[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Do you ever lock this door?’ she asked, as she relaxed into the relative warmth of the hallway and the ease of electric light.

  ‘No.’ Eleanor dropped her riding crop on a Georgian mahogany carved chair. She removed her hat.

  ‘Not even at night?’

  ‘It’s always been like that,’ McGregor confirmed. ‘We used to nip out for midnight assignations – biscuits under the stars, Bruce and I. In those days my uncle had three basset hounds. They followed us everywhere.’

  That meant anyone could just walk in, Mirabelle thought. Though Mr Kenzie hadn’t gone that far.

  ‘Cute – midnight feasts,’ Eleanor commented. ‘Well, we’d best dress for dinner,’ she said and made for the stairs.

  In her room, Mirabelle fell on to the bed.

  ‘I bet that made your heart pound.’ McGregor slid his hand around her waist.

  It had, but she pushed him away. ‘I was going to have a bath,’ she said. He wandered away to lay out his evening suit as she set off down the hallway.

  The bathroom was mostly taken up with a sea-green enamel tub. The window was frosted with the same starred, opaque glass as the hut at the lodge, though the upper panes were clear. Mirabelle turned off the electric light and lit three candles on the windowsill, so she could watch the dark sky and its pepper of stars. Then she turned on the taps and swished her hand through the water to check the temperature. On the walls, paintings juddered in the candlelight. She recognised the hill they’d climbed in a watercolour signed DBMc, and she wondered who the artist was. Then, as the bath filled, she slipped out of her clothes, tied up her hair and stepped into the steaming water, soaping herself with a square of hand-cut soap that trailed the scent of lavender. The heat felt as if it was sinking bone-deep into her, an antidote to the piercing chill. As she floated, she ran over the events of the day: the body in the orangery, the diary she’d squirrelled away and the story of the Green Lady, as haunting as the landscape. This place was beautiful but it was making her jumpy. In the candlelight it was easier to believe in ghosts, she thought, as she stepped, soaking, on to the mat. And besides, there was a murderer here, or nearby. Somewhere.

  The peach towels on the heated chrome rail were vast. Eleanor had an eye for quality, Mirabelle thought, as she gathered her clothes and sneaked back along the corridor, dismissing the idea of a green ghost in the shadows. In her room she surveyed her wardrobe. She had packed four evening dresses and chose one with a fitted bodice and flared skirt in burnt orange taffeta. Quickly, she dressed her hair, put on her diamond earrings and carefully applied red lipstick before stepping into a pair of tan, ostrich-skin high heels that she’d been wearing for over a decade. When she was done, she gazed out of the window at the low moon.

  The gong sounded. As the echo faded, McGregor knocked on the interconnecting door. Silently, he held out his hand and they walked downstairs. On the last run of steps they heard music – something by Fanny Mendelssohn. They followed it. The dining room was off the main hall, opposite the drawing room. The double doors lay open and, inside, the walls shimmered silver in the candlelight. A vinyl record moved on a turntable, catching the light as it spun. Bruce and Eleanor stood at the fireplace, both turned away from the door, nursing champagne glasses and talking quietly. Bruce, like McGregor, wore black tie, while Eleanor had slipped into a floor-length pale pink gown with a diamond brooch pinned to the swooping neckline. Her hair was curled in a chignon. McGregor coughed politely and Bruce swung round.

  ‘Come in. It’s only us tonight. Just family.’

  ‘We’re having duck,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s your favourite, isn’t it, darling?’

  ‘I bagged them myself. I’ll shoot again tomorrow if you fancy, Alan. We might get some pigeon if we’re lucky. Will you join me?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mirabelle thought it was extraordinary after all that had happened that they were discussing food. But then there wasn’t much else to do in the country. She recalled riding for hours and afterwards lurching from meal to meal in her younger days, when she used to get invitations to house parties. ‘Is Tash coming down?’ she asked.

  Bruce shook his head. ‘Gillies took her a tray.’

  ‘Shock,’ Eleanor added.

  The champagne was delicious. Eleanor swayed in time to the music. Behind her, Mirabelle noticed the ornate mantel, its swirls carved out of moss-coloured, polished granite with veins of white-flecked grey. Her heart lurched at the sight of a figure on the threshold. A shadowy apparition – a woman in green. She let out an involuntary squeal and everybody turned. ‘Are you all right?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mirabelle apologised.

  It was Tash. The girl stood absolutely straight. Her deportment, Mirabelle thought, was marvellous. She had fixed her hair in a glossy bun with trailing wisps and wore long pearl earrings, which swung like tiny lamps as she walked into the room. Mirabelle noticed her hand was trembling. Poor thing. It had taken guts to come downstairs.

  ‘Darling,’ Eleanor breathed. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

  Tash shrugged. The dress was astonishing. A perfectly fitted sheath of green satin hung in folds around her slim frame, setting off her jade eyes and milky skin. As she sashayed towards the fireplace, the fabric glistened in the low light, moving like a pool of tidal water. She seemed quite different from the weeping wreck in the kitchen, though as she moved into the light it was clear the girl’s eyes were puffy from crying. ‘I didn’t want to sit up there by myself,’ she said, her American accent stronger than Eleanor’s. Momentarily she looked as if she might cry again, as if she was sculpted entirely of water and might dissolve into droplets.

  ‘Just look at you, you could be a model,’ Eleanor kissed her on the cheek. The words seemed to pull the youngster together. ‘Is that dress a Schiaparelli?’ The girl nodded. ‘Well it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks. I read somewhere that when someone you love dies, you’re supposed to wear sackcloth. But sackcloth isn’t going to make you feel any better, is it?’ she said, her voice breaking.

  Eleanor took her hand. ‘You’re being very brave, darling,’ she said. ‘And just for the record, we all feel different shades of lousy tonight. But you are the main thing. We’re all here to look after you.’

  Tash smiled weakly. Bruce poured her some champagne.

  Tash paused. ‘I’ve spent all day thinking about Nina. And crying. It’s just been …’ she gestured, ‘feelings, I guess. It doesn’t seem real.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s quite normal, dear. Did you sleep?’ Eleanor asked.

  The girl’s eyes flickered and she bit her lip. ‘Not really. But it was probably good to rest. I’m still jet-lagged. It’s been more than a week but I can’t seem to get over it and now this … Anyway, I thought I’d come down. Is that awful?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Tash sipped her champagne. ‘I expect it’s the shock,’ she said. ‘The way I was this morning, I mean. Waking up and being told and then feeling it was a dream. My parents died when I was only five years old. I don’t remember much, but I got through it. I suppose I will get through this too.’

  ‘Nina was a wonderful woman,’ Bruce said. ‘So clever.’

  Tash wiped away a tear. Her voice was breaking again. ‘It’s not what most people will remember her for. I’m glad you said that – not just that she was stylish or beautiful, though she was those things too. But that she was clever. She always said the Orlovs were doomed to tragedy.’

  Tash began to cry quietly and Eleanor handed her a cotton handkerchief.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Mirabelle asked.

  ‘Their history,’ Tash sniffed. ‘Nina came out of Russia in 1917 as a baby – she and her mother and brother fled to Paris with my family. Thinking about it, that must have been far worse than this.’

  ‘And Nina’s father?’

  ‘Same as my grandfather. The Reds put him in prison and later we found out he had been shot. He was only a baron, whic
h is the lowest there is, but they shot anyone who didn’t get out.’ The girl shivered. ‘Nina talked about St Petersburg all the time when I was growing up. She was only a few months old when she left, but it was as if the life her family had in Russia was real and everything since has only been …’ Tash parted her lips and puffed. ‘Of course my generation feel differently. I was born in America. Still, if the Revolution had gone another way, I might have been a princess, I guess. Just think of that.’ Tash looked like a princess, Mirabelle thought. She could certainly have carried a tiara with ease. Bruce refilled her glass and used the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘Nina’s brother is coming. Eleanor managed to get hold of him. He should be with us by tomorrow evening.’

  Tash sighed and crumpled her handkerchief into a ball. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Uncle Niko. He’ll say it’s the Reds.’

  ‘The Reds?’

  ‘As if they’re still after us. Niko inherited the title. He’s Baron Orlov. Not everybody uses their titles these days, but he is terribly keen on the whole thing. Both he and Nina are neurotic about the Reds. But it’s not as if we were the Romanovs, for heaven’s sake. “It’s ridiculous – you like red. It’s your favourite colour,” I used to say,’ Tash sighed. ‘She wore red all the time. You’ll see – it’ll be the first thing Niko says. It’s the Reds. They’ll never give up.’ Another tear slid down Tash’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel as if I’m leaking.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Baron Orlov,’ Bruce said. ‘That’s one more for dinner tomorrow so we’d better bag a brace of pigeons in the morning, Al.’ He tried to sound cheerful.

  Tash sniffed. ‘If you’re shooting, can I come? Once in Montana, Nina was buying furs for Nieman Marcus and we stayed on a ranch. I swear I was only twelve but I bagged a buffalo.’

  Eleanor laughed.

  ‘I know it’s awful,’ Tash said. ‘But I need to keep busy. I can’t just sit around crying like this.’

  ‘If you like, we could go to the cashmere mill?’ Eleanor offered.

  Tash shook her head. ‘I’d prefer to kill something.’

  ‘God help those pigeons.’ Bruce grinned. ‘I’ll look out a shotgun for you.’ He gave a little bow as Gillies appeared at the door with a tray.

  ‘Ah – lobster cocktail,’ Eleanor announced. ‘We always have fish towards the end of the week.’

  Gillies had excelled. The lobster was succulent. When she cleared the plates and brought in two roasted ducks, Bruce got to his feet to carve them. Tiny white onions scattered across the china in a sea of burgundy sauce. Mirabelle thought it was an elegant meal – more than she had expected. Tash hardly touched a bite, pushing the food around her plate and sipping her champagne. You couldn’t blame her – food in grief, Mirabelle knew, lost all its flavour.

  Afterwards, the men wanted to smoke cigars and stay at the table. The women elected to retire to the drawing room where the long blue velvet curtains had been drawn and the fire set ablaze. They settled on the sofas. Jinx was already asleep, curled around the edge of a chair.

  ‘Archaic, isn’t it?’ Eleanor said indulgently as she plumped the cushions. ‘But I don’t mind some of these traditions. Girls together.’

  Gillies brought in coffee. When the door closed behind her, Eleanor got up and switched out the lamps, making the fire glow seemingly brighter in the darkness.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tash asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’ Eleanor paused dramatically at the window before pulling back the curtains as if revealing a stage. ‘Look,’ she said. Through the glass, the night sky was peppered with acres of stars and the low, bright moon, which was not quite at its fullest, the clouds patchier now. ‘I find it soothing. It’s difficult to believe anything can go wrong, looking at this. All the wickedness in the world and yet such beauty. I thought you’d like it.’

  Tash sank on to the sofa and stared at the view as if it was medicinal. The moonlight bathed the fields in an eerie, translucent blue. A flash of snowdrops by the curve in the drive flashed luminous, as if stars had fallen out of the sky and scattered across the dark grass. Inside, the women’s faces were lit by the fire. Mirabelle was reminded of camping as a child, with the girl guides, somewhere near Hampstead Heath.

  ‘Being close to nature,’ Eleanor said. ‘That’s what I love here. When it rains sometimes I rush to the orangery to listen to it hammering on the glass.’ Suddenly, she stopped. ‘I’m sorry. Of course, I won’t do that any more. Bruce said that we should tear the thing down.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Tash insisted. ‘You can’t demolish a place just because somebody died there. There’d be nowhere left.’

  Mirabelle picked up her coffee. The darkness had brought a kind of intimacy and, it struck her, both Eleanor and Tash were extraordinary. British women would never talk so frankly. Not even if they were family. ‘Do you think it could have been the Reds who killed your godmother, Tash?’ she asked.

  Tash laughed. The question had caught her unawares. ‘I never met a Red, not a single one. They’re just vilas. Bogey men. They’re newspaper headlines and, yes, right now Khrushchev has it in for Eisenhower. No doubt about that. But for Nina? Baron Orlov’s daughter in exile? After all this time? It’s a kid’s story – easy to say, that’s all. White Russians love an excuse. Something goes wrong – it’s the Reds. There’s an accident – it’s the Reds. That’s what they said when my parents … you know. That the motor had been tampered with. But my father was driving too fast, that’s the truth. As far as I can see, the Reds don’t care about us. Why would they? They won. But for us – the Russians who lost everything – it’s different. Uncle Niko would be back in St Petersburg like a shot, reclaiming the Orlov lands – the dacha by the sea, the townhouse and the farms. He still considers them his.’

  ‘And you don’t?’ Eleanor sounded intrigued.

  ‘I wouldn’t go back to Russia if you paid me. I’ll marry an American, you see if I don’t. A very nice, very rich American.’

  ‘Oh really, Tash!’ Eleanor put down her cup.

  ‘Are you saying you didn’t marry Bruce for his money?’

  ‘I certainly did not. In fact, if anything, people assumed he’d married me for mine. Because I’m a Yank, of course, and they think we’re all loaded, which we’re not. The judgement was palpable, let me tell you. I was broke, of course. But money isn’t what it’s about for either of us.’

  ‘Well, he has quite a lot of money for something that wasn’t a consideration.’

  ‘I’m not saying we’re not comfortable, but it’s Bruce I love. Besides,’ Eleanor continued, ‘taking that position plays straight into the worst things men think about women – especially women as beautiful as you. Gold-diggers every one. How will you feel if your future husband is simply looking for a long pair of legs and nice eyes?’

  ‘Well, what if he is?’

  ‘But you’re so much more than that. You’re intelligent and talented.’ Eleanor looked to Mirabelle to back her up. ‘Tell her, Mirabelle. You chose Alan for himself, didn’t you?’

  Mirabelle found herself laughing. ‘I have money of my own. We’re quite modern, I expect, though we’re not starry eyed. I chose him because he’s a good man.’ As she said it, she realised it was true.

  ‘Well, I’d like a rich, good man,’ Tash insisted. ‘And for the record I hope he likes my legs and my eyes and all the rest of me too.’

  The ash in the fire shifted and a shower of sparks tumbled into the grate. It broke the conversation. Jinx raised his head and settled down again. Outside, Mirabelle thought she saw something glint in the moonlight, as if something was moving up the hillside. She told herself to stop being jumpy.

  ‘It’s nice to hear laughter,’ Eleanor said. ‘I thought we might never cheer up.’

  ‘I cried for hours upstairs,’ Tash admitted. ‘I’m over-wrought, I guess. We’ve been living like night owls, Nina and I. Neither of us was able to adjust to the time difference. And
it gets dark so early here – it’s kind of beautiful, but disconcerting.’

  ‘So you didn’t notice your godmother had gone in the night?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Tash shook her head sadly, as if she had only just realised. ‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but no, I didn’t.’

  ‘And you last saw her, last night?’ Mirabelle kept pushing. ‘Late?’

  ‘It must have been about three. I went to bed and she said she was just coming. I told the police.’

  ‘Was she wearing her red suit when you retired?’ Mirabelle checked.

  Tash sniffed. She was crying softly again but not so much she couldn’t answer the question. Her face was all shadow in the darkness. ‘No. Even in the lodge, just the two of us, we’d always wear something nice for dinner. Not necessarily full length, but it’s fun to dress up. Nina could cook. I don’t know where she learned. And we played cards and read by the fire. It was old-fashioned. She ordered every glossy magazine she could think of to keep us amused. I think she was put out about being in the lodge, but I loved it. I thought I’d miss American television but I don’t. I’ve been sketching, actually, and reading. You’re right, Eleanor, the countryside is special. I watched a rabbit the other day, in the garden at the lodge. I sat on the bench outside and watched him for half an hour.’

  Mirabelle detected a note of tenderness in the girl’s voice. She thought of the cigarette butts beside the bench, and of Tash, sitting there smoking. ‘The thing is, Nina’s outfit seemed odd to me,’ she said. ‘The red day suit.’

  Tash shrugged. ‘If she was planning on going out, I suppose it made sense. It was warmer than what she wore for dinner. She must have changed once I was asleep – maybe she wanted to walk.’

  Suddenly, Eleanor jumped up from the sofa. Her coffee cup tumbled on to the carpet and the saucer smashed. Jinx jerked to his feet and licked the liquid.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mirabelle picked up the broken crockery.

  Tash put an arm around Eleanor. ‘What is it?’