The Dangers of Family Secrets: From the bestselling author of The Ex-Wife’s Survival Guide

by Debby Holt

  ‘I met an old friend for lunch yesterday,’ he said. ‘His wife has a clothes shop in Gasterlethen.’

  ‘I don’t think I know it,’ Tess said.

  ‘Not many people do,’ Great-aunt Katherine said. ‘Gasterlethen is very unmemorable.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ Doctor Knox said. ‘It has a quiet sort of charm…’

  Great-aunt Katherine sniffed. ‘Very quiet.’

  ‘It is a small village,’ Doctor Knox conceded. ‘It’s on the road between Galashiels and Peebles. My friend wants his wife to take on some help over the summer.

  And I thought of you, Tess.’

  ‘Me?’ Tess leant forward. ‘That’s very kind of you but I’m already sorted. I’ll be working at a restaurant and…’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, do you?’ Grandma asked. ‘You could come here instead, borrow my car, do your research on days off. Of course you might prefer to spend the summer in London. You might think Gasterlethen would be extremely dull.’

  ‘Grandma,’ Tess said, ‘you’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.’

  ‘Well,’ Grandma said, ‘I’ve never had much time for subtlety.’

  Great-aunt Katherine grunted. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It’s not just the restaurant,’ Tess said. ‘I’ll be doing tutoring work too.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Great-aunt Katherine said. ‘You can’t let people down.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Here we are in Kelso at last!’

  Unlike most of the Border towns, Kelso was rather grand. It possessed not just a ruined abbey and a river but also a racecourse and a genuine fairy-tale castle, occupied by the current Duke and Duchess of Roxburghe. Doctor Knox parked in the impressive cobbled square and nodded across at one of the elegant Georgian houses. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  The pale blue door was opened by a cheerful mop-haired teenager who took their coats and suggested they help themselves to drinks from the trestle table behind him. Doctor Knox took an orange juice for himself and poured wine for the ladies.

  Tess followed her companions upstairs to a long drawing room with two high windows, framed by heavy, maroon-coloured drapes. On the walls there were paintings of men and women in silks and satins who stared down at the festivities with grim distaste. At one end of the room, a group of people stood chatting to a regal old lady who sat in a high-backed chair in a long grey skirt and a lilac-coloured jersey.

  Tess was aware that two young men were following her entrance with interest. She glanced fleetingly at them. One was dark-haired and wore a suit. The other had red hair and wore a kilt and stared so blatantly at her that she turned away quickly. There had to be about thirty people here, all talking in hushed voices as if in church. The few teenagers in evidence were busy taking round canapés. This was a very well-behaved party.

  In the next half-hour Tess was introduced to a variety of guests, most of them seemingly related to Flora Macdonald, the eighty-five-year-old birthday girl in her high-backed chair. The old lady patted Tess’s hand and told her she must meet her grand-daughter, Susan. She beckoned to Susan and told her to take Tess off for a chat.

  Susan was a red-faced woman of indeterminate age, with a very short neck and two thick plaits fixed together on top of her head like an old-fashioned German hausfrau. As soon as Susan heard Tess’s English vowels, her eyes narrowed with scorn and she settled her arms on her well-endowed chest.

  ‘We attract foreigners like flies, particularly in this part of the country. I suppose you’re here for a holiday?’ The last word was spoken with a contemptuous flourish.

  ‘I’m here for work,’ Tess assured her. ‘I’m writing a PhD on Sir Walter Scott.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ Susan gave a mirthless smile. ‘He’s certainly an appropriate subject for an English girl, particularly one who is conservative by inclination which I presume you must be, given your choice of subject.’

  ‘Actually,’ Tess said, ‘my grandfather was Scottish and I’m sure many Scots are impressed by the author of Ivanhoe and Waverley.’

  Susan’s small eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. ‘Most Scots would rather read a Latin dictionary than plough through a novel by Sir Walter Scott. Have you ever tried to read one?’

  ‘Well, of course I have and…’

  ‘They are unreadable. The man himself was an abomination. He was a Tory who did his best to turn Scotland into a playground for the English aristocracy. He rewrote our history and invited to Edinburgh one of your most dissolute kings…’

  ‘In fact,’ Tess told her, ‘George the Fourth probably inherited his dissolute habits from his Scottish ancestor, James the Sixth of Scotland, who unfortunately became James the First of England.’ She made an effort to rein in her indignation. ‘I know that Scott romanticised elements of Scottish history but…’

  ‘Romanticised?’ Susan’s florid complexion had taken on the colour of a tomato. ‘The man fabricated, he didn’t romanticise! He made up a false history to please his posh English friends and he thought the pernicious Act of Union was a good and noble law. Well…’ Susan’s head nodded violently ‘…our time has come. This year is our year and you and your Sir Walter will have to accept Scotland’s independence…’

  ‘I support independence…’

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else about your precious Sir Walter! He encouraged the royal family to wear kilts! To this day they wear kilts! They are German, they don’t have an ounce of Scottish blood in their veins…’

  ‘Well, actually,’ Tess said, ‘as I think I pointed out, that’s not quite true. George the First was the great-great-grandson of James the First on his mother’s side…’

  ‘He was German! He never spoke a word of English!’

  ‘Yes, but he did have Scottish blood in him and I don’t think you can condemn Scott for persuading the royal family to appreciate his homeland. A lot of people accept that if it weren’t for him, Scotland would have no tourist industry and…’

  ‘I’m supposed to be grateful for that? I’m supposed to be grateful for your caravan parks and your holiday homes?’

  ‘They aren’t my caravan parks…’

  ‘Let me tell you about Sir Walterrrr.’ Susan’s accent was becoming ever more pronounced. ‘He built a preposterous house at Abbotsford which was his idea of what a great Scottish house should be despite the fact that it bore no resemblance to any other great house in the country. He wrote ridiculous novels…’

  ‘He was the first ever international bestseller who influenced the great writers of his day! Byron, Goethe, Hugo and Austen all thought he was brilliant. And even today there are people like A. N. Wilson and Alan Massie who revere him…’

  Susan gave a laugh that sounded like a steam engine in full throttle. ‘In England, you had a hideous programme called Big Brother that had more viewers than any other. That doesn’t mean it was commendable. In England, your most famous celebrity is an anorexic airhead called Victoria Beckham. That doesn’t mean she’s commendable…’

  ‘She is commendable. She’s a very successful businesswoman and a widely respected clothes designer.’

  Susan dismissed this with a wave of her hand. ‘In England you have a plastic-breasted woman called Katie Price who changes her men and her body every few months and whose books sell in their thousands. Just because the English are obsessed with the base and the vulgar, should we have to follow your lamentable example?’

  ‘Who has plastic breasts?’

  Both women turned to register the newcomer. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Tess recognised him at once as the friend of the red-haired man. Susan gave a loud sniff. ‘I was talking,’ she said coldly, ‘about Katie Price.’

  ‘I can’t say I know her,’ the man said. He looked expectantly at Susan and then turned to Tess. ‘I don’t think she’s going to introduce us. I’m Susan’s cousin: Jamie Lockhart.’

  ‘I’m Tess Cameron,’ Tess said, ‘and…’

  ‘And you, Jamie Lockhart, are
my second cousin,’ Susan said, ‘and since I’m aware you didn’t come over here to talk to me, I shall leave the two of you together. I’m sure you will find you have similar views.’

  Susan turned and, moving like a stately battleship, set off in search of more congenial company. ‘I think you should know,’ Jamie murmured, ‘that her last comment was not a compliment.’

  Susan’s voice resembled a hard-bristled broom being dragged across a stone floor. Jamie’s soft Scottish tones were far more melodic. Tess had never seen anyone quite like him. He wore an unexceptional black suit and a white shirt. He was of average height and slim build. It was his colouring that was so unusual. He had jet black hair that was pushed back from his forehead and his skin was pale as alabaster. It reminded her of Sir Walter’s marble bust at Abbotsford and there was something statue-like about him. He didn’t fidget or glance round the room. He kept his hands on his empty wine glass and his eyes fixed on Tess. His face was remarkably inexpressive. The immobility of his features together with the quiet tone of his voice suggested a certain gravity of mind. On the other hand, Tess had a strong suspicion that he had enjoyed baiting his cousin.

  ‘Susan doesn’t seem to like you very much.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to like you either. What did you do to upset such a sweet, unassuming woman?’

  Tess smiled. ‘I told her I was doing a PhD on Sir Walter Scott.’

  ‘He’s not very fashionable these days. Are you looking to restore his popularity?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll need to add some salacious details.’

  ‘He was a faithful husband, a loyal friend and an honourable businessman. There are no salacious details.’

  ‘Make them up.’

  ‘I happen to believe in academic integrity.’

  ‘The problem with academic integrity,’ Jamie said, ‘is that it doesn’t sell. Are you doing your work in Edinburgh?’

  ‘No. I live in London. I’m staying with my grandmother. I go home tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jamie opened his mouth and then shut it again.

  ‘You were about to say something?’

  Jamie nodded. ‘I didn’t want to be rude.’

  ‘Please,’ Tess said politely, ‘feel free.’

  ‘Well then. You choose to focus on a Scottish writer and you decide to study him in London. It’s odd.’

  ‘Now you sound like your cousin.’

  ‘She’s my second cousin and I do not. Susan is a bigoted, bad-tempered nationalist who refuses to believe there’s any merit in the world outside Scotland. She’s also a closet psychopath.’

  ‘A moment ago you said she was sweet and unassuming.’

  ‘I have a tendency to change my mind quite quickly. If I’m honest, it may be unfair to call her a psychopath. As far as I know she hasn’t killed anyone yet.’ He caught the eye of the mop-haired teenager who was currently refilling glasses a few feet away. ‘Hey, Rollo! Come here.’

  The boy sauntered over. ‘Do you want another drink?’

  ‘We do indeed. And then I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘I might,’ Rollo said. ‘You may remember, Jamie, I asked you three weeks ago about a holiday job in the summer? You said you’d get back to me?’ He attended to the empty glasses and then stood and waited.

  ‘You strike a hard bargain, Rollo,’ Jamie said. ‘If – and only if – you do it properly, I’ll see what I can do. You notice Andy over there talking to Susan?’ He nodded towards the red-haired man. ‘Your mission – if you choose to accept it – is to go across and engage him in conversation.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Rollo, you are a resourceful young man. You can talk for Scotland. Look, he’s poised to come over. Off you go.’

  Tess watched Rollo hurry off. ‘Why don’t you want your friend to join us?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Where women are concerned, Andy is not to be trusted. He is in point of fact unscrupulous. Susan will have told him about Sir Walter and you. He’ll pretend he loves Scott’s books when I happen to know he’s never read a novel in his life. I am trying to protect you.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you.’

  Across the room, Rollo had made contact with Andy and was making animated gestures with his bottle of wine. It was clear that Rollo was very keen to get a holiday job with Jamie. Tess’s mouth twitched. She was enjoying herself. It was impossible not to be amused by Jamie. He was an attractive man, who was flirting with her. She could enjoy such attentions in the happy knowledge that there would be no complications.

  ‘I’m sorry you leave tomorrow,’ Jamie said. ‘I would have liked to invite you to my castle. Sir Walter was a regular visitor.’

  ‘You have a castle? Scott went there?’

  ‘Well, he visited once, in 1801. At least we think he did. We think he went with his friend William Wordsworth so that counts for something.’

  Tess eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you telling me the truth? Do you really own a castle?’

  Jamie reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out his wallet and extracted a business card which he gave to Tess.

  On one side there was a photo of a genuine castle. On the other were the words: Jamie Lockhart, custodian of Reidfern Castle. Underneath there were his contact details. She tried to return the card to him but he shook his head. ‘Keep it. Next time you’re in Scotland, get in touch. I’ll show you around.’

  ‘Is it a real castle or is it just a ruin?’

  ‘It is very real,’ Jamie assured her. ‘We have weddings and business functions there.’

  Tess looked down at the card. ‘Sir Walter’s son-in-law was called Sir John Lockhart. They were the greatest of friends. I wonder if your family is related to him.’

  Jamie gave an authoritative nod of his head. ‘I’m pretty sure we are.’

  Tess smiled. ‘You’d never heard of him until this moment!’

  ‘That might be true but I feel in my bones we must be. My grandfather’s name was John.’

  ‘We should have my mother here. She’s a genealogist. She reads family trees like other people read newspapers. It would be quite something to be descended from the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott.’

  ‘It would,’ Jamie said gravely. ‘I must tell my father. He’s been saying for years that he means to explore our family history.’

  ‘Tell him to google Freya Eliza Cameron. Her website will tell him how to go about it.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ The red-haired man had extricated himself from Rollo and was now bearing down on them. ‘Andy,’ Jamie said, ‘I was about to tell Tess here I ought to introduce you.’

  Andy ignored Jamie. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Susan has told me you’re a fan of Sir Walter Scott. I have to tell you I love his books.’

  For a brief moment, Jamie’s eyes met those of Tess. ‘That’s very interesting, Andy. I never knew that. Tell us: which is your favourite novel and why?’

  On the journey home, the hot gossip was that Susan was walking out with her local SNP agent.

  ‘I found Susan rather difficult,’ Tess confessed. ‘She’s such an angry person.’

  ‘She’s not easy,’ her great-aunt agreed. ‘As far as I could see, you spent most of the evening with Jamie Lockhart. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’

  ‘He was just being friendly,’ Tess said.

  ‘We have a saying in the family,’ Great-aunt Katherine said. ‘When a Lockhart befriends a woman, she should pack her case and run.’

  ‘That’s not a saying I’ve ever heard,’ Grandma retorted. ‘I think Jamie’s charming.’

  ‘The Lockharts are always charming,’ Great-aunt Katherine intoned. ‘You don’t know them, Maggie. I was at school with Flora when her sister married into the family. Flora told me her mother cried all night.’

  ‘Her mother sounds very silly,’ Grandma said.

  ‘She had her reasons,’ Great-aunt Katherine said. ‘I will only say that John L
ockhart had a reputation. And his son is no better. He’s left behind a long trail of broken marriages.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Grandma said, ‘but…’

  Doctor Knox made one of his rare interventions. ‘I do. The Lockharts were patients of mine. Jamie’s father was a delightful young man. I remember visiting him when he was almost beside himself with pain from an acute ear infection. He still took the time to thank me for calling on him. As far as I know he’s only on his third wife and I’m told they’re very happy.’

  ‘“He’s only on his third wife”,’ Great-Aunt Katherine repeated with heavy sarcasm. ‘That says it all.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Grandma responded, ‘because you’ve said quite enough already.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eliza Sample kissed her friend and agreed they must meet again soon, though, as she walked out into Piccadilly, she decided it wouldn’t be as soon as all that. She was fond of Jean but she did have a tendency to go on about her aches and pains and, really, what was the point? Aches and pains were an essential part of the ageing process and a pretty reasonable price for survival when one thought of all the friends and acquaintances who had succumbed to fatal illnesses and falls.

  And to be perfectly honest – and while Eliza might sometimes be a little veiled in her dealing with others, she believed in being stringently honest with herself – it was not terribly fascinating to listen to Jean’s gossip about her family when she had no family of her own with which to contribute and compare. It wasn’t as if Jean’s family were particularly interesting anyway. Her daughters seemed to live tiresomely exemplary lives with useful careers in the civil service and education, husbands who remained their husbands, and children who were good at sports and exams and joined youth orchestras and ran marathons.

  There had been one special moment. Jean’s daughter-in-law was trying to unearth the mystery of her great-grandfather, a man who had disappeared one day, never to be seen again. Eliza had said, ‘There’s a very good website I’ve found. It’s called Revealing Families.co.uk. It’s run by a woman called Freya Eliza Cameron. You should tell your daughter-in-law about it.’ Eliza had enjoyed passing that on.