Once she was done, Emmie turned the knobs smartly, and stepped onto the cheap bathmat at the base of the tub. She reached for her towel which she’d hung on a peg beside the door, and rubbed herself dry. The mirror over the worn marble sink was steamed up when she approached it, so she made a swipe with her hand. The glass made a satisfying squeak beneath her palm.
She then set up her personal care products and plugged in her flat iron and blow dryer. Today, she decided, she would straighten her hair so that it hung like corn silk to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She made quick work of getting ready, slapping on her skin care products, applying a restrained amount of makeup, and styling her golden hair. When she was done, she padded back to her room in her bathrobe and slippers, pajamas draped over her forearm. Her makeup, toiletries and appliances she left in the bathroom. Now that she knew the space was hers alone, there was no need to carry her personal effects to and fro each time.
By eight thirty she was dressed and bounding down the servants’ stairs by the rear corridor to the kitchen. She felt much more alert, and excitement about her first day on the job had put a spring in her step. The heavenly aroma of a home-cooked breakfast quickened her pace.
“Baaaacon,” she drawled when she entered.
Lamb stood over the stove with a spatula in one hand. A full-length apron with green and white stripes protected his brown sweater vest and slacks.
“Good morning, Emmie. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks,” she lied. “Here, let me help you.”
The plates, cups and saucers were visible within the glass-front cupboards, which were painted a creamy yellow. Before Lamb could protest, she got to work setting the bare table. He tossed her an appreciative nod before flipping the frying meat.
“Forks and knives are in there,” he offered, pointing, when Emmie started opening drawers.
“Is there anything else I can help with?”
“No, no. You just sit down. Bacon’s the last thing.”
Turning the contents of the skillet onto a square of paper towel, Lamb patted the grease before sliding the ten russet strips onto a platter waiting on the sideboard. He flipped a switch on the stove to turn off the element, picked up the platter, and brought it to the table.
“What’s this?” Emmie asked, inspecting the other items on the platter.
“Black pudding and haggis.”
Lamb fetched a china cake plate stacked with brown toast. Balancing it in the crook of his elbow, he grasped a waiting tea pot with one hand, and a coffee pot with the other. Emmie rose to help him, but he shook his head.
“I can manage. You stay put.”
“I’ve never had black pudding and haggis before,” she said hesitantly, sitting back down.
“They have a bad reputation across the water, I’m given to understand. But many people like them when they try it.”
Gingerly, Emmie helped herself to a portion, and took a test bite of the haggis first. It was… different. Not quite what she was expecting, but not terrible, either. The black pudding was next. It too was unusual, but far from inedible.
“Well?”
She licked her lips, considering. “If I can separate what it tastes like from what it is, I don’t mind it at all.”
The old man chuckled. “You mean the offal? If you can eat steak and kidney pie, this is no’ much different. But instead of steak, it’s oats.”
“What about sheep’s stomach?”
“There’s no stomach in it. Haggis is simply cooked in a sheep’s stomach.” When she searched the sideboard behind him for the offending item, he smiled. “You won’t find it. This here comes out of a can. Best haggis I’ve had that wasn’t homemade.”
“What about the black pudding? That’s blood, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Aye, it is. Would you like something else, then?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. You know, it really is kind of tasty. Thanks for making it.” She took another bite to demonstrate. It actually was quite good. Salty and rich, with no hint of the metal tang one might expect from something made with blood.
“Would you like coffee or tea?” he inquired. “I made both.”
“Coffee, thanks.” Emmie reached for the pot, and poured. She held the pot up and raised her eyebrows in question.
“Tea for me, please.”
“I had the Starbucks every day on my stopover in Glasgow. It was okay. Not the same as home, though. I knew I’d miss Tims, but I didn’t expect to miss it this much.”
“Tims?”
“Tim Hortons. Our beloved national coffee emporium.”
“The name—does it mean anything?”
“It does, actually. He was a hockey player for our Toronto team, the Maple Leafs, through the fifties and sixties.” She paused, adding sadly, “He was killed in a car accident, in the end.”
“That’s a shame,” Lamb said earnestly.
“It is. Sad story of drinking and driving and not wearing a seatbelt. A sorry way to end for a national treasure.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It was before my time.”
“Things needn’t happen in our lifetime for them to affect us,” he answered sagely.
“I suppose you’re right. I should know, being a history nerd and all, shouldn’t I?”
They ate in silence for a time before Lamb picked up the conversation again.
“I expect you’re looking forward to meeting her ladyship. When does she arrive?” He bit firmly into a triangle of buttered toast.
“About ten.” Emmie’s voice crackled, her nerves jangling at the mention of her employer.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he assured her.
“I hope not. Do I look all right?” She chafed her hands against her wool skirt. It was an above-the-knee piece which she’d matched to a pair of black tights and her black peep-toe booties. A black knit top with three-quarter-length sleeves brought out the chunky necklace of turquoise stones she’d chosen to complete the outfit.
“Oh, aye, fetching,” he answered vaguely. Only the telltale warming of his pale cheeks gave him away.
When they were done, Emmie helped Lamb with the dishes—the “washing up,” as he called it. It was a literal thing. There was no dishwasher at Tullybrae House. They completed the chore in amiable chatter. Once they were done, he noted a few of the chores that awaited him, and suggested that Emmie retreat to the library to wait for Lady Rotherham.
The library was a beautiful room, stately yet modest. It wasn’t half the size of some of the libraries she’d seen in the mansions and castles of Europe, yet the dark wood shelving and the marbled fireplace gave it a quiet grandeur that made her feel very comfortable. A quaint bay window gave her a view of the manicured lawn and hedged gardens at the rear of the house. Beyond them, the Highland hills nudged a slate grey sky.
“Not a soul out there for miles,” she whispered.
Once she’d had her fill of the scenery, she left the window to browse some of the titles on the lower shelves. All of the books were hard-cover, and the majority of them were leather-bound. They were probably centuries old. Books were a particular weakness for Emmie. There was something about the smell of old books, and the feel of their weight in her hands. It was euphoric. Words put to paper by writers who’d lived and died long ago. Hopes and dreams recorded in ink for future generations to read.
Carefully, she tilted one book off its shelf and gripped its leather cover in her hands.
“The Works of the English Poets with Prefaces,” she read, “Biographical and Critical, by Samuel Johnson. Volume the Twenty-Seventh. London: Printed by A. Strathan, seventeen ninety.”
She sat down on the green velvet settee in front of the hearth. Victorian era, she noted for future reference, carved walnut or maybe alder, cameo back. Delicately, she turned the pages of the book, with no more than a fingertip to the edge of each frail sheet. Her eyes scanned words upon words that
had been written more than two hundred years ago. She was so absorbed in the book that she jumped when Clunie leaped his fat body up onto the cushion beside her.
“Oh, hello. What have you been up to this morning, handsome fellow?”
She scratched behind his ears and under his chin. Clunie responded with a rich, warm purr and a sideways flop into her thigh.
With the contented house cat settled beside her, and the thrill of history in her hands, Emmie spent nearly half an hour reading. The chime of the doorbell brought her back to the present.
Her stomach churned as she reshelved the book and walked swiftly to the front door. She arrived at the same time as Lamb, who had a can of furniture polish tucked into the crook of his arm and a dirty rag in his hand. Deftly, Emmie plucked the workaday items from his grasp and slipped them into a nearby vase.
Lamb opened the door to Lady Rotherham, who stood on the stoop outside with a file folder full of papers clasped to her chest.
“Hello Lamb,” she greeted affectionately, stepping through to the entryway. She allowed the old butler to take her shawl and wide-brim floppy hat, then ran her fingers through her chin-length hair, which was dyed a rich shade of red.
“And you must be Emmeline.” The lady swept towards her in a larger-than-life manner. Grasping her firmly by the shoulders, she air-kissed Emmie’s cheeks.
Before Emmie could get out a hello, Lady Rotherham was off, striding down the hall towards the library. “Do be a dear, Lamb, and make us a spot of tea.” Her cultured English accent held only a hint of Scots.
Emmie raised her eyebrows to Lamb, then trotted after the trim, small figure of Lady Rotherham. Reaching the library, she closed the door, and joined the lady who had seated herself on the settee that Emmie had just vacated.
“Oh, shoo, Clunie,” the lady chided, scooting the cat off the seat.
Emmie took the spoon back armchair opposite, and folded her hands expectantly in her lap.
“Well, my dear, I’m happy to have you here.”
“I’m happy to be here. Thank you, your ladyship, for the opportunity.” Feeling a need to make the first overture, she added, “May I ask: Why do you ring the doorbell to your own home?”
The lady laughed, tossing her small head back. “I like you already.” She looked around the library, thinking. “Well, I suppose it’s habit. It’s something Daddy insisted on as soon as Anne-Marie and I got married and moved away. We no longer lived here, you see—if one does not live here, one must ring the doorbell to be let in.”
“Maybe he wanted to give you the guest treatment,” Emmie said charitably.
“Hardly. Putting us in our place, more like. Not that I resent the old darling for it. In the end, the house became mine.”
Sighing elegantly, Lady Rotherham placed the file folder in her hands onto the rosewood end table at her right. She tisked, tracing a centuries-old scar in the surface. “Everything’s an antique, here. This table, for instance. A Victorian reproduction; Louis the Fifteenth; Ormolu mounted.”
“You’re a bit of a historian yourself, I see.”
“I Googled it,” Lady Rotherham deadpanned. “Apparently, there’s another one at La Maison Mont Du Lac. It’s a vineyard outside of Bordeaux, in a town called Pauillac.”
“How… prestigious.” It was all Emmie could think to say. But it seemed to please her new employer.
They were briefly interrupted when Lamb brought in a silver tea service with china cups and saucers.
“How you manage to make tea so quickly, I’ll never know, Lamb.” Lady Rotherham waited for him to place the tray on the low table between them.
Emmie, too, wondered about that. He must have had everything ready in anticipation of her arrival.
“Oh, and Mrs. Lamb’s shortbread cookies. These are legendary around here.” The lady poured herself a cup of tea and helped herself to a buttery white biscuit.
“Your ladyship,” he said, then left the library quietly.
Before she poured her own tea, Emmie sneaked a peak at the bottom of the cup. The mark read “Fine Bone China; Crown Staffordshire; Est. 1801; England.” Lady Rotherham noticed, and winked.
“You’re not on duty just now,” she jested, then took a sip of her tea. “So. Emmeline. How are you liking Tullybrae?”
“It’s just Emmie,” she corrected politely. “Tullybrae is beautiful. Exactly as you described it.”
“You haven’t decided to turn tail and run then, after seeing how much work is ahead of you?”
Emmie smiled knowingly. “It’s not like you didn’t warn me your ladyship.”
“Camille.” Lady Rotherham’s face grew serious. “All kidding aside, I would like to be frank about why I hired you. You know you’re not being paid a salary appropriate to your title.”
Emmie had known. She nodded.
“The fact is, my dear, that I simply cannot afford to hire an experienced curator for the amount of work that needs to be done. No one would take the post if I tried.” She gestured grandly to the air as if all of the potential candidates for curator were hovering in the background.
“I know.” Emmie put her tea cup down; she winced when the delicate china clicked against the equally delicate saucer. “Professor McCall went over all this with me. I know what I’m getting into. It is a lot of work, and the pay is not comparable to what I would expect if I were to be offered the curator position at, say, the Museo Del Prado. But then again I would never be offered the curator position at the Museo Del Prado or anywhere like it.” She knew she was being handed an opportunity to gain experience, and she appreciated it for what it was.
Lady Rotherham beamed. “Oh, good. I was worried old Boomer hadn’t given you much to go on.”
Emmie stared. “Who?”
“Oh, Boomer is Ethan McCall’s nickname from way back at UCL. He spoke so highly of you when he put your name forward for the position. He thought it was right up your alley.”
“Boomer.” Emmie snickered. “Professor McCall is always so serious, I can’t imagine him as a ‘Boomer’.”
“Yes, well, he can be a bit stuffy when he’s working, can’t he? But put a scotch in his hand and he can let loose with the best of them.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “When you see him next, you will have to ask him about how he got that name. I won’t tell you, but it involves a sheep, purple dye, and a value pack of glow-in-the-dark condoms.”
Emmie choked on her tea.
“Right then,” Lady Rotherham continued, “as far as the work goes, I’m sure you don’t need me to go into detail with that. But I will say that I do want everything catalogued. Everything, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. Do you have any idea where you might start?”
“Um—” Emmie eased her teacup back onto the saucer with exaggerated delicacy. “I think it will be to take valuable antiques like these out of rotation for everyday use.”
“These aren’t the most valuable ones we have, dear. For Lamb, these are the everyday alternatives. Now, I believe Boomer mentioned, I’m thinking of turning Tullybrae into a museum now that Daddy’s gone. Maybe a hotel, too. I haven’t decided yet.”
“He did mention.”
“Oliver—that’s Lord Rotherham—wants me to sell it. But I just can’t bring myself to do it, not even to the National Trust. It was my childhood home, you see. My younger sister and I spent our youth here.”
“I understand. It’s hard to let go when you love something so much.”
Lady Rotherham smiled sadly. “That’s why Lamb is still here, you know. I love him too much to let him go. Oliver tried to get him to retire, but he wouldn’t hear of it. And I didn’t have the heart to support Oliver—which, believe me, I heard about once we were home.” She took another bite of her biscuit. “I do worry about him having a fall when he’s here alone. You wouldn’t mind terribly keeping an eye on him, would you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Well then, perhaps I should tell you what you can expect the
se next few months.” The lady flipped open the top cover of her file folder. Within were what looked like contracts, which she fanned out for closer inspection. “I’ve been a very busy woman, contacting the networks.”
“The networks?” Emmie leaned in to take a look.
“Yes. I heard back from two. Stannisfield Films is picking us up for an episode of Digging Scotland with Dr. Iain Northcott—and you’d best be prepared for that one; they want to start digging by the end of the week so they don’t get snowed out.”
“Digging?”
“Didn’t Boomer tell you? There’s a legend of a burial on the property—a grave, murder victim from God knows when. The team came out a few weeks ago and did a scan with ground penetrating radar. They found a disturbance out in the east field that might corroborate a burial, so they’re coming to film an episode. I’ve already had my interview with Iain.” She primped her unnaturally red hair.
“So they’ll be filming here?” Emmie felt a little faint. Professor McCall hadn’t mentioned anything about filming.
“Yes, but it shouldn’t affect you at all. They won’t need you for the camera. The most you’ll have to do is help Lamb see them off each night, and make sure they’re not damaging the property at all. You probably won’t have anything to worry about there, though. They are archaeologists, after all.”
Emmie nodded vaguely. “And the second network?”
“Yes,” Lady Rotherham nodded. “Well… you see… how to say this? Perhaps I should be totally honest. Tullybrae is haunted.” When Emmie’s eyebrows shot up, Lady Rotherham explained. “It’s nothing to worry about. They’re nice ghosts. I grew up with them, and they’ve never done anything to me. One is the sixth Countess of Cranbury, who died in sixteen ninety-one. She won’t bother you much. The most you’ll catch is a glimpse of her, or perhaps a whiff of her perfume. Rose—you’ll smell it. And the second, we think, is the ghost of a little girl named Clara. She’s the only child’s death we have registered at Tullybrae. In seventeen eighty-three. Tuberculosis. She’s not harmful, but she likes to play. You may hear giggling, or things might fall off shelves. That kind of thing.”
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 3