“I was sick,” she retorts. “And then I felt better.”
“You know what, I don’t care. I’m not chasing anybody.” I throw up my hands because I don’t know what else to say. Except maybe I’m the one being chased. But they wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“You.” She points a finger Mari’s way. “Go and hoover the stairs.”
“But that’s the cleaning company’s job,” she complains petulantly.
“Today, it’s yours. Go to the cupboard at the foot o’ the stairs and get out wee Henry.”
Oh man, Mari’s face! Wee Henry is a little red vacuum cleaner—the actual brand is called Henry; Henry the hoover—which has a little black bowler hat and a cheerful face. Yes, a face! It’s the cutest vacuum cleaner I have ever seen, but the castle’s model is pretty old. It spits out more than it sucks up. A bit like Mari around me, I suppose.
“It’ll take ages!” she protests.
“Good,” retorts Chrissy as she folds her arms across her ample chest. “Off you go, now.” With a scowl, Mari huffs and stomps out of the room. Chrissy’s attention turns back to me.
“Sorry,” I blurt out before she can say anything. “You know I don’t curse as a rule, but that girl would make a saint lose his temper.”
“I prefer it when you don’t sound like a fish wife,” she says with a sniff. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ for nothin’, I see what’s going on between you and Sandy.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“I’ll no’ say I believed it at first. Now don’t get yourself all twisted. I just meant I didn’t believe he’d behave like he has. He’s always been so good.”
“He’s still good,” I whisper. “I think we just bring out the worst in each other.”
“Or maybe the best?” she asks expectantly.
“No, I got it right the first time.”
“But Griffin, he’s no good. You hear me?”
“He’s not that bad,” I mutter,
“He’s not that good, either. Just you watch yourself with him. And Sandy? He’ll no’ take this lying down if I know him. And I do know him—I’ve known him man and boy.”
“Chrissy, I think we can both agree that I can’t stay on here.”
“I can’nae see why not,” she begins.
“Because the man is a freakin’ duke! And he had a wife who he loved, and he hasn’t been serious about anyone since then!” As far as I can tell.
“So?”
“I can’t stay here and fall in love with him. I won’t be made a laughingstock.” Not again.
“So you don’t like to take risks? Is that it?” Chrissy pulls a kitchen chair out from under the table, lowering herself into it. “That seems like a very boring life for a lassie as young as you.”
“Risks? I like risks.” Calculated ones, I silently amend. “I took a big risk in moving to London and another moving here.” Even as I say this, a prickle of unease creeps up my neck. Am I being dishonest? And to Chrissy or myself? “Look, you’ve worked for this family for a long time, right? And your family before you?”
“Aye.”
“Can you think of one instance where a Dalforth has gotten himself engaged or taken a wife from somewhere other than his own sphere? His own world?”
“Aye. The tenth duke,” she says a touch smug. “He married an American!”
“An heiress, I’m guessing?” My love of historical drama and romance novels pays off, yet again.
“Well, aye, but—”
“Someone bred into the role, not a teacher—a nanny.” I tap a finger to my chest. “Not a girl who works the checkout at a grocery store, or a nurse, or a—”
“It doesn’t matter who you are. Not these days.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“I think the Duchess of Mreeth might disagree. She lives with her former gardener after she divorced the duke.”
“Really?” I feel my expression twist.
“Aye, and Mr McCain was saying as how the king of one of the Asian countries married his bodyguard not too long back.”
“Well . . .”
“O’ course, Dougal did say it was maybe because the king was frightened of her, with her being the bodyguard and all. She might’ve strongarmed him.”
“Have you all been talking about this? About me?”
“We only want to see him happy,” she says, pulling a thoroughly unimpressed face. “And if you make him happy—”
“No.” I hold up both of my hands. I’m not having this discussion. Even if it would be easy to love him. I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t make it easy. He’d probably drive me insane, and—no. I’m not going there. “We aren’t suited. That’s all there is to say.”
“Maybe that’s all you have to say about it,” she says half under her breath. “I dare say he’ll have a fair bit more to say on the subject just yet.” She glances back at me innocently. “Well, he’s nothing if not dedicated.”
If by dedicated, she means insulting, annoying, and just plain persistent, then maybe she’s right. I turn back to the task I’d begun before she came into the kitchen.
He also looked hurt as well as annoyed. I push away the thought.
“That looks like a wee picnic,” she says, coming to look over my shoulder.
“Yeah. I’m taking the boys down to the stream.” Isla had suggested I close the education centre early, and I’d offered to hang out with the boys after school. I won’t get many more opportunities to do so. I don’t want to leave with Hugh still upset. “Or at least, that’s the plan. I guess it depends on what the peacock is up to.”
“It’ll be packed wi’ tourists down there.” Her expression twists doubtfully.
“We could go somewhere else, I guess. But the maze and the formal gardens will be busy on a warm day like this, too.”
“Go to the family gardens. Have you been into the secret garden?”
“Well, no,” I admit. But part of the point of this outing was for me to be seen with Griffin again. If he turns up, I think, glancing at the digital clock on the wall oven. I don’t particularly want to have tourists gawking at us, but I do want to be seen. Seen by someone, in particular, I mean.
“It’s up to you,” she says. “If you change your mind, the key is downstairs in the castle kitchen, hanging inside the pantry.”
What am I thinking! Chrissy knowing where we’re going is enough to make this a topic of conversation for all in the castle.
“You know, I think the secret garden might be nice after all.”
“Oh, good!” Chrissy beams. At least until Griffin saunters into the kitchen, souring her mood.
“I come prepared!” he announces, brandishing a bottle of champagne.
“Me, too!” Swinging open the fridge door, I pull out a couple of juice boxes.
“Mimosas?” he asks, looking slightly confused.
“For us or the kids?”
“What?” He slowly lowers the champagne bottle. “What am I missing?”