Tall, Dark and Kilted
Page 30
Just as Isla was searching for some suitable retort, Murdo entered the kitchen with an ancient CD player under his arm and a stack of CDs in a carrier bag. Ignoring Isla, he spoke solely to Fliss.
‘I think I’ll set up in the hall - there’s more room there. You might want to change out of your Birkenstocks, though; Scottish country dancing is pretty energetic.’
Leaving them behind, Fliss walked into the therapy centre and changed into a pair of Vans slip-ons. When she walked into the hall, Murdo was alone and loading a CD into the player.
‘Everything okay, Murdo?’
‘I might ask you the same,’ he countered.
‘Of course it is,’ she said with forced jollity. She noticed, as he fiddled with the ancient machine, that he’d let his customary buzz cut grow out and his hair now curled round his ears and flopped into his eyes. Clearly, the Urquhart cousins’ jibes of ginger minger no longer bothered him and he was comfortable with his strawberry blonde hair. And if that wasn’t a signal to Isla - to everyone - that he’d moved on, then she didn’t know what was.
‘Ta dah.’ She broke the heavy mood by extending her arms above her head and forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger.
Murdo shook his head. ‘You’re confusing Highland dancing - as performed in competitions at the highland gatherings - with Scottish country dancing. So no swords to dance over, I’m afraid.’ His face clouded over and Fliss felt certain he was remembering Isla’s performance over the two crossed pokers on YouTube.
‘Look, Murdo. Do you want to do this some other time? Neither of us seems particularly in the mood and I’m not one hundred per cent certain that I’m going to the Ball.’
‘Not going to the Ball? Why on earth not?’ He looked so astonished that Fliss guessed he knew nothing of the proposed changes to the therapy centre. Although she liked Murdo and thought of him as a friend, she’d kept her own council and hadn’t told him how things stood between her and Ruairi. She must have looked a bit dejected because he found Mairi’s Wedding on the CD and played it - primarily, she suspected, to cheer them both up.
He bowed on the long first chord and held out his hand and she took it. If she did attend the Highland Ball, there was no way she was going to it as a Sassenach who didn’t know the steps to the reels and had to sit on the sidelines like a drooping wallflower.
Like someone who had no place in Kinloch Mara.
Chapter Thirty Three
‘Fliss - sweetie, is that you? Come on in,’ Mitzi called, her voice muffled by the panelled door.
Fliss hesitated; there was something intimate about entering someone’s bedroom, especially when it was the Laird’s Room and Ruairi’s by right. Sensitive to Mitzi’s grief, he hadn’t claimed it back after Hamish’s death but now it seemed that everything was changing - moving forward. After eight weeks in the Far East, Ruairi was returning home to announce Mitzi and Angus’s engagement at the Highland Ball tomorrow evening. Mitzi and the girls were moving onto Angus’s estate before the end of the month - and she was returning to Pimlico.
Changes all round it seemed.
Fliss pushed open the heavy door and family memories, ancient history, old sorrows and new beginnings met her at the threshold. To dispel the goose-stepped-over-my-grave shiver at the thought of Ruairi and his bride making love in the tapestry hung Laird’s Bed, she cracked a feeble joke.
‘Shouldn’t we call the cops and report you’ve been burgled, Mitzi?’ She gestured towards mahogany wardrobes that looked like they’d exploded and disgorged clothes everywhere.
Mitzi laughed. ‘It may look like chaos, Fliss darling - but it’s organised chaos. Now come and have a look as the evening dresses I’ve laid out for you.’
‘Mitzi, I’m not - ’
‘Now don’t start with all that nonsense about not attending the Ball. Ruairi will expect you to be there. Angus and I want you there; you’re family for goodness sake.’ Family? Fliss hardly thought so. But Mitzi, clearly unaware that she was smarting for being traded in for a new therapist, twittered on. ‘Now, try on some of my dresses, one of them is bound to suit you. We’re about the same size, although you are quite a bit taller. Cat will loan you a pair of dancing slippers - the Urquhart Ball is no place for killer heels, or sissies.’
Knowing when she was outgunned, Fliss selected an ankle-length kingfisher blue silk skirt and coordinating sequinned bustier knowing that the colour would suit her. Holding it in front of her with one hand, she piled her hair on top of her head and regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror.
Under different circumstances, she would have loved dressing up for the ball and the chance to show off the reels she’d learned. But all she could think of was meeting with Ruairi after an eight-week gap. The frank and honest exchange of views over her being let go that would take place - come hell or high water.
‘It’s a pity you’re not entitled to wear a clan sash over your shoulder. But, never mind, I’ll loan you the family tiara and a matching necklace. You’ll look fabulous with your hair all pinned up.’ Mitzi faltered, finally sensing that all was not well with Fliss and plainly anxious to please. Fliss winced at her innocent comment. There was nothing quite like being ineligible to wear tartan at a Highland Ball to underline that she was an outsider and her time here was coming to an end.
‘Such a pity,’ she agreed, having no desire to rain on Mitzi’s parade.
‘I was a Grant before marriage,’ Mitzi burbled on, rooting in a mahogany tallboy and drawing out an orange-red tartan sash dissected by pale blue lines. ‘I thought I’d wear my clan tartan tomorrow night - pinned to my right shoulder and tied over my left hip to show that it’s not the colours of a clan chief’s wife. That’ll be fairer to Hamish’s memory, my future with Angus and Ruairi’s sensibilities.’
Mitzi’s bright smile faded and Fliss felt ashamed that she’d allowed her own problems to blind her to Mitzi’s feelings. She was abandoning her widowhood, turning her back on the home she’d lived in for over twenty years and taking a brave step into the future. Not to mention giving up the title of Lady Urquhart to become plain Mrs Angus Gordon. Fliss wondered briefly if Mitzi was marrying Angus the man, or Angus the millionaire who had it in his power to make her life a bed of thornless roses. Maybe, in Mitzi’s eyes, they were one and the same.
She wriggled into the silk taffeta skirt, enjoying its cool kiss against her skin. Mitzi slid up the zip and handed her the boned bustier with its overlay of lace and ribbon. Fliss saw the Vivienne Westwood label sewn into it and shuddered to think how much it must have cost.
‘A tip Fliss - take your bra off tonight and leave it off all day tomorrow. That way, you won’t have any strap marks on your shoulders.’ Fliss removed her bra and checked that the bustier fitted and she wasn’t spilling out of the top. Scottish Country dancing was very energetic and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by having her assets on show at the end of a strenuous reel.
‘Thanks, Mitzi. I’d better get these things over to the Wee Hoose; I’ve promised to help Cat take some toys to the charity shop in Port Urquhart.’
‘Thanks sweetie. I’ll send Murdo over with the tiara and necklace tomorrow afternoon. For insurance purposes they have to remain in the safe when not being worn.’ Fliss hung the bustier and skirt over her arm, stuffed her bra into her skirt pocket and picked up the three-quarter length white gloves Mitzi also pressed on her. Leaving Mitzi sorting through the disorder on her bed she left, closing the door softly behind her.
It looked like Cinderella was going to the Highland Ball after all.
Later that afternoon Fliss and Cat drew up by the back entrance to Tigh na Locha in a Land Rover. Cat switched off the engine and for a few moments they were lost in their thoughts. Fliss, planning what she was going to say when she met Ruairi again; and Cat, clearly wondering if she’d done the right thing by donating her collection of soft toys to the RSPCA.
Fliss sensed that Cat wanted to move on with her life. Her work experience at the
veterinary practice in Port Urquhart had given structure to her days - and she loved every minute of it. Fliss felt justifiably proud that she’d played some part in removing Cat away from Isla’s corrosive influence.
‘Thanks for coming with me today, Fliss. I know you’re busy,’ Cat turned in her seat to look at her.
‘Not so busy I can turn down an offer to visit the teeming metropolis of Port Urquhart,’ Fliss pulled a wry face and Cat laughed. ‘The fish and chips on the quayside were delicious, as usual. You did the right thing giving away your old toys, you know? Although I’m guessing it was a bit of a wrench?’
‘It was. Most of those toys were presents from Papa. But I work with real animals now and I’m too old for stuffed bears and the like. Besides, I don’t know if I told you, when I passed my driving test two weeks ago, Ruairi asked Murdo to get this old Land Rover roadworthy - and now it’s mine. Ruairi’s offered to pay the insurance, road tax and to maintain it because I’ve saved him thousands of pounds in boarding school fees by not returning to take my A levels. Although I might think about taking them at some point, I want Ruairi to be proud of me.’ Her eyes shone as she stroked the battered old steering wheel. Then she giggled, reminding Fliss that she was only seventeen years old. ‘Murdo hung the fluffy dice over the driver’s mirror. How kitsch is that?’
‘Very.’ Fliss thought what a great guy Murdo was. He’d kept the estate running while Ruairi was away, found time to help her master several reels, and taught Cat to coax the old Land Rover through its paces. But Cat wasn’t laughing, she was regarding Fliss gravely. ‘What is it, Cat?’
Cat reached over and squeezed Fliss’s hands. ‘Two things. First, I’m truly sorry that I didn’t give you the heads-up over the viral - but Isla would have killed me and the thought scared the bejezus out of me. And then there’s Murdo.’
‘Murdo?’
‘Isla’s never been good at sharing her toys. Just be careful, that’s all. You know?’ she advised as Fliss got out of the Land Rover.
‘Thanks for the warning, but there’s nothing between us, I assure you. We’re just good friends.’ Fliss pulled a face at the cliché and retrieved her shopping from the back seat, acknowledging that Murdo had been her friend from start to finish. Deep in thought, she made her way past the permanently closed ornamental gates, through the rose gardens before finally skirting the rhododendrons and entering the Dower House.
Half an hour later Murdo arrived to give her a final dance lesson. He handed her a stiff card the colour of clotted cream. Attached to it, by a twisted cord in a darker shade of cream was a small pencil.
‘It’s your dance card, ma’am.’ He laughed at her expression. ‘I know what you’re thinking - isn’t this all just a bit too Jane Austen for words - but, believe me, you’ll need it.’
Fliss opened the card and saw the dances listed in order, from the Dashing White Sergeant to something called ‘Gallop/John Peel’. At number five there was a break for supper and something called ‘flatties’ which would take place - ‘if time allowed’.
‘Flatties?’
‘Yes, other music, jazz or swing; and maybe a disco to keep the youngsters happy. The main thing to remember is: don’t stop midway through any of the reels or you’ll cause a motorway style pile-up on the dance floor. If you go wrong, don’t worry - the more experienced dancers will steer you in the right direction.’
‘No pressure then. And the pencil?’
‘To write down who’ll be partnering you for each dance so you can get into position quickly. May I?’ He took the card and scribbled his name next to The Eightsome and Foursome Reels. ‘I see that Mitzi’s given you a pair of gloves,’ he picked up the gloves which Fliss had discarded on the oak chest. ‘They’re considered a bit old-fashioned now, but Ruairi’s a stickler for tradition. There’s a little pocket in the glove - see? You keep the card in there.’
‘Thanks, Murdo. You’re a star.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that.’ Fliss was amused to see him flush and then he quickly changed the subject. ‘By the way, thanks for helping Cat with the toys. It was quite a struggle for her to part with them. You see, after Hamish’s death, Ruairi had to tuck the toys around her in a predetermined order each evening and read her a bedtime story before she’d let him switch off the light.’
Fliss absorbed this information in silence. She’d reverted to her original opinion of Ruairi as autocratic, unsentimental laird and had hardened her heart against him. Somehow, that image didn’t sit easily with Murdo’s story. Or, if she was being honest - the time she’d spent with him on the island and the frantic kisses they’d exchanged on the drawing room sofa. No - it had taken just five minutes and her unguarded tongue to ruin everything between them.
Nice work, Fliss, she congratulated herself.
‘Guess we’re all moving on?’ She gave Murdo a penetrating look and wondered if he’d comment about the changes taking place in the therapy centre. Instead, he adeptly changed the subject.
‘Talking of which - have you heard that Ruairi’s put the Notting Hill house on the market? Isla’s furious of course - she’d got some mad idea about attending art school in London and living in Elgin Crescent.’ He gave Fliss time to digest this piece of breaking news before continuing. ‘Ruairi thinks - and I agree with him, that the money will have more impact invested in the estate. Looks like he’s been doing some hard thinking while he’s been away.’
This time it was Murdo who gave Fliss a measuring look, as though he wondered what had taken place on the hills over Kinloch Mara the morning of the Brocken Spectre.
‘What about the bench and the memories of his mother?’ Momentarily, Fliss forgot that she was part of the rationalisation of the estate’s debts. She had memories of Elgin Crescent too, even if they were concertinaed into twenty-four hours, like the TV series - 24. The disastrous party, the plaque on the bench, ‘Klingon’ phone call, the ride in the police wagon, visiting Cat and Isla the following morning to give them a piece of her mind.
Murdo broke into her reverie. ‘I thought we’d give the Strathspey one last go.’
‘Can I try it wearing Cat’s dancing slippers?’ She tried to slip one on as the music started but got in a bit of a tangle with the fastenings.
‘What are you like?’ Murdo said in a cod Sarf Lunnon accent. ‘Come ’ere, darlin’.’ Fliss sat on the third tread of the stairs while Murdo knelt in front of her, placed her foot on his thigh, and opened up the crisscross elastic for her to slip her foot through.
‘Do you have this in suede, young man?’ Fliss asked, haughty as a duchess. ‘Or should that be each-uisge?’ Murdo laughed as he helped her off the step and watched her prance around in her soft slippers, but then his mood changed and he regarded her soberly.
‘Fliss, I don’t know what’s happened between you and Ruairi and I don’t want to. But I had hoped - seeing how perfect you are for each other - that it’d be like Sleeping Beauty in reverse.’ Catching Fliss’s puzzled expression he went on to explain. ‘With you as the princess who hacks through the garden of thorns and rescues the prince. Not from a hundred year sleep, in this case - but from years of sadness, duty and commitment to Kinloch Mara and his family.’
‘Murdo Gordon, I’d say that you’re an old romantic.’ She stood before him with her hands on her hips to hide how moved she was by his concern for Ruairi. For her.
He put his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. ‘If I had just one piece of advice to give Fliss, it would be this: Trust Ruairi.’
She put her hand over his in appreciation for his thoughtfulness. At that moment two figures appeared in the open doorway, blocking the setting sun and casting shadows into the hall. Murdo removed his hand from Fliss’s shoulder and looked towards the porch.
‘Ruairi,’ he greeted, love and affection in his voice. He walked over to his old friend and they embraced like brothers. ‘Isla,’ Murdo nodded towards her, she was standing behind Ruairi as though uncertain of her welcome. ‘
What do you want?’ The contrast between the greetings was so pronounced that Fliss felt sorry for Isla.
‘I’ve come to see what you two get up to down here,’ she began with some of her old spirit. But there was a quaver in her voice, as though she was close to tears.
‘And why would that be of any interest to you?’ Murdo asked coolly, the highland inflection in his voice suddenly noticeable. Isla sent Fliss a look that would have intimidated a lesser woman and then exchanged some angry words in Gaelic with Murdo. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, Ruairi. I’m sure you and Fliss have lots to discuss. Catch you later?’
‘Of course,’ Ruairi shook hands with Murdo. Turning away, he headed for the conservatory and the short cut up to Tigh na Locha. Blatantly ignored, Isla stamped her feet like a stroppy teenager and went chasing after him - and they could be heard arguing all the way up the path to Tigh na Locha.
‘Well,’ Ruairi said. ‘That’s a first … Isla running after Murdo.’
‘Indeed,’ Fliss replied stony-faced, in case he also thought there was something going on between her and Murdo. Not that it was any of his business.
Although her face was expressionless, her eyes widened as she drank in every detail of him. From the crumpled business suit, tie at half-mast and six o’clock shadow - to his dark hair sticking up, all out of place. He looked so tired and downbeat that, in spite of everything that had happened, her heart squeezed with love for him. She wanted to take him in her arms and kiss away the lines of exhaustion radiating out from his tired, blue eyes.
But she resisted the urge and remembered instead the last time they’d met - the difference between asking and expecting; of things staying as they were or changing and her feeling that that he didn’t trust her. And her last, cutting remark before he’d yomped away from her, I’m beginning to think that maybe Fiona had a lucky escape.