‘I do. My guess is that you mix cocktails?’
‘Yes! Oh thank God. I was worried you were going to be stuffy. Well, if you like cocktails you’ll definitely like what’s on offer at the cashmere mill. There are no shops. Well, none to speak of. But the mill and the distillery make up for it.’
‘Alan didn’t say.’
‘Oh, they make for everyone. I have a friend – another Yank – she’s here at the moment, buying for a terribly chic boutique in New York. That’s how good it is. It’s the Scottish water – the best in the world, and it just rolls off the hills for free. We had a buyer from Paris last autumn and he went potty about it. Formidable. Incroyable,’ she said with a flourish, imitating the man, with, Mirabelle noted, a passable Parisian accent.
The porter appeared, wheeling the cases on a rickety trolley that bumped over the uneven footpath. The air felt so clear, it was as if she’d get cleaner by simply walking through it. Mirabelle smiled as she noticed that Bruce and Alan were exactly the same height, with their shoulders jutting at identical angles and their hair growing in the same shape at the napes of their necks. Old Mrs McGregor had been right – they could have been brothers. Bruce tipped the porter and got into the driver’s seat while Alan slid in next to him. A decade old, the car had seen better days. The leather fittings were worn and inside it smelled faintly of cut grass. Eleanor continued.
‘If you like walking, it’s paradise. They say the queen loves hiking when she’s here, all round Balmoral. The Cairngorms are a bit further south, of course. Anyway, we have maps you can borrow if you like that kind of thing.’
‘Eleanor, let Mirabelle settle in. I’m not sure you’re a walker, are you my dear?’
Bruce cast an eye over his shoulder at Mirabelle’s shoes. The heels ran to two inches.
‘I brought a pair of stouter shoes,’ she said, amazed at the curl of annoyance she felt that he had judged her. She’d been brought up properly. She knew what to wear in the country.
‘I stand corrected. Quite right.’ He started the car.
‘The thing is that Bruce can’t imagine a woman might have more than one face, or, for that matter, function. I’m educating him that I can glam up for the Highland Ball and deal with tenants.’
‘Oh, you’ve done it, darling. I’m convinced. Eleanor is downright wonderful with the tenants and the staff and the chaps at the distillery. She’s reorganised everything.’ Bruce sounded jolly despite his wife’s criticism. ‘She’s started a crowd making tweed along the Firth. You won’t know the old place, Al, honestly. It’s a hive of industry. The old mill that used to turn out horse blankets? It’s the height of fashion these days.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing it all. It’s been too long,’ Alan chimed in.
Mirabelle wondered about the tenants Eleanor had mentioned. She’d been expecting a farmhouse. Alan’s stories, such as they were, had included childhood memories of lost lambs and summer picnics that were rained off, not of extensive grounds or anywhere that might have supported tenancies. Eleanor elucidated. ‘I like being hands on. I can’t stand the idea of being a lady of the manor. It sounds ghastly – sitting about all day ordering people around and never doing anything yourself. We’re in the countryside and we should be making things – be useful. That’s what I think.’
In a slice of the rear-view mirror, Mirabelle caught the expression on Bruce’s face. She thought she’d never seen a man look more proud.
The car turned off the main road and startled a flock of crows that ascended from a field in unison. In the distance the hills looked as if they had been torn from a slab of rock, the dark crags disappearing in a deathly plunge into frost-fringed fields on the lower ground. The patches of snow were so perfect that they could have been applied by a landscape painter. Between the crisp white shards, the colours were amazing. It was strange how much difference a few hundred miles could make. Brighton at this time of year was grey, but the colour of the place was essentially bright – vivid pastels, light and without texture. Mirabelle loved the clear winter mornings when the terraces of Georgian stucco shone blinding white against the blank, blue sky. Here the hills were muted, with patches of green and grey in contrast to the inky black of the sodden granite cliffs and the gentle undulation of the lower slopes.
‘In summer we have days when it looks like the Caribbean,’ Eleanor said, as if she could read Mirabelle’s mind.
‘Are there beaches?’
‘I’ll say. I’ll take you up to the Firth. I love the ocean. I was brought up near the water, just outside New York. There’s nothing like salt on the air. Tell you what, we can take a picnic. Picnics aren’t only for the summer, don’t you agree? We’ll have a Thermos of soup and watch the tide. You can see for miles. It’s a bit of a drive but it’s worth it.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Mirabelle asked.
Eleanor thought for a moment as if she was counting it. ‘Since we got married. Three and a half years,’ she said. ‘But we leave sometimes,’ she added with a giggle. ‘Don’t we darling?’
‘Eleanor loves the sea. She goes on her own sometimes,’ Bruce said fondly. ‘I think it speaks to her.’
He turned the car on to a track, leaving the engine turning over. ‘I know you want to,’ he said to McGregor. ‘Druim a ’mhadaidh has missed you.’
Alan opened the door as his cousin cut the engine. The men glanced at the women in the back seat.
‘Come on,’ Bruce called.
Mirabelle looked blank.
‘It’s Wolf Ridge. You need to change your shoes,’ Eleanor said.
Twenty minutes later they had hiked up a stony path and caught the first of the view. The road was shielded so the landscape looked as if it was completely wild. High above, three large birds swooped, gliding on the breeze. Alan’s eyes were bright. ‘We used to come here as kids,’ he said. ‘It’s not bad, is it?’
Mirabelle found herself out of breath. ‘Bad?’ she said. ‘It’s breathtaking.’
They stopped to take in the view.
‘Don’t you love it? Feeling so small,’ Eleanor gasped.
It was true. Nature here humbled you, miles from everything. In one direction there were more hills and in the other the view dropped below the ridge, the sky clouded with the misty promise of the sea far in the distance. ‘At home you get the hills or the beach,’ Eleanor breathed, her skin pink with the exertion of climbing, ‘but here there is everything within reach. Right there.’ She walked right to the edge of the precipice. ‘Beautiful!’ she shouted. ‘Beautiful!’
Alan stepped next to her. He threw back his head and howled like a dog. Eleanor clapped. ‘It echoes,’ she said. ‘Do it again.’
He did. Mirabelle found she was laughing. She’d never seen Alan like this. Perhaps, she thought, we’ll go wild up here.
On the way down they spotted movement in the gorse. Bruce raised his arm, as if he had a gun. ‘Rabbits,’ he said.
Eleanor sniffed. ‘It smells like carrion.’ She set off, carefully picking a route through the undergrowth, looking back at the others as a weak growl emanated from near her feet. ‘It’s a fox, Bruce.’
‘Is it injured?’
Eleanor nodded. She picked up a stick and parted the jagged stems. ‘It has two broken legs, I think. Nasty. He must have had a run-in with a cow or a horse, or something.’ The growl deepened.
Bruce followed his wife up the incline to take a look. On one side the bone had broken through the skin. He shook his head. ‘Nothing to be done. It must have been up here a while.’
‘Bruce, could we—’ Eleanor started but Bruce dismissed her.
‘Nobody would thank us for bringing a fox down to the village.’
‘Poor thing,’ Eleanor sighed.
‘Nothing of the sort! That,’ Bruce indicated the fox, ‘is a hen killer.’
‘Well, he’s suffering,’ Eleanor objected.
‘True. He’ll starve to death up here. Want to step down?’ Eleanor backed on
to the path. On the other side a crow alighted on a boulder.
‘Shoo!’ Eleanor chased it.
‘You might want to turn around,’ Alan whispered, laying a hand on Mirabelle’s arm, but she declined as Bruce picked up a rock and dashed it into the fox’s skull. The injured animal made a shrill, squealing noise as it died and the smell of hot blood hit the air.
‘Sorry,’ Bruce apologised. ‘It would have suffered if we’d left it.’
Eleanor wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I’m silly. I know,’ she said, staring in the direction the crow had flown. ‘But the countryside is absolutely vicious. Sometimes I can’t bear it.’
Fifteen minutes later, the car turned through a pair of grand stone gates three or four miles from where they’d been walking. Bruce drove slowly up the twisting driveway banked by sparse woodland on both sides. Then, as he made a final turn, the vista opened and parkland rolled into view. The house was set in the lee of a peak they’d seen from the summit. Constructed of granite, it was grand in style, though Mirabelle felt glad it wasn’t as huge as some of the houses she’d visited over the years. A black poodle sat at the threshold. Three horses fitted with green oilskin blankets grazed in a paddock. The whole place felt curiously domestic compared to the wildness of the landscape around it. The animals ignored the car as Bruce parked at the doorway, stopping dead and abandoning his vehicle. He peered through the windscreen.
‘Where is everyone?’ he said.
Eleanor got out and searched her pockets as she moved towards the fence. The horses began to show an interest. One walked casually towards her as she drew out some sugar cubes. He hauled his huge head over the fence and whinnied before taking the treat. The poodle got up and fell to heel. Eleanor put out a hand absentmindedly to pet him.
‘This is Jinx,’ she said. ‘Just ignore him.’
‘What a lovely spot,’ Mirabelle declared.
On the lower ground, mist rose from the grass. She felt a spit of rain on her cheek but nothing like the lashing there’d been as they left London.
‘January is the cruellest month, isn’t that what the poets say?’ Eleanor smiled. ‘Or maybe that’s April.’
Bruce was standing at the door as if he was mystified. He clapped Alan on the back. ‘Well, they can get the bags later, I suppose,’ he said, turning the handle.
Inside, the hallway was wide with smooth stone columns set into indents, one on either side. Beyond these, the reception area opened into a high stairwell flooded with light from a cupola.
‘This is very odd,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste. They knew we were coming back.’
‘I want coffee,’ Eleanor declared. ‘It’s my only luxury,’ she confided in Mirabelle, a fact Mirabelle immediately questioned, what with all the talk of whisky, cocktails and cashmere. ‘My cousin sends me bags of beans from the States,’ Eleanor continued. ‘That and letters jammed with his noxious views on Eisenhower.’ She shrugged. ‘The coffee’s roasted in Brooklyn and it’s good. Thank God! Honestly, over here it’s all dishwater.’ She wrinkled her nose as she walked airily through the mahogany double doors and into a drawing room at the front of the house with Jinx behind her. The room was decorated in shades of pale blue. Eleanor pressed a brass bell next to the fireplace. On one side there was a stack of wood, on the other a small mountain of peat. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘You must be pooped.’
The dog climbed on to a chair and Eleanor languidly pulled him on to the floor, where he settled.
‘Bruce’s right. You’ve changed the old place,’ McGregor said. ‘For the better, I might add.’
Eleanor grinned. ‘I couldn’t bear all those stag heads and everything so dark. It felt as if we should be feasting off bloody meat the whole time and stealing virgins from the nearest village. Whatever Bruce did to that poor fox, it’s not entirely barbarian round here.’
‘The decoration isn’t the only thing Eleanor changed.’ Bruce sounded jocular. ‘Not by a long shot. They’re costly items, new wives, Alan, I tell you. I had to put my foot down in the end. I kept some of the stags’ heads in my study. And the old furniture. A stand for tradition, eh?’
Eleanor poked the logs burning on the fire with a brass implement. ‘Tradition,’ she said. ‘That dreary old desk!’
‘And the gun cupboard,’ Bruce added.
Eleanor rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I suppose you’re allowed some say. There,’ she said, putting down the poker.
Mirabelle took off her coat and sat on a low sofa as the fire began to crackle.
‘When I was a kid we used to play hide and seek in here,’ McGregor said. ‘Do you remember, Bruce?’
‘I do. We had visitors’ cake in the afternoon.’
‘Visitors’ cake?’
‘We didn’t have it if there weren’t visitors.’ He laughed. ‘Why do you think I liked having you to stay?’
Alan turned to Mirabelle. ‘We’re going to relax here, darling, aren’t we?’ His shoulders had dropped and she realised she hadn’t thought once about the nuclear threat – not since they’d turned down the morning papers. Standing at the fireplace, Eleanor checked the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘Relax! At the moment I can’t even seem to secure us a pot of coffee.’ She rang the bell again.
Quite quickly then, a fresh-faced young girl appeared at the door. She was wearing a brown woollen dress and a pink flowery apron. She bobbed an odd, awkward curtsey without coming into the room. Her hands were trembling, Mirabelle noticed, though Eleanor didn’t seem to have taken that in. ‘Susan. I didn’t expect you. Where’s Gillies?’
The girl sniffed. Then her face twisted. She pointed back up the hallway, her finger jerking. ‘Miss Orlova,’ she managed to get out.
‘Well, if Nina’s here, bring us all some coffee and tell her we’re in the drawing room.’
‘Nina is El’s American friend. Very smart,’ Bruce explained. ‘She’s in fashion. In New York.’
‘She’s been staying down at the lodge,’ Eleanor added. ‘She’s here for a fortnight and I thought it would be nicer with only us in the house. Family.’ The maid at the door heaved a sob.
‘Susan? What is it?’ Bruce asked.
‘It’s Miss Orlova, sir. She’s dead. Gillies checked for a pulse but there wasn’t one, so she went to fetch the police from the village.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence. Bruce let out a shocked sound – more a puff of air than anything else. Eleanor stood by the ornate mantel, her hand over her mouth. McGregor got to his feet. Jinx looked as if he might follow but, having checked that Eleanor wasn’t going, he rested his head on his paws.
‘Show me,’ McGregor said.
Susan didn’t move. She pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her apron and started to cry. ‘I can’t go back there, sir,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
Mirabelle got up and touched the girl lightly on the arm. ‘Mr McGregor is a police detective.’ She kept her tone comforting. ‘I know it must have been a terrible shock, but I think you should show him where the poor lady is lying. She needs to be looked after. Mr McGregor will know what to do.’
The girl stifled another sob. She seemed to take this in, then she nodded and set off down the hallway. Bruce and Mirabelle got up to follow, but McGregor shook his head solemnly. ‘Let me look first,’ he said. ‘The fewer people the better, before the local constabulary arrive.’ He left the room. Bruce sank back on to the sofa. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Poor Nina.’
‘Tell me about her?’ Mirabelle couldn’t help herself.
‘She’s the cashmere buyer,’ Eleanor explained. ‘She was Russian, really. I mean she was born there. Wonderful eye.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not really. She’s a friend of a friend. You know how New York is. They’re here for a fortnight—’
‘Oh God. I forgot about the girl,’ Bruce said suddenly.
Eleanor sat down with a bump. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said. ‘Poor Tash.’
‘What girl?’ Mirabelle enquired.
‘Nina brought her goddaughter. Tash.’
‘A child?’
‘She’s seventeen,’ Eleanor waved her hand in the air as if swishing away something troublesome.
‘Her age is irrelevant, darling,’ Bruce said. ‘This will be a terrible loss for her. They’re close. Nina brought the child up – her parents were killed in a car crash. We have to look after her, El. I mean, has anybody even told the poor thing? And that chap they have, the steward?’ Bruce got up without another word and left the room, striding up the hall in McGregor’s wake.
‘I was seventeen. Almost eighteen,’ Mirabelle said. The words seemed to slip out.
‘Well, we all were.’
‘I mean, when my parents died.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant.’ Eleanor put her hand on her stomach.
‘Bruce said the girl was brought up by the dead woman?’
Eleanor gestured. ‘Nina stepped in when Tash’s parents passed away. She never married, you see, but she was close to Tash’s mother. It was a brave thing to do – a woman on her own bringing up a friend’s child. Not that they discuss that kind of thing round here. The village is fearfully old-fashioned. People probably just assume Nina was the girl’s mother.’
‘Poor kid,’ said Mirabelle.
‘It looks like you managed.’ Eleanor gave an apologetic smile. ‘How did they die? Your parents?’
Mirabelle felt her cheeks burn. Eleanor was American and that explained her directness, but she hadn’t ever talked about what had happened. Not in all the years. Not to McGregor. Not to Jack. ‘It was an accident,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately it was the same year my grandmother died. She was terribly old. It left me rather suddenly with nobody – I didn’t have godparents, you see. But this poor girl – it’ll be awful for her. A double loss.’
‘What kind of accident?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Your parents, I mean?’
Mirabelle pursed her lips and tried to smile. Eleanor was easy to talk to, but there were limits.
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 2