Set Me Free

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  We heard the low, gentle neighing of a horse coming from the outbuildings on the right-hand side. “Are those stables?” I asked.

  “Yes. They have a riding school, if you want to take lessons,” Inary replied.

  “Not me . . . horses are high.” I shook my head in horror. Horse riding is one of the many things I’ll never even consider doing. “But maybe Lara . . .”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .” Lara said.

  “Torcuil will show you the stables and then you can decide. I love horse riding,” Inary said, which I suspected might swing Lara towards trying. Lara was starstruck by Inary, hanging on every word she said. It was very sweet and funny, and so Lara. “Come to the back,” she continued. “Torcuil never uses the main entrance. Nobody does, really. Only Lady Ramsay.”

  “Oh, there’s a Lady Ramsay?” I imagined the kind of groomed, genteel old lady who would appear on the cover of Country Living.

  “Well, not as such . . . I mean, Torcuil is not married,” Inary explained as we made our way towards the back of the house. “Lady Ramsay is his mother. My aunt, on my father’s side. She’s scary.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s not here. She lives in Perth. Thankfully,” she added.

  As we got closer to the house I noticed signs of neglect – unchecked ivy eating away at the walls, hedges that needed trimmed, windows in dire need of a wash. It was a big house for someone to live in alone.

  We walked along the back wall until we reached a small wooden door painted in black. It was garlanded by a stunning fuchsia plant, laden with flowers.

  Inary tapped against the wood. “Hello! It’s us!”

  The door opened and on the other side was a man wearing jeans, an untucked chequered shirt and silver-rimmed glasses. He was probably a stablehand or a gardener. “Come in! Hi, Inary. And you must be Margherita . . .” he said, offering me his hand. His smile was warm and shy at the same time.

  “And this is Lara, Margherita’s daughter,” said Inary.

  The man shook my daughter’s hand. “Hello. I’m Torcuil.”

  Torcuil? I blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust to the discovery. This man was Torcuil? But he was young. And he wasn’t wearing tweed. And he had all his hair.

  The old, bumbling, Colonel Mustard-type figure dissolved from my mind.

  “You are Lord Ramsay?” I asked, just to make sure.

  He ran a hand through his thick auburn hair and left it sticking up, like a little boy who’d just woken. “Yes, but don’t call me that or I won’t know who you’re talking to.”

  At that moment, I realised I’d seen him somewhere before. He was the man who’d picked up Pingu on the night we arrived.

  “You were there,” I said. “I mean, you were there when we arrived. You picked up my son’s toy.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was me. Funny that. Anyway. Tea? Coffee? My coffee is a bit past its best . . .” he said, lifting a jar of something that had solidified in a weird way, like a desert rose.

  “A cup of tea would be lovely,” I said, looking around me. Everything was clean and smelled of bleach – I suspected a last-minute cleaning frenzy before I arrived, and the thought made me smile. There was a vast oak table in the centre of the room, half covered in piles of books and folders, and stone slabs covered the floor; from the window I could see what must have been a gorgeous garden but was now overgrown with unkempt bushes and covered in swathes of dead leaves.

  He began filling the kettle, and I took the chance to observe him a little as his back was turned. There was a certain family air in his and Inary’s colouring, with their auburn hair and fair skin, though Torcuil’s hair was darker than Inary’s. But the similarities ended at that – Inary was even smaller than me and very slight, while Torcuil was tall and well built.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we have our chat here in the kitchen?” he said. “It’s the only place where my allergies don’t act up. Here and my bedroom, but I couldn’t interview you in the bedroom, it would just be dodgy.” He seemed completely unaware of what was coming out of his mouth.

  Inary burst into laughter. I looked at him with raised eyebrows, and a deep red colour started rising up his face.

  “Okay, I should shut up. Sorry.” He was nervous too, and for some reason I found this very endearing.

  “Er, yes. So . . . you need a hand with the house?” I said, helping him along.

  “Will you show my mum how to kick the boiler?” Lara asked, deadpan. I gasped inwardly, but Torcuil was unfazed.

  “Oh, that. Yes, of course. You can just slam it if you don’t want to kick it. It’s up to you. It’s just that it gets very cold in here all year round, and my housekeeper was the only one who got it right every single time. She was like a horse whisperer, only with boilers . . .”

  “Why exactly would I have to hit your boiler?”

  “Because the heating won’t start otherwise,” Inary inter­vened, handing me and Lara a cup of hot tea. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Milk, one sugar,” I said.

  “Milk, four sugars,” said Lara.

  “Caramelised tea, my favourite,” quipped Torcuil, and Lara giggled. “I have some biscuits as well.” He brandished a packet of digestives as if he were showing us the Holy Grail.

  Inary took hold of a plate. “Oh, yes please. You know, Margherita is a pastry chef . . .”

  “Well, I was . . .”

  “Oh, cool! I love food! I can’t really cook it, but I love it. So anyway, have a seat, have a biscuit, let’s talk.” He moved several piles of books and what looked like essays.

  I was smiling inside. He was funny. We all sat at the table, except Lara, who lifted herself up on the windowsill. Torcuil pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  “Well, what I’m looking for, I guess, is just someone who could try to keep the living area sort of acceptable . . . I only use a few rooms; this place is enormous and heating the whole lot for just one person would be just silly. Every weekend I come back from Edinburgh, you know I teach at the university there . . .”

  “Inary told me.”

  “Yes, so it makes no sense to come back every single weekend, let’s face it, but I sort of have to. I can’t stand to be away from here for too long . . .”

  I was surprised at this sudden, unexpected candour. Inary had her hands around her mug, her head tilted slightly and a smile hovering on her lips. I had the feeling that Inary’s affection for her cousin ran deep.

  “You would have the place ready for me, you know, warm, groceries in, stuff like that. A cooked meal would be great, if it’s not too much trouble . . .” I loved the way he pronounced the word great, rolling the r in the middle.

  “Torcuil has an ongoing tab with the Golden Palace. You know, the Chinese takeaway,” Inary explained.

  “See, I can’t cook to save my life,” he said, running his hand through his hair once more. He was fidgety, forever touching his hair, pushing his glasses up – there was a sense of awkwardness around him, of shyness. “It runs in the family. I mean Inary here is just legendary when it comes to dodgy meals . . .”

  “Excuse me!”

  “No offence, honestly . . .”

  “None taken.” Inary grinned and dunked another biscuit in her tea.

  “Also, I’m so busy all weekend trying to oversee the riding school and prepare for my teaching week . . .”

  “So I would come in on a Friday morning, and maybe a Thursday too, depending on what needs done? A general clean, kick the boiler . . .” – Lara giggled and I shot her a glance – “. . . bring some food in, cook a couple of meals for you?”

  “Yes. Does that sound reasonable?”

  I thought it did, but I wanted to think about it for a bit, so I bought myself some time. “Would you show us the rest of the house?”

  “Of course.” He rose and beckoned us. “Follow me.”

  “Wait till you see this place. It’s incredible,” Inary murmured to Lara, taking her by the arm. I felt a
tingle of anticipation.

  We followed Torcuil up a few uneven stony steps and passed some rooms to our left, which he dismissed as his bedroom and bathroom, and then a small reception room. Every possible surface there was covered by stacks of books, and I could see by the amount of papers around and the jumper thrown on the sofa that Torcuil used this as his study. It was a mess, but a lovely mess, I thought, a sign of someone who was passionate about what he did. The same mess that’s in a kitchen in the middle of a cooking session.

  “And here comes the real thing,” he announced as we stepped into a stone-floored hall. “That’s the main entrance, and down here are the formal reception rooms.”

  From the high-ceilinged hall a marble staircase wound up to the first floor, dividing itself in two landings, both lined with portraits in tarnished gold frames. A row of coats of arms hung at the top of the staircase, and in the centre, bigger than the others, was what I guessed was the Ramsay coat of arms: a two-headed black eagle holding a shield.

  “Is that the Ramsay coat of arms?” Lara asked.

  “Yes. Our motto is Dei Donum, which means—”

  “Gift of God,” said Lara.

  “Do you study Latin?” asked Torcuil with a smile.

  “I’ve been taking some classes in school. Just for fun.”

  “That’s my kind of fun too,” Torcuil replied, and I saw Lara blooming under his praise. It warmed my heart. “So this is the posh side of the house . . .” he continued. It all seemed pretty posh to me.

  We walked through room after room, each of them covered in dust, with the most beautiful pieces of furniture shrouded in huge white sheets, cobwebs hanging from the ceilings. Torcuil had started sneezing already.

  “And this is what used to be . . . atchoo! . . . my father’s study.”

  This was the only room that was clean and well kept, with framed maps on the walls and an antique globe on the desk.

  “My dad passed away five years ago. He loved Ramsay Hall. He tried to spend most of his time here, though his work kept him away. It’s history repeating itself with me, I suppose! Come. I’ll show you the library.”

  “It’s like the Cluedo mansion,” Lara whispered. “Margherita, in the library, with a pastry cutter . . .” I had to laugh.

  The library was lined with dark wooden shelves from wall to wall. There were hundreds of volumes in their glassed cases, like a book aquarium. I could feel Lara’s excitement.

  “Some titles are impossible,” Torcuil said. “Like an eighteenth-century encyclopaedia of all Scottish plants in five volumes . . . but some are more modern and very readable. I know, because I spent half of my childhood here . . . I mean literally here.” He patted a dark-brown leather sofa in a corner.

  “And the other half in the stables,” Inary intervened.

  “Exactly. So, Lara, if you want to come and explore the library, you are very welcome.”

  “That would be amazing,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “I can’t wait to show you the ballroom!” said Inary, taking Lara by the arm.

  “Ballroom?” I said, swooning already. I was dying to see it – images of mirrors and gilded ceilings and frescoes on the walls and a mosaicked floor rushed through my mind. I wasn’t disappointed.

  Torcuil opened a double wooden door and led us into a grand hall. It was even more beautiful than I’d imagined, its ceiling painted blue and dotted with silver stars, and baby angels sitting on clouds and playing musical instruments. At each corner, a group of them was singing. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ceiling, and I wandered around for a while, looking up.

  “The fresco is incredible, isn’t it? My grandfather had it restored, so it’s in good condition. You can’t say that about much else at Ramsay Hall.”

  “I’m trying to imagine how it must have looked like long ago . . . The music, the dancing, candles shimmering all over . . .” said Lara dreamily.

  “The last time wasn’t that long ago, actually. My grandparents still had receptions here. I remember attending one when I was about seven . . . They sent me back upstairs very quickly, though!”

  “I remember. I was here with Logan. Our sister Emily was too young. He was eleven or so . . . he was made to wear a kilt and he danced with Lady Diana, remember? She was nice to him,” said Inary.

  “Oh, yes,” Torcuil laughed.

  “I used to go to my parish discos in the chapel hall. Sister Maria gave us Smarties out of a jar and we danced to eighties power ballads,” I said.

  “Mine were mostly like that too! Not like the landed gentry here . . .” Inary teased.

  Torcuil put his hands up. “The landed gentry here used to sleep with a woollen jumper on because it was so cold in this house, so really—”

  Inary made a sympathetic face. “Aw, Oliver Twist!”

  “I wish . . .” Lara began, and we all looked at her. She stopped abruptly.

  “What do you wish, Lara?” said Torcuil gently.

  “I could go to a ball here,” she said softly, and gazed out of the window at the surrounding trees. And then, “Oh!”

  I stepped beside her. “What is it?”

  “Look!” she said, and her face was all lit up. I followed her gaze out of one of the windows to the little copse. At first I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, and then, entwined with one of the oaks, I saw a tiny wooden house nestled on a cradle made of branches, and connected by a small rope bridge to another, smaller house on the oak tree just beside it. “That,” she breathed, “is amazing.”

  “Oh, that’s our tree house. It’s still in one piece, and safe to use. My nephews played in it just a few weeks ago.”

  “We used to play there all the time,” said Inary.

  “Yes. I remember falling off it and on you, once.”

  “I remember that too. It’s burnt into my memory, Torcuil,” Inary laughed.

  “It’s the perfect place to read in, Lara. You’re very welcome to use it.”

  Lara beamed. I think words were failing her. She looked at me and I read her eyes – please take this job.

  Inary intercepted the look that Lara was giving me. “So, Margherita, what do you say?”

  “Feel free to say no . . .” Torcuil hastened to add. “I mean, I know it’s not really your line of work—”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “—and I know it all looks a bit . . . dusty . . . and it’s quite isolated . . . but it’s not like you’d have to do anything heavy . . . Did you just say yes?”

  “I’d love to do it.” I smiled.

  “Oh. Oh. That’s great. That’s really, really great. Oh, wow . . .” He looked at Inary and opened his arms as if to say, So that worked out.

  Lara and I exchanged a glance. She looked so happy. I knew then that I’d made the right decision.

  “I’d love to show you the grounds and the stables, but I need to go back to Edinburgh tonight,” Torcuil said, shooting a glance at his watch. “If it’s okay with you, you can start this week.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “So, it’s all sorted. What shall I call you? Do your friends call you Maggie?”

  “Nobody who holds their life dear calls me Maggie.”

  “Oh. Oh. Sorry. Margherita, then?”

  “Yes.” I liked the way he said my name. He rolled the r a bit, ever so subtly, and made it sound like something not quite Italian but at the same time not English. It made it sound like a Scottish name. Like he skimmed all the consonants and melted them into something softer.

  “Aha!” Lara exclaimed, picking up something tiny from the floor.

  “What?”

  “A red sequin. Somebody has been dancing in here very recently,” she said.

  Torcuil and Inary looked at each other. “Mrs Gordon!” they said at the same time.

  We left Inary at Ramsay Hall and walked home by ourselves in the late morning. The day had brightened up and a soft, golden sunshine made the loch shimmer. Lara was so excited she was nearly skipping.
>
  “Do you think he has a wife in the attic? A Mrs Rochester?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Well, it would make sense.”

  “How would it make any sense? It only makes sense in your crazy imagination,” I said, tapping my head in jest. “I don’t think he has a wife in the attic, no.”

  “How do you know?” she said dramatically.

  “Lara.”

  “Yes?”

  “You read too much.”

  12

  And there she was

  Torcuil

  Memo to self: under no circumstances shorten her name. Do not, I repeat do not, call her Maggie. Once you remember that, you’ll be fine.

  She really has the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen. I’d caught a glimpse of them that night, but the light of the lamp post was so dim I couldn’t see her face properly. They are so dark they’re nearly black. She looks Italian, but then when she opens her mouth a London accent comes out. She has small hands, and a wedding band on her middle finger. Inary said she and her husband are separated. Not that I have any ideas about her, obviously, no interest in her at all. This kind of thing doesn’t tend to work out with me anyway, not since Izzy, so there’s no point even thinking about it, really.

  God, those eyes.

  She is yet another reason why I can’t wait to get back to Glen Avich next week – but I shouldn’t be thinking that, of course. In fact, I didn’t just think that at all; it was just a ripple of the mind and I’ve already forgotten it.

  “So that’s you sorted. For the summer, at least,” Inary says as I pack my bag to go back to Edinburgh.

  “Yeah. Funny how papers that fitted my bag on the way here don’t fit any more on the way back . . .”

  “You like her,” Inary says abruptly.

  “Shut up. She’s married.”

  “Separated. And you are quite a catch, Torcuil.”

  “I’m every woman’s dream,” I say. It’s meant as a joke, but there’s an edge of bitterness to it. These last few years have been . . . how can I put it? I don’t want to say lonely and sound whiny. They have been cold. Yes, cold is the word.