“My ticket, too,” Carly put in.
“A nest egg,” Mummy repeated. “So you took your own advice. You planned for another contingency.”
“Not… exactly. But it worked out that way.”
“So if you were in our position, what would you do?” I asked.
Shani’s lashes flicked in Patricia’s direction. “I’d do exactly what Lissa’s mom is saying. If you can get funding from the state or whatever, and you can turn this place into a hotel, I bet it would be a huge success. I mean, look. You can’t go on the way you have been. Something has to change, or you’ll lose it.”
“In a nutshell, yes,” Mummy said with a sigh. “I wish you could convince Graham of that.”
“Not very many people know what happened to me,” Shani said with quiet dignity. “You’re welcome to tell him about it if you think it would help.”
Mummy held her gaze for a long moment. “Contrary to what Lindsay says, I heard about you and the prince. It was all over the papers here, and I don’t know how many Web sites. I can see why they were so interested.”
“Why?” Shani broke open a fat, fluffy scone and reached for the bowl of Devonshire cream. “I could never figure that out.”
“Because, my dear, you would have made a fabulous princess.”
Carly, Gillian, Shani, and Lissa exchanged the kind of glance that tells you they’d just gotten a huge giggle out of something.
I knew what it was. The whole “daughter of the King” thing. And it made me feel more left out of the joke than ever.
IF MISERY LOVED company, there was only one place for me to go. I wrapped myself in an ancient gardening jacket (probably Grannie’s, from the scent of soap and lavender still trapped in it) and let myself out into the kitchen garden.
I found Dad in the poultry house, scattering corn to half a dozen delighted hens. I sat in the wooden chair next to the nesting boxes and watched them Hoover up every last crumb.
“The carbs keep their body heat up,” Dad said, as if the scene in the kitchen had never happened.
“It’s not cold in here. It’s lovely and snug.”
“When the snow melts, they’ll need it. At the moment no one will go outside.”
“Can’t blame them. Who’d go outside with bare feet anyway? They’d be up to their fluffy little backsides in snow.”
We watched the hens in silence for a while. One of them tugged on the hem of Dad’s corduroys and he picked her up. She settled contentedly into his arms.
“I should apologize to your friends for losing my temper just now,” he said finally. “I’m not being the best host in the world.”
“You have a lot on your mind.”
He sighed and stroked the hen’s feathers. “And your mother’s being here doesn’t help.”
“I thought you were happy to see her.”
“I was. I am. That’s the trouble.”
“Dad, why don’t you just admit the divorce was a mistake and make it up with her?”
“I’d love to,” he said simply. “But she doesn’t feel the same way. She can’t trust me again, it seems.”
“Then why did she come all the way up here?”
“For you, goosey.”
“I’m perfectly capable of putting together a party, whether I pretend to be or not. So that’s not it. I think she’s changing her mind.”
He put the hen down and grabbed a handful of hay, scattering it on the floor. “The only thing on her mind at the moment is this hotel scheme. I don’t know what possessed Patricia to spout all that to her, but the damage is done. She won’t let go of it now, even though Strathcairn has nothing to do with her anymore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Dad,” I said. “It has everything to do with her if she thinks you guys made a mistake as well. Her future is here. So is mine.”
This made him lift his head. “What? You’re not going to be one of those tiresome children who never leave the nest, are you?”
I grinned at him. “I’ll leave, all right. Just long enough to get a business degree and come back.”
“And what will you do with it here, after all that work? Run the local pub?”
“No. I’ll run the Strathcairn Hotel and Corporate Retreat Centre. ‘Lady Lindsay MacPhail, Managing Director’ has quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Can’t you see my little nameplate now?”
The light faded from his face as though I’d told him I was moving to America and never coming back. “Not you, too. I thought I could count on you, at least.”
“Dad, there’s no shame in putting the place back to work again.”
“So you say. But how can I look my ancestors in the eye and tell them I’ve turned their home into a hotel?”
“Stay out of the gallery,” I quipped. When he didn’t smile, I went on, “You should talk to Cousin Roger. Get his opinion. If he’s to inherit, he should know what he’s in for.”
“I already have.”
“Dad!” I rocketed out of the chair. “What does he say?”
“He says anything is better than letting it be sold for back taxes.”
“So he agrees with Mummy.”
“If he hadn’t told me she didn’t, I’d have sworn she got to him first. At least she had the grace to stay out of that end of it.”
“She only wants what’s best for us.”
“She only wants what’s best for her pocketbook. One can’t have too many Paris dresses, apparently.”
“That’s not fair. Both of us can do without. Particularly if I’m going to be a starving student.”
“You’ll never be that, Linds. But I never intended you to work for your bread and butter, either.”
“I don’t mind. Look at Carly. And Gillian. And even Shani. All of them work harder than anyone I ever saw. And the thing is, they get results.”
“Strange how that happens. But you’re missing one. What about Lissa?”
“She’s like me—ornamental, not practical. But I suppose even she could change if she were about to lose her home. Please, Dad. Don’t you know that staying on at Strathcairn is all I’ve ever wanted?”
He nodded. “I won’t say I’m happy about it. You’re meant to go off and see the world. Have a good time. Find a good man and be happy.”
I had found a good man, and he was happy to not be with me. But Dad didn’t need to know that.
“But what if I’m not ready for picket fences and Pablum? What if a career right here in the place I love is the perfect solution for me?”
“You’re a star, Linds. You even make court functions bearable—at least, according to Prince Harry. How are you going to keep your light burning, buried here in the mist?”
He must be upset if he was mixing his metaphors. “Mist burns off if there’s enough heat. I can make this place world famous, Dad. I know what people want. It’s already had its start with the film. If we make the changes we need to and kick off the opening with something huge, like, oh, I don’t know, hosting the Hibernian Special Olympics in 2010, we can put it squarely on the front page and never look back.”
He looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”
I shrugged. “Just some ideas. We have to start somewhere. But if we do the Games, we’d have to put in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Can we start with that? Please?”
“Can’t they make do with the lake?” he asked, sounding a little plaintive.
“Dad. It has mud. And… things in the bottom. But seriously. Just think about it.”
“I have been.”
“It’s a different legacy,” I said softly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s the wrong one.”
He swung his head to look at the hens again, but not before I saw his mouth turn down in an arc—the kind he got when he was struggling not to be emotional.
I know when to choose my moments. I slipped outside into the brisk cold, closing the door of the poultry house behind me.
“Hey
!” Alasdair hailed me from the far end of the orchard, where he and Gabe brushed snow off their trousers and tramped toward me.
“Hullo,” I greeted them. “There’s tea in the kitchen, but I think Gillian ate all the tarts.”
“Are my womenfolk in there, too?” Gabe asked, unwrapping a mile of knitted muffler from round his neck.
“Yes. If there are sweets about, you can usually find Lissa in the vicinity.”
“She comes by it honestly. I’m all about the cake, myself. You coming, Al?”
Alasdair shook his head. “I haven’t seen Lindsay since yesterday. I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Don’t blame me if there’s no cake left.” Gabe opened the door. “Blame my daughter.” With a grin, he went inside.
“Been feeding the hens?” Alasdair asked, taking in my appalling jacket and muddy Wellies paired with très cool Citizens of Humanity jeans.
“No. Dad was in there hiding so I went to talk to him.”
“He’s upset about the hotel plan, is he?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
A smile ghosted across his mouth and faded. Not that I had any business looking at his mouth. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a castle at my disposal before.”
“It’s a huge change.”
“And those are scary.”
“Plus, he thinks Mummy is only in it for the money, but she’s not. She wants to come home. She told me so.”
Part of me stood aside, going, Are you crazy, spilling your family business to the next thing to a stranger? But another part had already fallen into the warm sympathy in those hazel eyes, had already relaxed just walking beside him. He was easy to be with.
I wouldn’t even have said those things to Carrie, and I’d known her since we played together in her paddle pool. What did that say about Alasdair that I could tell my secrets to him in the blunt light of a snowy afternoon? Either I was desperate, or there was something between us that only I was acknowledging.
“Alasdair—”
“Lindsay, I want to—”
“Sorry.”
“No, ladies first.”
Well, no one had ever accused me of being shy. No point in starting now. “Yesterday in the gallery, I made a fool of myself and gave you the wrong impression.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Yes, well, I just wanted to say that I feel very comfortable with you. And I hope you feel the same about me.”
“Of course.” He looked a bit gobsmacked, but most boys would. Not that he was a boy. He was a man, and a very fine one at that.
“So.” I held my hand out. “Good friends, then?”
“Friends? Yes, I’d like that.”
How very Victorian. We sounded like we were negotiating a deal. Which wasn’t the point at all. But I didn’t know how to fix it. Even I balked at reaching out and grabbing him for a snog that would change everything—because it wouldn’t change it in the right direction. I’d told Carly I’d done it, and it had been the truth. But that only got me a rep as a flirt and a heartbreaker. I wanted Alasdair to see me differently.
I was a woman of substance, not just style. And somehow I had to make him understand that.
All that said, I’d make sure Mummy understood there was to be plenty of mistletoe among the party decorations two nights from now.
chapter 15
GOOD EVENING, and welcome to the BBC’s last edition of London Calling for 2009. It’s been an entertaining year, hasn’t it? My name is Melanie Twist, and tonight I’ll be presenting a new development brought to you courtesy of Web 2.0. It’s the story of Blue Bella, a previously unknown Scottish band whose remix of a thirty-second YouTube clip and their own beats have produced a music video. Half gossip, half entertainment, the piece poses a question that has been burning up the blogosphere worldwide.
“One thing is clear. Rumors of a young lady in America becoming engaged to the heir to the Lion Throne of Yasir have apparently not been exaggerated.
“And now, in its prime time debut, here’s the untitled video, which people are calling ‘Princess Shh!’ after the title of the original clip. With the distinction of being the most-talked-about video on YouTube this week, it was made for our audience.”
Lissa and I wriggled into more comfortable positions on the sofa, recovering from making total pigs of ourselves over Carly’s “Scottish burritos.” Mrs. Gillie wasn’t quite over someone other than a MacPhail invading her kitchen, but Carly had been so sweet about insisting she take another night off that I was sure her miff wouldn’t last long. We were all relaxing before the final party push the next day: decorating the ballroom. And the best way to relax on a Tuesday night was watching London Calling, which I loved because they invariably reported on somebody I knew. Sometimes they reported on me, which was why I knew Dad had taped every episode for me while I was gone.
“Hey, Shani!” Lissa shouted in the direction of the music room, where Shani and Gillian were touching up the garland on the mantel to look more Hogmanay and less Christmas. “Here’s a thing about Rashid.”
Shani and Gillian skidded into the room as the video began to play, while Carly leaned on the back of the sofa and Alasdair put his head in the door.
A fast hip-hop beat made our feet tap as an African guy who might pass for Rashid in a dark room began to sing.
She’s a very hot chick
And I knew right quick
She’s my desert queen
She really makes the scene
“Hey, that’s you!” Gillian and Shani moved closer to the television. A clip of Shani getting out of a limo somewhere and a million flashbulbs lighting up flashed across the screen.
You my princess, babe
And now I got it made
We be on all the front pages
Hittin’ all the best rages
Don’t be shy
Tell us why
Shani’s face filled the TV screen. “I’ve been a princess for four weeks,” she said in perfect time with the beat, the camera zooming in on her.
I’ve been a princess
A prin-prin-princess
For four weeks
For four weeks.
Shots of the band intercut shots of Shani. A blonde female guitarist—Anna Grange. I sat up in alarm. A drummer and bassist I’d never seen before. And the African boy was the vocalist. For two more agonizing verses we sat, transfixed, our mouths open as though that would help us hear better. Or maybe understand better.
We both in the oil money
’Cuz I got my royal honey
I’ve been a prin-prin-princess
For four weeks.
“Lord, help me,” Shani—the real one—gasped. “How could they do this? What’s Rashid going to think?”
“Mi’ja, sit down and put your head between your knees.” Carly grabbed her and sat her in the nearest chair, a spindly-legged gold thing that probably hadn’t seen someone’s rear since King William visited in 1698.
But like a jack-in-the-box, Shani popped right up again. “Who are these people and how did they get that footage?”
“It looked way too familiar,” Carly said with a glance at the telly, though the presenter had gone on to someone else’s scandal.
Don’t say it—
“Upstairs, remember, that afternoon I was trying on my blouse from Mac?”
My stomach seemed to be trying to glue itself to my spine. I flexed my fingers. Cold. Why is it so cold in here? No fire, that’s why. I have to build up the fire.
I knelt by the hearth and promptly dropped the chunk of pine from the wood basket on the tiles.
Clack!
“Mac, weren’t you shooting video that day?” Gillian asked.
No, no, no. Pick up the wood. Slow and easy. Now, on the fire.
“Mac?”
I got too close to the coals and squeaked, putting my burned fingers in my mouth like a child. Hot tears spurted into my eyes and I blinked them back.
“Mac, that wasn’t you
rs, was it?”
“It had to be. Who else was shooting or even there?” Gillian sounded like a barrister at the flippin’ bar. All she needed was a wig and queue. Who did she think she was, taking that tone with me in my own house?
“But how did it get on TV?” Carly sounded completely mystified.
“That’s the band.” Lissa pulled her ever-present mobile out of her pocket and began to brush the screen with a finger at top speed. “Ohmigosh. It can’t be the same one. Wait a second. Aha!” She held it up. “Mac? That Anna chick you asked me to check on about her band? That’s them. Blue Bella. And you know what?”
“What?” Carly answered when I didn’t.
“I just hired them to play Hogmanay for us.”
“Then you’d better unhire them.” Shani sounded grim as she sank onto the sofa. With me kneeling by the hearth, our eyes were on a level. “I’m not having them play their hit single right in front of me. Which makes me wonder, how did they get that footage?”
Her eyes were black holes of suspicion.
“I don’t know.” Was that my voice? This was certainly my throat, tight as twisted fabric. I tried again. “I have no idea how my clip got to that band or how they got it on the show. It’s never left my computer.”
Those eyes said plainly they didn’t believe me, and Shani’s lips tightened on words a new Christian probably wasn’t allowed to say.
“Have you lent your computer to anyone?” Gillian asked.
Enough was enough. “Look, you don’t need to cross-examine me. That’s my clip, off my camera, and I’ve said I have no idea how it could have got out of this house, much less onto national television.”
“I’m only trying to—”
“We need to stop blaming and start acting.”
“No one’s blaming you, Lindsay,” Alasdair said quietly from the door.
“Shani is. I can see it in her eyes.”
“It’s kinda hard not to,” she retorted. “Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake and send it to someone?”
“Brett said he got some random group shot,” Carly said suddenly, “when you said in your e-mail it was footage of me. Could you have gotten the clips mixed up?”
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