‘It’s impressive, isn’t it? Built in the sixteenth century by the first Lord Brayely, it stands guard over the entrance of the bay like some stern parent. It’s a right shame you’re seeing it in the dark though. The view over the bay is as far as the eye can see.’
‘What’s the other building,’ she asked, her head turned to the unusual structure just visible through the cloud of rain.
‘That’s McCaig’s Tower, well worth a visit but only in daylight. You can never be too careful, a pretty lass like you,’ he said, pulling up outside and unloading her bags from the back. He shook his head when she tried to offer him some money. ‘You put that away. Mr Todd will see me right.’
‘Mr Todd?’
‘Aye, Mr Todd. The butler.’
He frowned as she made to walk up the stone steps. ‘You’d better follow me, lass. The servant’s entrance is round the back. You’ll be giving Mr Todd a fit if he finds you using the front door. New to service are you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, take it from me - if Mr Todd says jump, you don’t ask how high. You don’t need to know how high. You just jump and carry on jumping until he tells you to stop. His word is law up here but he’s fair with it, mind. Just do as he tells you and you’ll be fine.’
She’d be fine, would she? Her heart constricted in her throat as the reality of what she was about to do finally struck home. This wasn't a game anymore and, if she was found out, there’d be hell to pay and it wouldn’t come from just her parents. She squared her shoulders and took the case off him with a sweet smile.
‘Thank you for everything. I’ll take it from here.’
Chapter Three
The rain of yesterday had disappeared, leaving a bright sunny morning with only a slight mist lingering over the far off islands of Kerrera, Lismore and Mull. Not that Tansy saw any of it. She’d been called at 6am with a mug of weak tea and she hadn’t stopped since.
Last night was but a distant memory of half-finished sketches of life below stairs but she didn’t have time to do more than save them up for later. After a briefer than brief tour of the kitchen along with the pantry and larder, there was bread to make from her favourite sourdough starter she’d been painstakingly fed ever since the Michelin chef, Louis de Gerai, had shared his special mix with her in Paris, all those years ago. She was then thrown in the deep end with preparing breakfast for all the live-in staff. After serving up six steaming bowls of porridge, she set about cooking a mountain of bacon and scrambled eggs, all served with fresh bread still warm from the oven.
With the pans put to soak in the large ceramic butler sink, she set about laying a tray for Lady Brayely who, apart from Sunday’s always had breakfast in bed. There was no porridge on the dainty tray with the pristine white linen cloth and single stemmed pink rose. There was only freshly squeezed orange juice and toast with butter curls and homemade marmalade, thankfully readily available on the middle shelf of the larder along with pots of blackcurrant jam and lemon curd.
It was nearly mid-morning by the time she managed to sit down with a pot of tea and toast, not that she got much time to drink it. As soon as she’d raised the mug to her lips she’d been summoned upstairs to the second sitting room to meet her ladyship.
With a quick look in the small mirror by the baize door that separated the servant’s quarters from the rest of the house, she followed Mr Todd’s straight back into the hall.
The Dowager Viscountess, Lady Brayely, whilst not a carbon copy of her mother was of the same type, a type Tansy had been manipulating for years. But, in this pale yellow, south-facing room, she suddenly realised she had no power here. All the power was sitting behind the bow-fronted Regency desk with not a hair out of place on her carefully blow-dried bouffant-topped head. Here, she was less than the pale yellow rug by her feet and certainly a lot less than the two terriers stretched out in front of the fireplace.
Dropping a small curtesy, she waited, but not for long.
‘Ah yes, Miss, er, Smith. It is Miss, I take it?’
‘Yes, Your Ladyship. Tansy Smith.’ Now she wished she’d come up with something a little more believable than Smith but it would have to do.
‘Well, Miss Smith, welcome to Brayely Castle. Todd has, I’m sure, shown you the ropes?’
‘Yes Mam.’
‘Work hard and, if the bread this morning is any indication of your cooking skills, I’m sure we’ll be delighted. I’m out this evening but I’d like a nice piece of fish for lunch. I’m also holding a dinner party this Saturday for twelve, if you could have a sample menu worked out by tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Mam.’
‘That will be all.’
Lady Brayely waved her hand dismissively, the height of rudeness but Tansy headed for the door all the same, her mind awash with meal ideas.
After lunch she was taken on a tour of the house and gardens by the housekeeper, Miss Campbell. She wasn’t allowed in any of the main bedrooms on the first floor, only shown where they were in case she ever had to deliver trays. The second floor was taken up with bare rooms put aside for the nursery and playroom. There was also a billiard room and mini cinema as Lady Brayely couldn’t abide noise. The servants’ quarters were on the next floor and then the attics, which remained locked, as did the doors to the six turrets.
‘We don’t go up there much, only to sweep occasionally and check for birds although the view is amazing from the top, or so I’m told.’
Tansy looked enquiringly at the quiet woman by her side, clad in plain grey with a bunch of keys hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
‘I’m scared of heights.’ She headed back down the stairs, her flat pumps gliding across the polished wooden floor with scarcely a sound. ‘I’ll show you the herb garden and the vegetable garden, that is if Jock isn’t around.’
‘Who’s Jock?’
‘Jock is the head gardener and the bane of my life. He may have worked here since he was a boy but it’s as if he owns every carrot and sprout. You just be giving your vegetable order to Mr Todd and he’ll see you get what you want. There’s chickens too so there’s always fresh eggs. The butcher delivers three times a week but if there’s anything special you’d like, although I do pride myself on keeping a well-stocked larder.’
‘I can see that, Miss Campbell. I was thinking of using those sausages tonight as her ladyship is out. What about a nice toad in the hole with some lemon meringue for afters?’
‘That will do just fine. I’m not sure when his Lordship will be back but Master Tor likes a nice well-cooked sausage.’
‘Master Tor?’
‘Yes. You know. His lordship - I can’t seem to get my tongue around it yet,’ she said, pushing the heavy wooden side door open before leading the way over the gravelled path to the back, and the gardens beyond. ‘I’ve known the master since he was in breeches running amok, scaring the chickens.’
Tansy blinked at this new bit of information although it didn’t do much to clear matters in her head. She’d been reluctant to ask about Hector, seeing as he was probably still up in London for their date. She wondered what he’d thought when she hadn’t turned up, just as she wondered what excuse her parents had come up with. But these thoughts were only fleeting; she’d been far too busy getting her head round this new life to think about him more than that.
‘You mean Lord Brayely?’
‘Aye that I do. The new Lord Brayely. Lord Hector Brayely but he’s been called Tor since he was a wee bairn. His father, God rest his soul, was lost to us a little over a year ago. Drowned on the Loch he was; a great tragedy.’
It was all very nineteenth century with ‘master this’ and ‘lady that’ but who was she to question any of it? She couldn’t begin to guess at the staffing costs what with the butler and housekeeper, not to mention the live-in ladies maid. They didn’t have a housekeeper at Nettlebridge Manor but then again the manor only had eight bedrooms. The castle must have twice that number and all ready in case guests decided to
stop over at the last minute. Apart from Nanny and Hodd, and the woman that came in from the nearby village of Amberley, they managed between them. Her mother was a great one for outside caterers and, on the rare occasion they had more than a couple of guests, that’s what she did.
Wandering around the neat rows of early potatoes, she introduced herself to the head gardener. She could see for herself she wouldn’t be allowed loose amongst his carefully weeded borders. Standing by the side, a pipe in one hand and a spade in the other, he looked more like a beggar in his grubby denims and patched jacket but there was a twinkle lurking somewhere under those bushy eyebrows as he followed Miss Campbell’s retreating back with his eyes.
Stepping across, careful to avoid stepping anywhere near anything that might be a plant she held out a hand and introduced herself with a smile.
‘English are yeah?’
‘That’s right. Just outside London. I don’t know much about living in the country or growing vegetables so I’m relying on you to help me with what’s in season, Mr Jock. There’s a dinner party on Saturday, what do you recommend?’
That evening she served up steaming plates of toad in the hole with fresh coleslaw and rocket salad and was pleased to note the quiet smiles of satisfaction on the faces of the three remaining members of staff sitting around the table, especially when they spotted the lemon meringue pie and jug of fresh cream for afters.
Sitting down opposite Mary Doyle, Mrs Brayely’s maid/secretary, and between Mr Todd and Miss Campbell, she let the conversation flow around her. There was talk about the dinner party in two days’ time and who’d been invited.
‘I posted out the invites earlier,’ said Mary, in between mouthfuls.
‘Go on, do tell? The McKay’s, I’ll bet. She was around at theirs last month and she’ll want to show off her new cook,’ said Miss Campbell.
‘Yes, the McKay’s and that daughter of theirs. She’s back from that cruise.’
‘God, she’s awful. If there was ever a woman with her hooks into the master its Cassandra McKay.’
‘Now, now, that’s just gossip,’ interrupted Mr Todd. ‘It’s nothing to do with us who his lordship goes out with.’
‘Hmm. You won’t be saying that when she makes him sell up and spend the year on the Riviera; snooty piece and a trouble maker to boot. Who else Mary?’
‘Well, there’s the Houston’s just back from their trip to The Med and then the Marshalls. She always invites them, and then the vicar and his wife. But she’s only included them to make up numbers,’ she added for Tansy’s benefit. ‘She’s asked for the rubies from the bank and I’m to press her black.’
‘That’s enough!’ came the now not-so-quiet voice of Mr Todd. ‘Thank you, Miss Smith for such a delightful supper. You’ll have to excuse Mary, she’s still very young. Here at Castle Brayely we do not gossip.’
‘Yes, Mr Todd,’ trying not the laugh at the feel of Mary’s foot kicking her ankle. ‘Anyone for some shortbread?’
She spent the remainder of the evening sitting at the scrubbed pine kitchen table thumbing through the selection of dog-eared cookery books she’d brought with her. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told the taxi driver about the contents of her suitcase. Apart from jeans and the clothes she’d bought in Harrods there’d been little room except for her books and as for her rucksack… Instead of the usual truckload of make-up and jewellery befitting a lady, she’d used the majority of the room for a Tupperware box full of yeast.
She’d decided on a Scottish themed menu using the home grown produce available. There was one thing she wouldn’t compromise on and that was the inclusion of the seasonal vegetables Jock had shown her earlier. The red cabbage looked delicious while the Jerusalem artichokes were just about ready. The fact she’d never had to cook one was another matter but one she wouldn’t let bother her more than that.
The clock was chiming midnight when she finally set aside her pen and stretched. It was all very well feeling useful for a change but it came at a cost. She still hadn’t recovered from the train journey and, with a full day of work under her belt, all she was fit for was bed.
Heading for the Aga she placed a small copper pan on top, half-filled with milk. A mug of cocoa sitting in the comfy chair by the stove would be just the thing to help her drift off to sleep.
The sound of a door banging followed by a muffled curse jerked her out of her sleepy state. Taking a shaky breath she tried to think up one thought that didn’t shriek out burglar. She was all alone on the ground floor with no one either awake or within shouting distance. Her eyes shifted to the poker conveniently placed next to the grate and, before she even knew how brave she was, she’d grabbed it with both hands and was creeping towards the scullery and the noise.
Her first thought was he must be a very inept burglar. Either that or he wasn’t really a proper burglar; just some chancer seeing what he could pilfer on his way home from the pub. Well, whatever or whoever he was, he was in for a shock.
She was a stealth warrior, she told herself. She was a stealth warrior sneaking up on her prey, and she would use everything in her power to stop him laying his thieving mitts on any of Lady Brayely’s silver. She struggled to suppress the sudden hysterical laughter building in the back of her throat as she remembered the feelings of inadequacy and desperation she’d felt in Rome last year when someone had managed to con their way into her hotel suite. Luckily she’d been out and, apart from her clothes, there hadn’t been anything of great value to steal being as she wasn’t one for diamonds and pearls. But just knowing someone had rifled through her things was bad enough. Just knowing someone had invaded her personal space had her racing back home with, if not her tail between her legs, then her feathers decidedly ruffled. That’s why she couldn’t believe what had happened to her in London. She couldn’t believe one of her friends would have spiked her drink, but it was too much of a coincidence for all the paparazzi to converge outside The Golden Potato nightclub in Chelsea. Were they even friends? She’d known them for fifteen years but did she really know them?
Standing there with the poker raised she didn’t see the dark shadow; the extremely large and threatening dark shadow. She didn’t see anything except her own demons from the past.
Chapter Four
‘Who the hell are you?’
Growing up in Brayely Castle as an only child amongst all the grown-ups, he’d spent most of his time fishing in the loch with his imaginary friends.
He had many imaginary friends mainly because they protected him from the ghosts that roamed the castle, especially at night. Not that he believed in ghosts more than that. The creaking and groaning just under his window came from the shutters mounted high on old rusty fixings which, if not as old as the castle, were certainly long overdue an upgrade. The cold wind screaming through the corridor when he pattered back from the antiquated bathroom in his Noddy slippers was just that; wind. It wasn’t some spectral being out to scare him witless but that didn’t stop him from peering over his shoulder as his walk turned into a run.
When he was a little older, he’d searched his father’s library for everything and anything he could find on the topic of ghosts. From what he could gather, as he sat curled up in one of the sofa’s, his Star Wars clad feet dangling over the arm, was that ghosts didn’t exist, or if they did no one had actually proven it. As an impressionable ten year old, he didn’t want to think about the subject more than that. It wasn’t that he’d ever actually seen one. He’d no more seen a ghost than he’d caught that twenty foot pike in the lake his father kept moaning about every time he returned with an empty bucket. If he’d tried to catch it once, he’d tried a thousand times until that last time…
He didn’t like to think about that last time and the lonely rowing boat abandoned in the middle of the Loch. They’d found him eventually washed up on the side of the bank. A heart attack, a massive heart attack that he wouldn’t have known anything about until it was too late, was the only good thing to be had
from the episode. It would have had to have been massive to topple his bear-like father, a man he’d thought invincible. He’d grown up then. A little late for a thirty-three year old, but a grieving mother in addition to the sudden responsibility of the estate certainly aged a man well beyond his years.
He was now a year older and ten years more serious but that didn’t mean he believed in ghosts. The wind still whistled up the corridor and the shutters still rattled but, just as he’d discarded novelty footwear in favour of dull brown moccasins, he’d also discarded his night-time fears. In truth, he probably owed his love of discovery to his former ghost hunting self. All those hours hidden away in the library, he’d quickly moved from the paranormal to the normal, devouring quicker than chocolate buttons the rows upon rows of heavy tomes his grandfather and then his father had owned. He believed in the benefit of research. He believed in unravelling the truth and finding new truths from an assimilation of often previously unconnected facts but that didn’t mean he believed, or would ever believe, in ghosts.
So, if he didn’t believe in ghosts, he’d very much like to know who the pale woman standing in front of him brandishing what looked very much like one of the crested cast-iron pokers dotted around the place was. A thief? A visitor? Or, his eyes wandering over her denim clad person and scruffy trainers, a member of staff? God forbid!
He’d have to speak to his mother about employing anaemic and, it must be said, unstable maids if the glint in her eye was anything to go by. She looked in need of a square meal or two in addition to a week lying somewhere hot with a Campari and soda in her hand, his attention again drawn to the poker and the pointy end still pointing in his direction. Of course, he wasn’t scared of her or of what she was clutching in her tight fists being as he was probably twice her size. He wasn't scared of her but the sight of her worried him all the same. There was something about her, something just outside his range of vision like one of those words just on the tip of his tongue even as he felt something heave in his chest. Either he was about to have a heart attack or he was attracted to her, more than attracted as he spent precious seconds examining his feelings before slamming the door shut on any emotion apart from curiosity.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 19