smile and I reach for a brush to hide my grin.
‘She will love you for that. Proper spoiled lass is this one.’ Fraser chuckles as I slide the brush down the already pristine coat. ‘You’re just a wee princess aren’t you, DeeDee?’ He presses his forehead to her muzzle and plants a kiss against her nose that makes her snicker in approval.
‘You always wanted to be a piper?’ I ask, hidden from his view by DeeDee.
Fraser sighs so softly that I’m surprised I hear it at all. ‘I joined the cavalry, initially.’ He doesn’t elaborate further, and for a moment I stand in silence deciding whether to ask him more.
‘The army?’ I say to fill the gap, though from his position here I already knew that was his basic role. ‘Would you ever go back to more active service stuff? Instead of this ceremonial posting I mean.’
‘In all honesty,’ he begins, his cheeks flushing, ‘I didn’t join the cavalry to join the army. It was the only job with horses that someone like me could get a decent wage for. I reckon I’d have run off with the circus when I was sixteen if they let me ride a horse for most of the day.’
I’m unsurprised at his reply as I watch him now. In his presence, DeeDee seems at ease, perfectly tranquil, as though under a spell from his touch. Perhaps such magic is the reason why I feel so at home in his company. Falling into a comfortable silence, I picture him, galloping through the glens, racing through valleys, smiling into the breeze. The image is so pure, so natural, that suddenly the stuffy uniform and bagpipes don’t suit him anymore.
‘So why are you now startling young women out of their beauty sleep with your bagpipes?’ I chuckle, trying to inject a little humour into what has become a pretty serious conversation. ‘Your dream doesn’t seem too crazy to me. Why give it up?’ I can’t help myself. When I look at Fraser with DeeDee, I see a man where he belongs. Though my question is brash, bordering on rude, I can’t stop myself from speaking.
Fraser is silent. Only when he moves further around DeeDee and is totally obscured from my view does he speak again. ‘My position here was only supposed to be temporary. I was brought in last minute five summers ago to cover for my dad whilst he recovered from a sudden illness.’
He doesn’t need to say any more. Fraser’s prolonged presence here fills in all of the other gaps for me. My gut stirs with pity and, almost instinctively, I rest my hand on top of his where he has it frozen mid stroke along the mare’s back.
‘I’m sorry,’ is the only pitiful response I can stir and Fraser draws his hand away at the sound of my voice, as though its sudden interruption brings him back into the room.
‘Is this your dream?’ Fraser asks me this time, shifting his expression, as though switching out the sad seriousness for a playful smile.
‘Standing ankle-high in horse dung in a Scottish stable? I can’t say it was ever one of my life goals.’
He laughs softly and the sound warms the chill of the Caledonian twilight.
‘You know what I mean.’ The piper seems to relax as he manoeuvres himself to stand before me.
‘This is every little girl’s dream, isn’t it? Being a royal?’
No one has ever asked me such a thing before.
‘Maybe.’ Fraser’s eyes track across my face, trying to decipher my expression that even I am struggling to comprehend. ‘It’s always seemed a wee bit stuffy to me.’ His candour is a relief. For the first time in a few weeks, I feel as though I don’t have to think about what to say, or how to phrase it, or how to stand as I deliver it.
‘I have everything I could ever need.’ I think for a moment, and Fraser leaves the silence undisturbed until I am ready to continue. ‘But it does get a little lonely, I suppose.’
‘Nae shit.’ Fraser slaps a hand over his mouth, shocked at his own expression. Only when I laugh, does he visibly relax. ‘Sorry,’ he babbles with pinked cheeks. ‘I just meant that I’m sure it’s impossible to have a genuine conversation, isn’t it? So many rules, so many mistakes to make.’
‘I know that all too well.’ I half-laugh, and then am reminded of my intentions for coming here. ‘Sophie has been a welcome respite from it all. I don’t think she is capable of having a false conversation.’
Fraser hums. ‘She’s a good lass.’ Then his face cracks with a smile. ‘My dad loved her, and her gran. She was at both of their funerals, and somehow, she still managed to make everyone smile.’
His words only make me surer than ever that I’ve finally got something right. Sophie deserves this; they both do. No matter how badly I can’t stop watching his strong hands hauling around stable equipment, or can’t stop peeking behind my curtains to catch a glimpse of him in the mornings, Fraser shall be Sophie’s Prince Charming, and I shall return to marry my own in just a few weeks.
‘So, what is your dream?’ Fraser persists. ‘I told you mine; it’s only fair.’ He shrugs with a cheeky grin.
How do I tell him that the thought of having a dream has never crossed my mind? What would he think if I told him my life was planned out for me before I was even born so I was never taught to dream? My dreams are childish. My only dreams are to find someone to love; my only desire is to just be happy.
Looking about the stable, I wonder what I can tell him. Fraser Bell doesn’t need to hear my self-pity. It is clear he has had enough hurt in his own life.
‘My dream is to see a foal,’ I reply, returning his smile. I know it isn’t the answer he was looking for, but the light in his eyes tells me he doesn’t mind. ‘I have only ever seen fully trained adult horses. They come to my family perfect. I’d like to see those first weeks of a foal’s life where they’re stumbling around on their gangly legs, trying to figure out how to run.’
Before he has the chance to ask more questions, I turn to leave and track back through the hay-covered floor to the stable doors. As I go to step over the threshold, I have just one niggling thought in my mind that I haven’t quite managed to shake from last night: Jim says that her mum was exactly the same .
‘Fraser?’ I begin to speak, preparing to ask him what he meant. The piper ceases all he is doing at the sound of his name, and his undivided attention rests on me so heavily that the weight of his gaze is like a boot on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.
‘My lady?’ he presses, his words constricting my airflow even further.
Unable to admit to my eavesdropping, unable to form any coherent words at all, I stride from the stable without another breath and rush down to the gatehouse to find my answers from the source.
What on earth just came over me? It was like for a moment I had lost all sight of myself; all sense had flown out of the window and Fraser Bell – his plaid shirt, his arms, his tender drawl – was rendering me thunderstruck.
Physically shaking such treacherous thoughts from my head, I reach Jimmy’s little house, finally composed enough to find the words to ask him all about my mother’s history with this place. Before I reach the door, however, the sight before me forces me to stop dead, and sends a little excited tingle bouncing from my fingers to my toes. Mrs Buchanan stands outside of the cottage, peering into one of the front windows, chewing nervously on her lip.
When she finally spots me, she flees from the scene before I can so much as utter a greeting.
‘Mrs Buchanan?’ I call after her as she attempts to slip inconspicuously into the treeline. The housekeeper stiffens, wedged between an oak and an overgrown rhododendron, giving me enough time to catch up to her and see her flushed cheeks up close.
‘My lady.’ She gives an uneasy nod all whilst attempting to unhook her skirt from a particularly poky branch.
‘Do you require any help?’ She tugs again at the pleats before releasing a defeated huff and nodding reluctantly.
With a little of my aid, she is soon free and stands before me with her harsh face dappled with a blush. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Were you here to see Jimmy?’ I ask and her composure is quickly ironed out.
‘I am not here to see anyone, my lady. I was simply coming to tell Mr Campbell that his, um, services are required in the orchard this afternoon.’ She struggles to hold eye contact and, for the first time, I think I am seeing her without her scales and armour.
‘His services?’ I press, intrigued at this whole spectacle.
‘Yes, my lady. The apples are beginning to drop so we need them tidied before the king returns, and the wasps make themselves at home.’
‘I see.’ Tapping a finger against my chin, my mind swirls with new ideas. There is no way that I was wrong about those two, and Mrs Buchanan’s bashful eyes and slightly glossed lips just prove that. ‘Well, I was just going along to see Jimmy, perhaps we can catch him together?’ I know she can’t refuse me; she is contractually obliged to bend to my whims. Usually, I’d feel guilty for such a fact, but my desire for positive mischief far outweighs it today.
The disinclination is written on her face but still she follows me back through the clearing to Jimmy’s stone gatehouse. Chapping the door loudly, it’s Flo who answers first with a defensive bark, and soon Jimmy’s gruff telling-off quiets her. As soon as the door is swung open and he sees us both, however, his tone quickly changes.
‘Lady Alice!’ He grins and pats me on the top of my arm. ‘What a pleasure and privilege.’
‘Good afternoon, Jimmy, how are you?’ It’s impossible to not return the smile that still shines from him as he tries to stop Flo from charging us down and smothering us with welcome kisses.
‘All the better for seeing your beautiful face. And you brought Mary with you too.’ He gives me a cheeky wink. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I am here strictly on business, Mr Campbell, not pleasure.’ Mrs Buchanan’s hard exterior returns, though Jimmy still gazes upon her with his characteristic softness.
‘When you love what you do, Mary hen, all business is pleasure.’
The housekeeper makes no attempt to hide the way she rolls her eyes. ‘I need you to pick up the rotting fruit in the orchard.’
‘You spoil me.’ Jimmy grins.
Huffing, Mrs Buchanan turns to walk away. ‘I expect to see it looking perfect before dinner tonight. Bring any of the salvageable fruit to the kitchen and I shall have the cook make a pie.’
‘It’s a date,’ Jimmy calls as she returns along the path with a hurried step.
‘It most certainly is not,’ she calls, without stopping to look back.
‘Always playing hard to get that one.’ Jimmy titters under his breath playfully. ‘Did you want to come in for a cup of tea, my lady?’ he adds, stepping aside and allowing Flo to give me the full force of her fuss.
‘I’d love nothing more.’ I cross the threshold and note that the small cottage is exactly as I’d expect. With low wooden beams across the ceiling, the place is thick with all kinds of plants and greenery. Mismatched armchairs are dotted around the living room, all facing Flo’s bed in front of the open fire, with no television set to be seen. The only thing that seems to use any electricity at all is his radio plugged in on the sideboard, which hums quiet tinny Gaelic tunes around the small space. A cabinet of old photographs takes pride of place in the very centre o f the room, positioned to be the first thing one sees as one enters. The multitude of sepia faces greet one with beaming smiles and Jimmy’s same jolly gaze. It’s a beautiful little home, with his character and his love woven into the tartan throws, and every knick-knack and trinket.
Taking a seat in one of the armchairs, I take a moment to really soak in my surroundings.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Jimmy says shyly. ‘No room to swing a cat in this place,’ he adds apologetically, although all I can think for just a moment is how much beauty there is in a space so small. Where the furniture is so close it feels like a caress, like the very house itself is constantly reaching out to offer you affection. There is no empty space here; every inch is filled with a memory, or something that Jimmy once found endearing enough to bring home. Even the clutter tells a story. A half-dissected train set is piled in a corner; clearly, he had made an attempt to fix it, but got waylaid and it was forgotten for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve been in a house and known what the word ‘homely’ actually means. It’s personal, it’s comforting, and it is a place dusted with happiness.
Jimmy returns from the kitchen, an old kettle in hand. ‘How do you take it?’ He shakes the scratched appliance and its contents slosh.
‘Milk, two sugars please,’ I say, and he toddles off to the kitchen, before taking the seat opposite me to wait for it to boil on the stove.
‘Now, what can I do for you, hen?’ Jimmy gives me the tender look of an aged grandfather.
‘First of all, I wish to apologise. It was my fault that Flo was in the flowers. I never meant to get you in trouble.’ Chewing on my lip, I watch Jimmy nervously for any sign of anger, but it never comes. He only raises his eyebrows for a split second, then shrugs nonchalantly as though he has already gotten over it.
‘Oh hush. Never you mind any of that.’ He chuckles a soothing titter. ‘Anything else on your mind?’
I pause for a moment, thinking of how I can phrase my question. ‘I overheard something the other day and I just wanted to ask you about it. If you don’t mind?’ Jimmy’s smile falls ever so slightly as a mild crease of concern crosses his brow.
‘On you go.’ He nods.
‘Has my mother been to Balmoral?’ I speak quickly, and once it comes out it I feel silly that it ever felt weighty at all.
‘Oh of course, several times. Both of your parents used to come for a weekend in the summer when your grandmother was alive, God rest her.’
‘Am I anything like my mother?’ is the real question that I can’t help but squeak out. Jimmy takes a moment’s breath and leans back in his armchair, his eyes tracing over my face.
‘Well, there was one time when she was here on her honeymoon. She must have been about your age—’ he begins but is cut off by the piercing squeal of the kettle in the kitchen, and just in case we hadn’t already been deafened by it, Flo gives a loud bark to draw our attention to it. ‘Ah, tea. Give me one moment, lass.’
He returns a few moments later with a rattling tea tray and hands me a mug with the words ‘I’m sexy and I mow it’ painted on it alongside a rather pretty likeness of a lawnmower. Taking the handle, I thank Jimmy as he returns to his armchair.
‘Where were we?’ he witters, offering me a biscuit before dunking one of his own in his tea.
‘My mother?’ I remind him, my gut stirring as I attempt to predict what he’s going to say. What if he says that we are alike? But what if we’re nothing alike? My body can’t seem to decide which outcome is more anxiety-inducing, and the bile rising in my throat means I have to leave my half-eaten Bourbon on the coffee table.
‘Ah yes, your mother was ever such a character.’ Jimmy looks off at his cabinet of photos with an absent smile. ‘I’m surprised she sent you here after her honeymoon. I was always under the impression that she hated the place.’
‘That will be the exact reason why she sent me here.’ I can’t hide the sadness that seeps into my voice, though I try and cover it with an eyeroll.
‘Mrs Buchanan would probably be the better person to ask. If I remember correctly, they became quite friendly over that summer. She wasn’t the housekeeper then; she was a relatively new maid. They were practically inseparable.’ He smiles as though remembering both stern women in their carefree youth. ‘Much like yourself and young Miss Chorley.’
My mother and Mrs Buchanan? Did they bond over their shared love of misery? Or who can make the most people wince with just one churlish look? I can’t imagine either of them as ‘friendly’, let alone with one a nother. He must have made a mistake, misremembered or something.
Jimmy doesn’t elaborate any further, and I can tell from the way he quickly begins to talk about his allotment that he is trying to change the subject. After we finish our cups of tea and his gardening chat, the groundskeeper suddenly remembers the orders of the housekeeper. Apologising profusely, he takes his flat cap and dog down to the orchard, leaving me to take the long walk back to the house alone.
Left alone to ponder Jimmy’s careful words, I realise how little of my mother I actually know. Knowing only her sternness and cold shoulder, just the thought of her in this context, having friendly words with anyone, let alone a member of staff, feels foreign. Jimmy definitely has it confused; he must be thinking of someone else.
This is why I like fairy tales: the binaries. It is easier to understand the world when it’s black and white. Shades of grey only make things confusing. One is either good or evil. My mother can’t have been both. It would be like finding out the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood used to be a paediatric nurse: it just wouldn’t make any sense.