“Dougal, the chef, uses it to cater for large groups. Formal dinners, weekend guests, and the like. But when s—when his grace is here by himself or with a smaller party, Dougal usually cooks in the family kitchen. “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
She pulls out a fancy-looking French press—yes!—as she goes on to discuss how many days a year the castle is open to the public and how popular the gardens are. Every inch of this place seems to make money, the gift shop and coffee shop are weekend cash cows, and the dower house—traditionally used for the widow of the last duke—is rented out for weddings. She also tells me a little about how a couple of Hollywood’s elites recently stayed while the castle was used as a location for an upcoming blockbuster movie.
“I tell you, that Dylan Duffy is as easy on the eyes as he is on the big screen. And what lovely manners his wee ones have.”
“He was here with his family?”
“Stayed in the dower hoose,” she says, her accent slipping on house as she pushes on the plunger. The delicious scent of the dark roast is just heavenly. “Milk?” she asks, making her way over to the fridge.
“A little, please.”
“There was him, his gorgeous wife, who is Scots herself, and their two laddies.” Grabbing a glass bottle of milk, she turns back. “They were here for weeks. Oh, I’ve just remembered, Dougal made some Dundee cake last time he was here. It’s in yonder pantry.” She puts down the milk, indicating the wall behind me. “Grab it, would you, hen? We’ll make this our elevenses.”
I push back my chair, resisting the urge to cluck, feeling a little tickled at her form of address. Elevenses I can handle, especially in the form of cake. “This one?” I ask, looping my fingers around the door handle.
“No, that’s the larder. The other wall. Aye, that’s it. On the shelf with the bread, I think.”
While still wondering what the larder might be, I see the pantry is more like another room, lined with shelves along with every baking ingredient, herb, spice, and condiment known to man.
“It’s like a supermarket in here,” I call back, scanning the thick wooden shelves.
“Dougal keeps it well-stocked.” Chrissy’s voice sounds like she’s very far away. “Just don’t mess with his organisation, or you’ll feel the lashing of his tongue.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had that pleasure,” I murmur, though I refuse to indulge in thoughts of Alexander. You’re in another country now. Put that awkwardness behind you. That would be the awkwardness of seeing him again because the good Lord knows nothing was awkward about his tongue game. “Crackers, biscuits also known as cookies . . .” My finger trails in the air, following the stacked shelves. “Porridge oats, vanilla pods, rose water, and . . .” This is a strange filing system. “Ah!”
I pull down a battered enamelled tub that looks like something cake might be stored in. As I pull off the lid, the rich aroma of whisky and sugar tells me not only that it is, but it also tells me that Dundee cake is a fruit cake. Caramel-coloured, the delicious concoction is decorated with nothing but a daisy-looking circle of almonds.
Get in my mouth!
Turning back to the door, I’m about to call out that I’ve found it when somewhere in the kitchen, a door slams. The sound is quickly followed by a woman’s tearful voice.
“Oh, Chrissy. I’ve done it! I’ve left him.”
“Och, come here, my love. There, there. You get it all out.”
Heart-rending sobs fill the room as I pause at the pantry doorway, not sure what to do. Stay? Go? Either way, I have cake.
“I c-caught him at it, the bastard.” Between her sobs, I make out that the woman’s accent is English and as smooth and as polished as glass. I’m not sure why I expected Lady Isla to be Scottish. That’s assuming this is who she is. “W-With the nanny, of all people.”
Oh, fudge.
Maybe I’ll just stay here, I think, hugging the cake tin to my stomach. But I’m not guilty by association. I’m not even here in the capacity of the nanny. I begin to push on the door, hoping to sneak out when Chrissy catches my eye over the top of the other woman’s head, currently pressed into her shoulder. She whispers something into her ear, something that makes the woman’s shoulders stiffen.
“I’ll, erm. I’ll just put this there and catch you some other time.” Taking a step into the kitchen, I put the cake tin on the countertop when Lady Isla turns around.
Dark blue eyes stare back at me. The fact that they’re red-rimmed and swollen does nothing to diminish her beauty.
“No, really. It’s all right.” She swipes her fingers under her eyes, laughing unhappily as she uses the back of her hand under her nose. “You must be Holly.” I nod as she laughs again, obviously thinking better of offering me her hand.
“Come and sit down, hen,” Chrissy says, her hands on the other woman’s shoulders as she steers her onto a kitchen chair near the window.
Making myself useful, I pour out three coffees and one tea, just in case, and even slice cake, reluctant to intrude on the pair’s quiet murmurs. The first day at any new job can be awkward, even uncomfortable, but avoiding those red-rimmed eyes will be tough. I hate being a sympathetic crier.
“Dougal used more than a dram of whisky in this.” Lady Isla’s words are filled with a forced brightness, yet not one of us is unaware of how she chews that first mouthful without tasting. The rest of her cake, she mostly crumbles into crumb with her fork.
“Aye, he makes a good cake,” Chrissy agrees, having eaten hers already.
“It’s very nice.” I put down my fork carefully. “Maybe I should go.” My eyes dart back and forth between the two, Chrissy seeming to agree, judging by the subtle but appreciative tilt of her head.
“No.” Isla takes a gulp of tea the colour of red brickwork before putting her mug back down again. “I think I might need your help.”
I feel myself frowning, then silently curse myself as words tumble out of my mouth. “But I’ve only just gotten here?”
“I read the references from your previous employer. Wonderful, really. We’re lucky to have you here at Kilblair.”
“That’s very nice of you to say so, but—”
“Please, let me finish.” She smiles tightly, balling her hands in her lap. “What you just heard, I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.” And without the protection of a signed NDA. I would never air another woman’s dirty laundry in public.
“Thank you.” She swallows, her words bright but brittle. “I have left my husband today. In some haste after finding him in bed with our nanny.” A frown ripples across her expression. “I found them in our bed, as a matter of fact.”
“That sleekit coward,” Chrissy bursts out, her first interjection to the most awkward of conversations. “I knew he was nay good the first time I laid my eyes on him.” Her accent thickens as she folds her arms under her chest. “The first time he shook ma’ hand, something told me I should count ma’ fingers afterwards!”
“I wish I’d had your foresight,” Isla offers noncommittally. “Then it wouldn’t just be my fingers I’d need to check at this point.”