The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  Glancing up at her face he wondered for the first time if she might be scared? After all, he was far from catwalk material dressed as he was in head to foot black leather and, to her, he was a stranger. He wanted to let her off the hook, he really did. However he was quite keen to see what this ghost of a girl was made of; this ghost of a girl with eyes trailing memories of clear summer skies in their wake.

  ‘I asked you what you were doing here.’

  ‘No, you asked me who the hell I was. Right back at you mister.’

  ‘Actually it’s not mister,’ his voice soft. ‘It’s professor.’

  ‘Really? Professor of what exactly?’ One hand now on her hip, the other still in possession of that ruddy poker.

  ‘Mycology.’

  ‘My what?’ She frowned, her nose wrinkled up in thought. He liked her nose.

  ‘Is that something to do with bacteria?’

  ‘No, that would be bacteriology, or the broader heading of microbiology, if you’d prefer?’

  ‘I’d prefer if you’d shut up with all the facts and, instead, tell me what the hell you’re doing in my kitchen well past midnight?’

  ‘Your kitchen is it, lass?’ he replied, slipping into the textured brogue of his forefathers. ‘Wait until I tell her ladyship the hired help are getting ideas above their station,’ his eyes insolent in their renewed study of her face and then her body before finally meeting her gaze. ‘You do know Lady Brayely, my mother, don’t you?’

  He’d have felt sorry for her then if he wasn't trying to work out how someone so pale to start with could lose all colour completely. If he wasn't tired from his journey after that aborted attempt to meet the woman his dear mother had set her heart on as a daughter-in-law, he’d have let her down gently. If she thought it her kitchen, presumably she was the new cook in a long line of cooks and it never did to upset the cook; one never knew what they might do to the food before it arrived on your plate.

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ she countered; her frown back.

  ‘Oh, I really wouldn’t go there, er, Miss-?’

  ‘Smith.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, Miss Smith, if you could drop the poker I’d be most obliged. I’m tired, hungry and in no mood for mind games with the staff. Go to bed. Mr Todd will answer all your questions in the morning,’ he ended, heading for the larder with a dismissive flick of his hand.

  No one knew more than him the difficulties his mother had in getting any kind of help this far north but Smith? He’d have to have a word with her in the morning and remind her the last time she’d employed someone off the street, they’d been found at the bottom of the hill with a sack full of her collection of priceless Crown Derby Imari porcelain. He’d bet his Mitsubishi she didn’t have a reference to her name or a clue how to run a kitchen…

  He eyed the fresh loaf of bread with surprise as he tried to remember how long it had been since there’d been anything other than supermarket sliced white at the castle? Probably six months, ever since Mrs Brodie had decided to hang up her apron and retire to Inverness. He’d make himself a cheese sandwich with a large whisky on the side while he tried to forget the creamy texture of her skin against those celestial blue, almost grey, eyes. He could forget himself in those eyes although, by the pull of her mouth and the sound of the poker being hurled back into the coal bucket he was easily reminded he was off women, now more than ever if the last twenty four hours were anything to go by.

  He should have stood up to his mother. He should have said what he’d wanted to. There was no room for a woman in his life. Work was his mistress just as work was his bedfellow. They were more trouble than they were worth with their tantrums and demands. Apart from that one early hiccup, he’d managed to avoid the lure of a fine pair of eyes or the pull of softly rounded curves, his mind scuttling back to the sight of her slim form with bumps where bumps were meant to be. He shook his head. The one thing he’d been unable to avoid was the tear-stained pleas from his recently bereaved mother.

  She loved him and, now there was only the two of them, he’d been spending more and more of his time up here managing the estate as an excuse to keep an eye on her. The excuse he’d given for resigning from his full-time teaching post at Edinburgh University was only partly true. Yes, he’d be able to finally finish his book on the role of mould in the origins of the species just as he’d have much more time to pursue his own research into one particular mould. But he’d managed to do both, up to a fashion, during the long holidays. The truth was, he was increasingly worried about leaving her alone. That and the renewed interest of his female students into the state of his personal life now he was a lord left him handing in his notice with little or no regret. He still gave the odd lecture and still retained use of his flat on campus but he was now his own master.

  ‘There’s a nice piece of Mull cheddar or Lanark Blue if you’d prefer? Did you want your bread toasted or?’

  ‘What?’ He receded backwards, bending his head to avoid banging his head on the door frame. ‘How did you know I was looking for…?’

  ‘Cheese? I have two brothers. They’re always looking for cheese, although there’s some toad in the hole left if you’d prefer?’ she added, pulling the door of the Aga open. ‘I was going to take it down to Jock in the morning but I can always rustle up some more. Apparently he likes toad in the hole.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does.’ His eyes wide at the sight of the still puffed up batter glistening with fat sausages. ‘That looks wonderful. Join me in a whisky?’ he added, pulling a bottle and a couple of glasses off the shelf and placing them on the table. ‘I really do hate eating alone,’ which was a lie if ever there was one. He had no thoughts on whether he had company or not but mostly he was quite happy eating with a book propped open on the table in front of him. He’d only said it as a sort of apology because, funnily enough, he felt he owed her one. She’d probably, for all her bravado with the poker, been scared witless at being disturbed so late. And then his train of thought led him to think: what did a cook need to do at midnight? The kitchen looked pretty much as usual with its heavy pine cupboards and plate racks full of freshly washed dishes so if it wasn't cooking… His eyes landed on the papers lined up beside his glass, papers that worryingly looked like dinner party menus.

  ‘Just a small one then, it’s not my favourite.’

  ‘You haven’t tried a glass of Oban single malt then, I’m guessing?’

  She’d placed a steaming plate in front of him with a couple of ramekin dishes on the side, one with tomato ketchup and the other mustard. There was also a plate of freshly cut bread that would do any doorstop proud. He smiled at the ketchup before dipping the end of his fork in. ‘You’re the first cook I know that will allow this stuff on the table willingly.’

  ‘My brothers eat it with everything, sir.’

  He frowned ‘I see they’ve trained you well, er, Miss Smith.’ He caught her eye. ‘Is there another part to your name or should I insist that you call me Lord Brayely? My name is Tor.’

  ‘It’s Tansy, Tansy Smith.’

  ‘That’s unusual. Tanacetum vulgare from the aster family if my memory serves me correct. Good as an insect repellent but toxic in large quantities,’ he added with a quirk of his eyebrow. ‘Are you toxic in large quantities, Tansy?’ His eyes flickering back to the poker. ‘Good meal though, I certainly can’t fault your cooking, and as for the bread… What yeast did you use?’

  ‘What yeast did I use?’ her reply faint.

  ‘Yes, yeast woman. I’m a mycologist, remember? As a cook you’ll know that yeast is a fungus? The difference is easy to see in the cellular formation, with yeasts not having the filament strands found in the more popular types like mushrooms for example,’ he said, waving his fork in the air before diving in to spear the final sausage. ‘Of course, yeasts and fungi are only a fleeting passion. I’m a mould man really.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I’ll give him toxic in large doses,’ she mutt
ered under her breath.

  ‘What was that, lass?’

  ‘Nothing Mr Todd. Just talking to myself.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. Breakfast in half an hour?’ he added, taking the keys to the cellar from the hook behind the door.

  She’d walked into the sparkling kitchen a couple of hours ago, expecting to find a pile of dirty dishes waiting for her, the same pile she’d seen scattered across the table when she’d finally left him to the rest of his whisky. He’d washed up and even put away his dishes in addition to hanging the tea towel by the Aga to dry.

  Slamming the dough out on the freshly floured board she started kneading and pummelling the mixture, all the time imagining it was his neck under her hands as she squeezed and then stretched the sticky mass before finally shaping it into recognisable loaves.

  She placed the trays by the Aga and remembered that neck and the tight cords of muscle disappearing under the collar of his jumper when he’d finally thrown away his jacket. He was built like a well-fed tree trunk and, if he hadn’t turned out to be an arrogant son of a bitch, she’d have found herself drawn to him.

  Up until now she’d favoured slight, effeminate types with a wardrobe from Tom Ford and hand-crafted shoes from Italy. But there was something about the way his thick wavy hair, as dark as a raven’s wing, complemented his piercing blue eyes, eyes that seemed to follow her every move with a supercilious glint. His skin was dark too, almost swarthy and a little weather-beaten, if truth be known. Here was a man who didn’t bother what he looked like if the state of his holed Guernsey was anything to go by. Here was a man who wouldn’t dream of putting anything on his face other than shaving foam and perhaps the odd dab of aftershave as she recalled the slight scent of musk with a slight tint of man when she’d placed the plate in front of him.

  Time was shifting under her feet and she only had ten minutes to finish the porridge before the staff descended for their breakfast. Lifting the heavy skillet, blackened with both age and use, she added oil before layering slices of thick bacon against the glistening surface. She was pleased she’d come, more than pleased as she reminded herself to text Nanny just to let her know all was well. It was the best thing she could have done.

  If she’d met him across the table at the luncheon party her parents had arranged, she’d have been fooled by his looks. He had manners, good manners in addition to looks to burn and she’d have been fooled into falling for him. She’d have probably married him too, if his behaviour had continued. She’d have married the most conceited, egotistical, selfish tosspot she’d ever had the misfortune to come across. The only good thing about him was his looks and his skill with a dish mop – not enough by a long way as she gave the porridge a final stir.

  She’d thrown together potato cakes earlier and now, with the bacon well under way all that was left were the eggs; the eggs she’d gathered first thing when the dawn wasn’t even a distant golden glimmer on the horizon. Her mother would have disowned her if she’d seen her bundled up in an old mac and even older wellies she’d found by the back door. But here in the Highlands, fashion didn’t matter as much as comfort or at least it didn’t when she was seeing to the chickens. She’d thought she’d see quite a bit of polite society coming and going during her stay but, now she knew she wasn’t going to touch Lord Brayely with anything approaching a wedding band on her finger or a veil on her head, she wasn't sure just how much she’d get to experience. There was Saturday’s dinner party to organise but after that she’d probably make up some excuse and race back to London.

  Staring up at the clear dark sky, she suddenly felt sad at the thought of leaving. There was something here in this lush green landscape with the only sound coming from the crunch of frost underfoot that was penetrating through the wall of the well-bred young lady she’d surrounded herself with like a shield. Here, society didn’t matter. Here, what she looked like, as long as she got the job done, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered apart from the small role she had to play in the continued running of the castle on the well-oiled wheels Lady Brayely demanded. The ideal would be if Lord Brayely disappeared in a puff of smoke, back to wherever it was he’d come from, leaving her to carry on just as she was doing until she got fed up with the solitude and loneliness.

  Up until now she’d always been surrounded by friends. People she’d allowed into her inner circle. People she’d trusted to keep her confidence while they happily allowed her to pay for everything. But after recent events perhaps they weren’t really friends? Perhaps they just viewed her as a cashpoint? There was no perhaps about it.

  Heading across the lawn to the chicken coop situated through the arch at the back of the vegetable patch, her mind was full to the brim of flickering pictures from her recent past. All the time she’d wasted on impromptu shopping trips. The summer trips to the Caribbean followed by the must have winter ski trips, always staying at the most expensive resorts. In truth, all she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was to be left alone to her own devices but they hadn’t let her. They’d wanted to party with a capital P and, as she was the only one with enough money, they’d told her exactly what she’d wanted to hear.

  Just one more drinky. One more pair of Manolo Blahnik’s and you can never have too many Hermès handbags, dahling!

  But here, opening the wooden door just as Jock had shown her, all that mattered was the sight of twelve eggs nestling in the straw. If farming and the like was this easy she might even take it up seriously, although she couldn’t imagine her parents eating any eggs other than those that came pre-packed with the Waitrose logo on the top.

  ‘His Lordship. He’s back. Came in late last night by the sound of that bike of his purring up the drive. You’d better cook some extra bacon. Our Master Tor likes a nice bit of well-done bacon,’ Mr Todd said, walking into the kitchen and heading for the sink in the corner to wash his hands before joining the rest of the staff.

  She smiled to herself while she added this snippet of information to the virtual catalogue she was creating in her head.

  Tall, dark and handsome professor; into mould, whisky and bacon seeks like-minded woman for fungal frenzy.

  She’d pass this time, thanks all the same.

  ‘I’ll get right to it, Mr Todd. He might like some mushrooms too?’ she added, thinking of the basket she’d seen in the larder earlier, as she carried the heavy pot across the room.

  ‘I’m sure he would. Her ladyship has also approved your menu,’ he said from his position at the head of the table.

  She felt everyone’s eyes land on her as he continued speaking. ‘I can’t help telling you I was a bit afraid, you being a Sassenach and all. If there’d been any salmon or clootie dumplings you’d have been on the next train out.’

  Tansy nearly dropped the bowl she was holding. As it was, it nearly toppled out of her palm. Correcting it with a nervous hand she finally managed to lift off the lid and start ladling porridge.

  ‘Is that right?’ Her eyes firmly fixed on the pot. ‘I’d never have chosen salmon and clootie dumplings. I’m not sure I even know what a clootie dumpling is,’ she added, lying through her teeth as she continued passing out bowls into waiting hands. She hadn’t known what they were until last night when she’d added them as the ideal dessert for a Scottish dinner party. It was still only March, after all and the hearty fruit-laden dumplings had sounded just the thing to see the guests on their way. But that’s all she knew. The lord of the castle obviously knew better.

  She got that he was trying to help, she really did. He must have spotted the menu on the table after she’d left him to his whisky, and had decided to put his own stamp on her carefully thought out celebration of all things Scottish. What he’d done by the sounds of it was tear her carefully penned efforts to shreds and start again with some concoction all of his own. The only problem was how the hell was she meant to know what to cook if she didn’t have a copy? Telepathy?

  ‘Her ladyship likes good plain cooking,’ he continued. ‘
That rhubarb crumble was a stroke of genius. It’s the master’s favourite; always has been, ever since he was a wee bairn.’

  ‘Oh, I love rhubarb crumble,’ Mary interrupted. ‘Reminds me of me ma’s cooking back in Dublin. Go on, what else will there be?’

  ‘Well let’s see,’ she said, resting her chin in her hands. ‘I’d really like Mr Todd’s opinion on where best to buy the er…’

  ‘Trout or the scallops, lass?’

  ‘Both, Mr Todd. Both. There’s nothing like a nice bit of trout with scallop.’

  She knew she’d got it wrong by the look on his face but it was too late to do anything other than brave it out.

  ‘Ach, you haven’t been forgetting so soon? Your scallops on brioche sound wonderful, but her ladyship prefers her trout just baked with almonds, plain and simple. Don’t be going changing a thing now will you?’ His eyes on her face before throwing a look across at Miss Campbell.

  ‘Er, no, Mr Todd. Scallops with brioche, fresh trout with almonds and rhubarb crumble, got it. I’ll make some shortbread and perhaps a few chocolates to go with the coffee?’

  He nodded his approval, pushing his bowl out the way before reaching for the toast while she dished out the potato cakes with fried eggs on top and a sliver of bacon, before starting on Lady Brayely’s breakfast tray.

  ‘What time will his lordship want his breakfast?’