I inhaled, sending a deep wave of mint and fresh grass coursing into my lungs. I skipped down a set of steps, the faint tinkling of water from an angel-topped fountain ringing out like tiny bells.
The grass sprang beneath my jewelled ballet flats and I lifted my face upwards to feel the sun’s rays as they battled their way through a bank of stubborn cloud. I kept strolling aimlessly, ducking and weaving between stray branches until, without warning, the Carmichael mausoleum rose before me, its ornate stonework sharp against the sky.
A sudden image of Hugo sprang into my mind, twizzling his grey moustache and declaring, ‘It’s a good day for it.’
I swallowed hard and blinked furiously, taking a few more steps before suddenly darting behind the nearest tree in alarm.
Vaughan was standing with his back to me at the mausoleum entrance, clutching in one hand what appeared to be a single white rose and a couple of thistles bound with a tartan ribbon. The combination of flowers matched those in the Carmichael family crest, carved into the stone above the mausoleum door. He bowed his head. ‘These are for you, Mum,’ he said softly, placing the posy against the grey arched door.
I pulled myself back behind the tree trunk, my heart thudding. Should I reveal I was there? Somehow, I didn’t think my appearance would be appreciated. I guiltily stole another glance.
‘You always used to say you were a rose between two thorns,’ Vaughn said.
I smiled sadly to myself.
His deep voice was laced with sorrow. ‘I’m really trying not to be as much of a dick, Mum. Oops. Sorry. I should have said “idiot”, shouldn’t I?’ My eyes widened as a faint chuckle rumbled from him. ‘I can just see your disapproving face right now.’
I angled my head just a little further out to see him.
‘Love you, Mum,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We miss you.’
I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling strangely cold despite the dappled rays of the sun snaking down through the branches above my head.
As Vaughan continued to stand there, his long jean-clad legs firmly planted on the ground, I quietly padded away before picking up a swifter pace once I reached the first roll of lawn. Soon I was a blur of white cotton shirt and black capri pants as I headed back, Vaughan’s heartfelt words to his late mother circling in my head.
Fifteen
‘Well, what do you think?’ Ben Wallace said.
The local carpenter who Hugo had organise for the tea room’s woodwork, gestured proudly with a calloused hand.
I couldn’t help but let out an appreciative gasp. The cake counter he’d custom-built for the tea room was a solid oak-panelled design, painted a glossy white. I’d suggested it would be a nice touch to acknowledge the Carmichael family crest, so Ben had recruited the artistic talents of his graphic-designer daughter.
She had adorned the top edge of the counter with a row of painted thistles, their prickly beauty and green-veined leaves popping against the snow-like background. They ran the whole length of the counter, drawing your eyes to the glass panel directly above. This was where all the cakes would be displayed. On imagining it filled with cherry-studded scones, carrot cake smeared with buttery icing, and glazed muffins, my stomach fizzed with excitement. I smiled to myself as I visualised our cake of the day taking pride of place in the centre—perhaps a glistening salted caramel cake, or a lemon and thyme olive oil cake, with lemon rind and white icing . . .
‘I love it,’ I breathed. ‘Thank you so much, Ben. And please tell your daughter she’s a marvel!’
Ben’s broad face was a picture of delight. ‘Glad to hear it.’
I approached the counter and tentatively ran my fingers along the painted thistles. They were so lifelike that I half-expected their prickles to sting my skin. ‘I’m sure the Carmichaels will love it too—well, at least, one of them will.’
Ben folded his beefy arms. ‘Aye, that son is a bit of a dour bugger, isn’t he?’
I rolled my eyes in agreement.
The last couple of weeks had seen a flurry of renovation activity. A couple of Ben’s juniors were busy with some snagging work, their tools clattering over the sound of a crackly radio. Voices echoed around the chaos. Bizarrely, the smell of paint and dust made me even more excited.
While I was imagining cream and white high-backed chairs surrounding circular tables, and ornamental thistles dotted around the shelves, a voice carried through from the far end of the room.
‘Come and have a look at this,’ called Craig, one of the decorators. He crouched in front of a dusty chest, which looked like an old-fashioned dressing-up box.
‘What is it?’ I asked, leaning forward.
Craig winked. ‘Let’s open it and take a look, shall we?’
‘I don’t think we should. It doesn’t belong to us.’ Ignoring me, Craig began to tamper with the lid. ‘We can’t open it,’ I protested, even though my curiosity was rising. ‘It must belong to the family.’
Ben nodded. ‘I agree with Lara, lad. Where did you find it?’
Craig jerked his dark cropped head towards a previously concealed cupboard that was now swinging open from a side wall. ‘The chest’s already open, folks. Look.’
Sure enough, the lid of the chest was slightly ajar, layers of pink tissue paper peeking out. The air was now filled not only with the dulcet tones of the radio presenter but also anticipation.
Slipping his paint-daubed fingers under the heavy arch of the lid, Craig released a puff of musty scent. Our eager faces craned forwards to glimpse whatever might be inside.
Before I could stop him, Craig peeled back the top piece of tissue, revealing a layer of thick art paper covered in sketches.
I felt an obligation to step in and at least ensure they were treated gently. He stood aside as I knelt to uncover the top few artworks, coloured sketches of flowers, ranging from sunny daffodils to purple pansies nestled in among more elaborate drawings of regal white lilies and creamy orchids, their trumpets almost seeming to reach out of the paper.
I dug a little deeper into the chest and felt my fingers brush against what felt like wooden carvings, again swathed in sheets of pink tissue paper. Still feeling guilty but now totally unable to contain my curiosity, I unwrapped a gorgeous carving of a thistle. The wood had been finely honed before being painted in vibrant purples and moss green. The veins on the leaves were intricately expressed, the grooves gentle under my touch.
Craig rocked back on his boots and gave a short whistle through his teeth. ‘Someone’s got a real talent.’
‘Had a real talent,’ I corrected after turning the thistle over in my hands. Painted in shiny black on the reverse was a discreet ‘L.C.’, matching the initials underneath each of the sketches.
‘They were done by the late lady laird,’ I said with a sad smile.
Craig’s dark brows shot up. ‘I bet they’d be worth a few quid, especially with her being dead.’
My mouth tightened. ‘Craig!’
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Artists’ work always goes up in value when they’re six feet under. Everyone knows they don’t earn a penny when they’re still alive.’
Ben’s face hardened. ‘Have some respect, lad.’
But Craig carried on, eyeing the artwork speculatively. ‘I’m only speaking the truth. The lady laird has been gone years, so this lot is bound to be worth something.’
‘I don’t think that’s any business of yours.’
Vaughan’s growl boomed across the bare room.
I spun round to see his steely blue eyes land on the open chest, now spilling forth its contents.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Craig just found it inside that wall,’ I explained, pinning on a nervous smile. ‘I think it may have belonged to your mum.’
Vaughan crouched down beside the chest, tenderly picking up one of the thistle carvings. I watched as his fingers traced the carved lines, his gaze melting.
A lump formed in my throat. ‘I was
just thinking that it would be lovely if we could put up some of your mum’s artwork in the tea room,’ I ventured carefully, ‘especially the thistle carvings.’
Pulled back to reality, Vaughan studied me from under those thunderous dark brows of his. ‘Oh?’
I was aware of the expectant faces of Ben and Craig staring at me as Vaughan rose to his feet, carrying the weight of suspicion in every inch of his towering frame. He stood over me, all dark hair and attitude.
I coughed nervously. ‘As the thistle features heavily in your family crest, I thought it would be nice to have that as a theme in the tea room.’
I just prayed he couldn’t hear my heart repeatedly bashing against my ribs. Why the hell was I turning into a nervous wreck every time Vaughan Carmichael was in the vicinity? Yes, he was part of the aristocracy, of sorts, but he needed some urgent lessons in manners and communication skills.
He studied my face for a moment before muttering through a granite jaw, ‘That’s a good idea. I like it.’
I watched in surprise as he stalked off. Then he stopped abruptly at the door, where the hallway was bathed in spring sunshine. ‘Make sure it’s tasteful, though, won’t you? We don’t want you going all My Little Pony, do we?’
The workmen buried grins as I fiercely stuck my tongue out at the lord and master’s disappearing back.
‘Er, excuse me?’
Loitering where Vaughan had strode out was a young lad carrying a couple of new shelves for the kitchen.
‘Oh goody,’ I grinned, hurrying towards him. Enthusiastically taking them out of the alarmed lad’s arms, I started to rip off the bubble wrap.
You’ve got to be joking.
Staring back up at me was not the ivory white of my dreams but the stuff of nightmares: avocado green that a 1970s situation comedy would have been proud of.
From over my shoulder, Ben let out a cackle. ‘Don’t think we’ll be finishing off the kitchen anytime today, lads.’
Sixteen
That night, I sat at home nursing a mug of steaming hot tea and imagining certain parts of Vaughan Carmichael trapped in a vice.
After an afternoon of hectic phone calls to the avocado-green-shelving supplier, during which my ears were ritually abused by cheap jazz tracks, my mind was racing between Hugo and his surly grandson.
Dear old Hugo. I was so determined to do well by him, it almost caused me physical pain. Glenlovatt was such a beautiful old house and to play a part, even a small one, in keeping it a going concern was the very least I could do.
But more than that, Hugo Carmichael had given me hope and a belief in myself that I thought had been well and truly extinguished after Malta. I turned my attention to the assorted seashells perched on my windowsill that had travelled back with my shattered confidence and broken heart. They sat in creamy Mediterranean splendour like mini moons, a bright spot against my petrol-blue curtains. I tried to push away pictures of inky black sky dusted with stars, waves tickling the sandy shore. The nautical theme of my flat wasn’t lost on me.
I gave myself a sharp mental prod and turned my attention to the scribbled notes balanced on my lap. I’d been trying to come up with some more ideas for not only the tea room but also for Glenlovatt Manor in general. Vaughan might be an intimidating, rude sod but I owed Hugo a great deal, and I couldn’t allow a scowling sculptor with a chip on his shoulder the size of the River Clyde to spoil Hugo’s hopes for its future. Bloody hell, at times I felt like I was some sort of vampire hunter, fighting the dark forces of Dracula. I could understand his reluctance about the tea room—it was a huge change—but if he wanted to keep the heart of his ancestral home beating, he’d have to adapt.
I smiled grimly. Vaughan adapting to anything would be painful for him, not unlike root canal treatment.
Why are you still thinking about the Prince of Darkness? Something to tell?
I gripped my ceramic mug tighter, and waggled my feet, perched on which were fluffy red slippers. Come on, Lara, back to business. Hang on. Prince of Darkness?
Ideas tumbled around my head, competing for attention. Snatching up my notebook, my pen began to dance across the lined pages. Vaughan would require blood pressure monitoring when he heard my suggestion but Gordon might be more amenable. Something like this would be a great way to reintroduce Glenlovatt into the Fairview community. With excitement hammering in my chest, I got to work on my idea.
I was just beginning to get into my stride when the entry buzzer made me jump.
‘It’s me,’ said Morven.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked, but I could already hear the clatter of her wedges negotiating the communal stairs.
I opened the door wide and she whirled in, a blaze of Burberry trench coat. ‘I need you!’ she bleated. ‘Right now!’
‘No offence but I’ve always fantasised about a roguishly handsome man standing there saying that, not my best mate,’ I said.
Morven dashed some rain droplets from her sleeves. ‘I can assure you that I need you more than some sex-starved hunk does.’
‘Okay, okay, take a pew and I’ll stick the kettle on.’
Morven shook her head. ‘There’s no time for that.’ She clasped her manicured hands together. ‘Do you remember what I’m doing this evening?’
‘You’re currently standing in my hallway.’
Morven’s red lips pursed in frustration. ‘It’s that summer fashion show at the Lomond Hotel I organised. To raise funds for Fairview Library?’
‘That’s right,’ I nodded politely, hiding the fact I’d been so preoccupied with the tea room that I’d forgotten. ‘So why aren’t you there?’
Morven threw her hands up in the air, making her armful of gold bracelets ring like church bells. ‘One of our models has let us down at the last minute. Apparently she’s pulled a hamstring at Zumba.’
‘And?’ I pushed.
Morven’s steady gaze under her perfectly plucked brows should have alerted me. ‘Can you do it?’
‘Do what? Oh no . . .’ I started to back away.
‘You’re perfect,’ she assured me. ‘All of our models are ordinary girls.’
I folded my arms. ‘Keep digging. You’re about three feet down already.’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ she placated. ‘All the models are gorgeous, normal ladies, not a bunch of fake-tanned twiglets.’
‘Morven, I really don’t think . . .’
She assumed a pleading expression. ‘This is to raise money for our local library. It’s to benefit our community. Imagine all the children holding brand-new, glossy books in their little hands.’
I hooked my thumbs into the pockets of my jeans. ‘Next you’ll be telling me it’s for abandoned dogs and orphans.’
‘If I did, would you say yes?’
‘You’re something else.’
Morven took a step closer. She widened her green eyes.
‘Oh, don’t do that,’ I begged.
‘Do what?’
‘That wide-eyed pleading thing that you do when you want something.’
Morven was theatrically appalled. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Lars.’
‘This,’ I explained, contorting my eyes and mouth.
‘I don’t do that,’ she insisted. ‘And if I did, it would mean I was constipated.’
There was a momentary stand-off.
‘You’ve only got to model a total of two dresses at the end of the show,’ promised Morven, ‘and they are both stunning.’
‘Are they short?’ I sighed, aware I was being systematically worn down.
‘One is shortish,’ she said defensively, ‘but you’ve got fabulous legs.’
‘Can’t one of the other models do it?’
‘That’s the problem. The rest of them have to shoot off. Two have got young kids, one is heading down south for a work meeting before the show ends and the other has got elderly parents she needs to get back to.’ She dropped down on one knee. ‘I’ll beg if you want me to.�
��
‘Oh, get up,’ I ordered. ‘You’re making my flat look untidy.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
I glanced down at my paint-flecked hands. ‘Alright, but you owe me one big time.’
Morven squealed like a baby pig as I started to move towards my bathroom. ‘Just give me a few minutes to tidy myself up.’
‘No time for that,’ she said, wheeling me towards my coat stand. ‘We’ve got hair and make-up students standing by to attend to you.’
Before I knew it I was sitting beside Morven in her buttercup yellow Audi TT, streaking through the wet streets of Fairview. The dark pressed around us, only occasionally broken by a flash of hot orange street lights.
I tugged down the passenger visor and flipped open the mirror. That wasn’t a good idea. I looked like Ronald McDonald after a particularly nasty electric shock. What remained of my eye make-up was smudged on my tired face.
The allure of my cup of camomile tea and a box set of Modern Family was all I wanted, not waddling down a catwalk in a tinfoil dress.
I snuck a glance at Morven. She was concentrating on the road ahead, but there was definite relief in her expression now. I supressed a sigh of frustration. Oh well. At least it was for a worthwhile cause and I could throw my sacrifice back at her at the next opportunity.
The Lomond Hotel was only fifteen minutes’ drive away, otherwise I would have been in real danger of falling asleep in Morven’s warm, plush and patchouli-scented car. We swung into the huge car park, which was illuminated by white circular lights that reminded me of Christmas baubles. The hotel itself sat up on a grassy embankment, its dark stone façade almost as black as the trees stretching behind it. I’d driven past it on numerous occasions but never had reason to pay a visit. Sash windows, heavy with crimson velvet curtains, cast slivers of light onto the grass outside. Two small pine trees stood to attention either side of the glass main doors, each glowing with a tangle of silver icicle lights.
The rain was dive-bombing us now. I tugged up the collar of my navy trench coat.
A Room at the Manor Page 8