Chapter 11
‘P hase two, Jimmy and Buchanan.’ A week later, I find Sophie in one of the guest bedrooms, preparing the fresh linen, and I join her in stretching the sheet across the mattress and tucking it. Despite trying my hardest to make sure not a wrinkle is left on display, Sophie still has to come to my side and redo it.
‘Are you sure?’ Sophie looks at me from beneath her thick brows, her usually bright irises dulled with a hint of concern. ‘It’s just that it didn’t exactly go to plan last time …’
Thinking back to the maze fiasco, the way our previous attempt at matchmaking ended in more arguments and resentment, a knot of guilt pulls tightly in my stomach. ‘I’ve read enough books to know that things have to get worse before they get better.’ I push down the feeling and bulldoze on. ‘They are in love. I have never been more certain of anything. If they aren’t, then I know nothing of the word.’ Reminded of her blushed cheeks and glossed lips, peering into Jimmy’s windows only last week, I am surer than ever that I am not barking up the wrong tree here.
A muffled voice interrupts us from the other side of the window. Mrs Buchanan fusses around the garden, ordering about furniture and any poor member of staff who dares get in her way.
Tomorrow is the day that the king arrives, and the first item on his agenda is the pheasant hunt. Various high-ranking guests are also supposed to be filtering in and out so, of course, the whole household is on red alert and Mrs B has been even more assiduous than usual. All week she has been barking orders left, right, and centre, having things dusted, polished, and repolished.
Having hardly heard a peep from anyone this week, I trail behind Sophie like a needy toddler lingers in their mother’s shadow as she continues all of her various jobs across the room. She thrusts a basket of bath salts towards me. I take it obediently and am subsequently loaded up like a packhorse, one item at a time until I become her walking, talking cleaning trolley.
‘Mrs B gets particularly crabbit this time of year, Alice. Maybe stick the matchmaking on hold for a wee while eh?’ She shakes out a tartan throw with such ferocity that I almost feel sorry for the thing.
‘One last attempt and then I’ll set my sights elsewhere.’ Shifting a decorative pillow from the top of the basket, I give her my most childlike pleading look and she gives me a pointed one in return. I have less than a month until I am gone, less than a month until the shareholders’ meeting, less than a month to bring everyone else love whilst I wait to return to mine. With another week passed without word from Atticus, I need this distraction more than ever.
‘What did you have in mind?’ Sophie sets down her duster and faces me, arms folded, a curious expression lifting her brow.
‘Well, yourself and Fraser each accompany the Buchanan and Jimmy respectively. The former in the kitchen as she prepares the afternoon tea, and the latter on the hunt. Both of you spend the morning telling your wards how much the other has been talking highly of them, flatter them to the high heavens. Then, when the picnic is set, you insist on sitting beside Fraser, and Fraser will insist to Jimmy that the Buchanan has requested his company. Leaving them together, in front of the king and his guests, they cannot argue.’ And it gives you and Fraser space to be alone too, I refrain from adding.
‘Have you run this by Fraser?’ she asks, still unsure.
‘Not yet,’ I admit. ‘You’ve all been rather difficult to get a hold of these last few days.’
‘Sophie Chorley, your grandmother did not give birth to your mother in the downstairs lavatory, so she didn’t miss the great spring clean for her only granddaughter to slack off, chit-chatting, the very day before the family arrives.’ Mrs Buchanan storms into the room, her words firing from her before anyone can even see her, and Sophie shrinks into her apron.
As quickly as the bad-omen housekeeper comes, she has floated off again, her bark being heard, aimed at another poor staff member just down the hall.
‘I’m sorry, my lady.’ Sophie looks at me apologetically. ‘I really would love to help you, but with the family coming, and the Ghillies Ball so close, Mrs Buchanan would sooner hunt us for sport than admit she has any feelings at all, let alone romantic ones for Jimmy. Perhaps you should set your sights elsewhere.’
Before I can utter another syllable, she dusts off her apron and piles herself high with her baskets before making off in the same direction as Mrs B. Whisps of her hair hang loose from her plaits as they swing behind her until she is out of sight.
As I walk back through the castle, bodies rush by me like a Saturday night in A he only holds a glass of water to my lips tenderly to allow me a much-needed sip. The cool water wets my tongue and soothes the dryness of my throat and I look up to Fraser, his bright green eyes and furrowed brows, and give him a grateful smile.
‘Are you okay, my lady?’ he whispers, the soft vibrations of his deep voice almost soothing on my pounding head.
‘It’s no worse than the usual headache I have when I wake up to the sound of bagpipes,’ I try to joke hoarsely, and Fraser chances a smile. ‘What happened?’
‘You charged head-first into the king’s pheasant shoot on the back of a skittish horse. You should be thankful you only fell and weren’t shot.’ Mrs Buchanan reminds us of her presence as she huffs to herself, pacing the room and fussing over every bit of mess and clutter.
‘I thought the shoot was yesterday.’ My voice is quiet, and I’m grateful when it’s Fraser who answers.
‘It got extended. The Duke of Oxford hit nothing in the afternoon so they had to add another day to give him a second chance. Did no one tell you?’
‘No,’ I say before sinking back into my pillows.
‘It’s my fault,’ Fraser says reproachfully. ‘I should have warned you about the hunt, and warned you that DeeDee is an old mare who throws her riders for sport.’
‘You weren’t to have known that I’d be a fool. Plus, you’ve been busy; it’s not your job to babysit me.’
‘It is my— our job to keep you safe, however, and on that account I have failed.’ Fraser returns to the armchair, unable to look at me any longer.
‘Has anyone informed Atticus? Or my father?’ I force down any of the peculiar feelings his words have stirred in me and think of my love instead. The embarrassing thought crosses my mind that perhaps a hint of peril might actually encourage him to break his silence.
Fraser remains silent, so Mrs Buchanan answers, ‘Your father sends his best wishes.’
‘And Atticus?’ I push. My father’s lack of concern will be easily overcome with a single word from Atticus.
‘No one could reach him,’ Fraser replies bluntly. ‘A message was left, but has not yet been returned.’ Grabbing his jumper from the back of the armchair, Fraser moves to the door. ‘If my lady is well, I shall resume my duties.’
Too numb for words, I nod, a sharp pain pinging through my head, and Fraser leaves the room without a second glance.