‘You’ve what! How dare you. That’s my money…’
‘No, that’s your allowance I give you to amuse yourself with until you get married. You’re getting married and therefore you’ll be the viscount’s responsibility. Any money you need ask your mother,’ he added, picking up The Times and turning to the back page.
Titania looked at both her parents with a little shake of her head, struggling to understand how her life, whilst not exactly spectacular, had suddenly dissolved into a disaster zone. All she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was a quiet life away from the limelight her parents were determined to thrust her into at every opportunity. If she had her way, she’d open up a little café in the middle of some small country village and bake cakes all day. She’d have a counter on one side for breads and one of those fancy coffee machines that pumped out designer coffee at the push of a button. But the one and only time she’d tried to discuss it with them they’d laughed in her face at the thought of her, Lady Titania, the daughter of an earl, consorting with riff raff. So, instead, she spent her days consorting with a different type of riff raff; the type that had somehow engineered the elusive and quite frankly shy heiress to disgrace herself once and for all.
She made her way into the hall, smiling briefly at Hodd as he sorted out the post onto a silver platter, a frown on his forehead. But she didn’t see the frown. She didn’t see anything as she tried to figure out, for what seemed like the millionth time, what had happened on that fateful night.
It had started out like any other, which made the end all the more upsetting. She’d arranged to meet a couple of old school friends for a quiet drink but, before she knew it, she’d woken up in the back of a black cab with cameras flashing through the windows as if she was somebody she wasn’t. The press, all of them had her believe she’d been on a massive bender after a row with her boyfriend, some politician’s son she’d never even heard of. If it hadn’t been for the fatherly taxi driver slinging his jacket in front of her she’d never have been able to live it down. That crack of her father’s about her chest was only partly true. There’d been skin, lots of skin but by luck more than anything she hadn’t revealed much more than if she’d been lying on the beach. But that didn’t matter to her father. Nothing mattered to her father more than the so called reputation of the Nettlebridges.
Chapter Two
‘Nanny Mac, I don’t know what to do.’
On leaving the dining room with its heavy, dark, wood panelling, she’d raced up stairs and headed for the rooms her parents had made into a comfortable bedsit for her old nanny on her retirement. Not that she’d retired, nothing like it. Far from outliving her usefulness when Titania had upped and gone to boarding school, she’d found she was busier than ever. She was the only one the master would trust to starch his collars and looking after Lady Nettlebridge’s vintage collection of priceless Dior chiffon evening gowns was more than a full time job.
Pushing open the door was like a breath of fresh air as here everything was bright and light. It was all very well living in a stately home with priceless lumps of Hepplewhite, Sheraton and Chippendale but give her a large squashy sofa from Habitat any day.
Heaving a sigh, she launched herself on the couch, careful not to dislodge Haggis, nanny’s old tabby, from his position in front of the fire. She and Haggis had history, long history. He’d appeared at the door as a straggly kitten and been absorbed into the household despite her mother’s preference for pedigree Persians over scrawny strays. It hadn’t taken him more than a couple of swipes to put the other felines on their guard and he’d been master of the house in all but name ever since. Even the earl was known to save a couple of pieces of turbot from his plate. There was nothing Haggis liked more than a nice bit of turbot.
Tansy rubbed his ears gently before scooting to the other side of the sofa. Haggis had a long memory and he’d never quite forgiven her for dressing him up in one of her dolls dresses and pushing him around the herb garden in her pram.
‘Ach, now what’s troubling you,’ Nanny Mac’s soft lilt filling the air despite having left Falkirk over fifty years ago.
‘Everything. My life is in ruins.’
‘In ruins, is it? Well, you’d best tell ole nanny all about it. A problem shared…’
‘A problem shared is a problem doubled,’ she interrupted, unable to gulp back her tears. ‘I’ll just have to marry him and that will be the end of my life. There’s no way he’ll allow me to mess around in the kitchen, as father calls it. My life, I repeat, is over.’
‘I cannae believe that.’ She put down her knitting, careful to bundle up the ball of grey wool inside the half-finished sleeve. Haggis, for all his years, was still a kitten at heart and, even now, he was watching every move through heavy lids. ‘So, what have they been up to now and who exactly do they want you to marry?’
‘Some son of her friend; Lady Brayely. Viscount something or other.’ She scrubbed her face with her hands before accepting a tissue with the glimmer of a smile. ‘I don’t even know his name. So, I’m engaged to someone I don’t know, not even his name.’
‘Hector? Hector Brayely, well there’s a thing now.’
‘Hector?’
‘Aye, Hector Brayely. You remember, lass, you must remember. He’s the one that dragged you out of that swamp with more slime than I thought humanly possible. Brave little chap with the most amazing head of black hair. Much too serious for his own good though. Always with his head in some fancy book or other.’
‘I remember, or at least I remember the slime but not how I got out. I was only little,’ she added, reaching across to pat Haggis and getting a slap for her troubles. ‘I must have been only four or five.’
‘Four and the chubbiest little four year old imaginable. Your mother was livid, I can tell you. You were wearing a new dress bought specially. White it was with the cutest ruffles along the hem.’ She paused, looking across. ‘If you ask me, you could do with a few more pounds. You don’t look like you know how to boil an egg let alone produce those wonderful cakes and breads you come up with. So, what’s this daft plan of your parents again?’ she continued, plucking at the fabric of her plain green skirt.
‘They’ve cooked up some plan or other to marry me off and all because of that story in the papers.’
‘Well, it was quite a story.’ Nanny Mac tutted. ‘The youth of today. Now if you’d been wearing a nice warm vest or some undergarments of any kind it would have been different. Talking of which…’
‘What? Undergarments?’
‘No, not undergarments, Hector. There’s something…’
Tansy watched as Nanny Mac struggled from her chair, her heart dipping at the sight of her increasing frailty. Her round rosy cheeks with the blush of health were long gone, leaving in their place pale, drawn skin with a network of fine wrinkles. But the wrinkles didn’t matter. All that mattered were her twinkling blue eyes with a hint of laughter in their depths. All that mattered were her soft words that could manage a whole nursery of unruly children with never having to raise her voice even one decibel.
‘Here, let me help you,’ Tansy said, jumping to her feet.
‘That pile of magazines by the jigsaw. See if you can do a couple of pieces, all that sky is beyond me.’
‘You know jigsaws aren’t my thing.’ She headed for the table under the window, glancing out at the carefully manicured parkland in the engaging style of Capability Brown before searching through a bundle of magazines.
‘Near the top. It has a photo on the front of that girl you know; Lady Sarah something or other - the one that married the Frenchman last year?’
Tansy’s eyes fell on the magazine almost immediately, drawn to the happiness that seemed to bring the faces on the cover alive. She’d heard about the wedding from a friend of a friend but hadn’t really thought more of it and now here they were, and obviously besotted with each other if the smiles were anything to go by.
She shifted her gaze. She was sick to death of he
aring about everyone else’s happiness when her life was just about over. Her parents had well and truly scuppered any chance of escape by stopping her credit cards. She didn’t have enough money left from her allowance to run away. The only hope left was that he’d hate her on sight.
‘Is this the one?’
‘Yes,’ now just turn to the situations vacant somewhere near the back. I’m pretty certain I spotted something about a cook being needed in Oban?’
‘Where’s Oban and what’s that to do with anything? I can’t afford to get a job even if they were to pay me. I’ve about ten quid left to my name, ten quid to last me until the end of the month.’
‘Tansy, you need to have faith. Oban is in Scotland, the place you fell in that swamp. I remember it like it was yesterday and, if I’m not very much mistaken, there aren’t many houses up there large enough to employ a live-in cook.’
‘So?’ she said, turning the pages quickly before getting to the right section. ‘What am I looking for again?’ her eyes scanning down through a list of gardeners and handymen.
‘Cook in Oban; live-in.’
‘And why am I looking?’ Her hand pausing under the only entry that fit the bill as she read out loud.
Cook required for a period of one month trial. Good remuneration for the right candidate. Live-in. Must be able to drive.
‘That’s the one. Now you’d best just hope its Lady Brayely.’
Tansy flopped back on the sofa, tucking her bare feet under her. ‘I know I’m not the brightest in the class by a long chalk but what exactly has the advert to do with me?’
‘Everything. I remember Hector as a nice boy and I’m pretty sure he’ll have turned into a nice well brought up young man. Ideal husband material, and his father was incredibly good looking you know.’
‘Nanny, you’re as bad as my parents.’
‘I’m nothing like your parents,’ she tutted. ‘I want you to be happy and can you truly say you’re happy at the moment? Well, can you? From where I’m sitting, all I can see is a beautiful young woman still searching for that inner happiness and peace that only comes with contentment. You may hate each other on sight, but at least you’ll know he’s not the one. There is a chance, albeit a sliver that this will be your love match and, in the meantime, you’ll be away from the watchful eyes of your parents doing what you want to, which is cooking. But, be warned. As soon as you meet him, you need to decide. You can’t go on pretending to be something you’re not,’ she added, turning back to the front cover with a sigh. ‘She looks happy doesn’t she with this marquis of hers? That’s what I want for you.’
‘You’ve forgotten one thing. Whilst this Hector may not recognise me, there isn’t a hope in hell Lady Brayely won’t. If she’s anything like mother, Hello and OK are her bedtime reading and what about references, hmm? Who the hell is going to give me a job without a reference?’
‘All surmountable, my girl. You’ve just come out of an abusive relationship where your, er, fiancé didn’t allow you to work but you have reports from the Swiss finishing school your estranged father sent you to before he died.’
‘Are you sure you’re not in the wrong profession? You’d have made a grand writer,’ she laughed. ‘And what about how I look?’
‘Well, it’s easy to change the way you look: a bit of dye and what about a pair of glasses? A nice pair of glasses with thick frames and even your own mother wouldn’t recognise you.’
‘But I have 20/20 vision…’
Even with 20/20 vision she didn’t recognise the reflection peering back at her in the cracked mirror of the 08.53 from Berwick to Oban. Gone was the long white blonde ribbon of hair, in its place a long plait in a fine shade of charcoal black. She’d been all for cutting it only to back out at the last minute. She was known for her hair flowing over her shoulders in soft waves, only tying it up when she was baking and certainly never in a plait. Reaching up a hand she relished in the soft baby fine texture even as she smiled at the horn rimmed frames, circa 1960.
She’d phoned the number in The Lady under Nanny Mac’s approving stare and had been amazed at the gullibility of the housekeeper. She’d lapped up her story and even promised to have a train ticket waiting at the station if she’d start out immediately. With scarcely a taxi fare to her name, she’d agreed. She’d agree to anything if it meant not being there to meet Hector like a prize cow.
Instead of spending the rest of the morning looking for that perfect outfit in which to make that important first impression, she’d nipped to Harrods and made a sizeable hole in her mother’s store card. She’d had to avoid the Fashion Lab on the fourth floor simply because they wouldn’t stock anything she could wear in Scotland, or at least anything an impoverished cook might wear. Nanny had told her a plain knee length black skirt was a must, probably more Primark or Marks and Spencer’s than Reiss but, as Harrods was the only store card she had, it would have to do. She threw in a few plain white blouses she wouldn’t be seen dead in and some thick jumpers and trousers in addition to a pair of flat black slip-ons before making her way to the 5th floor.
She’d dithered long and hard about her change in look but Nanny was right. The only way she’d get away with it was by having a complete makeover and that included hair, clothes, everything. She bundled her hair, plait and all, under the knitted hat she’d bought specially for her recent ski trip to Klosters and changed her accent from cut glass to cockney. She did get a few strong glances but they soon lost interest as soon as she opened her mouth. After that the lies came thick and fast. She was an actress don’t you know. An actress with an audition for EastEnders and she had to look the part. She even managed to get the opticians to sell her a pair of frames with clear lenses from their old stock. Okay, so they were fake tortoiseshell but they certainly detracted from the cornflower blue of her eyes and the sweet shape of her face. She could almost believe she was a cook.
Making her way along the swaying carriage back to her seat she could almost believe it because it was the first time ever no one had stopped and stared. No one had asked for a selfie. No one had swivelled their head for that second and often third look. It was the first time she was invisible to anyone except herself, and it felt good. It was good. Plonking herself back in her seat she opened her bag and started rooting around for her notebook.
‘I love your bag.’
Tansy’s hand paused, her fingers curling briefly around her pen.
‘Cor blimey, it’s only a cheapy luv,’ she said, throwing a smile at the woman opposite. ‘Twenty-five knicker down the market,’ she added, rubbing her fingers along the Chloe handbag she’d only bought last month and couldn’t bear to leave behind.
‘It’s so realistic.’ The woman sighed as she placed a banana in the outstretched hand of the toddler sitting beside her.
‘I know, probably off the back of some lorry or other,’ she replied, pulling out a mint instead. She might be able to pass off the bag but the Debretts notebook and gold-tipped Montblanc pen?
She couldn’t believe she’d almost blown it and all over a stupid bag. There were trip wires all over the place ready for her to stumble over. It wasn’t just the bag, it was everything. The way she looked and spoke were the easy part. When she’d shut the door on the sanctuary of her bedroom, she’d emptied her carrier bags on the bed and proceeded to cut out all the labels just like nanny had told her. It was unlikely someone would go looking but if they did she could always explain they were from some factory outlet or other. But she hadn’t given a thought to all the other stuff. She went to pull out her Lulu Guinness make-up bag stuffed to the brim with Chanel, Estee Lauder and Mary Kay, her hand instead grasping at her phone in desperation. Okay so it was housed in a limited edition Stella McCartney case but there was nothing she could do about that as she switched it on and scrolled down the increasingly irate messages from her mother.
She’d posted her a letter from outside the train station explaining she was going away to stay with a friend for a while.
When she had some money, she’d go shopping in the local market in Oban, if there was such a thing, and pick up some genuine fakes.
It was already dark, dark and cold, when the train finally pulled into the station with a squeal of breaks. The woman opposite had gotten off at Glasgow and she’d been left to her own devices for what seemed like hours. The sandwich she’d bought earlier had long gone as had the chocolate bar and mints. Now all she longed for was a cup of coffee and bed but there was still the trek up to Castle Brayely, which presumably would be in the middle of nowhere.
Jumping off the train, she threw a friendly smile at the man behind who’d foolishly offered to help with her suitcase while she struggled with her rucksack and bag.
‘What you got in here, luv; the kitchen sink?’
‘No. Just a few of my cookery books.’
‘A cook are you? My wife is a fair good cook herself.’ He smiled, his eyes twinkling back. ‘Have you got someone to meet you, I’d be happy to give you a lift?’
‘I’m good thanks. They said they’d arrange a taxi?’
‘Ah that would be Angus. He’ll be waiting outside, so. Good to meet you, lass.’
She didn’t know what to expect because, despite racking her brains, all she could remember was lots of waterlogged green and marshland. The winding road leading up from the main town was a surprise but the impressive fairy-tale castle rising out of the darkness left her speechless.
Her gaze rolled over the sheer grey brick and a sigh left her lips as her imagination took over. There’d be a grand staircase sweeping down to the Great Hall. She’d be decked out in blue; a long blue chiffon gown with a wasp waist, her cleavage just peeking out the top. Her hair, suddenly blonde again, would be swept back off her face to trail down her back in a riot of curls. Her hand, gently resting on the mahogany banister would pause as her eyes snagged on the man waiting impatiently at the bottom, a man with hair as dark as…
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 18