Tidings of Great Boys

by Shelley Adina

  “I wish they’d used this room in The Middle Window,” I said. “I can’t think why they had to film the dance scenes on a soundstage.”

  “It’s about three hundred years out of period, that’s why.” Lissa directed one of Mr. Gillie’s grandsons—Ian, I think—on the perfect placement of the last garland of lights. “This room looked too modern.”

  “What, they didn’t have Adam ceilings in the fourteen hundreds?” I joked.

  “Or Corinthian pillars, or parquet floors,” Lissa agreed. “But they suit us just fine. This is going to be the best party ever.”

  “You were right not to have cedar swags and rose towers,” I told her.

  “Too much too late.” She nodded at Ian and he climbed down from his stepladder. “We could have flown the flowers in from Italy, but then we’d have to worry about what to do with them afterward. Though I suppose the church ladies would love them.”

  “I’m not so sure. There are two rival committees for decorating the altar. It could have gotten ugly.”

  Lissa laughed. “There’d be rose petals everywhere and people would wonder how they missed the wedding.”

  I smiled at the picture and reached out to grab Ian as he tried to slip out the French doors. “Not so fast, laddie. We still need you.”

  “But all the lights are up, miss.”

  “And a fine job you’ve done for us. But tell me, do you know how to dance Strip the Willow?”

  “Oh, no, miss.” Horrified, he edged closer to the doors. “Ye will no’ make me.”

  “Och, aye, but I will. Where’s your granddad? I need him, too. We have five girls, so run and collect my mother and dad, and Lissa’s parents in the kitchen. With Alasdair and your brother William, only your grannie will have to dance on the men’s side.”

  “Who am I to partner with, miss?”

  I leaned in. “Which of us is the least scarifying?”

  “The surfer girl, miss,” he whispered reluctantly. Then he brightened. “She’s verra handy with a screw gun, too.”

  Twelve-year-olds were so easy to please.

  When he’d fetched everyone and they’d straggled, laughing and chatting, into the ballroom, I plugged my iPod into the sound system. “Okay, Americans, we’ll run through it in sections and then do the whole thing straight through, with music.”

  Gillian and Shani groaned. “We learned this days ago.”

  “I’ve forgotten everything.”

  “Can’t we just sit this one out?”

  “No, you cannot.” Dad took Mummy’s hand and herded Gabe and Patricia into line. “I’ll not have guests of mine made a laughingstock because they cannot do a simple country dance.”

  “Yeah, like calculus is simple,” Gillian muttered. “But you don’t see me doing it in front of an audience of experts.”

  “It’s a Scottish thing,” Mummy said to her, “to test your mettle. Country dances are mathematical, you know. A series of interlocking patterns. If you treat this one like a geometry problem, you’ll be fine.”

  “Really?” Gillian looked so cheered by this odd way of looking at it that I could practically see that ferocious brain lasering in on the steps as we went through them, parsing and analyzing each pattern as though it fit into some long algebraic equation.

  I also saw that she executed them perfectly, as did Shani.

  Hey, whatever works.

  When they’d rehearsed to my satisfaction, we all adjourned to the sitting room, where Mrs. Gillie had rushed back to lay out tea. A lovely wheel of Stilton, cold vegetables, and sliced roast, all designed to keep us going until the supper at ten o’clock.

  “I shall be sorry to see young Carly leave us,” Mrs. Gillie whispered to me as she poured a mug of tea for me and laced it with honey from Dad’s hives. “If not for her, I’d have been hard pressed to manage it all.”

  Since she hardly even permitted my mother in her kitchen, this was high praise indeed. I saved it up to tell Carly later.

  Lissa nudged me. “I vote for loading up plates and taking them upstairs. This is the most important part and we need all the time we can get.”

  I had to agree. “Just don’t, for goodness’ sake, spill anything on your dress once you get it on.”

  She shuddered at the thought. “How much hot water do you think there is?”

  With a stern look, I said, “Enough for a ten-minute shower for everyone in this house.”

  “Ouch.” She looked pained. “Okay, message received.”

  I loaded up my plate and stole a bunch of grapes out of the eighteenth-century silver soup tureen in the center of the table, for good measure. Halfway across the entry hall, I spotted young Ian Gillie hesitating in the kitchen corridor.

  “Ian? I thought you’d gone home to get dressed.”

  “That’s just it, miss. We canna get out of the drive. It’s blocked.”

  “Just open the gate. They need to be opened, anyway, before people start arriving.”

  “It’s no’ the gate, miss. Granddad sent me to tell you. He cannot get the van past the reporters and the cameras.”

  “What?” For a moment I couldn’t think what he meant. My brain was full of food and decorating and what I would wear and managing hundreds of people and whether I’d remember the steps of Strip the Willow myself, if I could get Alasdair to partner me.

  “Reporters, miss. There must be fifty of them. Granddad sent me back tae tell the laird.”

  “Dinna bother the laird, Ian. I’ll deal with them myself.”

  He grinned at me, as saucy as a robin in the rain. “Yer sounding like one of us again, miss, and losing that posh London accent.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll always be one of you, Ian. Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.”

  I stuffed some roast and a bit of cheese in my mouth as I sprinted up the stairs. I couldn’t go out there as I was—in torn jeans and a T-shirt. I had to go looking as they expected me to be. I yanked on a pair of 7 for All Mankind black velvet jeans and slid into my new-this-fall Prada stiletto boots. On top went a winter white cashmere turtleneck sweater and a Chanel herringbone riding jacket that I’d actually gotten on Portobello Road one Saturday morning on my way home from an all-nighter with some girls from St. Cecelia’s. A quick brush of my hair, a swipe of lipstick, and I was ready to take on the news vans.

  Alasdair stopped on his way up the stairs when he saw me coming down, and I was twice as glad I’d taken the time to change. Admiration flared in his eyes, quickly banked down to the more appropriate level demanded by friendship.

  Rubbish. If I had my way…

  Focus.

  “On your way out?” he inquired.

  “Off to rout the invading horde.” I nodded at Ian. “Reporters are blocking Mr. Gillie’s exit.”

  “Need some backup?”

  “No, but I’d like it all the same.”

  “Let me get my jacket.”

  It was a half-mile walk to the gates, but Mr. Gillie was already waiting in the courtyard with the van. “Sure you’re up to this, Lady Lindsay?” he asked me, accelerating down the drive. “I asked the lad tae speak to the laird.”

  “Dad would read them a lecture and then invite them all in for a wee dram,” I said. “I’m more experienced at handling the media than he is.”

  “I have nae doot o’that,” Mr. Gillie said. “Here they are, then.”

  Young Ian’s estimate had been spot on. There had to be fifty reporters, complete with cameras, microphones, vans, portable transmission dishes, and an insatiable appetite for scandal.

  I slid out of the van and walked toward the closed gates, thankful for Alasdair’s steadying presence behind me. If they rushed me, I could only hope he knew enough self-defense moves for both of us.

  “Gentlemen,” I greeted them with a smile. “You’re blocking our drive. D’you mind making way for my friends to leave?”

  “She’s probably in the van!” one of them shouted, and they all began to yell.

  “
No one is in the van except two lads from the village. Now please move out of the way or I’ll have to call the local constable to remove you.”

  “Lady Lindsay, we had a local tip that the Princess of Yasir is a guest here. Is that true?” asked a man who couldn’t have been any older than Alasdair. He wore a huge gray parka, though the day was mild.

  “No. No one by that title exists, to my knowledge.”

  “So can you confirm that Shani Hanna is or is not married to the Prince?”

  “If her life were any of your business, I would tell you that no, she is not.”

  “Then how do you explain the video that aired on London Calling?” A woman in a fabulous camel hair coat held her microphone out through the wrought-iron bars of the gate.

  I laughed for the benefit of the camera, and tossed my hair back. “Have you people never heard of artistic license? The band took a random clip out of something larger, obviously, and made a nice little headline for you—as well as a career-making music video for themselves. I’d hardly take it seriously.”

  “We interviewed the band earlier today,” the woman said. “They say they know you.”

  I shrugged. “Sure. The guitarist, Anna Grange, is a friend of mine.”

  “And you didn’t have a problem with her making a video about another friend of yours? You were very public earlier this year on American celebrity sites, being seen with Miss Hanna. And the Prince, I might add.”

  “Whether I had a problem with it is hardly relevant. They made the video. They’ll make another one using someone else. It’s the nature of the beast, you know?” I grinned at her, two chums working the media for different reasons.

  Which she promptly shot down with her next question. “Is the prince aware that your friends made a video that’s essentially about him?”

  “I don’t think Prince Rashid watches London Calling.”

  Another reporter mashed himself up against the railing and stuck his digital recorder in my face. “Is it true the Prince is coming here for Hogmanay?”

  I laughed again, in sheer incredulity. “You’ve got to be joking. The man is in Yasir, as far as I know.”

  “Rumor has it the Yasiri royal flight left there this morning with the prince on board.”

  “Perhaps he’s spending the New Year in California,” I said. “Now, I really must wrap this up and insist that you move out of the way.”

  “Lady Lindsay—”

  “No, no more questions. Move out of the way, please.”

  I leaned on the gate until they were forced to move back, and Mr. Gillie maneuvered the van neatly into the gap, forcing them back even further. When he finally got through and trundled off down the road, Alasdair and I pulled the gates back into place.

  “Lady Lindsay—”

  “Gentlemen, I have one thing to say.” The crowd quieted just enough to hear me. “We’re expecting the neighborhood round about to come tonight for Hogmanay. If I hear of any of you waylaying our guests, getting underfoot, or bringing yourselves to their attention in any way, I will press charges of harassment. Is that clear?”

  “What’s Hogmanay?” said an English voice, clearly lost. The reporters, who seemed to be Scottish with a smattering of other accents, growled at him.

  “Do I have your agreement?” I asked.

  “If you’ll give us an exclusive with Shani Hanna.” Oh, she was a tricky one, the woman in the camel coat. Never missed a beat. She’d be presenting in a nice, warm studio before another year was out, with no more tramping round in the snow after a story.

  “I’ll do no such thing. Shani and the prince are no longer seeing each other. That makes her a private citizen and not flash fodder for the likes of you.”

  “Is it true they were engaged? Was the video a ploy to get his attention?”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen,” I said cheerfully. “Our guests are arriving at eight o’clock. I expect you all to be gone by then.”

  “Lady Lindsay, who’s the young man with you? Is that your boyfriend?” Gray Parka Guy was back.

  “You’ll find the Cairn and Crown a very comfortable place to have a bit of supper and a nice pint,” I said, smiling as though I really meant it. “A good evening to you, and the best in the new year.”

  Some of them actually returned the greeting, though the woman in the camel coat had flushed with frustration. I turned my back on them all and Alasdair offered me his arm.

  So lovely and old-fashioned.

  What, you think I would turn down an opportunity to walk half a mile tucked up against his side? I’m not stupid. No, in fact, being a thoroughly modern girl, I slipped my hand under his elbow and took it like the lady I am.

  chapter 18

  I LOVE GETTING ready for a party. I love planning it and talking about it. But most of all I love dressing for it.

  Every shower in the house was running at once after tea, which meant some people got their water piping hot and some had to take the tepid and even cold leftovers where the plumbing couldn’t keep up. When mine ran cold, I realized how soft I’d become in London and California. I shrieked and rinsed off in double time, instead of being a proper Scot and toughing it out.

  I swore to myself that when we became a hotel, the boilers would be the first things on the replacement list.

  Showered, lotioned, buffed, and dried, we all assembled in my room to dress. “What did you all bring?” Despite the fact that Gillian had lugged along enough luggage to go round the world with—twice—I knew it was difficult to pack a proper party dress, especially one that required boning and petticoats, like mine.

  I pulled my ceilidh dress out of the closet.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Carly asked. “There have to be six yards of silk. You’d better hope no one holding a drink bumps into you.”

  “It’s traditional,” I said. “Normally I’m not much on tradition. I’ve even been known to wear Doc Martens to Ascot on Ladies’ Day. But somehow…” I trailed off.

  “Tonight seems like a good time for tradition,” Lissa said. “Especially if your dad goes for the hotel thing and this is the last family party you get to have here.”

  The last thing I expected was for my throat to close up. Or for Lissa to be so wise. I nodded, to cover up the fact that (a) she was right, and (b) I was more emotional about it than I’d admitted even to myself.

  The strapless dress had to go on over my head because of my tulle petticoat, and Lissa zipped it up for me. Then I pulled my earasaid from its hanger.

  “What is that?” Gillian wanted to know. “I’m thinking plaid shawls don’t go with cream silk, girlfriend.”

  “Ah, but this is Scotland, where the plaid goes with everything.” I swung the length of MacPhail dress tartan over my shoulder and secured it with my great-great-grandmother’s sapphire brooch. The ends hung down nearly to my knees and gave a bit of swing in the turns of any dance.

  Then I turned to the velvet box that had mysteriously appeared on my dressing table while we’d been working in the ballroom.

  “Oh, my,” Shani breathed. “Is that—?”

  “Yes. Mummy must have brought it up with her. She keeps it in the bank in London.”

  “You’re not really going to—”

  “I am, indeed,” I said. “The neighbors would stage an uprising if you even suggested there was a class system operating here. Dad deplores it. He’s the most class-averse man you could hope to meet. But woe betide you if you have Hogmanay at Strathcairn and the countess and her daughter don’t wear the bling.”

  While Gillian laughed in disbelief, Carly sighed with sheer satisfaction as I slipped the Strathcairn ruby tiara into my hair and secured the heavy little arc with clips. “You think this is bad, you should see Mummy’s.”

  “I don’t think it’s bad at all,” Carly said. “I’m just glad I got a chance to see it. How old is it?”

  “The original came with Mary Gordon in 1651. It was updated for Queen Victoria’s Jubilee
—that’s when these diamonds were put in.” I touched them. “Mummy’s is from the 1860s, when the family invested in some mines in South Africa.” I looked over at Shani, who was hovering in indecision over two heaps of shimmering fabric. “You think the Star of the Desert is big. They had to break up the original Nafisa diamond because the countess couldn’t hold her head up. So now it’s in bits between Mummy’s tiara, this one, and a necklace.”

  “I can’t wait,” Carly said.

  “All right, you lot,” I said, “who can I help?”

  “Me,” Shani moaned. “I can’t decide.” She held up the two dresses. One was the raspberry 1972 Lanvin she’d worn on a date with the prince that fall, and the other her Lagerfeld.

  “You’re going to be dancing Strip the Willow,” I reminded her. “Will the Lagerfeld stand up to it?”

  “You’re right.” Resolutely, she hung it from the top edge of my closet door. “The Lanvin is way more comfortable for dancing.”

  “And plus you look totally hot in it,” Lissa said.

  “There is that.” Shani smiled. “Mac, you wouldn’t have a chain or anything I could borrow, would you? My jewelry’s all in the safe deposit box.”

  I grinned at her. “Would this do?” I lifted the false bottom out of the tiara box and showed her the ruby necklace that went with it.

  She tried to keep her jaw from dropping. “Oh. Well, um, I suppose I could make do with that.”

  “Gee, Mac, I don’t suppose you have a rope of pearls anywhere around here?” Lissa asked in a bored tone as she stepped into the silver waterfall dress she’d worn last year at the Benefactors’ Day Ball. “I couldn’t fit my diamonds into my carry-on.”

  “No, but Grannie does. She’s coming up from Edinburgh. D’you want me to call her and ask if you can borrow it?”