The Skylark's Secret(47)
There was no sign of Alec, but Diana was seated to the right of Sir Charles, who was digging into a plate of bacon and eggs with gusto as he regaled his houseguests with tales of previous shoots. He glanced up at the sight of Flora.
‘Ah, the estimable Miss Gordon. How good of you to have graced us with your presence this morning.’ Flora knew his bonhomie was false, an act for the sake of his audience. ‘Tell your father that Miss Kingsley-Scott is going to require the Beretta, would you?’ He turned towards Diana. ‘As it’s your first time out, we’ll start you off with something a little lighter, my dear.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I wonder where Alec’s got to . . . although after that jolly good dinner last night, it’s not surprising he’s having a bit of a slow start this morning, what?’
Flora’s hands shook as she set the teapot on its stand on the sideboard, fully aware that Sir Charles was making a point for her benefit. She left the dining room with as much dignity as she could muster. In the hall, she almost collided with Alec as he hurried down the stairs. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, intent on fastening the buttons of his tweed shooting jacket.
‘Flora!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here this morning.’
‘No, but here I am. Your father asked me to come. You know I’m always happy to help your mother out when she has so many guests staying.’
He moved towards her as if to give her a kiss, but she ducked her head and turned away.
‘I’d better get back to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘And you’d better get in there.’ She pointed towards the dining room as a gust of laughter escaped from behind the closed door.
He reached for her hand. ‘Flora, wait, I . . .’
But whatever Alec had been about to say was cut short by the appearance of Diana.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she teased him. ‘It’s a good thing you’re up. Your papa’s just sent me to knock on your bedroom door and tell you to get a move on if you want any breakfast before we get going.’
Flora spun on her heel and hurried back to the kitchen, her cheeks burning. She was furious that Sir Charles had managed to remind her, yet again, of the difference between her world and Alec’s. And she was angry at herself for being manipulated in that way. She tore off her apron and let herself out through the back door.
‘Whoa there, what’s the great hurry, lass?’ her father said, steadying her as she collided with him on the path.
She shook her head by way of reply, breathless with anger and humiliation. Then, swallowing, said, ‘They’re almost ready for you. The picnic’s in the boot room. And you’re to fetch the Beretta for Miss Kingsley-Scott.’
And as she strode along the path back to Keeper’s Cottage, she dashed furious tears away with the back of her hand, not sure who she was angriest at: Sir Charles, or Alec, or herself for ever thinking she might one day fit into Alec’s world.
Lexie, 1978
It’s a wild, wet day. The tail end of an Atlantic storm drives sheets of rain across the loch, sending squalls barrelling across the water to whip the waves into a seething chop. Days like this are a reminder of how quickly the conditions can switch from benign to tempestuous. One day all is calm, the next it’s hard to imagine that the sun will ever shine again. There’s a west coast saying that if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change. I’m starting to get used to it again, accepting that the elements dictate the day’s plans. Here, sunshine is a precious commodity.
This morning, Elspeth has booked the hall and we’re running an extended playgroup there to include a music and movement session. Mothers and toddlers are coming over from Poolewe and even as far as Gairloch. I’d originally planned to walk along to the village, with Daisy in her pushchair, carrying the musical instruments and tape player that I was going to use. But the weather has put paid to that, and instead I’m going to need to dash back and forth to the car, trying to keep everything dry and get Daisy into her car seat without turning into a drowned rat myself in the process.
I take down one of Mum’s old coats from the hooks at the door, one more suited to the stormy conditions than my own London coat. Putting it on, I shove the car keys into one of the pockets and pick up a bag containing the cassette player and tapes. I leave Daisy sitting in her high chair finishing off a slice of toast and honey in the warmth of the kitchen, and hurry down the path to the car. Groping in my pocket for the keys, my fingers close around something else. I draw out a small brooch. It’s ornately cast, a crown and anchor set in a wreath of leaves. It’s badly tarnished, but when I rub it with my thumb a glint of silver shows through the layer of black. As I stand there with it in the palm of my hand, the rain drips from the hood of my coat and glistens, like tears, on the scrolls of the leaves. This was the coat that Mum wore every day. She would have put her hand in the pocket and held this brooch, closing her fingers around it as she walked to the shop or went to visit Bridie.
A gust of wind buffets me, so strong it almost blows me off my feet, reminding me to get a move on. I put the brooch back in my pocket and fumble for the car keys. I’ll show Bridie the brooch next time she comes for tea. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me more about it.
The playgroup in the hall is the perfect way to spend a morning when the wind and rain keep us indoors. There’s a good turnout, and the children seem to love listening to their mums singing, accompanying them on drums, xylophones and rattles. Those who don’t have an instrument dance about while they wait their turn. By the end, everyone is laughing and breathless as we share out drinks and biscuits.